Sherlock Holmes

A Study in Scarlet, Part I, Ch. 1: Mr. Sherlock Holmes

IN the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the

University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course

prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there,

I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant

Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before

I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at

Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and

was already deep in the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many

other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded

in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once

entered upon my new duties.

The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had

nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and

attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of

1Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which

shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have

fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the

devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a

pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had

undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to

the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved

so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little

upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse

of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and

when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and

emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost

in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the

troopship "Orontes," and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with

my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal

government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as

air--or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will

permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to

London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of

the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at

a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless

existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely

than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that

I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate

somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in

my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making

up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less

pretentious and less expensive domicile.

On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at

the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning

round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at

Barts. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is

a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never

been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm,

and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the

exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and

we started off together in a hansom.

"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he asked in

undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.

"You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut."

I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it

by the time that we reached our destination.

"Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my

misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"

"Looking for lodgings." [3] I answered. "Trying to solve the problem

as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable

price."

"That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second man

to-day that has used that expression to me."

"And who was the first?" I asked.

"A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital.

He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone

to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which

were too much for his purse."

"By Jove!" I cried, "if he really wants someone to share the rooms and

the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner

to being alone."

Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. "You

don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not care

for him as a constant companion."

"Why, what is there against him?"

"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer

in his ideas--an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I

know he is a decent fellow enough."

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

"No--I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well

up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know,

he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are

very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way

knowledge which would astonish his professors."

"Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.

"No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be

communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."

"I should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with anyone, I

should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong

enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in

Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How

could I meet this friend of yours?"

"He is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion. "He either

avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to

night. If you like, we shall drive round together after luncheon."

"Certainly," I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other

channels.

As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford

gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to

take as a fellow-lodger.

"You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said; "I know

nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in

the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me

responsible."

"If we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I answered. "It

seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at my companion, "that you

have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow's

temper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be mealy-mouthed about it."

"It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered with a laugh.

"Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes--it approaches to

cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of

the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand,

but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea

of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself

with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and

exact knowledge."

"Very right too."

"Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the

subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking

rather a bizarre shape."

"Beating the subjects!"

"Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him

at it with my own eyes."

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

"No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we

are, and you must form your own impressions about him." As he spoke, we

turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which

opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me,

and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and

made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed

wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low arched passage

branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.

This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.

Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,

test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames.

There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant

table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round

and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've found it! I've

found it," he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a

test-tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent which is precipitated

by hoemoglobin, [4] and by nothing else." Had he discovered a gold mine,

greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

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

"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength

for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in

Afghanistan, I perceive."

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

"Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is about

hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of

mine?"

"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but

practically----"

"Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.

Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains. Come

over here now!" He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and

drew me over to the table at which he had been working. "Let us have

some fresh blood," he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and

drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. "Now, I

add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that

the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion

of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however,

that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction." As he

spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added

some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a

dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom

of the glass jar.

"Ha! ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a

child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"

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

"Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and

uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The

latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears

to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been

invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long

ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

"Indeed!" I murmured.

"Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is

suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His

linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon them.

Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains,

or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert,

and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock

Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any difficulty."

His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his

heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his

imagination.

"You are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably surprised at his

enthusiasm.

"There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would

certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was

Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier,

and Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it

would have been decisive."

"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a

laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police News

of the Past.'"

"Very interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked Sherlock

Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger.

"I have to be careful," he continued, turning to me with a smile, "for I

dabble with poisons a good deal." He held out his hand as he spoke, and

I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster,

and discoloured with strong acids.

"We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a high

three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with

his foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were

complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought

that I had better bring you together."

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with

me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he said, "which would

suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco,

I hope?"

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

"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally

do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"By no means."

"Let me see--what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at

times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am

sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right. What

have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the

worst of one another before they begin to live together."

I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said, "and

I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts

of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices

when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."

"Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?" he asked,

anxiously.

"It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a treat

for the gods--a badly-played one----"

"Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think we may

consider the thing as settled--that is, if the rooms are agreeable to

you."

"When shall we see them?"

"Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle

everything," he answered.

"All right--noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.

We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards

my hotel.

"By the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, "how

the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?"

My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his little

peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted to know how he

finds things out."

"Oh! a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is very piquant.

I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. 'The proper study of

mankind is man,' you know."

"You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.

"You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager he learns more

about you than you about him. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably

interested in my new acquaintance.

A Study in Scarlet, Part I, Ch. 2: The Science Of Deduction

WE met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B,

[5] Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They

consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large

airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad

windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate

did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain was

concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession.

That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the

following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and

portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and

laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we

gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new

surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet

in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be

up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out

before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical

laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long

walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the City.

Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but

now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would

lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving

a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such

a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him

of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance

and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his

aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and

appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual

observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively

lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and

piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded;

and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of

alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness

which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably

blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of

extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe

when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.

The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how

much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured

to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned

himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how

objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention.

My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was

exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and

break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, I

eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and

spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.

He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question,

confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to

have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree in

science or any other recognized portal which would give him an entrance

into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable,

and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample

and minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man

would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he had some

definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the

exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small matters

unless he has some very good reason for doing so.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary

literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing.

9Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he

might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however,

when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory

and of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human

being in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth

travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact

that I could hardly realize it.

"You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of

surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it."

"To forget it!"

"You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is

like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture

as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he

comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets

crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that

he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful workman

is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will

have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of

these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It

is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can

distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every

addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is

of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing

out the useful ones."

"But the Solar System!" I protested.

"What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently; "you say

that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a

pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."

I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something

in his manner showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I

pondered over our short conversation, however, and endeavoured to draw

my deductions from it. He said that he would acquire no knowledge which

did not bear upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he

possessed was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own

mind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he was

exceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down.

I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It ran

in this way--

SHERLOCK HOLMES--his limits.

1. Knowledge of Literature.--Nil.

2. Philosophy.--Nil.

3. Astronomy.--Nil.

4. Politics.--Feeble.

5. Botany.--Variable. Well up in belladonna,

opium, and poisons generally.

Knows nothing of practical gardening.

6. Geology.--Practical, but limited.

Tells at a glance different soils

from each other. After walks has

shown me splashes upon his trousers,

and told me by their colour and

consistence in what part of London

he had received them.

7. Chemistry.--Profound.

8. Anatomy.--Accurate, but unsystematic.

9. Sensational Literature.--Immense. He appears

to know every detail of every horror

perpetrated in the century.

10. Plays the violin well.

11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.

12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair.

"If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all

these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all,"

I said to myself, "I may as well give up the attempt at once."

I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These

were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments.

That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because

at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other

favourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any

music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of

an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle

which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and

melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they

reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided

those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim

or fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against

these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them

by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a

slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.

During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think

that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently,

however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most

different classes of society. There was one little sallow rat-faced,

dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came

three or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl called,

fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same

afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew

pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closely

followed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an old

white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on

another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these

nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to

beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bed-room.

He always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. "I have

to use this room as a place of business," he said, "and these people

are my clients." Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point blank

question, and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to

confide in me. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for

not alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to

the subject of his own accord.

4It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I

rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not

yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to my

late habits that my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With

the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt

intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table

and attempted to while away the time with it, while my companion munched

silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the

heading, and I naturally began to run my eye through it.

Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attempted to

show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic

examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as being a

remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was

close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched

and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch

of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's inmost thoughts.

Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one

trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible

as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appear

to the uninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he had

arrived at them they might well consider him as a necromancer.

"From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could infer the

possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of

one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is

known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts,

the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired

by long and patient study nor is life long enough to allow any mortal

to attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to

those moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest

difficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more elementary

problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to

distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to

which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the

faculties of observation, and teaches one where to look and what to look

for. By a man's finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his

trouser knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his

expression, by his shirt cuffs--by each of these things a man's calling

is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the

competent enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."

"What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the

table, "I never read such rubbish in my life."

"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat

down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have marked

it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It

is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these

neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not

practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class

carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his

fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him."

"You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. "As for

the article I wrote it myself."

"You!"

"Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The

theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so

chimerical are really extremely practical--so practical that I depend

upon them for my bread and cheese."

"And how?" I asked involuntarily.

"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the

world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is.

Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private

ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to

put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I

am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of

crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance about

misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger

ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade

is a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over a

forgery case, and that was what brought him here."

"And these other people?"

"They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are

all people who are in trouble about something, and want a little

enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and

then I pocket my fee."

"But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room you

can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they

have seen every detail for themselves?"

"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case

turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and

see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledge

which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters wonderfully.

Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which aroused your

scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is

second nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our

first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan."

"You were told, no doubt."

"Nothing of the sort. I _knew_ you came from Afghanistan. From long

habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I

arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps.

There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, 'Here is a

gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly

an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is

dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are

fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says

clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and

unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have

seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The

whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you

came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished."

"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind

me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did

exist outside of stories."

Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you are

complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in my

opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking

in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of

an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some

analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as

Poe appeared to imagine."

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

idea of a detective?"

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler,"

he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to recommend him, and

that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was

how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four

hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a text-book for

detectives to teach them what to avoid."

I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired

treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood

looking out into the busy street. "This fellow may be very clever," I

said to myself, "but he is certainly very conceited."

"There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he said,

querulously. "What is the use of having brains in our profession. I know

well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has

ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural

talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the

result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy

with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see

through it."

I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought it

best to change the topic.

"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a

stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the

other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had

a large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a

message.

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

"Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I cannot verify

his guess."

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were

watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across

the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps

ascending the stair.

"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and handing

my friend the letter.

Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little

thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I ask, my lad," I

said, in the blandest voice, "what your trade may be?"

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

"And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my

companion.

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

sir."

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

gone.

A Study in Scarlet, Part I, Ch. 3: The Lauriston Garden Mystery

I CONFESS that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the

practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powers

of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking

suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged

episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have

in taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him he

had finished reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant,

lack-lustre expression which showed mental abstraction.

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

"Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.

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

"I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely; then with a smile,

"Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but perhaps

it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a

sergeant of Marines?"

"No, indeed."

"It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you

were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some

difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the

street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the

fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,

however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He was

a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command.

You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung

his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of

him--all facts which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant."

"Wonderful!" I ejaculated.

"Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that he

was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "I said just now that

there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong--look at this!" He

threw me over the note which the commissionaire had brought. [7]

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

"It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked, calmly.

"Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"

This is the letter which I read to him----

"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--

"There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens,

off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in

the morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected that something

was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare

of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed, and

having cards in his pocket bearing the name of 'Enoch J. Drebber,

Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no robbery, nor is there any

evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in

the room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to

how he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler.

If you can come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find

me there. I have left everything _in statu quo_ until I hear from you.

If you are unable to come I shall give you fuller details, and would

esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with your opinion.

Yours faithfully,

"TOBIAS GREGSON."

"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend remarked;

"he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and

energetic, but conventional--shockingly so. They have their knives

into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional

beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put

upon the scent."

I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely there is

not a moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order you a cab?"

"I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy

devil that ever stood in shoe leather--that is, when the fit is on me,

for I can be spry enough at times."

"Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."

"My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the

whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will

pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage."

"But he begs you to help him."

"Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but

he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person.

However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my

own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!"

He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that

an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

"Get your hat," he said.

"You wish me to come?"

"Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both in

a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the

house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets

beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away

about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and

an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the

melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said at

last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

"No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize before

you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger;

"this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much

mistaken."

"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so from

it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey upon

foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was

one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two being

occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant

melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here and

there a "To Let" card had developed like a cataract upon the bleared

panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly

plants separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed

by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of a

mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the

rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by a

three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and

against this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded by

a small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes

in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the

house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be

further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the

circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up

and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the

opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny,

he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass

which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice

he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation

of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey

soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was

unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it.

Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his

perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal

which was hidden from me.

At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,

flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and

wrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of you to

come," he said, "I have had everything left untouched."

"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herd

of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No

doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you

permitted this."

"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said

evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him

to look after this."

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two

such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be

much for a third party to find out," he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done

all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though, and I

knew your taste for such things."

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

"No, sir."

"Nor Lestrade?"

"No, sir."

"Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark he

strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed

his astonishment.

A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices.

Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these

had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the

dining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious affair had

occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feeling

at my heart which the presence of death inspires.

It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence

of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was

blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips had

become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath.

Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of

imitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a

red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was

hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which was

intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was

centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon

the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured

ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years of

age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and

a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat

and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar

and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the floor

beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while

his lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been a

grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror,

and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human

features. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low

forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly

simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,

unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has

it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy

apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban

London.

Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, and

greeted my companion and myself.

"This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I

have seen, and I am no chicken."

"There is no clue?" said Gregson.

"None at all," chimed in Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it

intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing to

numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

"Positive!" cried both detectives.

"Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual--[8]

presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It reminds me of

the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in

the year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?"

"No, sir."

"Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It

has all been done before."

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere,

feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same

far-away expression which I have already remarked upon. So swiftly was

the examination made, that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness

with which it was conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips,

and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

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

"No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."

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

to be learned."

Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered

the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raised

him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed

it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.

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

He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all gathered

round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of

plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

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

complicated enough before."

"You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's

nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his

pockets?"

"We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects

upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163, by

Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring,

with masonic device. Gold pin--bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes.

Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland,

corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose

money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of

Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the

fly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph

Stangerson."

"At what address?"

"American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are both

from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their

boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to

return to New York."

"Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"

"I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements

sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American

Exchange, but he has not returned yet."

"Have you sent to Cleveland?"

"We telegraphed this morning."

"How did you word your inquiries?"

"We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be glad

of any information which could help us."

"You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to

be crucial?"

"I asked about Stangerson."

"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears

to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"

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

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make

some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we

were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene,

rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

"Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest

importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a

careful examination of the walls."

The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in

a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his

colleague.

"Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of

which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now, stand

there!"

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

"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this

particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a

yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was

scrawled in blood-red letters a single word--

RACHE.

"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a

showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in the

darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The

murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear where

it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide

anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See

that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was

lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of

the wall."

"And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?" asked Gregson in a

depreciatory voice.

"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name

Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You mark

my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find that a

woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very well for

you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but

the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled the

little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You

certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,

and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the other

participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this

room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying

glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly

about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once

lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that

he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to

himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire

of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of

encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded

of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards and

forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes

across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his

researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between

marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his

tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place

he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor,

and packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass

the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the most

minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he

replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.

"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he

remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to

detective work."

Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres [9] of their amateur

companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently

failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that

Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed towards some

definite and practical end.

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

"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume

to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now that it

would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world of

sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how your

investigations go," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you any help

I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable who found

the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off

duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate."

Holmes took a note of the address.

"Come along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll tell

you one thing which may help you in the case," he continued, turning to

the two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the murderer was a

man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had

small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a

Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab,

which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his

off fore leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and the

finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a

few indications, but they may assist you."

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

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

"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other thing,

Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is the German

for 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss Rachel."

With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals

open-mouthed behind him.

A Study in Scarlet, Part I, Ch. 4: What John Rance Had To Tell

IT was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock

Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a

long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us

to the address given us by Lestrade.

"There is nothing like first hand evidence," he remarked; "as a matter

of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still we may as

well learn all that is to be learned."

"You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure as you

pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."

"There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing

which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts with

its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had no rain

for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep impression must

have been there during the night. There were the marks of the horse's

hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly cut than

that of the other three, showing that that was a new shoe. Since the cab

was there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during the

morning--I have Gregson's word for that--it follows that it must have

been there during the night, and, therefore, that it brought those two

individuals to the house."

"That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's

height?"

"Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from

the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though

there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow's stride

both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a way of

checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his instinct leads

him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just

over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."

"And his age?" I asked.

"Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest

effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth

of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked across.

Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had hopped over.

There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary

life a few of those precepts of observation and deduction which I

advocated in that article. Is there anything else that puzzles you?"

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

"The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in

blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly

scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the man's

nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor.

It was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash as is only made by a

Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes--in fact, I

have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can

distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand, either of cigar

or of tobacco. It is just in such details that the skilled detective

differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type."

"And the florid face?" I asked.

"Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was

right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair."

I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I remarked; "the

more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came these two

men--if there were two men--into an empty house? What has become of the

cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another to take poison?

Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the murderer,

since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman's ring there? Above

all, why should the second man write up the German word RACHE before

decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible way of reconciling

all these facts."

My companion smiled approvingly.

"You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well," he

said. "There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up

my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade's discovery it was simply

a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting

Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if

you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion. Now, a real

German invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we may safely

say that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy imitator who

overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong

channel. I'm not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You

know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained his trick,

and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the

conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all."

"I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought detection as near

an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way

in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive

to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.

"I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent leathers [10] and

Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway

together as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability.

When they got inside they walked up and down the room--or rather,

Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I

could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he

grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of his

strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no doubt,

into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I know myself

now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working

basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to

Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon."

This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way

through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the

dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand.

"That's Audley Court in there," he said, pointing to a narrow slit in

the line of dead-coloured brick. "You'll find me here when you come

back."

Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us

into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We

picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of

discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which

was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was

engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we were

shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.

He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in

his slumbers. "I made my report at the office," he said.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it

pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own

lips," he said.

"I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the constable

answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.

"Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."

Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though

determined not to omit anything in his narrative.

"I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from ten at

night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the 'White

Hart'; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o'clock it

began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher--him who has the Holland Grove

beat--and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin'.

Presently--maybe about two or a little after--I thought I would take

a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was

precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down,

though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin' down, thinkin'

between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when

suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same

house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty

on account of him that owns them who won't have the drains seen to,

though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o' typhoid

fever. I was knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in

the window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the

door----"

"You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my companion

interrupted. "What did you do that for?"

Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost

amazement upon his features.

"Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to know it,

Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still and

so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the worse for some one with me.

I ain't afeared of anything on this side o' the grave; but I thought

that maybe it was him that died o' the typhoid inspecting the drains

what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I walked back

to the gate to see if I could see Murcher's lantern, but there wasn't no

sign of him nor of anyone else."

"There was no one in the street?"

"Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself

together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside,

so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin'. There was a

candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece--a red wax one--and by its light I

saw----"

"Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times,

and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried

the kitchen door, and then----"

John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in

his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he cried. "It seems to me

that you knows a deal more than you should."

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.

"Don't get arresting me for the murder," he said. "I am one of the

hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for

that. Go on, though. What did you do next?"

Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified expression.

"I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher

and two more to the spot."

"Was the street empty then?"

"Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."

"What do you mean?"

The constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a drunk

chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so cryin' drunk as

that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up agin the

railings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's

New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less

help."

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

John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. "He was

an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha' found hisself in the

station if we hadn't been so took up."

"His face--his dress--didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke in

impatiently.

"I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up--me

and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower

part muffled round----"

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

"We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman said, in an

aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way home all right."

"How was he dressed?"

"A brown overcoat."

"Had he a whip in his hand?"

"A whip--no."

"He must have left it behind," muttered my companion. "You didn't happen

to see or hear a cab after that?"

"No."

"There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said, standing up and

taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the

force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You

might have gained your sergeant's stripes last night. The man whom you

held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and

whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell you

that it is so. Come along, Doctor."

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous,

but obviously uncomfortable.

"The blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our

lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good

luck, and not taking advantage of it."

"I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this

man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why

should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way

of criminals."

"The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no

other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I

shall have him, Doctor--I'll lay you two to one that I have him. I must

thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have

missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?

Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the scarlet thread of

murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is

to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And now

for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing

are splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays so

magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a

lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

A Study in Scarlet, Part I, Ch. 5: Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor

OUR morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was

tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the concert, I

lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours' sleep.

It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that

had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into

it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted

baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the

impression which that face had produced upon me that I found it

difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its

owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most

malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of

Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and that the

depravity of the victim was no condonment [11] in the eyes of the law.

The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion's

hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he

had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected something

which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not poison, what

had caused the man's death, since there was neither wound nor marks of

strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay so

thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had the

victim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. As

long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be

no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confident

manner convinced me that he had already formed a theory which explained

all the facts, though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture.

He was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concert

could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table before

he appeared.

"It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you remember

what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and

appreciating it existed among the human race long before the power of

speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced

by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries

when the world was in its childhood."

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

"One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret

Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quite

yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."

"To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more case-hardened

after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at

Maiwand without losing my nerve."

"I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the

imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have you

seen the evening paper?"

"No."

"It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the

fact that when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding ring fell upon

the floor. It is just as well it does not."

"Why?"

"Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent to every

paper this morning immediately after the affair."

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It

was the first announcement in the "Found" column. "In Brixton Road,

this morning," it ran, "a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway

between the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson,

221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening."

"Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some of these

dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair."

"That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone applies, I have

no ring."

"Oh yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do very well. It

is almost a facsimile."

"And who do you expect will answer this advertisement."

"Why, the man in the brown coat--our florid friend with the square toes.

If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice."

"Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

"Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason

to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose the

ring. According to my notion he dropped it while stooping over Drebber's

body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house he

discovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police already in

possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle burning. He had

to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have

been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that

man's place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred to him

that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving

the house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly look out for the

evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found. His

eye, of course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should

he fear a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding

of the ring should be connected with the murder. He would come. He will

come. You shall see him within an hour?"

"And then?" I asked.

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

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

"You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man,

and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for

anything."

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with

the pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his

favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

"The plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had an answer

to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one."

"And that is?" I asked eagerly.

"My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked. "Put your

pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary

way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too

hard."

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

"Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly.

That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a

queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--'De Jure inter

Gentes'--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles'

head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed

volume was struck off."

"Who is the printer?"

"Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very

faded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who William

Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. His

writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think."

As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose

softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the

servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she

opened it.

"Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We

could not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some one

began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling

one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he

listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble

tap at the door.

"Come in," I cried.

At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very

old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be

dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she

stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket

with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face

had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do to

keep my countenance.

The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our

advertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen," she said,

dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It

belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth,

which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he'd say if

he come 'ome and found her without her ring is more than I can think, he

being short enough at the best o' times, but more especially when he

has the drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night along

with----"

"Is that her ring?" I asked.

"The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad woman

this night. That's the ring."

"And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.

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

"The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch," said

Sherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little

red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for _my_ address," she said.

"Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

"And your name is----?"

"My name is Sawyer--her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her--and

a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no steward in the

company more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and what

with liquor shops----"

"Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience to a sign

from my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad

to be able to restore it to the rightful owner."

With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old crone

packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock

Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed into

his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and

a cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must be an

accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me." The hall door had

hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair.

Looking through the window I could see her walking feebly along the

other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance behind.

"Either his whole theory is incorrect," I thought to myself, "or else he

will be led now to the heart of the mystery." There was no need for him

to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible until

I heard the result of his adventure.

It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might

be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages

of Henri Murger's "Vie de Boheme." Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the

footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the

more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same

destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of

his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not

been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for the

mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst into a

hearty laugh.

"I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he cried,

dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much that they would

never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I

know that I will be even with them in the long run."

"What is it then?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had

gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being

foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which

was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the address, but

I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to

be heard at the other side of the street, 'Drive to 13, Duncan Street,

Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought, and

having seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind. That's an art

which every detective should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and

never drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped off

before we came to the door, and strolled down the street in an easy,

lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw

him open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When

I reached him he was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and

giving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I

listened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it

will be some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13

we found that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, named

Keswick, and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever

been heard of there."

"You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that tottering,

feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion,

without either you or the driver seeing her?"

"Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the old

women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an

active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was

inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means

of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as

lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risk

something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my advice

and turn in."

I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I

left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the

watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin,

and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem which he

had set himself to unravel.

A Study in Scarlet, Part I, Ch. 6: Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do

THE papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they termed

it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had leaders upon it

in addition. There was some information in them which was new to me. I

still retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing

upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:--

The _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime there had

seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German

name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister

inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political

refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in

America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten laws,

and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht,

aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian

theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the

article concluded by admonishing the Government and advocating a closer

watch over foreigners in England.

The _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sort

usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from the

unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakening

of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman who had

been residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the

boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.

He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph

Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday, the

4th inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention of

catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen together upon

the platform. Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber's body

was, as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,

many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, are

questions which are still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the

whereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and

Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it

is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily

throw light upon the matter.

The _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being

a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animated

the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to our shores

a number of men who might have made excellent citizens were they not

soured by the recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these

men there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was

punished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary,

Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of the

deceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of the address

of the house at which he had boarded--a result which was entirely due to

the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, and

they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

"I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure

to score."

"That depends on how it turns out."

"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught, it

will be _on account_ of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be _in

spite_ of their exertions. It's heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever

they do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot

qui l'admire.'"

"What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there came the

pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by

audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said my

companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a

dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped

eyes on.

"'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little

scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. "In

future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you

must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?"

"No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.

"I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are

your wages." [13] He handed each of them a shilling.

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

He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many rats,

and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

"There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than

out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked. "The mere sight of an

official-looking person seals men's lips. These youngsters, however, go

everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all

they want is organisation."

"Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.

"Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a matter

of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance!

Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every

feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he

is!"

There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the

fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and

burst into our sitting-room.

"My dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,

"congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."

A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's expressive face.

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

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

"And his name is?"

"Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy," cried

Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

"Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said. "We are anxious to

know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?"

"I don't mind if I do," the detective answered. "The tremendous

exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have worn

me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain upon

the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both

brain-workers."

"You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely. "Let us hear how you

arrived at this most gratifying result."

The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently

at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of

amusement.

"The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade, who thinks

himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is

after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime

than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this

time."

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

"And how did you get your clue?"

"Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is

strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to contend

with was the finding of this American's antecedents. Some people would

have waited until their advertisements were answered, or until parties

came forward and volunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson's

way of going to work. You remember the hat beside the dead man?"

"Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road."

Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

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

"No."

"Ha!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never neglect a

chance, however small it may seem."

"To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes, sententiously.

"Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of that

size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it at once.

He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier's Boarding

Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address."

"Smart--very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.

"I next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the detective.

"I found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,

too--an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about

the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape

my notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock

Holmes, when you come upon the right scent--a kind of thrill in your

nerves. 'Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder Mr.

Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.

"The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word. The daughter

burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew something

of the matter.

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

asked.

"'At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her

11agitation. 'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two

trains--one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first. [14]

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

"A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the question.

Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds before she

could get out the single word 'Yes'--and when it did come it was in a

husky unnatural tone.

"There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm

clear voice.

"'No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said. 'Let us be

frank with this gentleman. We _did_ see Mr. Drebber again.'

"'God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and

sinking back in her chair. 'You have murdered your brother.'

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

firmly.

"'You had best tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-confidences are

worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of it.'

"'On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then, turning to me,

'I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on behalf

of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand in this

terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however,

that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to be

compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high character, his

profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'

"'Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I answered.

'Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.'

"'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said, and her

daughter withdrew. 'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no intention of

telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I

have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you all

without omitting any particular.'

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

"'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his secretary,

Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I noticed a

"Copenhagen" label upon each of their trunks, showing that that had been

their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his

employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his

habits and brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he became

very much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve o'clock in the

day he could hardly ever be said to be sober. His manners towards the

maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he

speedily assumed the same attitude towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke

to her more than once in a way which, fortunately, she is too innocent

to understand. On one occasion he actually seized her in his arms and

embraced her--an outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him

for his unmanly conduct.'

"'But why did you stand all this,' I asked. 'I suppose that you can get

rid of your boarders when you wish.'

"Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would to God that

I had given him notice on the very day that he came,' she said. 'But

it was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day each--fourteen

pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in

the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the

best. This last was too much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on

account of it. That was the reason of his going.'

"'Well?'

"'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave

just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper

is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed the

6door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in

less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr.

Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the worse for

drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting with my

daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed his train.

He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her that

she should fly with him. "You are of age," he said, "and there is no law

to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the old girl

here, but come along with me now straight away. You shall live like a

princess." Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away from him,

but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the

door. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room.

What happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused sounds

of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I did look up

I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand.

"I don't think that fine fellow will trouble us again," he said. "I will

just go after him and see what he does with himself." With those words

he took his hat and started off down the street. The next morning we

heard of Mr. Drebber's mysterious death.'

"This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gasps and

pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words. I

made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that there should

be no possibility of a mistake."

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

next?"

"When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued, "I saw that the

whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way which

I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour her son

returned.

"'I do not know,' she answered.

"'Not know?'

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

"'After you went to bed?'

"'Yes.'

"'When did you go to bed?'

"'About eleven.'

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

"'Yes.'

"'Possibly four or five?'

"'Yes.'

"'What was he doing during that time?'

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

"Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found

out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and

arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to come

quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, 'I suppose you

are arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel

Drebber,' he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his

alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect."

"Very," said Holmes.

"He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as

having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel."

"What is your theory, then?"

"Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton Road.

When there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the course of

which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of the stomach,

perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The night was so

wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim

into the empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and the writing

on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the

police on to the wrong scent."

"Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really, Gregson, you

are getting along. We shall make something of you yet."

"I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the detective

answered proudly. "The young man volunteered a statement, in which he

said that after following Drebber some time, the latter perceived him,

and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an

old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this

old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I

think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What amuses me is to

think of Lestrade, who had started off upon the wrong scent. I am afraid

he won't make much of [15] Why, by Jove, here's the very man himself!"

It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were

talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness

which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however, wanting.

His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were disarranged

and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of consulting

with Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be

embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling

nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. "This is a most

extraordinary case," he said at last--"a most incomprehensible affair."

"Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson, triumphantly. "I

thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the

Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"

8"The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely, "was

murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning."

A Study in Scarlet, Part I, Ch. 7: Light In The Darkness

THE intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so

unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson sprang

out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I

stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his

brows drawn down over his eyes.

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

"It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair.

"I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war."

"Are you--are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stammered

Gregson.

"I have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the first to

discover what had occurred."

"We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes observed.

"Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?"

"I have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself. "I freely

confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in

the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was

completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out

what had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at Euston

Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At two in the

morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The question which

confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been employed between

8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of him afterwards.

I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of the man, and warning

them to keep a watch upon the American boats. I then set to work calling

upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You

see, I argued that if Drebber and his companion had become separated,

the natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the

vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again next

morning."

"They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,"

remarked Holmes.

"So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making

enquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early, and

at eight o'clock I reached Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little George

Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there,

they at once answered me in the affirmative.

"'No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,' they said. 'He

has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'

"'Where is he now?' I asked.

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

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

"It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and

lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me

the room: it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor

leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about to

go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel sickish, in

spite of my twenty years' experience. From under the door there curled

a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the passage and

formed a little pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a cry,

which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. The door

was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it, and knocked it

in. The window of the room was open, and beside the window, all huddled

up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had

been for some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned

him over, the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman

who had engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause

of death was a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated

the heart. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you

suppose was above the murdered man?"

I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror,

even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

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

"That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all

silent for a while.

There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the

deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to

his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle

tingled as I thought of it.

"The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing on his way

to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews

at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay

there, was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which

was wide open. After passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the

ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to

be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel. He took no particular

notice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that it was early for him

to be at work. He has an impression that the man was tall, had a reddish

face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in

the room some little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained

water in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on the

sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife."

I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which

tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of

exultation or satisfaction upon his face.

"Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the

murderer?" he asked.

"Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but it seems

that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd

pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of these

extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them. There were

no papers or memoranda in the murdered man's pocket, except a single

telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing

the words, 'J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name appended to this

message."

"And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.

"Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he had read

himself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair

beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the

window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills."

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

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

The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

"I have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently, "all the

threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course, details

to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the

time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the

discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own

eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand

upon those pills?"

"I have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box; "I took them

and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of

safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my taking these

pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any importance to

them."

"Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to me, "are those

ordinary pills?"

They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small,

round, and almost transparent against the light. "From their lightness

and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in water," I

remarked.

"Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going down and

fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long,

and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday."

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It's laboured

breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end.

Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded

the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the

rug.

"I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes, and drawing his

penknife he suited the action to the word. "One half we return into the

box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass,

in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the

Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves."

"This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured tone of

one who suspects that he is being laughed at, "I cannot see, however,

what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson."

"Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has

everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the

mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he laps

it up readily enough."

As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and

placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock

Holmes' earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in

silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some startling

effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched

upon tho [16] cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently

neither the better nor the worse for its draught.

Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without

result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared

upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the

table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. So great

was his emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two

detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which

he had met.

"It can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from his chair

and pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is impossible that it should

be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of

Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they

are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot

have been false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the

worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!" With a perfect shriek of delight he

rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk,

and presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate creature's tongue

seemed hardly to have been moistened in it before it gave a convulsive

shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if it had been

struck by lightning.

Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his

forehead. "I should have more faith," he said; "I ought to know by

this time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of

deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other

interpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the most deadly

poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to have known that

before ever I saw the box at all."

This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could

hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog,

however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me

that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began

to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.

"All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you failed

at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single

real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize

upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has served to

confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence

of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and made the case more

obscure, have served to enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions.

It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The most

commonplace crime is often the most mysterious because it presents no

new or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This murder

would have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of

the victim been simply found lying in the roadway without any of

those _outre_ and sensational accompaniments which have rendered

it remarkable. These strange details, far from making the case more

difficult, have really had the effect of making it less so."

Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable

impatience, could contain himself no longer. "Look here, Mr. Sherlock

Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart

man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want something

more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking

the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young

Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestrade

went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too.

You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know more

than we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right to

ask you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the

man who did it?"

"I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked Lestrade.

"We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more

than once since I have been in the room that you had all the evidence

which you require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer."

"Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might give him time

to perpetrate some fresh atrocity."

Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He

continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest

and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.

"There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping abruptly and

facing us. "You can put that consideration out of the question. You have

asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of

his name is a small thing, however, compared with the power of laying

our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes

of managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a thing which

needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate man to deal

with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by another who

is as clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea that anyone

can have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but if he had the

slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in an instant

among the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning

to hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these

men to be more than a match for the official force, and that is why I

have not asked your assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all

the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present

I am ready to promise that the instant that I can communicate with you

without endangering my own combinations, I shall do so."

Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance,

or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former had

flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the other's beady eyes

glistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither of them had time to

speak, however, before there was a tap at the door, and the spokesman

of the street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and

unsavoury person.

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

downstairs."

"Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce this pattern

at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from

a drawer. "See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an

instant."

"The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can only

find the man to put them on."

"Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well

help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."

I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about

to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about it.

There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out and

began to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the

room.

"Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling over

his task, and never turning his head.

The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put

down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the

jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

"Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to Mr.

Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson."

The whole thing occurred in a moment--so quickly that I had no time

to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes'

triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman's

dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering handcuffs, which had

appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a second or two we might

have been a group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate roar of fury,

the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes's grasp, and hurled

himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; but

before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon

him like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, and then

commenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he, that

the four of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared to have the

convulsive strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands

were terribly mangled by his passage through the glass, but loss of

blood had no effect in diminishing his resistance. It was not until

Lestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside his neckcloth and

half-strangling him that we made him realize that his struggles were of

no avail; and even then we felt no security until we had pinioned his

feet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and

panting.

"We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to take him to

Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant smile,

"we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to

put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I

will refuse to answer them."

A Study in Scarlet, Part II, Ch. 1: On The Great Alkali Plain

IN the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies

an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a

barrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to

Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado

upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature

always in one mood throughout this grim district. It comprises

snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are

swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged canons; and there are

enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are

grey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common

characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.

There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees

or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other

hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight

of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon their

prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily

through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark

ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. These

are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from

the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach

stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of

alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On

the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks,

with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch of

country there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life.

There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull,

grey earth--above all, there is absolute silence. Listen as one may,

there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing but

silence--complete and heart-subduing silence.

It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad

plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one

sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is

lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down

by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are scattered

white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull

deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some

large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The former have

belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one

may trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of those

who had fallen by the wayside.

14Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,

eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance

was such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region.

An observer would have found it difficult to say whether he was nearer

to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard, and the brown

parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his

long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with white; his

eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre; while

the hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that of a

skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and yet

his tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggested a wiry

and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his clothes,

which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it

was that gave him that senile and decrepit appearance. The man was

dying--dying from hunger and from thirst.

He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little

elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great

salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage

mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might

indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape there

was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with wild

questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had come to

an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. "Why

not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence," he muttered,

as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle,

and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had carried

slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for

his strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the ground with some

little violence. Instantly there broke from the grey parcel a little

moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with very

bright brown eyes, and two little speckled, dimpled fists.

"You've hurt me!" said a childish voice reproachfully.

"Have I though," the man answered penitently, "I didn't go for to do

it." As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty

little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart

pink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother's care. The

child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she

had suffered less than her companion.

"How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the

towsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.

"Kiss it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity, shoving

[19] the injured part up to him. "That's what mother used to do. Where's

mother?"

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

"Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye; she

'most always did if she was just goin' over to Auntie's for tea, and now

she's been away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it? Ain't there

no water, nor nothing to eat?"

"No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient awhile,

and then you'll be all right. Put your head up agin me like that, and

then you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your lips is like

leather, but I guess I'd best let you know how the cards lie. What's

that you've got?"

"Pretty things! fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically,

holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to home

I'll give them to brother Bob."

"You'll see prettier things than them soon," said the man confidently.

"You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though--you remember when

we left the river?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But there

was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it didn't

turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you

and--and----"

"And you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion gravely,

staring up at his grimy visage.

"No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then Indian

Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie,

your mother."

"Then mother's a deader too," cried the little girl dropping her face in

her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

"Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some

chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and

we tramped it together. It don't seem as though we've improved matters.

There's an almighty small chance for us now!"

"Do you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, checking

her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.

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

"Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You gave

me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be with

mother again."

"Yes, you will, dearie."

"And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she

meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot

of buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was

fond of. How long will it be first?"

"I don't know--not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the

northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared

three little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly did

they approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large brown

birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and then

settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were buzzards, the

vultures of the west, whose coming is the forerunner of death.

"Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their

ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did

God make this country?"

"In course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this

unexpected question.

"He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the

little girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in these

parts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the

trees."

"What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked diffidently.

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

"It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you

bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the

waggon when we was on the Plains."

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

"I disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none since I was half

the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say them out,

and I'll stand by and come in on the choruses."

"Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the shawl

out for that purpose. "You've got to put your hands up like this. It

makes you feel kind o' good."

It was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to see

it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little

prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her chubby face,

and his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to the cloudless

heaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being with whom they were

face to face, while the two voices--the one thin and clear, the other

deep and harsh--united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The

prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the shadow of the boulder

until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad breast of her

protector. He watched over her slumber for some time, but Nature proved

to be too strong for him. For three days and three nights he had allowed

himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids drooped over the

tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and lower upon the breast, until the

man's grizzled beard was mixed with the gold tresses of his companion,

and both slept the same deep and dreamless slumber.

Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight

would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali

plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and

hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but gradually

growing higher and broader until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud.

This cloud continued to increase in size until it became evident that it

could only be raised by a great multitude of moving creatures. In more

fertile spots the observer would have come to the conclusion that one

of those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was

approaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid wilds. As

the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the two

castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the

figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the

apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its journey for

the West. But what a caravan! When the head of it had reached the base

of the mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right

across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons

and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who

staggered along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the

waggons or peeped out from under the white coverings. This was evidently

no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had

been compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new

country. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and

rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of wheels

and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to

rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.

At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced

men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching

the base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council among

themselves.

"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,

clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

"To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio Grande,"

said another.

"Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the

rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."

"Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party.

They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and

keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag

above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,

showing up hard and bright against the grey rocks behind. At the sight

there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while

fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word

'Redskins' was on every lip.

"There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who

appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no

other tribes until we cross the great mountains."

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

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

"Leave your horses below and we will await you here," the Elder

answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their

horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the

object which had excited their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and

noiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of practised scouts.

The watchers from the plain below could see them flit from rock to rock

until their figures stood out against the skyline. The young man who had

first given the alarm was leading them. Suddenly his followers saw him

throw up his hands, as though overcome with astonishment, and on joining

him they were affected in the same way by the sight which met their

eyes.

On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a

single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man,

long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid

face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him

lay a little child, with her round white arms encircling his brown

sinewy neck, and her golden haired head resting upon the breast of his

velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the regular line of

snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played over her infantile

features. Her plump little white legs terminating in white socks and

neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the long

shrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above this

strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of

the new comers uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped

sullenly away.

The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about [20]

them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon

the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and

which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His

face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his

boney hand over his eyes. "This is what they call delirium, I guess,"

he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of

his coat, and said nothing but looked all round her with the wondering

questioning gaze of childhood.

The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that

their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl,

and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt

companion, and assisted him towards the waggons.

"My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and that little

un are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o'

thirst and hunger away down in the south."

"Is she your child?" asked someone.

"I guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's mine 'cause I

saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from this

day on. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with curiosity at

his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a powerful lot of

ye."

"Nigh upon ten thousand," said one of the young men; "we are the

persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona."

"I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have

chosen a fair crowd of ye."

"Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other sternly. "We are

of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters

on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith

at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we

had founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent

man and from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert."

The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. "I

see," he said, "you are the Mormons."

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

"And where are you going?"

"We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our

Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with

you."

They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded

by crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced meek-looking women, strong

laughing children, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries

of astonishment and of commiseration which arose from them when they

perceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution of the

other. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed by

a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a waggon, which was

conspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and smartness of

its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the others were

furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the driver there

sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years of age, but

whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as a leader. He

was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd approached he laid

it aside, and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he

turned to the two castaways.

"If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be as

believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better

far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you

should prove to be that little speck of decay which in time corrupts the

whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?"

"Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with such

emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader

alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

"Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food and drink,

and the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy

creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"

"On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down

the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a

dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking

of wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan

was winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs

had been committed, led them to his waggon, where a meal was already

awaiting them.

"You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have recovered

from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you

are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with

the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God."

A Study in Scarlet, Part II, Ch. 2: The Flower Of Utah

THIS is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured

by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the

shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains

they had struggled on with a constancy almost unparalleled in history.

The savage man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and

disease--every impediment which Nature could place in the way, had all

been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long journey and the

accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among them.

There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer

when they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath

them, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was the

promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for

evermore.

Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as a

resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the future

city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted in

proportion to the standing of each individual. The tradesman was put

to his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the town streets and

squares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country there was draining

and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next summer saw the whole

country golden with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange

settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had erected in the

centre of the city grew ever taller and larger. From the first blush of

dawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammer

and the rasp of the saw was never absent from the monument which the

immigrants erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.

The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared his

fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons

to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne

along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat which

she shared with the Mormon's three wives and with his son, a headstrong

forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity of childhood,

from the shock caused by her mother's death, she soon became a pet

with the women, and reconciled herself to this new life in her moving

canvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having recovered from his

privations, distinguished himself as a useful guide and an indefatigable

hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his new companions, that

when they reached the end of their wanderings, it was unanimously agreed

that he should be provided with as large and as fertile a tract of land

as any of the settlers, with the exception of Young himself, and of

Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston, and Drebber, who were the four principal

Elders.

On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial

log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that it

grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind,

keen in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron constitution

enabled him to work morning and evening at improving and tilling his

lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that belonged to

him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better off than his

neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and in twelve

there were not half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City who could

compare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant Wahsatch

Mountains there was no name better known than that of John Ferrier.

There was one way and only one in which he offended the susceptibilities

of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce him

to set up a female establishment after the manner of his companions. He

never gave reasons for this persistent refusal, but contented himself by

resolutely and inflexibly adhering to his determination. There were some

who accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others who

put it down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur expense. Others,

again, spoke of some early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who

had pined away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason,

Ferrier remained strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformed

to the religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an

orthodox and straight-walking man.

Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted

father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the

balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother to

the young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and stronger,

her cheek more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon

the high road which ran by Ferrier's farm felt long-forgotten thoughts

revive in their mind as they watched her lithe girlish figure tripping

through the wheatfields, or met her mounted upon her father's mustang,

and managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child of the West.

So the bud blossomed into a flower, and the year which saw her father

the richest of the farmers left her as fair a specimen of American

girlhood as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.

It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had

developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious

change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of

all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of a voice or the

touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her, and she learns,

with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a larger nature has

awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall that day and remember

the one little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the

case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself, apart

from its future influence on her destiny and that of many besides.

It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as

the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and

in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty high

roads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to the

west, for the gold fever had broken out in California, and the Overland

Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too, were droves of

sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture lands, and trains

of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary of their interminable

journey. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her way with the

skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair

face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating out

behind her. She had a commission from her father in the City, and was

dashing in as she had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness

of youth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. The

travel-stained adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even

the unemotional Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their

accustomed stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced

maiden.

She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road

blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking

herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass this

obstacle by pushing her horse into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcely

had she got fairly into it, however, before the beasts closed in behind

her, and she found herself completely imbedded in the moving stream of

fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with

cattle, she was not alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of

every opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her way

through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures,

either by accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank of

the mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon

its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way that

would have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation was full

of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it against the horns

again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all that the girl could

do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death

under the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals. Unaccustomed to

sudden emergencies, her head began to swim, and her grip upon the bridle

to relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust and by the steam from the

struggling creatures, she might have abandoned her efforts in despair,

but for a kindly voice at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At

the same moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by

the curb, and forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the

outskirts.

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

She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm awful

frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought that Poncho

would have been so scared by a lot of cows?"

"Thank God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a tall,

savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse, and

clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his

shoulders. "I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier," he remarked,

"I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask him if he

remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the same Ferrier, my

father and he were pretty thick."

"Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?" she asked, demurely.

The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes

sparkled with pleasure. "I'll do so," he said, "we've been in the

mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting

condition. He must take us as he finds us."

"He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered,

"he's awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have never

got over it."

"Neither would I," said her companion.

"You! Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you, anyhow.

You ain't even a friend of ours."

The young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that Lucy

Ferrier laughed aloud.

"There, I didn't mean that," she said; "of course, you are a friend now.

You must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won't trust

me with his business any more. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over

her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with her

riding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling cloud of

dust.

Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and taciturn.

He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting for silver,

and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of raising capital

enough to work some lodes which they had discovered. He had been as keen

as any of them upon the business until this sudden incident had drawn

his thoughts into another channel. The sight of the fair young girl,

as frank and wholesome as the Sierra breezes, had stirred his volcanic,

untamed heart to its very depths. When she had vanished from his sight,

he realized that a crisis had come in his life, and that neither silver

speculations nor any other questions could ever be of such importance to

him as this new and all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in

his heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the

wild, fierce passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He

had been accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in

his heart that he would not fail in this if human effort and human

perseverance could render him successful.

He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until

his face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the

valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning

the news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this

Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested

Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and

could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost

in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper, a

silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to be

had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became a

favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. On

such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her bright,

happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young heart was no longer

her own. Her honest father may not have observed these symptoms,

but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man who had won her

affections.

It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled

up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. He

threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

"I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing

tenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now, but

will you be ready to come when I am here again?"

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

"A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then, my

darling. There's no one who can stand between us."

"And how about father?" she asked.

"He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all

right. I have no fear on that head."

"Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's

no more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad

breast.

"Thank God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is

settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They are

waiting for me at the canon. Good-bye, my own darling--good-bye. In two

months you shall see me."

He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his

horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though

afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at

what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until

he vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the

happiest girl in all Utah.

A Study in Scarlet, Part II, Ch. 3: John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet

THREE weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had

departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within him

when he thought of the young man's return, and of the impending loss of

his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled him to

the arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had always

determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing would ever

induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a marriage he

regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a disgrace. Whatever

he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that one point he was

inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject, however, for to

express an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter in those days in

the Land of the Saints.

Yes, a dangerous matter--so dangerous that even the most saintly dared

only whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest something

which fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring down a

swift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had now turned

persecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the most

terrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the German

Vehm-gericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able to put

a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a cloud over

the State of Utah.

Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made

this organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and

omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out

against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone or

what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at home,

but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at the

hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was followed

by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be of this

terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that men

went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of the

wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed them.

At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the

recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished afterwards

to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a wider range. The

supply of adult women was running short, and polygamy without a female

population on which to draw was a barren doctrine indeed. Strange

rumours began to be bandied about--rumours of murdered immigrants and

rifled camps in regions where Indians had never been seen. Fresh women

appeared in the harems of the Elders--women who pined and wept, and

bore upon their faces the traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated

wanderers upon the mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked,

stealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These

tales and rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and

re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.

To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the Danite

Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.

Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible

results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it

inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless

society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and

violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.

The very friend to whom you communicated your misgivings as to the

Prophet and his mission, might be one of those who would come forth at

night with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation. Hence every

man feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which were

nearest his heart.

One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his wheatfields,

when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking through the window,

saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming up the pathway. His

heart leapt to his mouth, for this was none other than the great Brigham

Young himself. Full of trepidation--for he knew that such a visit boded

him little good--Ferrier ran to the door to greet the Mormon chief. The

latter, however, received his salutations coldly, and followed him with

a stern face into the sitting-room.

"Brother Ferrier," he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer keenly

from under his light-coloured eyelashes, "the true believers have been

good friends to you. We picked you up when you were starving in the

desert, we shared our food with you, led you safe to the Chosen Valley,

gave you a goodly share of land, and allowed you to wax rich under our

protection. Is not this so?"

"It is so," answered John Ferrier.

"In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that you

should embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its usages.

This you promised to do, and this, if common report says truly, you have

neglected."

"And how have I neglected it?" asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands in

expostulation. "Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not attended

at the Temple? Have I not----?"

"Where are your wives?" asked Young, looking round him. "Call them in,

that I may greet them."

"It is true that I have not married," Ferrier answered. "But women

were few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not a

lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my wants."

"It is of that daughter that I would speak to you," said the leader

of the Mormons. "She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has found

favour in the eyes of many who are high in the land."

John Ferrier groaned internally.

"There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve--stories that

she is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle tongues.

What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted Joseph Smith?

'Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the elect; for if

she wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.' This being so, it is

impossible that you, who profess the holy creed, should suffer your

daughter to violate it."

John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his

riding-whip.

"Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested--so it has been

decided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we would

not have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of all

choice. We Elders have many heifers, [29] but our children must also

be provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either of

them would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her choose

between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith. What say

you to that?"

Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.

"You will give us time," he said at last. "My daughter is very

young--she is scarce of an age to marry."

"She shall have a month to choose," said Young, rising from his seat.

"At the end of that time she shall give her answer."

He was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face and

flashing eyes. "It were better for you, John Ferrier," he thundered,

"that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon the Sierra

Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills against the orders of

the Holy Four!"

With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and

Ferrier heard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.

He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how he

should broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid upon

15his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance at her

pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had passed.

"I could not help it," she said, in answer to his look. "His voice rang

through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?"

"Don't you scare yourself," he answered, drawing her to him, and passing

his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair. "We'll fix it

up somehow or another. You don't find your fancy kind o' lessening for

this chap, do you?"

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

"No; of course not. I shouldn't care to hear you say you did. He's a

likely lad, and he's a Christian, which is more than these folk here, in

spite o' all their praying and preaching. There's a party starting for

Nevada to-morrow, and I'll manage to send him a message letting him know

the hole we are in. If I know anything o' that young man, he'll be back

here with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs."

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

"When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you that

I am frightened, dear. One hears--one hears such dreadful stories about

those who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always happens to

them."

"But we haven't opposed him yet," her father answered. "It will be time

to look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before us; at

the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah."

"Leave Utah!"

"That's about the size of it."

"But the farm?"

"We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To tell

the truth, Lucy, it isn't the first time I have thought of doing it. I

don't care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do to their

darned prophet. I'm a free-born American, and it's all new to me. Guess

I'm too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this farm, he might

chance to run up against a charge of buckshot travelling in the opposite

direction."

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

"Wait till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that. In the meantime,

don't you fret yourself, my dearie, and don't get your eyes swelled up,

else he'll be walking into me when he sees you. There's nothing to be

afeared about, and there's no danger at all."

John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident tone,

but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to the

fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned and

loaded the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of his bedroom.

A Study in Scarlet, Part II, Ch. 4: A Flight For Life

ON the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet,

John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his

acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted him

with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man of the

imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it was that he

should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his mind, and returned

home with a lighter heart.

As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to

each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on entering

to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room. One, with a

long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair, with his feet

cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked youth with coarse

bloated features, was standing in front of the window with his hands in

his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as

he entered, and the one in the rocking-chair commenced the conversation.

"Maybe you don't know us," he said. "This here is the son of Elder

Drebber, and I'm Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert

when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true

fold."

"As He will all the nations in His own good time," said the other in a

nasal voice; "He grindeth slowly but exceeding small."

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

"We have come," continued Stangerson, "at the advice of our fathers to

solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to

you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has

seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one."

"Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson," cried the other; "the question is not

how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now

given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man."

"But my prospects are better," said the other, warmly. "When the

Lord removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather

factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church."

"It will be for the maiden to decide," rejoined young Drebber, smirking

at his own reflection in the glass. "We will leave it all to her

decision."

During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway,

hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.

"Look here," he said at last, striding up to them, "when my daughter

summons you, you can come, but until then I don't want to see your faces

again."

The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this

competition between them for the maiden's hand was the highest of

honours both to her and her father.

"There are two ways out of the room," cried Ferrier; "there is the door,

and there is the window. Which do you care to use?"

His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening,

that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The

old farmer followed them to the door.

"Let me know when you have settled which it is to be," he said,

sardonically.

"You shall smart for this!" Stangerson cried, white with rage. "You have

defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to the end

of your days."

"The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you," cried young Drebber; "He

will arise and smite you!"

"Then I'll start the smiting," exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would

have rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm and

restrained him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of horses'

hoofs told him that they were beyond his reach.

"The young canting rascals!" he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from

his forehead; "I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl, than the

wife of either of them."

"And so should I, father," she answered, with spirit; "but Jefferson

will soon be here."

"Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for we

do not know what their next move may be."

It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and

help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted

daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there had never been

such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of the Elders. If

minor errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this

arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would be of no

avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been

spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church. He

was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors which

hung over him. Any known danger he could face with a firm lip, but

this suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his daughter,

however, and affected to make light of the whole matter, though she,

with the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at ease.

He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from

Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in an

unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to his surprise,

a small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of his bed just over

his chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling letters:--

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

The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How

this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his

servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been

secured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter, but

the incident struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days were

evidently the balance of the month which Young had promised. What

strength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such

mysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struck

him to the heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.

Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their

breakfast when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the

centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently,

the number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and he did not

enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and

ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27 had

been painted upon the outside of his door.

Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his

unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some

conspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of the

month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon the walls,

sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small placards

stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance John

Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warnings proceeded. A

horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at the sight of

them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had the troubled look

of some hunted creature. He had but one hope in life now, and that was

for the arrival of the young hunter from Nevada.

Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no news

of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still there

came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the road, or a

driver shouted at his team, the old farmer hurried to the gate thinking

that help had arrived at last. At last, when he saw five give way to

four and that again to three, he lost heart, and abandoned all hope of

escape. Single-handed, and with his limited knowledge of the mountains

which surrounded the settlement, he knew that he was powerless. The

more-frequented roads were strictly watched and guarded, and none could

pass along them without an order from the Council. Turn which way he

would, there appeared to be no avoiding the blow which hung over him.

Yet the old man never wavered in his resolution to part with life itself

before he consented to what he regarded as his daughter's dishonour.

He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles, and

searching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown the

figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be the last

of the allotted time. What was to happen then? All manner of vague and

terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his daughter--what was to

become of her after he was gone? Was there no escape from the invisible

network which was drawn all round them. He sank his head upon the table

and sobbed at the thought of his own impotence.

What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching sound--low,

but very distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from the door of

the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened intently. There

was a pause for a few moments, and then the low insidious sound was

repeated. Someone was evidently tapping very gently upon one of the

panels of the door. Was it some midnight assassin who had come to carry

out the murderous orders of the secret tribunal? Or was it some agent

who was marking up that the last day of grace had arrived. John Ferrier

felt that instant death would be better than the suspense which shook

his nerves and chilled his heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt and

threw the door open.

Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars were

twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before the

farmer's eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there nor on

the road was any human being to be seen. With a sigh of relief, Ferrier

looked to right and to left, until happening to glance straight down at

his own feet he saw to his astonishment a man lying flat upon his face

upon the ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.

So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall with

his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out. His first

thought was that the prostrate figure was that of some wounded or dying

man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along the ground and into the

hall with the rapidity and noiselessness of a serpent. Once within the

house the man sprang to his feet, closed the door, and revealed to the

astonished farmer the fierce face and resolute expression of Jefferson

Hope.

"Good God!" gasped John Ferrier. "How you scared me! Whatever made you

come in like that."

"Give me food," the other said, hoarsely. "I have had no time for bite

or sup for eight-and-forty hours." He flung himself upon the [21] cold

meat and bread which were still lying upon the table from his host's

supper, and devoured it voraciously. "Does Lucy bear up well?" he asked,

when he had satisfied his hunger.

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

"That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I crawled

my way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they're not quite sharp

enough to catch a Washoe hunter."

John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had

a devoted ally. He seized the young man's leathery hand and wrung it

cordially. "You're a man to be proud of," he said. "There are not many

who would come to share our danger and our troubles."

"You've hit it there, pard," the young hunter answered. "I have a

respect for you, but if you were alone in this business I'd think twice

before I put my head into such a hornet's nest. It's Lucy that brings me

here, and before harm comes on her I guess there will be one less o' the

Hope family in Utah."

"What are we to do?"

"To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are lost.

I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How much money

have you?"

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

"That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for Carson

City through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as well that

the servants do not sleep in the house."

While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching

journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find into

a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he knew by

experience that the mountain wells were few and far between. He had

hardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned with his

daughter all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting between the

lovers was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious, and there was

much to be done.

"We must make our start at once," said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a low

but resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the peril,

but has steeled his heart to meet it. "The front and back entrances are

watched, but with caution we may get away through the side window and

across the fields. Once on the road we are only two miles from the

Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we should be half-way

through the mountains."

"What if we are stopped," asked Ferrier.

Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his

tunic. "If they are too many for us we shall take two or three of them

with us," he said with a sinister smile.

The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the

darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his own,

and which he was now about to abandon for ever. He had long nerved

himself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of the honour and

happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his ruined fortunes.

All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees and the broad

silent stretch of grain-land, that it was difficult to realize that

the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the white face and set

expression of the young hunter showed that in his approach to the house

he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that head.

Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the scanty

provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing a few

of her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly and

carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured the

night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden. With

bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and gained

the shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came to the gap

which opened into the cornfields. They had just reached this point when

the young man seized his two companions and dragged them down into the

shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.

It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the

ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before the

melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards

of them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small

distance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the

gap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal cry

again, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.

"To-morrow at midnight," said the first who appeared to be in authority.

"When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times."

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

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

"Seven to five!" repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away

in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been some

form of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps had died

away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his

companions through the gap, led the way across the fields at the top

of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when her strength

appeared to fail her.

"Hurry on! hurry on!" he gasped from time to time. "We are through the

line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!"

Once on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they

meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid

recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter branched away into a

rugged and narrow footpath which led to the mountains. Two dark jagged

peaks loomed above them through the darkness, and the defile which led

between them was the Eagle Canon in which the horses were awaiting them.

With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way among the great

boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse, until he came to

the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the faithful animals had

been picketed. The girl was placed upon the mule, and old Ferrier upon

one of the horses, with his money-bag, while Jefferson Hope led the

other along the precipitous and dangerous path.

It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face

Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up a

thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long basaltic

columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some petrified monster.

On the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and debris made all advance

impossible. Between the two ran the irregular track, so narrow in places

that they had to travel in Indian file, and so rough that only practised

riders could have traversed it at all. Yet in spite of all dangers and

difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light within them,

for every step increased the distance between them and the terrible

despotism from which they were flying.

They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the

jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and most

desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry, and

pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track, showing out dark

and plain against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel. He saw them

as soon as they perceived him, and his military challenge of "Who goes

there?" rang through the silent ravine.

"Travellers for Nevada," said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the

rifle which hung by his saddle.

They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down at

them as if dissatisfied at their reply.

"By whose permission?" he asked.

"The Holy Four," answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught him

that that was the highest authority to which he could refer.

"Nine from seven," cried the sentinel.

"Seven from five," returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the

countersign which he had heard in the garden.

"Pass, and the Lord go with you," said the voice from above. Beyond his

post the path broadened out, and the horses were able to break into a

trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher leaning upon

his gun, and knew that they had passed the outlying post of the chosen

people, and that freedom lay before them.

A Study in Scarlet, Part II, Ch. 5: The Avenging Angels

ALL night their course lay through intricate defiles and over irregular

and rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way, but Hope's

intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain the track

once more. When morning broke, a scene of marvellous though savage

beauty lay before them. In every direction the great snow-capped peaks

hemmed them in, peeping over each other's shoulders to the far horizon.

So steep were the rocky banks on either side of them, that the larch

and the pine seemed to be suspended over their heads, and to need only a

gust of wind to come hurtling down upon them. Nor was the fear entirely

an illusion, for the barren valley was thickly strewn with trees and

boulders which had fallen in a similar manner. Even as they passed,

a great rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which woke

the echoes in the silent gorges, and startled the weary horses into a

gallop.

As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the great

mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival, until

they were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle cheered the

hearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy. At a wild

torrent which swept out of a ravine they called a halt and watered their

horses, while they partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father

would fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was inexorable. "They

will be upon our track by this time," he said. "Everything depends upon

our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest for the remainder of our

lives."

During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles, and

by evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles from

their enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling crag,

where the rocks offered some protection from the chill wind, and there

huddled together for warmth, they enjoyed a few hours' sleep. Before

daybreak, however, they were up and on their way once more. They had

seen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope began to think that

they were fairly out of the reach of the terrible organization whose

enmity they had incurred. He little knew how far that iron grasp could

reach, or how soon it was to close upon them and crush them.

About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store

of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little uneasiness,

however, for there was game to be had among the mountains, and he had

frequently before had to depend upon his rifle for the needs of life.

Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled together a few dried branches and

made a blazing fire, at which his companions might warm themselves, for

they were now nearly five thousand feet above the sea level, and the air

was bitter and keen. Having tethered the horses, and bade Lucy adieu,

he threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of whatever

chance might throw in his way. Looking back he saw the old man and the

young girl crouching over the blazing fire, while the three animals

stood motionless in the back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them

from his view.

He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another without

success, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees, and other

indications, he judged that there were numerous bears in the vicinity.

At last, after two or three hours' fruitless search, he was thinking of

turning back in despair, when casting his eyes upwards he saw a sight

which sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart. On the edge of a

jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet above him, there stood a

creature somewhat resembling a sheep in appearance, but armed with a

pair of gigantic horns. The big-horn--for so it is called--was acting,

probably, as a guardian over a flock which were invisible to the hunter;

but fortunately it was heading in the opposite direction, and had not

perceived him. Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and

took a long and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang

into the air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and

then came crashing down into the valley beneath.

The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented himself

with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this trophy

over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the evening was

already drawing in. He had hardly started, however, before he realized

the difficulty which faced him. In his eagerness he had wandered far

past the ravines which were known to him, and it was no easy matter

to pick out the path which he had taken. The valley in which he found

himself divided and sub-divided into many gorges, which were so like

each other that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.

He followed one for a mile or more until he came to a mountain torrent

which he was sure that he had never seen before. Convinced that he had

taken the wrong turn, he tried another, but with the same result. Night

was coming on rapidly, and it was almost dark before he at last found

himself in a defile which was familiar to him. Even then it was no easy

matter to keep to the right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and

the high cliffs on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed

down with his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along,

keeping up his heart by the reflection that every step brought him

nearer to Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure them food

for the remainder of their journey.

He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left

them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of the cliffs

which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him anxiously,

for he had been absent nearly five hours. In the gladness of his heart

he put his hands to his mouth and made the glen re-echo to a loud halloo

as a signal that he was coming. He paused and listened for an answer.

None came save his own cry, which clattered up the dreary silent

ravines, and was borne back to his ears in countless repetitions. Again

he shouted, even louder than before, and again no whisper came back from

the friends whom he had left such a short time ago. A vague, nameless

dread came over him, and he hurried onwards frantically, dropping the

precious food in his agitation.

When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where the

fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there,

but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The same

dead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed to

convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the

remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only

too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during

his absence--a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no

traces behind it.

Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin

round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He

was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily recovered from

his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece of wood from the

smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and proceeded with its help

to examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped down by the feet

of horses, showing that a large party of mounted men had overtaken

the fugitives, and the direction of their tracks proved that they had

afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of

his companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded himself

that they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object which made

every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one side of

the camp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil, which had assuredly

not been there before. There was no mistaking it for anything but a

newly-dug grave. As the young hunter approached it, he perceived that a

stick had been planted on it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft

fork of it. The inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:

JOHN FERRIER,

FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY, [22]

Died August 4th, 1860.

The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was gone,

then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked wildly round

to see if there was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy

had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original

destiny, by becoming one of the harem of the Elder's son. As the young

fellow realized the certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to

prevent it, he wished that he, too, was lying with the old farmer in his

last silent resting-place.

Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which springs

from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could at least

devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance,

Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained vindictiveness, which

he may have learned from the Indians amongst whom he had lived. As he

stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the only one thing which could

assuage his grief would be thorough and complete retribution, brought

by his own hand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring energy

should, he determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim, white

face, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the food, and having

stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last him for a

few days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as he was, he

set himself to walk back through the mountains upon the track of the

avenging angels.

For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which he

had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down among

the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before daybreak he was

always well on his way. On the sixth day, he reached the Eagle Canon,

from which they had commenced their ill-fated flight. Thence he could

look down upon the home of the saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned

upon his rifle and shook his gaunt hand fiercely at the silent

widespread city beneath him. As he looked at it, he observed that

there were flags in some of the principal streets, and other signs of

festivity. He was still speculating as to what this might mean when he

heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and saw a mounted man riding towards

him. As he approached, he recognized him as a Mormon named Cowper, to

whom he had rendered services at different times. He therefore accosted

him when he got up to him, with the object of finding out what Lucy

Ferrier's fate had been.

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

The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment--indeed, it was

difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with ghastly

white face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of former

days. Having, however, at last, satisfied himself as to his identity,

the man's surprise changed to consternation.

"You are mad to come here," he cried. "It is as much as my own life is

worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you from

the Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away."

"I don't fear them, or their warrant," Hope said, earnestly. "You must

know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by everything you

hold dear to answer a few questions. We have always been friends. For

God's sake, don't refuse to answer me."

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

ears and the trees eyes."

"What has become of Lucy Ferrier?"

"She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up, you

have no life left in you."

"Don't mind me," said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips, and

had sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning. "Married,

you say?"

"Married yesterday--that's what those flags are for on the Endowment

House. There was some words between young Drebber and young Stangerson

as to which was to have her. They'd both been in the party that followed

them, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed to give him the

best claim; but when they argued it out in council, Drebber's party was

the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to him. No one won't have

her very long though, for I saw death in her face yesterday. She is more

like a ghost than a woman. Are you off, then?"

"Yes, I am off," said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat. His

face might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was its

expression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.

"Where are you going?"

"Never mind," he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his shoulder,

strode off down the gorge and so away into the heart of the mountains to

the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there was none so fierce

and so dangerous as himself.

The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it was

the terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful marriage

into which she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her head again,

but pined away and died within a month. Her sottish husband, who had

married her principally for the sake of John Ferrier's property, did not

affect any great grief at his bereavement; but his other wives mourned

over her, and sat up with her the night before the burial, as is the

Mormon custom. They were grouped round the bier in the early hours of

the morning, when, to their inexpressible fear and astonishment,

the door was flung open, and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in

tattered garments strode into the room. Without a glance or a word to

the cowering women, he walked up to the white silent figure which had

once contained the pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he

pressed his lips reverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching

up her hand, he took the wedding-ring from her finger. "She shall not be

buried in that," he cried with a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could

be raised sprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief

was the episode, that the watchers might have found it hard to believe

it themselves or persuade other people of it, had it not been for the

undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as having been

a bride had disappeared.

For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading

a strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for

vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the weird

figure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which haunted

the lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through Stangerson's

window and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot of him. On

another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great boulder

crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by throwing

himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long in

discovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led

repeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or

killing their enemy, but always without success. Then they adopted the

precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of having

their houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax these

measures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their opponent, and

they hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.

Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter's mind

was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of revenge

had taken such complete possession of it that there was no room for

any other emotion. He was, however, above all things practical. He soon

realized that even his iron constitution could not stand the incessant

strain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and want of wholesome food

were wearing him out. If he died like a dog among the mountains, what

was to become of his revenge then? And yet such a death was sure to

overtake him if he persisted. He felt that that was to play his enemy's

game, so he reluctantly returned to the old Nevada mines, there to

recruit his health and to amass money enough to allow him to pursue his

object without privation.

His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a

combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the mines

for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his memory of

his wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on that

memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier's grave. Disguised,

and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake City, careless

what became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he knew to

be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There had been a

schism among the Chosen People a few months before, some of the younger

members of the Church having rebelled against the authority of the

Elders, and the result had been the secession of a certain number of the

malcontents, who had left Utah and become Gentiles. Among these had been

Drebber and Stangerson; and no one knew whither they had gone. Rumour

reported that Drebber had managed to convert a large part of his

property into money, and that he had departed a wealthy man, while his

companion, Stangerson, was comparatively poor. There was no clue at all,

however, as to their whereabouts.

Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of

revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never

faltered for a moment. With the small competence he possessed, eked out

by such employment as he could pick up, he travelled from town to town

through the United States in quest of his enemies. Year passed into

year, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered on, a human

bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object upon which he

had devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded. It was

but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told him that

Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit of. He

returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance all

arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his window,

had recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read murder in

his eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace, accompanied by

Stangerson, who had become his private secretary, and represented to him

that they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and hatred of

an old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was taken into custody, and

not being able to find sureties, was detained for some weeks. When at

last he was liberated, it was only to find that Drebber's house was

deserted, and that he and his secretary had departed for Europe.

Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred

urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and

for some time he had to return to work, saving every dollar for his

approaching journey. At last, having collected enough to keep life in

him, he departed for Europe, and tracked his enemies from city to

city, working his way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking the

fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had departed for Paris;

and when he followed them there he learned that they had just set off

for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days late, for

they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded in running

them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do better than quote

the old hunter's own account, as duly recorded in Dr. Watson's Journal,

to which we are already under such obligations.

A Study in Scarlet, Part II, Ch. 6: A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D

OUR prisoner's furious resistance did not apparently indicate any

ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself

powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes that

he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. "I guess you're going to take

me to the police-station," he remarked to Sherlock Holmes. "My cab's at

the door. If you'll loose my legs I'll walk down to it. I'm not so light

to lift as I used to be."

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this

proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner at

his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his ancles.

[23] He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself that

they were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself, as I eyed

him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man; and his dark

sunburned face bore an expression of determination and energy which was

as formidable as his personal strength.

"If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you

are the man for it," he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my

fellow-lodger. "The way you kept on my trail was a caution."

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

"I can drive you," said Lestrade.

"Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have

taken an interest in the case and may as well stick to us."

I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made no

attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been his,

and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the horse, and

brought us in a very short time to our destination. We were ushered into

a small chamber where a police Inspector noted down our prisoner's name

and the names of the men with whose murder he had been charged. The

official was a white-faced unemotional man, who went through his

duties in a dull mechanical way. "The prisoner will be put before the

magistrates in the course of the week," he said; "in the mean time, Mr.

Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you wish to say? I must warn you

that your words will be taken down, and may be used against you."

"I've got a good deal to say," our prisoner said slowly. "I want to tell

you gentlemen all about it."

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

"I may never be tried," he answered. "You needn't look startled. It

isn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?" He turned his fierce

dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

"Yes; I am," I answered.

"Then put your hand here," he said, with a smile, motioning with his

manacled wrists towards his chest.

I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing and

commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to

thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful

engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull

humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same source.

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

"That's what they call it," he said, placidly. "I went to a Doctor last

week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before many days

passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from over-exposure

and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've done my work now,

and I don't care how soon I go, but I should like to leave some account

of the business behind me. I don't want to be remembered as a common

cut-throat."

The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the

advisability of allowing him to tell his story.

"Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?" the former

asked, [24]

"Most certainly there is," I answered.

"In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to

take his statement," said the Inspector. "You are at liberty, sir, to

give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down."

"I'll sit down, with your leave," the prisoner said, suiting the action

to the word. "This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and the

tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I'm on the brink

of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I say is the

absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no consequence to me."

With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began

the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical

manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace enough.

I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I have had

access to Lestrade's note-book, in which the prisoner's words were taken

down exactly as they were uttered.

"It don't much matter to you why I hated these men," he said; "it's

enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings--a father

and a daughter--and that they had, therefore, forfeited their own

lives. After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime, it was

impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any court. I

knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should be judge,

jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You'd have done the same, if

you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my place.

"That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago. She

was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart over

it. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed that his

dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his last thoughts

should be of the crime for which he was punished. I have carried

it about with me, and have followed him and his accomplice over two

continents until I caught them. They thought to tire me out, but they

could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is likely enough, I die knowing

that my work in this world is done, and well done. They have perished,

and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope for, or to desire.

"They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me to

follow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I found

that I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving and riding

are as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a cabowner's office,

and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain sum a week to the

owner, and whatever was over that I might keep for myself. There was

seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along somehow. The hardest job

was to learn my way about, for I reckon that of all the mazes that ever

were contrived, this city is the most confusing. I had a map beside me

though, and when once I had spotted the principal hotels and stations, I

got on pretty well.

"It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were living;

but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across them. They

were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other side of the

river. When once I found them out I knew that I had them at my mercy. I

had grown my beard, and there was no chance of their recognizing me.

I would dog them and follow them until I saw my opportunity. I was

determined that they should not escape me again.

"They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about

London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my

cab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then they

could not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or late

at night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get behind hand

with my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long as I could lay

my hand upon the men I wanted.

"They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there was

some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out alone,

and never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind them every

day, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was drunk half

the time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I watched them

late and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but I was not

discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost come. My

only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a little too soon

and leave my work undone.

"At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as the

street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive up to

their door. Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a time

Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up my horse

and kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for I feared

that they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston Station they

got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed them on to the

platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train, and the guard answer

that one had just gone and there would not be another for some hours.

Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but Drebber was rather pleased

than otherwise. I got so close to them in the bustle that I could hear

every word that passed between them. Drebber said that he had a little

business of his own to do, and that if the other would wait for him he

would soon rejoin him. His companion remonstrated with him, and reminded

him that they had resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the

matter was a delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch

what Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out swearing, and

reminded him that he was nothing more than his paid servant, and that he

must not presume to dictate to him. On that the Secretary gave it up

as a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he missed the last

train he should rejoin him at Halliday's Private Hotel; to which Drebber

answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven, and made

his way out of the station.

"The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my

enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other,

but singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue

precipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction in

vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that strikes

him, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans arranged by

which I should have the opportunity of making the man who had wronged me

understand that his old sin had found him out. It chanced that some days

before a gentleman who had been engaged in looking over some houses in

the Brixton Road had dropped the key of one of them in my carriage. It

was claimed that same evening, and returned; but in the interval I had

taken a moulding of it, and had a duplicate constructed. By means of

this I had access to at least one spot in this great city where I could

rely upon being free from interruption. How to get Drebber to that house

was the difficult problem which I had now to solve.

"He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops, staying

for nearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out he

staggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was a

hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so close

that the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the whole way.

We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of streets, until,

to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the Terrace in which he

had boarded. I could not imagine what his intention was in returning

there; but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards or so from

the house. He entered it, and his hansom drove away. Give me a glass of

water, if you please. My mouth gets dry with the talking."

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

"That's better," he said. "Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour, or

more, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling inside the

house. Next moment the door was flung open and two men appeared, one of

whom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap whom I had never seen

before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar, and when they came to

the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a kick which sent him half

across the road. 'You hound,' he cried, shaking his stick at him; 'I'll

teach you to insult an honest girl!' He was so hot that I think he would

have thrashed Drebber with his cudgel, only that the cur staggered away

down the road as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran as far as the

corner, and then, seeing my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. 'Drive me

to Halliday's Private Hotel,' said he.

"When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy that

I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I drove

along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I might

take him right out into the country, and there in some deserted lane

have my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this, when he

solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him again, and

he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in, leaving word

that I should wait for him. There he remained until closing time, and

when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the game was in my own

hands.

"Don't imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would only

have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring myself

to do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for his life

if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets which I

have filled in America during my wandering life, I was once janitor and

sweeper out of the laboratory at York College. One day the professor was

lecturing on poisions, [25] and he showed his students some alkaloid,

as he called it, which he had extracted from some South American arrow

poison, and which was so powerful that the least grain meant instant

death. I spotted the bottle in which this preparation was kept, and when

they were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was a fairly

good dispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and

each pill I put in a box with a similar pill made without the poison.

I determined at the time that when I had my chance, my gentlemen should

each have a draw out of one of these boxes, while I ate the pill that

remained. It would be quite as deadly, and a good deal less noisy than

firing across a handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes

about with me, and the time had now come when I was to use them.

"It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard

and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad within--so

glad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you

gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for it during twenty

long years, and then suddenly found it within your reach, you would

understand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at it to steady my

nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples throbbing with

excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier and sweet Lucy

looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me, just as plain as I

see you all in this room. All the way they were ahead of me, one on each

side of the horse until I pulled up at the house in the Brixton Road.

"There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the

dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber

all huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm, 'It's

time to get out,' I said.

"'All right, cabby,' said he.

"I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned,

for he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden.

I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a little

top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it, and led him into the

front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father and the

daughter were walking in front of us.

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

"'We'll soon have a light,' I said, striking a match and putting it to

a wax candle which I had brought with me. 'Now, Enoch Drebber,' I

continued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, 'who am

I?'

"He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I

saw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features, which

showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face, and I

saw the perspiration break out upon his brow, while his teeth chattered

in his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the door and laughed

loud and long. I had always known that vengeance would be sweet, but I

had never hoped for the contentment of soul which now possessed me.

"'You dog!' I said; 'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St.

Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your wanderings

have come to an end, for either you or I shall never see to-morrow's sun

rise.' He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and I could see on his

face that he thought I was mad. So I was for the time. The pulses in my

temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I believe I would have had a fit

of some sort if the blood had not gushed from my nose and relieved me.

"'What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried, locking the door, and

shaking the key in his face. 'Punishment has been slow in coming, but it

has overtaken you at last.' I saw his coward lips tremble as I spoke. He

would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it was useless.

"'Would you murder me?' he stammered.

"'There is no murder,' I answered. 'Who talks of murdering a mad dog?

What mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from her

slaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and shameless

harem.'

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

"'But it was you who broke her innocent heart,' I shrieked, thrusting

the box before him. 'Let the high God judge between us. Choose and

eat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what you

leave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we are ruled

by chance.'

"He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my

knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I swallowed

the other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a minute or

more, waiting to see which was to live and which was to die. Shall I

ever forget the look which came over his face when the first warning

pangs told him that the poison was in his system? I laughed as I saw

it, and held Lucy's marriage ring in front of his eyes. It was but for

a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm of pain

contorted his features; he threw his hands out in front of him,

staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily upon the floor. I

turned him over with my foot, and placed my hand upon his heart. There

was no movement. He was dead!

"The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice of

it. I don't know what it was that put it into my head to write upon the

wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of setting the police

upon a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and cheerful. I remembered

a German being found in New York with RACHE written up above him, and it

was argued at the time in the newspapers that the secret societies must

have done it. I guessed that what puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle

the Londoners, so I dipped my finger in my own blood and printed it on

a convenient place on the wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found

that there was nobody about, and that the night was still very wild. I

had driven some distance when I put my hand into the pocket in which

I usually kept Lucy's ring, and found that it was not there. I was

thunderstruck at this, for it was the only memento that I had of her.

Thinking that I might have dropped it when I stooped over Drebber's

body, I drove back, and leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly

up to the house--for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose

the ring. When I arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a

police-officer who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his

suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.

"That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was

to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier's debt. I knew

that he was staying at Halliday's Private Hotel, and I hung about all

day, but he never came out. [26] fancy that he suspected something when

Drebber failed to put in an appearance. He was cunning, was Stangerson,

and always on his guard. If he thought he could keep me off by staying

indoors he was very much mistaken. I soon found out which was the window

of his bedroom, and early next morning I took advantage of some ladders

which were lying in the lane behind the hotel, and so made my way into

his room in the grey of the dawn. I woke him up and told him that the

hour had come when he was to answer for the life he had taken so long

before. I described Drebber's death to him, and I gave him the same

choice of the poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of

safety which that offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my

throat. In self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been

the same in any case, for Providence would never have allowed his guilty

hand to pick out anything but the poison.

"I have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am about done up.

I went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I

could save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the

yard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called

Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at 221B,

Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm, and the next thing I

knew, this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and as neatly

snackled [27] as ever I saw in my life. That's the whole of my story,

gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold that I am

just as much an officer of justice as you are."

So thrilling had the man's narrative been, and his manner was so

impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional

detectives, _blase_ as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to

be keenly interested in the man's story. When he finished we sat for

some minutes in a stillness which was only broken by the scratching

of Lestrade's pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his shorthand

account.

"There is only one point on which I should like a little more

information," Sherlock Holmes said at last. "Who was your accomplice who

came for the ring which I advertised?"

The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. "I can tell my own secrets,"

he said, "but I don't get other people into trouble. I saw your

advertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be the

ring which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think you'll

own he did it smartly."

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

"Now, gentlemen," the Inspector remarked gravely, "the forms of the law

must be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought before

the magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until then I will

be responsible for him." He rang the bell as he spoke, and Jefferson

Hope was led off by a couple of warders, while my friend and I made our

way out of the Station and took a cab back to Baker Street.

A Study in Scarlet, Part II, Ch. 7: The Conclusion

WE had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the

Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our

testimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson

Hope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict justice would

be meted out to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism

burst, and he was found in the morning stretched upon the floor of the

cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had been able

in his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on work well

done.

"Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death," Holmes remarked, as

we chatted it over next evening. "Where will their grand advertisement

be now?"

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

answered.

"What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence," returned my

companion, bitterly. "The question is, what can you make people believe

that you have done. Never mind," he continued, more brightly, after a

pause. "I would not have missed the investigation for anything. There

has been no better case within my recollection. Simple as it was, there

were several most instructive points about it."

"Simple!" I ejaculated.

"Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise," said Sherlock

Holmes, smiling at my surprise. "The proof of its intrinsic simplicity

is, that without any help save a few very ordinary deductions I was able

to lay my hand upon the criminal within three days."

"That is true," said I.

"I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is

usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this

sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a very

useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not practise

it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful to reason

forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are fifty who

can reason synthetically for one who can reason analytically."

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

"I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it clearer.

Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you

what the result would be. They can put those events together in their

minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are

few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to

evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led

up to that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning

backwards, or analytically."

"I understand," said I.

"Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to

find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you the

different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I approached

the house, as you know, on foot, and with my mind entirely free from all

impressions. I naturally began by examining the roadway, and there, as I

have already explained to you, I saw clearly the marks of a cab, which,

I ascertained by inquiry, must have been there during the night. I

satisfied myself that it was a cab and not a private carriage by the

narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary London growler is considerably

less wide than a gentleman's brougham.

"This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the garden

path, which happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly suitable

for taking impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a mere

trampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes every mark upon its

surface had a meaning. There is no branch of detective science which

is so important and so much neglected as the art of tracing footsteps.

Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and much practice

has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of the

constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had first passed

through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had been before the

others, because in places their marks had been entirely obliterated by

the others coming upon the top of them. In this way my second link was

formed, which told me that the nocturnal visitors were two in number,

one remarkable for his height (as I calculated from the length of his

stride), and the other fashionably dressed, to judge from the small and

elegant impression left by his boots.

"On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My well-booted

man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the murder, if murder

there was. There was no wound upon the dead man's person, but the

agitated expression upon his face assured me that he had foreseen his

fate before it came upon him. Men who die from heart disease, or any

sudden natural cause, never by any chance exhibit agitation upon their

features. Having sniffed the dead man's lips I detected a slightly sour

smell, and I came to the conclusion that he had had poison forced upon

him. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him from the hatred

and fear expressed upon his face. By the method of exclusion, I had

arrived at this result, for no other hypothesis would meet the facts.

Do not imagine that it was a very unheard of idea. The forcible

administration of poison is by no means a new thing in criminal annals.

The cases of Dolsky in Odessa, and of Leturier in Montpellier, will

occur at once to any toxicologist.

"And now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had not

been the object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it politics,

then, or was it a woman? That was the question which confronted me.

I was inclined from the first to the latter supposition. Political

assassins are only too glad to do their work and to fly. This murder

had, on the contrary, been done most deliberately, and the perpetrator

had left his tracks all over the room, showing that he had been there

all the time. It must have been a private wrong, and not a political

one, which called for such a methodical revenge. When the inscription

was discovered upon the wall I was more inclined than ever to my

opinion. The thing was too evidently a blind. When the ring was found,

however, it settled the question. Clearly the murderer had used it to

remind his victim of some dead or absent woman. It was at this point

that I asked Gregson whether he had enquired in his telegram to

Cleveland as to any particular point in Mr. Drebber's former career. He

answered, you remember, in the negative.

"I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which

confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer's height, and furnished me

with the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the length

of his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since there were no

signs of a struggle, that the blood which covered the floor had burst

from the murderer's nose in his excitement. I could perceive that the

track of blood coincided with the track of his feet. It is seldom that

any man, unless he is very full-blooded, breaks out in this way through

emotion, so I hazarded the opinion that the criminal was probably a

robust and ruddy-faced man. Events proved that I had judged correctly.

"Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected. I

telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my enquiry

to the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch Drebber. The

answer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had already applied for

the protection of the law against an old rival in love, named Jefferson

Hope, and that this same Hope was at present in Europe. I knew now that

I held the clue to the mystery in my hand, and all that remained was to

secure the murderer.

"I had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked

into the house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had driven

the cab. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had wandered

on in a way which would have been impossible had there been anyone in

charge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he were inside

the house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane man would carry

out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it were, of a third

person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man wished

to dog another through London, what better means could he adopt than

to turn cabdriver. All these considerations led me to the irresistible

conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be found among the jarveys of the

Metropolis.

"If he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased to

be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden change would be

likely to draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for a time at

least, continue to perform his duties. There was no reason to suppose

that he was going under an assumed name. Why should he change his name

in a country where no one knew his original one? I therefore organized

my Street Arab detective corps, and sent them systematically to every

cab proprietor in London until they ferreted out the man that I wanted.

How well they succeeded, and how quickly I took advantage of it, are

still fresh in your recollection. The murder of Stangerson was an

incident which was entirely unexpected, but which could hardly in

any case have been prevented. Through it, as you know, I came into

possession of the pills, the existence of which I had already surmised.

You see the whole thing is a chain of logical sequences without a break

or flaw."

"It is wonderful!" I cried. "Your merits should be publicly recognized.

You should publish an account of the case. If you won't, I will for

you."

"You may do what you like, Doctor," he answered. "See here!" he

continued, handing a paper over to me, "look at this!"

It was the _Echo_ for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed was

devoted to the case in question.

"The public," it said, "have lost a sensational treat through the sudden

death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr. Enoch

Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case will

probably be never known now, though we are informed upon good authority

that the crime was the result of an old standing and romantic feud, in

which love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that both the victims

belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day Saints, and Hope, the

deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. If the case has had

no other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most striking manner

the efficiency of our detective police force, and will serve as a lesson

to all foreigners that they will do wisely to settle their feuds at

home, and not to carry them on to British soil. It is an open secret

that the credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known

Scotland Yard officials, Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was

apprehended, it appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

who has himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in the detective

line, and who, with such instructors, may hope in time to attain to some

degree of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort

will be presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of their

services."

"Didn't I tell you so when we started?" cried Sherlock Holmes with a

laugh. "That's the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a

testimonial!"

"Never mind," I answered, "I have all the facts in my journal, and the

public shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself contented

by the consciousness of success, like the Roman miser--

"'Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo

Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in arca.'"

ORIGINAL TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

[Footnote 1: Frontispiece, with the caption: "He examined with his glass

the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the most

minute exactness." (_Page_ 23.)]

7[Footnote 2: "JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.": the initial letters in the name are

capitalized, the other letters in small caps. All chapter titles are in

small caps. The initial words of chapters are in small caps with first

letter capitalized.]

[Footnote 3: "lodgings.": the period should be a comma, as in later

editions.]

[Footnote 4: "hoemoglobin": should be haemoglobin. The o&e are

concatenated.]

[Footnote 5: "221B": the B is in small caps]

[Footnote 6: "THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY": the table-of-contents

lists this chapter as "...GARDENS MYSTERY"--plural, and probably more

correct.]

[Footnote 7: "brought."": the text has an extra double-quote mark]

[Footnote 8: "individual--": illustration this page, with the

caption: "As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and

everywhere."]

[Footnote 9: "manoeuvres": the o&e are concatenated.]

[Footnote 10: "Patent leathers": the hyphen is missing.]

[Footnote 11: "condonment": should be condonement.]

[Footnote 13: "wages.": ending quote is missing.]

[Footnote 14: "the first.": ending quote is missing.]

[Footnote 15: "make much of...": Other editions complete this sentence

with an "it." But there is a gap in the text at this point, and, given

the context, it may have actually been an interjection, a dash. The gap

is just the right size for the characters "it." and the start of a new

sentence, or for a "----"]

[Footnote 16: "tho cushion": "tho" should be "the"]

[Footnote 19: "shoving": later editions have "showing". The original is

clearly superior.]

[Footnote 20: "stared about...": illustration, with the caption: "One of

them seized the little girl, and hoisted her upon his shoulder."]

[Footnote 21: "upon the": illustration, with the caption: "As he watched

it he saw it writhe along the ground."]

[Footnote 22: "FORMERLY...": F,S,L,C in caps, other letters in this line

in small caps.]

[Footnote 23: "ancles": ankles.]

[Footnote 24: "asked,": should be "asked."]

[Footnote 25: "poisions": should be "poisons"]

[Footnote 26: "...fancy": should be "I fancy". There is a gap in the

text.]

[Footnote 27: "snackled": "shackled" in later texts.]

[Footnote 29: Heber C. Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his

hundred wives under this endearing epithet.]

End of Project Gutenberg's A Study In Scarlet, by Arthur Conan Doyle

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 1: The Science of Deduction

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and

his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,

white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back

his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully

upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with

innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home,

pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined

arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but

custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to

day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled

nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to

protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver

my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant

air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would

care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his

masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many

extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing

him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken

with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme

deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no

longer.

"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he

had opened. "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per-cent. solution.

Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My constitution has not got over

the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain

upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.

"I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it,

however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that

its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may,

as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid

process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a

permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon

you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for

a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which

you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to

another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to

some extent answerable."

He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips

together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who

has a relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me

work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate

analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then

with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence.

I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own

particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the only one in

the world."

"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I am the

last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or

Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the way,

is their normal state--the matter is laid before me. I examine the

data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim no

credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work

itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my

highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my

methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything

in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat

fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he. "Honestly, I

cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an

exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional

manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which

produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an

elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with

the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of

proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the

case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from

effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially

designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the

egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be

devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years

that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small

vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no

remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet

through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from

walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

"My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes,

after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted

last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come

rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has all

the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide

range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments

of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some

features of interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases,

the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have

suggested to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had

this morning acknowledging my assistance." He tossed over, as he

spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down

it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray

"magnifiques," "coup-de-maitres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying

to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.

"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly.

"He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three

qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of

observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in knowledge;

and that may come in time. He is now translating my small works into

French."

"Your works?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty of

several monographs. They are all upon technical subjects. Here, for

example, is one 'Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various

Tobaccoes.' In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar-,

cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with colored plates illustrating the

difference in the ash. It is a point which is continually turning up

in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a

clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has

been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously

narrows your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much

difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff

of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."

"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.

"I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing

of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a

preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon the

influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the

hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers, and

diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great practical interest to the

scientific detective,--especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in

discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary you with my

hobby."

"Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the greatest interest

to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your

practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation and

deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his arm-chair,

and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example,

observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street

Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there

you dispatched a telegram."

"Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don't

see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I

have mentioned it to no one."

"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise,--"so

absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may

serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction.

Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering to

your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they have taken

up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that

it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering. The earth is of

this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere

else in the neighborhood. So much is observation. The rest is

deduction."

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat

opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that

you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards. What

could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire?

Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the

truth."

"In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought.

"The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think

me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?"

"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a

second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem

which you might submit to me."

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object

in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it

in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here

a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the

kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the

late owner?"

I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my

heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I

intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he

occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at

the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked

eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from

smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and

handed it back.

"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been recently

cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

"You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me."

In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and

impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he expect from

an uncleaned watch?

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he

observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes.

"Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to

your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

"Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is

nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so

it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descends to the

eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father.

Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has,

therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

"Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits,--very untidy and careless. He was left

with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time

in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally,

taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather."

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with

considerable bitterness in my heart.

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed

that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into the

history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this

knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that

you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to speak

plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

"My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. Viewing

the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and

painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you, however, that I

never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch."

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these facts?

They are absolutely correct in every particular."

"Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance of

probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

"But it was not mere guess-work?"

"No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit,--destructive to the

logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do

not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which

large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that your

brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that

watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but it

is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard

objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no

great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so

cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched

inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty

well provided for in other respects."

I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a

watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the

inside of the case. It is more handy than a label, as there is no risk

of the number being lost or transposed. There are no less than four

such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case.

Inference,--that your brother was often at low water. Secondary

inference,--that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could

not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner

plate, which contains the key-hole. Look at the thousands of scratches

all round the hole,--marks where the key has slipped. What sober man's

key could have scored those grooves? But you will never see a

drunkard's watch without them. He winds it at night, and he leaves

these traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all this?"

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I regret the injustice

which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvellous

faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot

at present?"

"None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without brain-work. What else

is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a

dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down

the street and drifts across the dun-colored houses. What could be

more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having

powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime

is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those

which are commonplace have any function upon earth."

I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, when with a crisp knock

our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

"A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

"Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Hum! I have no recollection of the

name. Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson. Don't go, doctor.

I should prefer that you remain."

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 2: The Statement of the Case

Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure

of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved,

and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness

and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a suggestion of

limited means. The dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and

unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved

only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her face had neither

regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was

sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual

and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over many

nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face

which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. I could

not but observe that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed

for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign

of intense inward agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled

my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic

complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe that I

was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember

it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of mine.

I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable,

than the situation in which I find myself."

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned forward in

his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his

clear-cut, hawklike features. "State your case," said he, in brisk,

business tones.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one. "You will, I am sure,

excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.

"If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop, he might be

of inestimable service to me."

I relapsed into my chair.

"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was an

officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a

child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England. I was

placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at Edinburgh,

and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age. In the year

1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve

months' leave and came home. He telegraphed to me from London that he

had arrived all safe, and directed me to come down at once, giving the

Langham Hotel as his address. His message, as I remember, was full of

kindness and love. On reaching London I drove to the Langham, and was

informed that Captain Morstan was staying there, but that he had gone

out the night before and had not yet returned. I waited all day without

news of him. That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I

communicated with the police, and next morning we advertised in all the

papers. Our inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no

word has ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with

his heart full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and

instead--" She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short

the sentence.

"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

25"He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878,--nearly ten years ago."

"His luggage?"

"Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a

clue,--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of

curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers

in charge of the convict-guard there."

"Had he any friends in town?"

"Only one that we know of,--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the 34th

Bombay Infantry. The major had retired some little time before, and

lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of course, but he

did not even know that his brother officer was in England."

"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About six

years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an advertisement

appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan and

stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward. There was

no name or address appended. I had at that time just entered the

family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her

advice I published my address in the advertisement column. The same

day there arrived through the post a small card-board box addressed to

me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word

of writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same date

there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar pearl,

without any clue as to the sender. They have been pronounced by an

expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You can see

for yourselves that they are very handsome." She opened a flat box as

she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I had ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes. "Has

anything else occurred to you?"

3"Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come to you. This

morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for

yourself."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope too, please. Postmark,

London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man's thumb-mark on

corner,--probably postman. Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence

a packet. Particular man in his stationery. No address. 'Be at the

third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven

o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged

woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all

will be in vain. Your unknown friend.' Well, really, this is a very

pretty little mystery. What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

"That is exactly what I want to ask you."

"Then we shall most certainly go. You and I and--yes, why, Dr. Watson

is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I have

worked together before."

"But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice

and expression.

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any

service."

"You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a retired life,

and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it

will do, I suppose?"

"You must not be later," said Holmes. "There is one other point,

however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box

addresses?"

"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of

paper.

"You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition.

Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave

little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised

hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no

question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will

break out, and see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtedly by

the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss

Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of

your father?"

"Nothing could be more unlike."

"I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at

six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter

before then. It is only half-past three. Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from

one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and

hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly

down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a

speck in the sombre crowd.

"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.

He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids.

"Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe."

"You really are an automaton,--a calculating-machine!" I cried. "There

is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to

allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to

me a mere unit,--a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are

antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning

woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for

their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is

a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the

London poor."

"In this case, however--"

"I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you

ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make

of this fellow's scribble?"

"It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business habits and

some force of character."

Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They

hardly rise above the common herd. That d might be an a, and that l an

e. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however

illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his k's and

self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few

references to make. Let me recommend this book,--one of the most

remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man.' I

shall be back in an hour."

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were

far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our

late visitor,--her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the

strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the

time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now,--a

sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a

little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such dangerous

thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged

furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army

surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should

dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a factor,--nothing more.

If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man

than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of the

imagination.

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 3: In Quest of a Solution

It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager,

and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated with

fits of the blackest depression.

"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of

tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of only

one explanation."

"What! you have solved it already?"

"Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive

fact, that is all. It is, however, VERY suggestive. The details are

still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of

the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th Bombay

Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

"No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan

disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is

Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.

Four years later Sholto dies. WITHIN A WEEK OF HIS DEATH Captain

Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated from

year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a

wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of

her father? And why should the presents begin immediately after

Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir knows something of the

mystery and desires to make compensation? Have you any alternative

theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too,

should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the

letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is

too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other

injustice in her case that you know of."

"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said

Sherlock Holmes, pensively. "But our expedition of to-night will solve

them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. Are

you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a little past the

hour."

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes

took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It

was clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious one.

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was

composed, but pale. She must have been more than woman if she did not

feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were

embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered

the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "His

letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were in

command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a

great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in papa's

desk which no one could understand. I don't suppose that it is of the

slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I

brought it with me. It is here."

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his knee.

He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked. "It has at

some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a

plan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and

passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it

is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing. In the left-hand corner

is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with their arms

touching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse characters,

'The sign of the four,--Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan,

Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon the

matter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance. It has been kept

carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean as the other."

"It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of

use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be much

deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider my

ideas." He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn brow

and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss Morstan and I

chatted in an undertone about our present expedition and its possible

outcome, but our companion maintained his impenetrable reserve until

the end of our journey.

It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day had

been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city.

Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down the

Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which threw

a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow glare

from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air, and

threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare.

There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like in the endless

procession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars of

light,--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human kind,

they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloom

once more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy

evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combined

to make me nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss Morstan's

manner that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes alone

could rise superior to petty influences. He held his open note-book

upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down figures and

memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the

side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and

four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of

shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly

reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,

dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

"Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said she.

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon us.

"You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manner, "but

I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your companions

is a police-officer."

"I give you my word on that," she answered.

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a

four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us mounted

to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly done so

before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away at a

furious pace through the foggy streets.

The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place,

on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete

hoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else we had good

reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.

Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I

endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in

Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our

situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were

slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one moving

anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night,

and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I had

some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what

with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost

my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going a very

long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he muttered

the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuous

by-streets.

"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the

Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.

Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses

of the river."

We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the

lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, and

was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.

Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not

appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.

Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glare

and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came rows

of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, and

then again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings,--the

monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the

country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace.

None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped

was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen

window. On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open

by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting

clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous

in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace door-way of a

third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

"The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a high

piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar,"

it cried. "Show them straight in to me."

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 4: The Story of the Bald-Headed Man

We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and

worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw

open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre

of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle

of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which

shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed

his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual

jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose.

Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow

and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly

passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his

obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact

he had just turned his thirtieth year.

"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.

"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small

place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the

howling desert of South London."

We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he

invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond

of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of

curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to

expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was

of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly

into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart

it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah

which stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a

silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre

of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic

odor.

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling.

"That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these

gentlemen--"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."

"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope?

Might I ask you--would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as

to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may

rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything

amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered

from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no

cause for uneasiness."

"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. "I am

a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I

am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father, Miss

Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have

been alive now."

I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this

callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan

sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart

that he was dead," said she.

"I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I can

do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say.

I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you,

but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The three of

us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no

outsiders,--no police or officials. We can settle everything

satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing

would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down

upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery

blue eyes.

"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go no

further."

I nodded to show my agreement.

"That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of

Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I

open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to

tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am

a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He

applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily

through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our

heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky

little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the

centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,

"I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might

disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the

liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man

Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete confidence in

his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed

no further in the matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am

a man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and

there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman. I have a natural

shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact

with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere

of elegance around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It is

my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a

connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there

cannot be the least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the

modern French school."

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here at

your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is

very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as

possible."

"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall

certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall

all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is

very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to me.

I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine what a

terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at

once," I ventured to remark.

He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he

cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that sudden

way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each

other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are several

points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the

facts before you as far as I know them myself.

"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the

Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live at

Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and

brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection

of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these

advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My

twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the

disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,

and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed

the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations

as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect

that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all men

he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

"We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive

danger--overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone,

and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at

Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.

He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never

tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men

with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a

wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for

orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My brother

and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's, but events have

since led us to change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great

shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened

it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter

we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was

short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from

an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the

end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he

wished to make a last communication to us.

"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing

heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon either side

of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable statement

to us, in a voice which was broken as much by emotion as by pain. I

shall try and give it to you in his own very words.

"'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this

supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The

cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has withheld

from her the treasure, half at least of which should have been hers.

And yet I have made no use of it myself,--so blind and foolish a thing

is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me that

I could not bear to share it with another. See that chaplet dipped

with pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to

part with, although I had got it out with the design of sending it to

her. You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure. But

send her nothing--not even the chaplet--until I am gone. After all, men

have been as bad as this and have recovered.

"'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had suffered

for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I

alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of

circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I

brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he

came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the

station, and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now dead.

Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of the

treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of his

chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his

side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards, cutting his

head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I stooped over him

I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

"'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do.

My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could

not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused

of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in

his head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could

not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure, which I

was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no soul

upon earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no necessity why

any soul ever should know.

"'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my

servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door

behind him. "Do not fear, Sahib," he said. "No one need know that you

have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?" "I did

not kill him," said I. Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I

heard it all, Sahib," said he. "I heard you quarrel, and I heard the

blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put

him away together." That was enough to decide me. If my own servant

could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good before

twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar and I disposed of

the body that night, and within a few days the London papers were full

of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan. You will see from

what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the matter. My fault lies in

the fact that we concealed not only the body, but also the treasure,

and that I have clung to Morstan's share as well as to my own. I wish

you, therefore, to make restitution. Put your ears down to my mouth.

The treasure is hidden in--' At this instant a horrible change came

over his expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw dropped, and he

yelled, in a voice which I can never forget, 'Keep him out! For

Christ's sake keep him out!' We both stared round at the window behind

us upon which his gaze was fixed. A face was looking in at us out of

the darkness. We could see the whitening of the nose where it was

pressed against the glass. It was a bearded, hairy face, with wild

cruel eyes and an expression of concentrated malevolence. My brother

and I rushed towards the window, but the man was gone. When we

returned to my father his head had dropped and his pulse had ceased to

beat.

"We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the intruder,

save that just under the window a single footmark was visible in the

flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have thought that our

imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face. We soon, however,

had another and a more striking proof that there were secret agencies

at work all round us. The window of my father's room was found open in

the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been rifled, and upon his

chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with the words 'The sign of the

four' scrawled across it. What the phrase meant, or who our secret

visitor may have been, we never knew. As far as we can judge, none of

my father's property had been actually stolen, though everything had

been turned out. My brother and I naturally associated this peculiar

incident with the fear which haunted my father during his life; but it

is still a complete mystery to us."

The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully

for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his

extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's death

Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared that

she was about to faint. She rallied however, on drinking a glass of

water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon

the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an

abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering eyes.

As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day he had

complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at least was

a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr. Thaddeus

Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious pride at the

effect which his story had produced, and then continued between the

puffs of his overgrown pipe.

"My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited as

to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for

months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without

discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the

hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died. We could

judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which he had

taken out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had some

little discussion. The pearls were evidently of great value, and he

was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was

himself a little inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, that

if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and finally

bring us into trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade him to

let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached pearl at

fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel destitute."

"It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly. "It was

extremely good of you."

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. "We were your trustees,"

he said. "That was the view which I took of it, though Brother

Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty

of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would have been

such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion. 'Le

mauvais gout mene au crime.' The French have a very neat way of

putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went so

far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself: so I left

Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me.

17Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme importance has

occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I instantly communicated

with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood

and demand our share. I explained my views last night to Brother

Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors."

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious settee.

We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new development

which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the first to

spring to his feet.

"You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he. "It is

possible that we may be able to make you some small return by throwing

some light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as Miss Morstan

remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the matter through

without delay."

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his

hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged

topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up,

in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his attire

by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which covered the

ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile and peaky

face. "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he led the way

down the passage. "I am compelled to be a valetudinarian."

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently

prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.

Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above

the rattle of the wheels.

"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he. "How do you think he found

out where the treasure was? He had come to the conclusion that it was

somewhere indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the house,

and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be

unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the

building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of

all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space

between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total

to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted for. These

could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a hole,

therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the highest room, and

there, sure enough, he came upon another little garret above it, which

had been sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood the

treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through the

hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at not

less than half a million sterling."

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another

open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change from

a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it was the

place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am ashamed to

say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my heart turned as

heavy as lead within me. I stammered out some few halting words of

congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head drooped, deaf to

the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a confirmed

hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth

interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the

composition and action of innumerable quack nostrums, some of which he

bore about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that he may not

remember any of the answers which I gave him that night. Holmes

declares that he overheard me caution him against the great danger of

taking more than two drops of castor oil, while I recommended

strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However that may be, I was

certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a jerk and the coachman

sprang down to open the door.

"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,

as he handed her out.

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 5: The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge

It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our

night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind

us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the westward,

and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a moon peeping

occasionally through the rifts. It was clear enough to see for some

distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the side-lamps from the

carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a

very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow

iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our guide

knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The

door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the

opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his

protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders

about them from the master."

"No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I

should bring some friends."

"He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no

orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can let

you in, but your friends must just stop where they are."

This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in a

perplexed and helpless manner. "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!" he

said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the young

lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road at this hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably. "Folk may be

friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's. He pays me well

to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know none o' your friends."

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially. "I don't

think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember the amateur who

fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your

benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth! how

could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet you

had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw,

I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that has wasted

your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the

fancy."

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the

scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our friend

won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

"In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he answered.

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be

certain of your friends before I let them in."

Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of

a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a

moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast

size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck a

chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the

lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

"I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I

distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is no

light in his window. I do not know what to make of it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the favorite son, you

know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more than

he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up there where the

moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from

within, I think."

"None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little

window beside the door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone

sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind

waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and she

has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But hush! what is that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light

flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and

we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great

black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and most

pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken whimpering of a frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in the

house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried for the

door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman

admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you

have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings

until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled

monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and

peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which

cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand

was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two who

had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even

look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble

our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marvelled at it

since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should

go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also

the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection. So we stood

hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for

all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it.

I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat,

where the prospectors had been at work."

"And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the

treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking

for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto

came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am

frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half

blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from

the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a

terrified child.

"Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to

giving directions."

We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the

left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down

with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss

Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

"God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob.

"It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this

day!"

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few

words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back into the

others bloodless cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained.

"All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be

alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up

and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus,--you

must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto

in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such

a face on him as that."

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's

teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to pass

my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were

trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out

of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to me to be

mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served

as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, holding the

lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had

remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length,

with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three

doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same slow and

methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our long black

shadows streaming backwards down the corridor. The third door was that

which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving any answer,

and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It was locked on

the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see

when we set our lamp up against it. The key being turned, however, the

hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and

instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved than

I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?"

I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was streaming

into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty radiance.

Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all

beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,--the very face of our

companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the same

circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance. The

features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural

grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring to the

nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of

our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure that he was

indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us

that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he

put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not

yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time it

gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew

Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double

line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the

door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes,

and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets.

One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream of

dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy

with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of steps stood at one

side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and

above them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man

to pass through. At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was

thrown carelessly together.

By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was seated

all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and that

ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold, and

had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only his

features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most

fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar

instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a

hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn sheet

of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it,

and then handed it to me.

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The sign

of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I

expected it. Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long, dark

thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is

poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin

so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of

blood showed where the puncture had been.

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows darker

instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I only

require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the

chamber. He was still standing in the door-way, the very picture of

terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, however,

he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of the

treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him

to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him here last

night, and I heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be called

in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am

sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen? Surely you don't

think that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought you here

if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad!" He

jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy.

"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly, putting

his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive down to the

station to report this matter to the police. Offer to assist them in

every way. We shall wait here until your return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him

stumbling down the stairs in the dark.

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 6: Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour to

ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told

you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of

over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something

deeper underlying it."

"Simple!" I ejaculated.

"Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor

expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, that your

footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first

place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not

been opened since last night. How of the window?" He carried the lamp

across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but

addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on

the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us

open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has

mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the

print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy

mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See

here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration."

I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. "This is not a

footmark," said I.

"It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a

wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot

with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the timber-toe."

"It is the wooden-legged man."

"Quite so. But there has been some one else,--a very able and

efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that

angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and,

look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice

in the brick-work.

"It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

"Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who

lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing

one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you

were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would

depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the

rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside,

and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it

may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our

wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional

sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than

one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I

gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin

off his hand."

"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more

unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he

into the room?"

"Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of

interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the

commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals

of crime in this country,--though parallel cases suggest themselves

from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

"How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is

inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?"

"The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered

that possibility."

"How then?" I persisted.

"You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often

have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible

whatever remains, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must be the truth? We know that

he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also

know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no

concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?"

"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness

to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room

above,--the secret room in which the treasure was found."

He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung

himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down

for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and

six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin

lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam

to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell

of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and

the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against

the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof.

I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle

angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see

if we can find any other traces of his individuality."

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the

second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.

For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes.

The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot,--clear,

well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an

ordinary man.

"Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing."

He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered

for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory

failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing

more to be learned here. Let us go down."

"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly,

when we had regained the lower room once more.

"My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch

of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be

instructive to compare results."

"I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered.

"It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I

think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look."

He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room

on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose

only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and

deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his

movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent,

that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made

had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of

exerting them in its defense. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to

himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight.

"We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little

trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the

creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here

at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked,

You see, and the stuff has leaked out."

"What then?" I asked.

"Why, we have got him, that's all," said he. "I know a dog that would

follow that scent to the world's end. If a pack can track a trailed

herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so

pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three.

The answer should give us the--But halloo! here are the accredited

representatives of the law."

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below, and

the hall door shut with a loud crash.

"Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor

fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?"

"The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

"Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding

the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this

Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers called it,

what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

"Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,--"some

strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn

muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the

means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I

discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force

into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would

be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his

chair. Now examine the thorn."

I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was

long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though

some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed

and rounded off with a knife.

"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

"No, it certainly is not."

"With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.

But here are the regulars: so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat."

As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on

the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode heavily

into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of

very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen

and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform,

and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

"Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a

pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as

full as a rabbit-warren!"

"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,

quietly.

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the

theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on

causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It's

true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was more

by good luck than good guidance."

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

"Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all

this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here,--no room for

theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another

case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d'you think

the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes, dryly.

"No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head

sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a

million missing. How was the window?"

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with

the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died in a fit; but

then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come

upon me at times.--Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto.

Your friend can remain.--What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto

was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother

died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure. How's

that?"

"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on

the inside."

"Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter.

This Thaddeus Sholto WAS with his brother; there WAS a quarrel; so much

we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much also we

know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him. His bed

had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state

of mind. His appearance is--well, not attractive. You see that I am

weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him."

"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes. "This

splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned,

was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this card,

inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this

rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit into

your theory?"

"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously.

"House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if

this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use

of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus,--a blind, as

like as not. The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of course,

here is a hole in the roof." With great activity, considering his

bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and

immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he

had found the trap-door.

"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "He

has occasional glimmerings of reason. _Il n'y a pas des sots si

incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!_"

"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.

"Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case

is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it

is partly open."

"It was I who opened it."

"Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen

at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our

gentleman got away. Inspector!"

"Yes, sir," from the passage.

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.--Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform

you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest

you in the queen's name as being concerned in the death of your

brother."

"There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing

out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think

that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist,--don't promise too much!"

snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you

think."

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free

present of the name and description of one of the two people who were

in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is

Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his

right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the

inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron

band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has

been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to

you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing

from the palm of his hand. The other man--"

"Ah! the other man--?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but

impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the

other's manner.

"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his

heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair

of them.--A word with you, Watson."

He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence,"

he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of

our journey."

"I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss

Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester,

in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here

if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"

"By no means. I don't think I could rest until I know more of this

fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life,

but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises

to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to

see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far."

"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We shall

work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult

over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have

dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down

near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand

side is a bird-stuffer's: Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel

holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and tell

him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring

Toby back in the cab with you."

"A dog, I suppose."

"Yes,--a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would

rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of

London."

"I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back

before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone,

and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the

next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's methods and listen

to his not too delicate sarcasms. 'Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen

verhoehnen was sie nicht verstehen.' Goethe is always pithy."

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 7: The Episode of the Barrel

The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss

Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had

borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker

than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the

side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first

turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,--so sorely had

she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me since

that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She little

guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint

which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as

my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities

of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this

one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two thoughts which

sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was weak and helpless,

shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to

obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she was rich. If

Holmes's researches were successful, she would be an heiress. Was it

fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon should take such

advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought about? Might she not

look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I could not bear to risk

that such a thought should cross her mind. This Agra treasure

intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The

servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so

interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received that

she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door herself,

a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly

her arm stole round the other's waist and how motherly was the voice in

which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an

honored friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged

me to step in and tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the

importance of my errand, and promised faithfully to call and report any

progress which we might make with the case. As we drove away I stole a

glance back, and I still seem to see that little group on the step, the

two graceful, clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall light

shining through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright

stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a

tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had

absorbed us.

And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it

grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I

rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the original

problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain

Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter,--we

had had light upon all those events. They had only led us, however, to

a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the curious

plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto's

death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by the

murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to the

crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon the card,

corresponding with those upon Captain Morstan's chart,--here was indeed

a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than my

fellow-lodger might well despair of ever finding the clue.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the lower

quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I

could make my impression. At last, however, there was the glint of a

candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window.

"Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. "If you kick up any more

row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon you."

"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in the

bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it."

"But I want a dog," I cried.

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for

when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began, but the words had a most magical

effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the

door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man,

with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he. "Step in, sir.

Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty, would

you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust its

wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't mind

that, sir: it's only a slow-worm. It hain't got no fangs, so I gives

it the run o' the room, for it keeps the beetles down. You must not

mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm guyed at by

the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lane to knock

me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"

"He wanted a dog of yours."

"Ah! that would be Toby."

"Yes, Toby was the name."

"Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved slowly forward with

his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round

him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were

glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and

corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls,

who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices

disturbed their slumbers.

Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel

and half lurcher, brown-and-white in color, with a very clumsy waddling

gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old

naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it

followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me.

It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back

once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I

found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had

been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow

gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the

detective's name.

Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets,

smoking his pipe.

"Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Atheney Jones has

gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has

arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper,

and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a

sergeant up-stairs. Leave the dog here, and come up."

We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs. The room

was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the

central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner.

"Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this

bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you.

Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.--Just you carry them down

with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my

handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the

garret with me for a moment."

We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more

upon the footsteps in the dust.

"I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you

observe anything noteworthy about them?"

"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"

"They appear to be much as other footmarks."

"Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the

dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief

difference?"

"Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe

distinctly divided."

"Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you

kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the

wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand."

I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry

smell.

"That is where he put his foot in getting out. If YOU can trace him, I

should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run down-stairs,

loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the

roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very

slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of

chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon

the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated

at one of the corner eaves.

"That you, Watson?" he cried.

"Yes."

"This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"

"A water-barrel."

"Top on it?"

"Yes."

"No sign of a ladder?"

"No."

"Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck place. I ought to be

able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty

firm. Here goes, anyhow."

There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily

down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the

barrel, and from there to the earth.

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and

boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he

had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out

of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In

shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a

dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other,

like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick

yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they

are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our

skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are

you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

"Certainly," I answered.

"Your leg will stand it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He

pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the

creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical

cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of a famous

vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a

stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and led him to the foot of the

water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession of high,

tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in the

air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and

kept us at the top of our speed.

The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some

distance in the cold gray light. The square, massive house, with its

black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn,

behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among

the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected.

The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs,

had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy

which hung over it.

On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,

underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a

young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been

loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the

lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.

Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over

upon the other side.

"There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted up

beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white

plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain

since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their

eight-and-twenty hours' start."

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great

traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My

fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,

but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent

smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents.

"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this

case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot

in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace

them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and, since

fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected

it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty

little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There

might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too

palpable clue."

"There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that I

marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even

more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to

be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe

with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be

theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in

command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried

treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan

Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain

Morstan's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his

associates,--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called

it. Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the

treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some

condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did

not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious.

The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close

association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure

because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not

get away."

"But that is mere speculation," said I.

"It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the

facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto

remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his

treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great

fright. What was that?"

"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

"Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known

what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise

to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a

wooden-legged man,--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white

tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one

white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or

Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with

confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small.

Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?"

"No: it is clear and concise."

"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let us

look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the double

idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and of having

his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out where

Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications with some

one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not

seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could

not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever

knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly

Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the

secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the

guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only deterred

from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with hate, however,

against the dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his

private papers in the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to

the treasure, and finally leaves a momento of his visit in the short

inscription upon the card. He had doubtless planned beforehand that

should he slay the major he would leave some such record upon the body

as a sign that it was not a common murder, but, from the point of view

of the four associates, something in the nature of an act of justice.

Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are common enough in the

annals of crime, and usually afford valuable indications as to the

criminal. Do you follow all this?"

"Very clearly."

"Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a

secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he

leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the

discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again

trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan,

with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of

Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious

associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot into

creasote, whence comes Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer

with a damaged tendo Achillis."

"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the crime."

"Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way he

stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against

Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been

simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter.

There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his

companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so

Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the ground,

and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far as I can

decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he must be

middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in such an

oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from the length

of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His hairiness was the

one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw him

at the window. I don't know that there is anything else."

"The associate?"

"Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all

about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that one

little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.

Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank.

It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a

stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with our petty

ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces

of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

"Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle."

"That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one

curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of man's real

greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you

see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a

proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You

have not a pistol, have you?"

"I have my stick."

"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get

to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns

nasty I shall shoot him dead." He took out his revolver as he spoke,

and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the

right-hand pocket of his jacket.

We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the

half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,

however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where

laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were

taking down shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square-topped

corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking men

were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after their

morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly at us as

we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the right nor to

the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to the ground and an

occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.

We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found

ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the

side-streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed

to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of

escaping observation. They had never kept to the main road if a

parallel side-street would serve their turn. At the foot of Kennington

Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street and Miles

Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place, Toby ceased

to advance, but began to run backwards and forwards with one ear cocked

and the other drooping, the very picture of canine indecision. Then he

waddled round in circles, looking up to us from time to time, as if to

ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They

surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

"Ah! it's all right. He's off again," said my companion, in a tone of

relief.

He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly made up

his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he

had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before,

for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his

leash and tried to break into a run. I cold see by the gleam in

Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and

Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the

dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side-gate into

the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the dog

raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a passage,

between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp, sprang

upon a large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on which it

had been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes, Toby stood

upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for some sign of

appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of the trolley

were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the

smell of creasote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst

simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 8: The Baker Street Irregulars

"What now?" I asked. "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

"He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down from

the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you consider

how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is no great

wonder that our trail should have been crossed. It is much used now,

especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to blame."

"We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

"Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what

puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were two

different trails running in opposite directions. We took the wrong one.

It only remains to follow the other."

There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place where

he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and finally

dashed off in a fresh direction.

"We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where the

creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

"I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,

whereas the barrel passed down the roadway. No, we are on the true

scent now."

It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place

and Prince's Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to

the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us to

the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the dark

current beyond.

"We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here."

Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on the

edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but, though he

sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a wooden

placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith" was

printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to hire by

the hour or day." A second inscription above the door informed us that

a steam launch was kept,--a statement which was confirmed by a great

pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round, and

his face assumed an ominous expression.

"This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are sharper than I expected.

They seem to have covered their tracks. There has, I fear, been

preconcerted management here."

He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a little,

curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a stoutish,

red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.

"You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted. "Come back, you

young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that, he'll

let us hear of it."

"Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. "What a rosy-cheeked

young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?"

The youth pondered for a moment. "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

"Nothing you would like better?"

"I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some

thought.

"Here you are, then! Catch!--A fine child, Mrs. Smith!"

"Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a'most too much

for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a time."

"Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for

that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

"He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I am

beginnin' to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a boat,

sir, maybe I could serve as well."

"I wanted to hire his steam launch."

"Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.

That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than

would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he'd been away in the

barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as

far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha'

stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?"

"He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

"He might, sir, but it weren't his way. Many a time I've heard him

call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don't

like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish talk.

What did he want always knockin' about here for?"

"A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

"Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for my

old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what's more,

my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch. I tell

you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."

"But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You

are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell

that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don't quite

understand how you can be so sure."

"His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.

He tapped at the winder,--about three it would be. 'Show a leg,

matey,' says he: 'time to turn out guard.' My old man woke up

Jim,--that's my eldest,--and away they went, without so much as a word

to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones."

"And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

"Couldn't say, I am sure, sir. I didn't hear no one else."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard

good reports of the--Let me see, what is her name?"

"The Aurora, sir."

"Ah! She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in

the beam?"

"No, indeed. She's as trim a little thing as any on the river. She's

been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going

down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora I shall let

him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"

"No, sir. Black with a white band."

"Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs.

Smith.--There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take

it and cross the river.

"The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in

the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their

information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they

will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under

protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want."

"Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

"What would you do, then?"

"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the

Aurora."

"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at

any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.

Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for

miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set

about it alone."

"Employ the police, then."

"No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is

not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would

injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out

myself, now that we have gone so far."

"Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?"

"Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their

heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are

likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly

safe they will be in no hurry. Jones's energy will be of use to us

there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily

press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong

scent."

"What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank

Penitentiary.

"Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's

sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.

Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of

use to us yet."

We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes

despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we

resumed our journey.

"I am sure I don't know."

"You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force

whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

"Well," said I, laughing.

"This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I

have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my

dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang

will be with us before we have finished our breakfast."

It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a

strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was

limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the

professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look

at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the

death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and

could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure,

however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged

rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it

I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it

it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a

petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as

that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold

stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up

wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid

and Homes pouring out the coffee.

"Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.

"The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up

between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your

ham and eggs first."

I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed

"Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

"About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr. Bartholomew

Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room

under circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we can learn,

no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto's person, but a

valuable collection of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had

inherited from his father has been carried off. The discovery was

first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the

house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singular

piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the

detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood Police Station,

and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm. His

trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the

detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the

brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the

housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a

porter, or gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the

thief or thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's

well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation

have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not

have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their way

across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into a room

which communicated with that in which the body was found. This fact,

which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that it was

no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of the

officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on such

occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but think

that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our

detectives more decentralized, and so brought into closer and more

effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to investigate."

"Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. "What

do you think of it?"

"I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested for

the crime."

"So do I. I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen to

have another of his attacks of energy."

At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear Mrs.

Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and

dismay.

"By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are

really after us."

"No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force,--the

Baker Street irregulars."

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the

stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and

ragged little street-Arabs. There was some show of discipline among

them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in

line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number,

taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of lounging

superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable little

scarecrow.

"Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em on sharp. Three bob

and a tanner for tickets."

"Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver. "In future they

can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house

invaded in this way. However, it is just as well that you should all

hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts of a steam

launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red

streaks, funnel black with a white band. She is down the river

somewhere. I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage

opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You must divide it

out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly. Let me know the

moment you have news. Is that all clear?"

"Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

"The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.

Here's a day in advance. Now off you go!" He handed them a shilling

each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment

later streaming down the street.

"If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he

rose from the table and lit his pipe. "They can go everywhere, see

everything, overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening that

they have spotted her. In the mean while, we can do nothing but await

results. We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the

Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

"Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you going to bed,

Holmes?"

"No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember

feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am

going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair

client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy task, this of ours

ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man

must, I should think, be absolutely unique."

"That other man again!"

"I have no wish to make a mystery of him,--to you, anyway. But you

must have formed your own opinion. Now, do consider the data.

Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,

stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What do

you make of all this?"

"A savage!" I exclaimed. "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the

associates of Jonathan Small."

"Hardly that," said he. "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I

was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the footmarks

caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants of the

Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such marks as

that. The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet. The sandal-wearing

Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the others, because

the thong is commonly passed between. These little darts, too, could

only be shot in one way. They are from a blow-pipe. Now, then, where

are we to find our savage?"

"South American," I hazarded.

He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the shelf.

"This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now being published.

It may be looked upon as the very latest authority. What have we here?

'Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of Sumatra, in the

Bay of Bengal.' Hum! hum! What's all this? Moist climate, coral

reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland Island,

cottonwoods--Ah, here we are. 'The aborigines of the Andaman Islands

may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race upon this

earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa, the

Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians. The average

height is rather below four feet, although many full-grown adults may

be found who are very much smaller than this. They are a fierce,

morose, and intractable people, though capable of forming most devoted

friendships when their confidence has once been gained.' Mark that,

Watson. Now, then, listen to this. 'They are naturally hideous,

having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes, and distorted

features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably small. So

intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the British

official have failed to win them over in any degree. They have always

been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors with their

stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their poisoned arrows. These

massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal feast.' Nice, amiable

people, Watson! If this fellow had been left to his own unaided

devices this affair might have taken an even more ghastly turn. I

fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give a good deal not to

have employed him."

"But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already

determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very

wonderful that this islander should be with him. No doubt we shall

know all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly done.

Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep."

He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he

began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,--his own, no doubt, for

he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance

of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow.

Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound,

until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan

looking down upon me.

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 9: A Break in the Chain

It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and refreshed.

Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save that he had

laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked across at me,

as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and troubled.

"You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared that our talk would wake

you."

"I heard nothing," I answered. "Have you had fresh news, then?"

"Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised and disappointed. I

expected something definite by this time. Wiggins has just been up to

report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a

provoking check, for every hour is of importance."

"Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for

another night's outing."

"No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the

message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do

what you will, but I must remain on guard."

"Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil

Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday."

"On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile in

his eyes.

"Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were anxious to hear what

happened."

"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be

entirely trusted,--not the best of them."

I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be

back in an hour or two," I remarked.

"All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you

may as well return Toby, for I don't think it is at all likely that we

shall have any use for him now."

I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a

half-sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell

I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's adventures, but

very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of

curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the

more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr.

Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it.

With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze

them.

"It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a

million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.

They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl."

"And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a

bright glance at me.

"Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don't

think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it must be

to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"

It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no

sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of

her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small

interest.

"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing

else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly

and honorably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful

and unfounded charge."

It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I

reached home. My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he

had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but

there was none.

"I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs.

Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds.

"No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking

her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?"

"Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, he's that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he

walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of

his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and

every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with 'What is

that, Mrs. Hudson?' And now he has slammed off to his room, but I can

hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he's not going to be

ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling medicine,

but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don't know how ever I

got out of the room."

"I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I

answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter

upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to

our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the

long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his tread,

and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary

inaction.

At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of

feverish color upon either cheek.

"You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you

marching about in the night."

"No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is

consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,

when all else had been overcome. I know the men, the launch,

everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at

work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been

searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard

of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they have

scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that."

"Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

"No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries made, and there is

a launch of that description."

"Could it have gone up the river?"

"I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-party

who will work up as far as Richmond. If no news comes to-day, I shall

start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat.

But surely, surely, we shall hear something."

We did not, however. Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or from

the other agencies. There were articles in most of the papers upon the

Norwood tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to the

unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were to be found,

however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the

following day. I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report

our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes dejected

and somewhat morose. He would hardly reply to my questions, and busied

himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which involved

much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at last in a

smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the small hours

of the morning I could hear the clinking of his test-tubes which told

me that he was still engaged in his malodorous experiment.

In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him

standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a pea-jacket,

and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

"I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I have been turning it

over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it. It is worth

trying, at all events."

"Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

"No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my

representative. I am loath to go, for it is quite on the cards that

some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent

about it last night. I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and to

act on your own judgment if any news should come. Can I rely upon you?"

"Most certainly."

"I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can hardly

tell yet where I may find myself. If I am in luck, however, I may not

be gone so very long. I shall have news of some sort or other before I

get back."

I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On opening the Standard,

however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the business.

"With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have

reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex and

mysterious than was originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown that

it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been in any

way concerned in the matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone,

were both released yesterday evening. It is believed, however, that

the police have a clue as to the real culprits, and that it is being

prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard, with all his

well-known energy and sagacity. Further arrests may be expected at any

moment."

"That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I. "Friend Sholto is

safe, at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it

seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a blunder."

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye

caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran in this way:

"Lost.--Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left Smith's

Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the steam

launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a white

band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can give

information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221b Baker Street,

as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the launch Aurora."

This was clearly Holmes's doing. The Baker Street address was enough

to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be

read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the natural

anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to the door, or a

sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes

returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my

thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the ill-assorted

and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there be, I wondered,

some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning. Might he be suffering

from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his nimble and

speculative mind had built up this wild theory upon faulty premises? I

had never known him to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may

occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I thought, to fall into error

through the over-refinement of his logic,--his preference for a subtle

and bizarre explanation when a plainer and more commonplace one lay

ready to his hand. Yet, on the other hand, I had myself seen the

evidence, and I had heard the reasons for his deductions. When I

looked back on the long chain of curious circumstances, many of them

trivial in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I could

not disguise from myself that even if Holmes's explanation were

incorrect the true theory must be equally outre and startling.

At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell, an

authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person

than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was he,

however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense who

had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His

expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I

understand."

"Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you would

care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

"Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a red

bandanna handkerchief.

"And a whiskey-and-soda?"

"Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have

had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this

Norwood case?"

"I remember that you expressed one."

"Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn

tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the

middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken.

From the time that he left his brother's room he was never out of sight

of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed over roofs and

through trap-doors. It's a very dark case, and my professional credit

is at stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance."

"We all need help sometimes," said I.

"Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in

a husky and confidential voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat. I

have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw

the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is irregular in

his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on

the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I

don't care who knows it. I have had a wire from him this morning, by

which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business.

Here is the message."

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was

dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it

said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track

of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be in

at the finish."

"This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.

"Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed Jones, with evident

satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of

course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an

officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at

the door. Perhaps this is he."

A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and

rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or

twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at

last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance

corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man,

clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his

throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing

was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his

shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had

a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save

a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long gray

side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable

master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

"What is it, my man?" I asked.

He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

"No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have for

him."

"It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

"But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai

Smith's boat?"

"Yes. I knows well where it is. An' I knows where the men he is after

are. An' I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it."

"Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

"It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant

obstinacy of a very old man.

"Well, you must wait for him."

"No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr.

Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself. I

don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a word."

He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.

"Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have important information, and

you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or not,

until our friend returns."

The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney Jones

put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness of

resistance.

"Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. "I come

here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my life, seize

me and treat me in this fashion!"

"You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall recompense you for the

loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not have

long to wait."

He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face

resting on his hands. Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk.

Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

"I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said.

We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes sitting close to us

with an air of quiet amusement.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "You here! But where is the old man?"

"Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair. "Here

he is,--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was

pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test."

"Ah, You rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. "You would have made

an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and

those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew

the glint of your eye, though. You didn't get away from us so easily,

You see."

"I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his

cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know

me,--especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my

cases: so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise

like this. You got my wire?"

"Yes; that was what brought me here."

"How has your case prospered?"

"It has all come to nothing. I have had to release two of my

prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two."

"Never mind. We shall give you two others in the place of them. But

you must put yourself under my orders. You are welcome to all the

official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. Is

that agreed?"

"Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

"Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--a

steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock."

"That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can

step across the road and telephone to make sure."

"Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

"There will be two or three in the boat. What else?"

"When we secure the men we shall get the treasure. I think that it

would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the

young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the first

to open it.--Eh, Watson?"

"It would be a great pleasure to me."

"Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head.

"However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at

it. The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the authorities

until after the official investigation."

"Certainly. That is easily managed. One other point. I should much

like to have a few details about this matter from the lips of Jonathan

Small himself. You know I like to work the detail of my cases out.

There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview with him,

either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is efficiently

guarded?"

"Well, you are master of the situation. I have had no proof yet of the

existence of this Jonathan Small. However, if you can catch him I

don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."

"That is understood, then?"

"Perfectly. Is there anything else?"

"Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in half

an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little

choice in white wines.--Watson, you have never yet recognized my merits

as a housekeeper."

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 10: The End of the Islander

Our meal was a merry one. Holmes could talk exceedingly well when he

chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of

nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on

a quick succession of subjects,--on miracle-plays, on medieval pottery,

on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the

war-ships of the future,--handling each as though he had made a special

study of it. His bright humor marked the reaction from his black

depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a

sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and faced his dinner with the

air of a bon vivant. For myself, I felt elated at the thought that we

were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of Holmes's

gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which had

brought us together.

When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at his watch, and filled up

three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of our

little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you a

pistol, Watson?"

"I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

"You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that

the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six."

It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf, and

found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically.

"Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

"Yes,--that green lamp at the side."

"Then take it off."

The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were cast

off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at the

rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors

forward.

"Where to?" asked Jones.

"To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson's Yard."

Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines

of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with

satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

"We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

"Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us."

16"We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a name for being a

clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how

annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

"Yes."

"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical

analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work

is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the

hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the

Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up

the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any

landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have

been scuttled to hide their traces,--though that always remained as a

possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a

certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of

anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product

of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been

in London some time--as we had evidence that he maintained a continual

watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could hardly leave at a moment's

notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to

arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."

"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable

that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his

expedition."

"No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a

retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he

could do without it. But a second consideration struck me. Jonathan

Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion,

however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and

possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite sharp

enough to see that. They had started from their head-quarters under

cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad

light. Now, it was past three o'clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when

they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about

in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far. They

paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final

escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a

couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took,

and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under

cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no

doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the

Colonies."

"But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings."

"Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite

of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small, and

looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably

consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would

make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How,

then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted?

I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could

only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over to

some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling

change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so

be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at a

few hours' notice."

"That seems simple enough."

"It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be

overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at

once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down

the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the

sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the Aurora had been handed over

to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial

directions as to her rudder. 'There ain't naught amiss with her

rudder,' said the foreman. 'There she lies, with the red streaks.' At

that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner?

He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have

known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch. 'I

want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he,--'eight o'clock sharp,

mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept waiting.' They had

evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking

shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he

subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening

to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over

the launch. He is to stand at water's edge and wave his handkerchief

to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it

will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all."

"You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or

not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had

a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when they came

down."

"Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd

fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him

suspicious lie snug for another week."

"But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their

hiding-place," said I.

"In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred

to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor

and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what

to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best."

While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the

long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City

the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St.

Paul's. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.

"That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts

and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under

cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses

from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at

his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief."

"Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said

Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and

stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward.

"We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It

is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be

certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they

can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We

must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the

gaslight."

"They are coming from work in the yard."

"Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little

immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at

them. There is no a priori probability about it. A strange enigma is

man!"

"Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested.

"Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks

that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate

he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never

foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what

an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages

remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a

handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder."

"Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly."

"And there is the Aurora," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil!

Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the yellow

light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves to have

the heels of us!"

She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind two

or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up before we

saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the shore,

going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at her and shook his

head.

"She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall catch her."

"We MUST catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth. "Heap it on,

stokers! Make her do all she can! If we burn the boat we must have

them!"

We were fairly after her now. The furnaces roared, and the powerful

engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic heart. Her sharp,

steep prow cut through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to

right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines we sprang and

quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our bows

threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right ahead a

dark blur upon the water showed where the Aurora lay, and the swirl of

white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was going. We

flashed past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and out, behind

this one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the darkness,

but still the Aurora thundered on, and still we followed close upon her

track.

"Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the

engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager,

aquiline face. "Get every pound of steam you can."

"I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the Aurora.

"I am sure of it," said I. "We shall be up with her in a very few

minutes."

At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with

three barges in tow blundered in between us. It was only by putting

our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could

round them and recover our way the Aurora had gained a good two hundred

yards. She was still, however, well in view, and the murky uncertain

twilight was setting into a clear starlit night. Our boilers were

strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated and creaked with

the fierce energy which was driving us along. We had shot through the

Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long Deptford Reach, and up

again after rounding the Isle of Dogs. The dull blur in front of us

resolved itself now clearly enough into the dainty Aurora. Jones

turned our search-light upon her, so that we could plainly see the

figures upon her deck. One man sat by the stern, with something black

between his knees over which he stooped. Beside him lay a dark mass

which looked like a Newfoundland dog. The boy held the tiller, while

against the red glare of the furnace I could see old Smith, stripped to

the waist, and shovelling coals for dear life. They may have had some

doubt at first as to whether we were really pursuing them, but now as

we followed every winding and turning which they took there could no

longer be any question about it. At Greenwich we were about three

hundred paces behind them. At Blackwall we could not have been more

than two hundred and fifty. I have coursed many creatures in many

countries during my checkered career, but never did sport give me such

a wild thrill as this mad, flying man-hunt down the Thames. Steadily

we drew in upon them, yard by yard. In the silence of the night we

could hear the panting and clanking of their machinery. The man in the

stern still crouched upon the deck, and his arms were moving as though

he were busy, while every now and then he would look up and measure

with a glance the distance which still separated us. Nearer we came

and nearer. Jones yelled to them to stop. We were not more than four

boat's lengths behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace. It

was a clear reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and

the melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other. At our hail the man

in the stern sprang up from the deck and shook his two clinched fists

at us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized,

powerful man, and as he stood poising himself with legs astride I could

see that from the thigh downwards there was but a wooden stump upon the

right side. At the sound of his strident, angry cries there was

movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck. It straightened itself

into a little black man--the smallest I have ever seen--with a great,

misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair. Holmes had

already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the sight of this

savage, distorted creature. He was wrapped in some sort of dark ulster

or blanket, which left only his face exposed; but that face was enough

to give a man a sleepless night. Never have I seen features so deeply

marked with all bestiality and cruelty. His small eyes glowed and

burned with a sombre light, and his thick lips were writhed back from

his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with a half animal fury.

"Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly. We were within a

boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry. I

can see the two of them now as they stood, the white man with his legs

far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed dwarf with his

hideous face, and his strong yellow teeth gnashing at us in the light

of our lantern.

It was well that we had so clear a view of him. Even as we looked he

plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood, like

a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out

together. He whirled round, threw up his arms, and with a kind of

choking cough fell sideways into the stream. I caught one glimpse of

his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters. At the

same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself upon the rudder and put

it hard down, so that his boat made straight in for the southern bank,

while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a few feet. We were

round after her in an instant, but she was already nearly at the bank.

It was a wild and desolate place, where the moon glimmered upon a wide

expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant water and beds of

decaying vegetation. The launch with a dull thud ran up upon the

mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her stern flush with the water.

The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly sank its whole length

into the sodden soil. In vain he struggled and writhed. Not one step

could he possibly take either forwards or backwards. He yelled in

impotent rage, and kicked frantically into the mud with his other foot,

but his struggles only bored his wooden pin the deeper into the sticky

bank. When we brought our launch alongside he was so firmly anchored

that it was only by throwing the end of a rope over his shoulders that

we were able to haul him out, and to drag him, like some evil fish,

over our side. The two Smiths, father and son, sat sullenly in their

launch, but came aboard meekly enough when commanded. The Aurora

herself we hauled off and made fast to our stern. A solid iron chest

of Indian workmanship stood upon the deck. This, there could be no

question, was the same that had contained the ill-omened treasure of

the Sholtos. There was no key, but it was of considerable weight, so

we transferred it carefully to our own little cabin. As we steamed

slowly up-stream again, we flashed our search-light in every direction,

but there was no sign of the Islander. Somewhere in the dark ooze at

the bottom of the Thames lie the bones of that strange visitor to our

shores.

"See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway. "We were

hardly quick enough with our pistols." There, sure enough, just behind

where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts which we

knew so well. It must have whizzed between us at the instant that we

fired. Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoulders in his easy

fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the horrible

death which had passed so close to us that night.

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 11: The Great Agra Treasure

Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he had done

so much and waited so long to gain. He was a sunburned, reckless-eyed

fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all over his mahogany

features, which told of a hard, open-air life. There was a singular

prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who was not to be

easily turned from his purpose. His age may have been fifty or

thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with gray. His

face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy brows and

aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible expression

when moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed hands upon his

lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with his keen,

twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his ill-doings.

It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in his rigid and

contained countenance. Once he looked up at me with a gleam of

something like humor in his eyes.

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry that

it has come to this."

"And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly. "I don't believe that I can

swing over the job. I give you my word on the book that I never raised

hand against Mr. Sholto. It was that little hell-hound Tonga who shot

one of his cursed darts into him. I had no part in it, sir. I was as

grieved as if it had been my blood-relation. I welted the little devil

with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done, and I could not

undo it again."

"Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best take a pull out of my

flask, for you are very wet. How could you expect so small and weak a

man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him while you

were climbing the rope?"

"You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. The truth

is that I hoped to find the room clear. I knew the habits of the house

pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually went down to

his supper. I shall make no secret of the business. The best defence

that I can make is just the simple truth. Now, if it had been the old

major I would have swung for him with a light heart. I would have

thought no more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar. But it's

cursed hard that I should be lagged over this young Sholto, with whom I

had no quarrel whatever."

"You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard. He

is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a true

account of the matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if you

do I hope that I may be of use to you. I think I can prove that the

poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before ever you reached

the room."

"That he was, sir. I never got such a turn in my life as when I saw

him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed through

the window. It fairly shook me, sir. I'd have half killed Tonga for

it if he had not scrambled off. That was how he came to leave his

club, and some of his darts too, as he tells me, which I dare say

helped to put you on our track; though how you kept on it is more than

I can tell. I don't feel no malice against you for it. But it does

seem a queer thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I who have a

fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money should spend the first

half of my life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and am like to

spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor. It was an evil day

for me when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet and had to do

with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything but a curse yet

upon the man who owned it. To him it brought murder, to Major Sholto

it brought fear and guilt, to me it has meant slavery for life."

At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy shoulders

into the tiny cabin. "Quite a family party," he remarked. "I think I

shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes. Well, I think we may all

congratulate each other. Pity we didn't take the other alive; but

there was no choice. I say, Holmes, you must confess that you cut it

rather fine. It was all we could do to overhaul her."

"All is well that ends well," said Holmes. "But I certainly did not

know that the Aurora was such a clipper."

"Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that

if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should never

have caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood business."

"Neither he did," cried our prisoner,--"not a word. I chose his launch

because I heard that she was a flier. We told him nothing, but we paid

him well, and he was to get something handsome if we reached our

vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, outward bound for the Brazils."

"Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no wrong comes to him.

If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick in

condemning them." It was amusing to notice how the consequential Jones

was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of the

capture. From the slight smile which played over Sherlock Holmes's

face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon him.

"We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall land

you, Dr. Watson, with the treasure-box. I need hardly tell you that I

am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing this. It is

most irregular; but of course an agreement is an agreement. I must,

however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector with you, since you

have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no doubt?"

"Yes, I shall drive."

"It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first.

You will have to break it open. Where is the key, my man?"

"At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly.

"Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have

had work enough already through you. However, doctor, I need not warn

you to be careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street

rooms. You will find us there, on our way to the station."

They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff,

genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour's drive brought

us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servant seemed surprised at so late

a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she

explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in

the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving

the obliging inspector in the cab.

She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white

diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and

waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned

back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and

tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant

hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and

her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the

sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright

flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale cheeks.

"I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had

come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you. What

news have you brought me?"

"I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the

box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my

heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is

worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune."

She glanced at the iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked,

coolly enough.

"Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half is

Thaddeus Sholto's. You will have a couple of hundred thousand each.

Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few

richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?"

I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that

she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her

eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously.

"If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you."

"No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes.

With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue

which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly

lost it at the last moment."

"Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she.

I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her

last,--Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the Aurora, the

appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the

wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining

eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which

had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she

was about to faint.

"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water.

"I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed

my friends in such horrible peril."

"That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no

more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the

treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it

with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it."

"It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no

eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it

might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which

had cost so much to win.

"What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work,

I suppose?"

"Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

"And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must

be of some value. Where is the key?"

"Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs.

Forrester's poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp,

wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end

of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open

with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We

both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty!

No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch

thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest

constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb

of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely

empty.

"The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great shadow

seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had

weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was

selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize nothing save

that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I

ejaculated from my very heart.

She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say

that?" she asked.

"Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She

did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man

loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips.

Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I

said, 'Thank God.'"

"Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my

side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained

one.

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 12: The Strange Story of Jonathan Small, part 1

A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary

time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him

the empty box.

"There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money

there is no pay. This night's work would have been worth a tenner each

to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there."

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are

rewarded, treasure or no."

The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It's a bad job,"

he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think."

His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank

enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They

had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had

changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon

the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual listless

expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden

leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned

back in his chair and laughed aloud.

"This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

"Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he

cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can't have the loot

I'll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no

living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the

Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have the

use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through for

them as much as for myself. It's been the sign of four with us always.

Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and

throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin

of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for

Achmet. You'll find the treasure where the key is, and where little

Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot

away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey."

"You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you

had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been

easier for you to have thrown box and all."

"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered,

with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt

me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a

river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a

harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when

you came up with us. However, there's no good grieving over it. I've

had ups in my life, and I've had downs, but I've learned not to cry

over spilled milk."

"This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you

had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have

had a better chance at your trial."

"Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is

this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up

to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty

long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the

mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten

by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced

policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I

earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I

cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may

enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of

Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's cell and feel that

another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be

mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in

a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked

together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could

understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was

no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when

he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track.

"You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly.

"We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may

originally have been on your side."

"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that

I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still,

I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you

want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you

is God's truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass

beside me here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry.

"I am a Worcestershire man myself,--born near Pershore. I dare say you

would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I

have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that

I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would

be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk,

small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side, while I

was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about

eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a

girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the queen's shilling

and joining the 3d Buffs, which was just starting for India.

"I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past

the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough

to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant,

John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the

finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just as I was

13half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a surgeon

could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock and the

loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder had not

caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in

hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it with

this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided out of

the army and unfitted for any active occupation.

"I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for I

was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. However, my

misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named

Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an

overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work. He

happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had taken an interest in

me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel

recommended me strongly for the post and, as the work was mostly to be

done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough knee

left to keep good grip on the saddle. What I had to do was to ride

over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked, and to

report the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable quarters, and

altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my life in

indigo-planting. Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, and he would often drop

into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white folk out

there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do here at

home.

"Well, I was never in luck's way long. Suddenly, without a note of

warning, the great mutiny broke upon us. One month India lay as still

and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there were

two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was a

perfect hell. Of course you know all about it, gentlemen,--a deal more

than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only know

what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation was at a place called

Muttra, near the border of the Northwest Provinces. Night after night

the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and day after day

we had small companies of Europeans passing through our estate with

their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where were the nearest

troops. Mr. Abelwhite was an obstinate man. He had it in his head

that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it would blow over as

suddenly as it had sprung up. There he sat on his veranda, drinking

whiskey-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the country was in a blaze

about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and Dawson, who, with his

wife, used to do the book-work and the managing. Well, one fine day

the crash came. I had been away on a distant plantation, and was

riding slowly home in the evening, when my eye fell upon something all

huddled together at the bottom of a steep nullah. I rode down to see

what it was, and the cold struck through my heart when I found it was

Dawson's wife, all cut into ribbons, and half eaten by jackals and

native dogs. A little further up the road Dawson himself was lying on

his face, quite dead, with an empty revolver in his hand and four

Sepoys lying across each other in front of him. I reined up my horse,

wondering which way I should turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke

curling up from Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning to burst

through the roof. I knew then that I could do my employer no good, but

would only throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter. From

where I stood I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with their red

coats still on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning

house. Some of them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sang past

my head; so I broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late

at night safe within the walls at Agra.

"As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. The

whole country was up like a swarm of bees. Wherever the English could

collect in little bands they held just the ground that their guns

commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives. It was a

fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the cruellest part of

it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and gunners,

were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and trained, handling

our own weapons, and blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra there were

the 3d Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse, and a battery

of artillery. A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants had been

formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all. We went out to meet the

rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back for a time,

but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon the city.

Nothing but the worst news came to us from every side,--which is not to

be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will see that we were

right in the heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than a hundred

miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the south. From every

point on the compass there was nothing but torture and murder and

outrage.

"The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce

devil-worshippers of all sorts. Our handful of men were lost among the

narrow, winding streets. Our leader moved across the river, therefore,

and took up his position in the old fort at Agra. I don't know if any

of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that old fort. It

is a very queer place,--the queerest that ever I was in, and I have

been in some rum corners, too. First of all, it is enormous in size.

I should think that the enclosure must be acres and acres. There is a

modern part, which took all our garrison, women, children, stores, and

everything else, with plenty of room over. But the modern part is

nothing like the size of the old quarter, where nobody goes, and which

is given over to the scorpions and the centipedes. It is all full of

great deserted halls, and winding passages, and long corridors twisting

in and out, so that it is easy enough for folk to get lost in it. For

this reason it was seldom that any one went into it, though now and

again a party with torches might go exploring.

"The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects it,

but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had to be

guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which was

actually held by our troops. We were short-handed, with hardly men

enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns. It was

impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at every one of

the innumerable gates. What we did was to organize a central

guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate under the

charge of one white man and two or three natives. I was selected to

take charge during certain hours of the night of a small isolated door

upon the southwest side of the building. Two Sikh troopers were placed

under my command, and I was instructed if anything went wrong to fire

my musket, when I might rely upon help coming at once from the central

guard. As the guard was a good two hundred paces away, however, and as

the space between was cut up into a labyrinth of passages and

corridors, I had great doubts as to whether they could arrive in time

to be of any use in case of an actual attack.

"Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me, since

I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that. For two nights I

kept the watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall, fierce-looking

chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both old fighting-men

who had borne arms against us at Chilian-wallah. They could talk

English pretty well, but I could get little out of them. They

preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their queer Sikh

lingo. For myself, I used to stand outside the gate-way, looking down

on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights of the great

city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and the yells and

howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang, were enough to

remind us all night of our dangerous neighbors across the stream.

Every two hours the officer of the night used to come round to all the

posts, to make sure that all was well.

"The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small, driving

rain. It was dreary work standing in the gate-way hour after hour in

such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk, but

without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed, and

broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my

companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe, and

laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two Sikhs

were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled it at

my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and swore

between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a step.

"My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the

rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door

were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women and

children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen

think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my

word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the knife

at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a scream,

if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The man who

held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it,

he whispered, 'Don't make a noise. The fort is safe enough. There are

no rebel dogs on this side of the river.' There was the ring of truth

in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead man.

I could read it in the fellow's brown eyes. I waited, therefore, in

silence, to see what it was that they wanted from me.

"'Listen to me, Sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the

one whom they called Abdullah Khan. 'You must either be with us now or

you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to

hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the

cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into

the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army.

There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only

give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must

be done before the rounds come again.'

"'How can I decide?' said I. 'You have not told me what you want of

me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of

the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife

and welcome.'

"'It is nothing against the fort,' said he. 'We only ask you to do

that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be

rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon

the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever known

to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A quarter

of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer.'

"'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked. 'I am as ready to be rich

as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.'

"'You will swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father, by the

honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no hand and

speak no word against us, either now or afterwards?'

"'I will swear it,' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not

endangered.'

"'Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of the

treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us.'

"'There are but three,' said I.

"'No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell the tale to you

while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and give

notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell it to

you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee, and that

we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you had sworn by

all the gods in their false temples, your blood would have been upon

the knife, and your body in the water. But the Sikh knows the

Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. Hearken, then, to what

I have to say.

"'There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth,

though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and

more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and hoards

his gold rather than spend it. When the troubles broke out he would be

friends both with the lion and the tiger,--with the Sepoy and with the

Company's Raj. Soon, however, it seemed to him that the white men's

day was come, for through all the land he could hear of nothing but of

their death and their overthrow. Yet, being a careful man, he made

such plans that, come what might, half at least of his treasure should

be left to him. That which was in gold and silver he kept by him in

the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones and the choicest

pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent it by a trusty

servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should take it to the fort

at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace. Thus, if the rebels

won he would have his money, but if the Company conquered his jewels

would be saved to him. Having thus divided his hoard, he threw himself

into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were strong upon his borders.

By doing this, mark you, Sahib, his property becomes the due of those

who have been true to their salt.

"'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is now

in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort. He has

with him as travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost Akbar, who

knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised this night to lead him to a

side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for his purpose.

Here he will come presently, and here he will find Mahomet Singh and

myself awaiting him. The place is lonely, and none shall know of his

coming. The world shall know of the merchant Achmet no more, but the

great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among us. What say you to

it, Sahib?'

"In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred thing;

but it is very different when there is fire and blood all round you and

you have been used to meeting death at every turn. Whether Achmet the

merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air to me, but at the

talk about the treasure my heart turned to it, and I thought of what I

might do in the old country with it, and how my folk would stare when

they saw their ne'er-do-well coming back with his pockets full of gold

moidores. I had, therefore, already made up my mind. Abdullah Khan,

however, thinking that I hesitated, pressed the matter more closely.

"'Consider, Sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the

commandant he will be hung or shot, and his jewels taken by the

government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them. Now,

since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest as well?

The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's coffers. There

will be enough to make every one of us rich men and great chiefs. No

one can know about the matter, for here we are cut off from all men.

What could be better for the purpose? Say again, then, Sahib, whether

you are with us, or if we must look upon you as an enemy.'

"'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.

"'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock. 'You see that

we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be broken. We have

now only to wait for my brother and the merchant.'

"'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?' I asked.

"'The plan is his. He has devised it. We will go to the gate and

share the watch with Mahomet Singh.'

"The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the beginning of

the wet season. Brown, heavy clouds were drifting across the sky, and

it was hard to see more than a stone-cast. A deep moat lay in front of

our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up, and it could

easily be crossed. It was strange to me to be standing there with

those two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was coming to his

death.

"Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the other side

of the moat. It vanished among the mound-heaps, and then appeared

again coming slowly in our direction.

"'Here they are!' I exclaimed.

"'You will challenge him, Sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah. 'Give

him no cause for fear. Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest

while you stay here on guard. Have the lantern ready to uncover, that

we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

"The light had flickered onwards, now stopping and now advancing, until

I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the moat. I let

them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and climb

half-way up to the gate, before I challenged them.

"'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

"'Friends,' came the answer. I uncovered my lantern and threw a flood

of light upon them. The first was an enormous Sikh, with a black beard

which swept nearly down to his cummerbund. Outside of a show I have

never seen so tall a man. The other was a little, fat, round fellow,

with a great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand, done up in a

shawl. He seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his hands

twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept turning to left and

right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he

ventures out from his hole. It gave me the chills to think of killing

him, but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as hard as a flint

within me. When he saw my white face he gave a little chirrup of joy

and came running up towards me.

"'Your protection, Sahib,' he panted,--'your protection for the unhappy

merchant Achmet. I have travelled across Rajpootana that I might seek

the shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed and beaten and

abused because I have been the friend of the Company. It is a blessed

night this when I am once more in safety,--I and my poor possessions.'

"'What have you in the bundle?' I asked.

"'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little family

matters which are of no value to others, but which I should be sorry to

lose. Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young Sahib, and

your governor also, if he will give me the shelter I ask.'

"I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man. The more I

looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that we

should slay him in cold blood. It was best to get it over.

"'Take him to the main guard,' said I. The two Sikhs closed in upon

him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in

through the dark gate-way. Never was a man so compassed round with

death. I remained at the gate-way with the lantern.

"I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through

the lonely corridors. Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a

scuffle, with the sound of blows. A moment later there came, to my

horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud

breathing of a running man. I turned my lantern down the long,

straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind,

with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels, bounding

like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh, with a knife flashing in

his hand. I have never seen a man run so fast as that little merchant.

He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if he once passed me

and got to the open air he would save himself yet. My heart softened

to him, but again the thought of his treasure turned me hard and

bitter. I cast my firelock between his legs as he raced past, and he

rolled twice over like a shot rabbit. Ere he could stagger to his feet

the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife twice in his side. The man

never uttered moan nor moved muscle, but lay were he had fallen. I

think myself that he may have broken his neck with the fall. You see,

gentlemen, that I am keeping my promise. I am telling you every work

of the business just exactly as it happened, whether it is in my favor

or not."

He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whiskey-and-water

which Holmes had brewed for him. For myself, I confess that I had now

conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only for this cold-blooded

business in which he had been concerned, but even more for the somewhat

flippant and careless way in which he narrated it. Whatever punishment

was in store for him, I felt that he might expect no sympathy from me.

Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands upon their knees, deeply

The Sign of the Four, Ch. 12: The Strange Story of Jonathan Small, part 2

interested in the story, but with the same disgust written upon their

faces. He may have observed it, for there was a touch of defiance in

his voice and manner as he proceeded.

"It was all very bad, no doubt," said he. "I should like to know how

many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this loot when

they knew that they would have their throats cut for their pains.

Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in the fort. If he had

got out, the whole business would come to light, and I should have been

court-martialled and shot as likely as not; for people were not very

lenient at a time like that."

"Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly.

"Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I. A fine weight he

was, too, for all that he was so short. Mahomet Singh was left to

guard the door. We took him to a place which the Sikhs had already

prepared. It was some distance off, where a winding passage leads to a

great empty hall, the brick walls of which were all crumbling to

pieces. The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a natural

grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him

over with loose bricks. This done, we all went back to the treasure.

"It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked. The box

was the same which now lies open upon your table. A key was hung by a

silken cord to that carved handle upon the top. We opened it, and the

light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I have

read of and thought about when I was a little lad at Pershore. It was

blinding to look upon them. When we had feasted our eyes we took them

all out and made a list of them. There were one hundred and

forty-three diamonds of the first water, including one which has been

called, I believe, 'the Great Mogul' and is said to be the second

largest stone in existence. Then there were ninety-seven very fine

emeralds, and one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which, however,

were small. There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten

sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls, onyxes,

cats'-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names of which I did

not know at the time, though I have become more familiar with them

since. Besides this, there were nearly three hundred very fine pearls,

twelve of which were set in a gold coronet. By the way, these last had

been taken out of the chest and were not there when I recovered it.

"After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the chest and

carried them to the gate-way to show them to Mahomet Singh. Then we

solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true to our

secret. We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe place until the

country should be at peace again, and then to divide it equally among

ourselves. There was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of

such value were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there was

no privacy in the fort nor any place where we could keep them. We

carried the box, therefore, into the same hall where we had buried the

body, and there, under certain bricks in the best-preserved wall, we

made a hollow and put our treasure. We made careful note of the place,

and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and put the sign of

the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we should each

always act for all, so that none might take advantage. That is an oath

that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I have never broken.

"Well, there's no use my telling you gentlemen what came of the Indian

mutiny. After Wilson took Delhi and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow the

back of the business was broken. Fresh troops came pouring in, and

Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. A flying column under

Colonel Greathed came round to Agra and cleared the Pandies away from

it. Peace seemed to be settling upon the country, and we four were

beginning to hope that the time was at hand when we might safely go off

with our shares of the plunder. In a moment, however, our hopes were

shattered by our being arrested as the murderers of Achmet.

"It came about in this way. When the rajah put his jewels into the

hands of Achmet he did it because he knew that he was a trusty man.

They are suspicious folk in the East, however: so what does this rajah

do but take a second even more trusty servant and set him to play the

spy upon the first? This second man was ordered never to let Achmet

out of his sight, and he followed him like his shadow. He went after

him that night and saw him pass through the doorway. Of course he

thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and applied for admission

there himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet. This seemed

to him so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of guides, who

brought it to the ears of the commandant. A thorough search was

quickly made, and the body was discovered. Thus at the very moment

that we thought that all was safe we were all four seized and brought

to trial on a charge of murder,--three of us because we had held the

gate that night, and the fourth because he was known to have been in

the company of the murdered man. Not a word about the jewels came out

at the trial, for the rajah had been deposed and driven out of India:

so no one had any particular interest in them. The murder, however,

was clearly made out, and it was certain that we must all have been

concerned in it. The three Sikhs got penal servitude for life, and I

was condemned to death, though my sentence was afterwards commuted into

the same as the others.

"It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then. There

we were all four tied by the leg and with precious little chance of

ever getting out again, while we each held a secret which might have

put each of us in a palace if we could only have made use of it. It

was enough to make a man eat his heart out to have to stand the kick

and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have rice to eat and

water to drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready for him outside,

just waiting to be picked up. It might have driven me mad; but I was

always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and bided my time.

"At last it seemed to me to have come. I was changed from Agra to

Madras, and from there to Blair Island in the Andamans. There are very

few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved well from

the first, I soon found myself a sort of privileged person. I was

given a hut in Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes of Mount

Harriet, and I was left pretty much to myself. It is a dreary,

fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little clearings was infested

with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow a poisoned

dart at us if they saw a chance. There was digging, and ditching, and

yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so we were busy

enough all day; though in the evening we had a little time to

ourselves. Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs for the

surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge. All the time I

was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is hundreds of miles

from any other land, and there is little or no wind in those seas: so

it was a terribly difficult job to get away.

"The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and the

other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening and play

cards. The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next to his

sitting-room, with a small window between us. Often, if I felt

lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and then,

standing there, I could hear their talk and watch their play. I am

fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having one

to watch the others. There was Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and

Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native troops, and

there was the surgeon himself, and two or three prison-officials,

crafty old hands who played a nice sly safe game. A very snug little

party they used to make.

"Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that was that

the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to win. Mind, I

don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it was. These

prison-chaps had done little else than play cards ever since they had

been at the Andamans, and they knew each other's game to a point, while

the others just played to pass the time and threw their cards down

anyhow. Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and the

poorer they got the more keen they were to play. Major Sholto was the

hardest hit. He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but soon it

came to notes of hand and for big sums. He sometimes would win for a

few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck would set in

against him worse than ever. All day he would wander about as black as

thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for him.

"One night he lost even more heavily than usual. I was sitting in my

hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to

their quarters. They were bosom friends, those two, and never far

apart. The major was raving about his losses.

"'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut. 'I shall

have to send in my papers. I am a ruined man.'

"'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the shoulder.

'I've had a nasty facer myself, but--' That was all I could hear, but

it was enough to set me thinking.

"A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach: so I

took the chance of speaking to him.

"'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.

"'Well, Small, what is it?' he asked, taking his cheroot from his lips.

"'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to whom

hidden treasure should be handed over. I know where half a million

worth lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps the best

thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper

authorities, and then perhaps they would get my sentence shortened for

me.'

"'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I was

in earnest.

"'Quite that, sir,--in jewels and pearls. It lies there ready for any

one. And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is outlawed

and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the first comer.'

"'To government, Small,' he stammered,--'to government.' But he said

it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him.

"'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the

Governor-General?' said I, quietly.

"'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might repent.

Let me hear all about it, Small. Give me the facts.'

"I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not

identify the places. When I had finished he stood stock still and full

of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was a

struggle going on within him.

"'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last. 'You must

not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again soon.'

"Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in

the dead of the night with a lantern.

"'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your own

lips, Small,' said he.

"I repeated it as I had told it before.

"'It rings true, eh?' said he. 'It's good enough to act upon?'

"Captain Morstan nodded.

"'Look here, Small,' said the major. 'We have been talking it over, my

friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this secret

of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a private

concern of your own, which of course you have the power of disposing of

as you think best. Now, the question is, what price would you ask for

it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at least look into it, if

we could agree as to terms.' He tried to speak in a cool, careless

way, but his eyes were shining with excitement and greed.

"'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be cool, but

feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one bargain which a man in

my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my freedom, and

to help my three companions to theirs. We shall then take you into

partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide between you.'

"'Hum!' said he. 'A fifth share! That is not very tempting.'

"'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.

"'But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask an

impossibility.'

"'Nothing of the sort,' I answered. 'I have thought it all out to the

last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit

for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time. There

are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras which would

serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall engage to get

aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of the Indian

coast you will have done your part of the bargain.'

"'If there were only one,' he said.

"'None or all,' I answered. 'We have sworn it. The four of us must

always act together.'

"'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word. He does not

flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him.'

"'It's a dirty business,' the other answered. 'Yet, as you say, the

money would save our commissions handsomely.'

"'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet you.

We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me where

the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to India

in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.'

"'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot. 'I must have the

consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none with

us.'

"'Nonsense!' he broke in. 'What have three black fellows to do with

our agreement?'

"'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go together.'

"Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh,

Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter

over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to provide

both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort and mark the

place in the wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to go

to India to test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it

there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was to

lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and

finally to return to his duties. Captain Morstan was then to apply for

leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a final

division of the treasure, he taking the major's share as well as his

own. All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the mind could

think or the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink, and by

the morning I had the two charts all ready, signed with the sign of

four,--that is, of Abdullah, Akbar, Mahomet, and myself.

"Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my

friend Mr. Jones is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey. I'll

make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto went off to India, but

he never came back again. Captain Morstan showed me his name among a

list of passengers in one of the mail-boats very shortly afterwards.

His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army,

yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated us. Morstan

went over to Agra shortly afterwards, and found, as we expected, that

the treasure was indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all, without

carrying out one of the conditions on which we had sold him the secret.

From that day I lived only for vengeance. I thought of it by day and I

nursed it by night. It became an overpowering, absorbing passion with

me. I cared nothing for the law,--nothing for the gallows. To escape,

to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his throat,--that was my one

thought. Even the Agra treasure had come to be a smaller thing in my

mind than the slaying of Sholto.

"Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one

which I did not carry out. But it was weary years before my time came.

I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine. One day

when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little Andaman Islander was

picked up by a convict-gang in the woods. He was sick to death, and

had gone to a lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though he was

as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of months I got him

all right and able to walk. He took a kind of fancy to me then, and

would hardly go back to his woods, but was always hanging about my hut.

I learned a little of his lingo from him, and this made him all the

fonder of me.

"Tonga--for that was his name--was a fine boatman, and owned a big,

roomy canoe of his own. When I found that he was devoted to me and

would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance of escape. I talked it

over with him. He was to bring his boat round on a certain night to an

old wharf which was never guarded, and there he was to pick me up. I

gave him directions to have several gourds of water and a lot of yams,

cocoa-nuts, and sweet potatoes.

"He was stanch and true, was little Tonga. No man ever had a more

faithful mate. At the night named he had his boat at the wharf. As it

chanced, however, there was one of the convict-guard down there,--a

vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting and injuring me.

I had always vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance. It was as if

fate had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt before I left

the island. He stood on the bank with his back to me, and his carbine

on his shoulder. I looked about for a stone to beat out his brains

with, but none could I see. Then a queer thought came into my head and

showed me where I could lay my hand on a weapon. I sat down in the

darkness and unstrapped my wooden leg. With three long hops I was on

him. He put his carbine to his shoulder, but I struck him full, and

knocked the whole front of his skull in. You can see the split in the

wood now where I hit him. We both went down together, for I could not

keep my balance, but when I got up I found him still lying quiet

enough. I made for the boat, and in an hour we were well out at sea.

Tonga had brought all his earthly possessions with him, his arms and

his gods. Among other things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some

Andaman cocoa-nut matting, with which I made a sort of sail. For ten

days we were beating about, trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we

were picked up by a trader which was going from Singapore to Jiddah

with a cargo of Malay pilgrims. They were a rum crowd, and Tonga and I

soon managed to settle down among them. They had one very good

quality: they let you alone and asked no questions.

"Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little chum and

I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have you here until

the sun was shining. Here and there we drifted about the world,

something always turning up to keep us from London. All the time,

however, I never lost sight of my purpose. I would dream of Sholto at

night. A hundred times I have killed him in my sleep. At last,

however, some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in England.

I had no great difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set to

work to discover whether he had realized the treasure, or if he still

had it. I made friends with someone who could help me,--I name no

names, for I don't want to get any one else in a hole,--and I soon

found that he still had the jewels. Then I tried to get at him in many

ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters, besides

his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him.

"One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I hurried at once to

the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that, and,

looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his sons

on each side of him. I'd have come through and taken my chance with

the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped, and I

knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night, though,

and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of where he

had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however: so I came away,

bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I left I bethought me that

if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a satisfaction to know

that I had left some mark of our hatred: so I scrawled down the sign

of the four of us, as it had been on the chart, and I pinned it on his

bosom. It was too much that he should be taken to the grave without

some token from the men whom he had robbed and befooled.

"We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs

and other such places as the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat and

dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies after a

day's work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and for

some years there was no news to hear, except that they were hunting for

the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited for so long.

The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the house, in Mr.

Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory. I came at once and had a

look at the place, but I could not see how with my wooden leg I was to

make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a trap-door in the

roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour. It seemed to me that I

could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him out with me

with a long rope wound round his waist. He could climb like a cat, and

he soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it,

Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost. Tonga thought

he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by

the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much

surprised was he when I made at him with the rope's end and cursed him

for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it

down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four

upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those

who had most right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the

window, and made off the way that he had come.

"I don't know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a

waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch the Aurora, so I thought

she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith,

and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew,

no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our

secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it

is not to amuse you,--for you have not done me a very good turn,--but

it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold

back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been

served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son."

"A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up

to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in

the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own

rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had

lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat."

"He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe

at the time."

"Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that."

"Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the

convict, affably.

"I think not, thank you," my companion answered.

"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humored, and

we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and

I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I

shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under

lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors

down-stairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of

course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you."

"Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.

"You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room.

"I'll take particular care that you don't club me with your wooden leg,

whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles."

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we

had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last

investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your

methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband

in prospective."

He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really

cannot congratulate you."

I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my

choice?" I asked.

"Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I

ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been

doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she

preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But

love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to

that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never

marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."

"I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal.

But you look weary."

"Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for

a week."

"Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call

laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigor."

"Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer

and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines

of old Goethe,--

Schade dass die Natur nur EINEN Mensch aus Dir schuf,

Denn zum wuerdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

"By the way, a propos of this Norwood business, you see that they had,

as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than

Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honor of

having caught one fish in his great haul."

"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all the

work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit,

pray what remains for you?"

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the

cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Sign of the Four, by Arthur Conan Doyle

The Man with the Twisted Lip, part 1

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal

of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to

opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some

foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De

Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had

drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the

same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the

practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many

years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of

mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see

him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point

pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble

man.

12One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell,

about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the

clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work

down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps

upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in

some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then,

suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms

about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in

such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.

How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when

you came in."

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was

always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds

to a light-house.

"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine

and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or

should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about

Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about

him!"

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her

husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend

and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words

as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it

possible that we could bring him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late

he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the

farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been

confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and

shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him

eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the

dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the

effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar

of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could

she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and

pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of

it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second

thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical

adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it

better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would

send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the

address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left

my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding

eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at

the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to

be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my

adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the

high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east

of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached

by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the

mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.

Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in

the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the

light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch

and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the

brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the

forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying

in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads

thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a

dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black

shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright,

now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of

the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to

themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low,

monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then

suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own

thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At

the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside

which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old

man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon

his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe

for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend

of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and

peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and

unkempt, staring out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of

reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what

o'clock is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What

d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his

arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting

this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have 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 a cab?"

"Yes, I have one waiting."

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I

owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of

sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying

fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed

the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my

skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look

back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I

glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my

side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very

wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between

his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his

fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my

self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of

astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him

but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull

eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and

grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He

made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he

turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided

into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you

would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend

of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with

you."

"I have a cab outside."

"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he

appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should

recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to

say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait

outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for

they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with

such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney

was once confined in the cab my mission was practically

accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better

than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular

adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a

few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him

out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a

very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den,

and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two

streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.

Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and

burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added

opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little

weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical

views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural

prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable

inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent

ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been

recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an

hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own

purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have

vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that

building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some

strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless

nights."

"What! You do not mean bodies?"

"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds

for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It

is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that

Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our

trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his

teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a

similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle

of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through

the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from

its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

"If I can be of use."

"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still

more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

"The Cedars?"

"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I

conduct the inquiry."

"Where is it, then?"

"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

"But I am all in the dark."

"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up

here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a

crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her

head. So long, then!"

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through

the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which

widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad

balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly

beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and

mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of

the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of

revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a

star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of

the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his

breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat

beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which

seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in

upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles,

and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban

villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up

his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he

is acting for the best.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes

you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great

thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are

not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear

little woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

"You forget that I know nothing about it."

"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before

we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can

get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I

can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case

clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a

spark where all is dark to me."

"Proceed, then."

"Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee

a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have

plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very

nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made

friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter

of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no

occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into

town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon

Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of

age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very

affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know

him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far

as we have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10s., while

he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and

Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money

troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier

than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important

commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy

home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife

received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his

departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable

value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the

offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up

in your London, you will know that the office of the company is

in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where

you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for

the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office,

got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through

Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me

so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.

Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab,

as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself.

While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly

heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her

10husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning

to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she

distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly

agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then

vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that

he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.

One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that

although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town

in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the

steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which

you found me to-night--and running through the front room she

attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At

the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of

whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who

acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled

with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the

lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of

constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The

inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the

continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to

the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no

sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was

no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who,

it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly

swore that no one else had been in the front room during the

afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was

staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had

been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box

which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell

a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had

promised to bring home.

"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple

showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.

The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an

abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a

sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon

the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom

window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered

at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The

bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On

examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill,

and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of

the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were

all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of

his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all were

there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these

garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.

Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no

other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon

the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by

swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of

the tragedy.

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately

implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the

vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was

known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few

seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could

hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence

was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no

knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he

could not account in any way for the presence of the missing

gentleman's clothes.

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who

lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was

certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.

Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which

is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a

professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police

regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some

little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand

side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the

wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,

cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he

is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the

greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I

have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of

making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised

at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His