through the door; no one hinders.’ And then, seeing that I smiled and
shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step
forward, with her hands wrung together. ‘For the love of Heaven!’ she
whispered, ‘get away from here before it is too late!’
“But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage
in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my
fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night
which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should
I slink away without having carried out my commission, and without
the payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I knew, be a
monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had
shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head, and
declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to renew
her entreaties, when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several
footsteps were heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant,
threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly
and as noiselessly as she had come.
“The new-comers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short, thick man with
a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who
was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.
“‘This is my secretary and manager,’ said the colonel. ‘By-the-way, I
was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear
that you have felt the draught.’
“‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I opened the door myself, because I felt
the room to be a little close.’
“He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. ‘Perhaps we had better
proceed to business, then,’ said he. ‘Mr. Ferguson and I will take you
up to see the machine.’
“‘I had better put my hat on, I suppose.’
“‘Oh no, it is in the house.’
“‘What, you dig fuller’s-earth in the house?’
“‘No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All
we wish you to do is to examine the machine, and to let us know what is
wrong with it.’
“We went up-stairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat
manager, and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with
corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors,
the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had
crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture
above the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls,
and the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I tried
to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not forgotten
the warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a
keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and
silent man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at
least a fellow-countryman.
“Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he
unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us
could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the
colonel ushered me in.
“‘We are now,’ said he, ‘actually within the hydraulic press, and it
would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if any one were to
turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the
descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons upon
this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside
which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it in the
manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily enough, but
there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little
of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over and to
show us how we can set it right.’
“I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly.
It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising enormous
pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down the levers
which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound that there
was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of water through
one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of the
india-rubber bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk
so as not quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This was
clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my
companions, who followed my remarks very carefully, and asked several
practical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When
I had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the
machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was
obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller’s-earth was the merest
fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an
engine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose. The walls were of
wood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I came
to examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I
had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was, when I
heard a muttered exclamation in German, and saw the cadaverous face of
the colonel looking down at me.
“‘What are you doing there?’ he asked.
“I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that
which he had told me. ‘I was admiring your fuller’s-earth,’ said I; ‘I
think that I should be better able to advise you as to your machine if
I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.’
“The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my
speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his gray
eyes.
“‘Very well,’ said he, ‘you shall know all about the machine.’ He took
a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the
lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite
secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves. ‘Hello!’
I yelled. ‘Hello! Colonel! Let me out!’
“And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart
into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the
leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood
upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By its
light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me, slowly,
jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force which
must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself,
screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I
implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the
levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my
head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface.
Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend
very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my face
the weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that
dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve
to lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me?
Already I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something which
brought a gush of hope back to my heart.
“I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the walls
were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin
line of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened and
broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I could
hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from death.
The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting upon the
other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of the
lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal,
told me how narrow had been my escape.
“I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I
found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a
woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she held
a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had
so foolishly rejected.
“‘Come! come!’ she cried, breathlessly. ‘They will be here in a moment.
They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious
time, but come!’
“This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my
feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The
latter led to another broad passage, and, just as we reached it, we
heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one
answering the other, from the floor on which we were and from the one
beneath. My guide stopped and looked about her like one who is at her
wits’ end. Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom, through
the window of which the moon was shining brightly.
“‘It is your only chance,’ said she. ‘It is high, but it may be that
you can jump it.’
“As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the
passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing
forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher’s
cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the
window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden
looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet
down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I
should have heard what passed between my savior and the ruffian who
pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to
go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my
mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw
her arms round him and tried to hold him back.
“‘Fritz! Fritz!’ she cried, in English, ‘remember your promise after
the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh,
he will be silent!’
“‘You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted, struggling to break away from her.
‘You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’
He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with
his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the hands to
the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip
loosened, and I fell into the garden below.
“I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and
rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood
that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I
ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at
my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time,
saw that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from
my wound. I endeavored to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came
a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint
among the rose-bushes.
“How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been
a very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was
breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew,
and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb.
The smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my
night’s adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I
might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But, to my astonishment,
when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen.
I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the high-road, and
just a little lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my
approaching it, to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the
previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that
had passed during those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.
“Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train.
There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter
was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of
him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was
strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for
me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was
one about three miles off.
“It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to
wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It
was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound
dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I
put the case into your hands, and shall do exactly what you advise.”
We both sat in silence for some little time after, listening to this
extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the
shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his
cuttings.
“Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he. “It
appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: ‘Lost,
on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, an hydraulic
engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been
heard of since. Was dressed in,’ etc., etc. Ha! That represents the
last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I
fancy.”
“Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that explains what the girl
said.”
“Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and
desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand
in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will
leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is
precious, so if you feel equal to it, we shall go down to Scotland Yard
at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford.”
Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together,
bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock
Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard,
a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance
map of the county out upon the seat, and was busy with his compasses
drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre.
“There you are,” said he. “That circle is drawn at a radius of ten
miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that
line. You said ten miles, I think, sir.”
“It was an hour’s good drive.”
“And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were
unconscious?”
“They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been
lifted and conveyed somewhere.”
“What I cannot understand,” said I, “is why they should have spared you
when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain
was softened by the woman’s entreaties.”
“I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my
life.”
“Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have
drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk
that we are in search of are to be found.”
“I think I could lay my finger on it,” said Holmes, quietly.
“Really, now!” cried the inspector, “you have formed your opinion!
Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the
country is more deserted there.”
“And I say east,” said my patient.
“I am for west,” remarked the plain-clothes man. “There are several
quiet little villages up there.”
“And I am for north,” said I, “because there are no hills there, and
our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any.”
“Come,” cried the inspector, laughing; “it’s a very pretty diversity
of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your
casting vote to?”
“You are all wrong.”
“But we can’t _all_ be.”
“Oh yes, you can. This is my point;” he placed his finger in the centre
of the circle. “This is where we shall find them.”
“But the twelve-mile drive?” gasped Hatherley.
“Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse
was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had
gone twelve miles over heavy roads?”
“Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough,” observed Bradstreet,
thoughtfully. “Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this
gang.”
“None at all,” said Holmes. “They are coiners on a large scale, and
have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of
silver.”
“We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,” said the
inspector. “They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We
even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they
had covered their traces in a way that showed that they were very old
hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that we have got
them right enough.”
But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined
to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we
saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small
clump of trees in the neighborhood, and hung like an immense ostrich
feather over the landscape.
“A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet, as the train steamed off again on
its way.
“Yes, sir!” said the station-master.
“When did it break out?”
“I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and
the whole place is in a blaze.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Dr. Becher’s.”
“Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a German, very thin,
with a long, sharp nose?”
The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an
Englishman, and there isn’t a man in the parish who has a better-lined
waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as
I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good
Berkshire beef would do him no harm.”
The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all
hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill,
and there was a great wide-spread whitewashed building in front of us,
spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front
three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.
“That’s it!” cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. “There is the
gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second
window is the one that I jumped from.”
“Well, at least,” said Holmes, “you have had your revenge upon them.
There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was
crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt
they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time.
Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night,
though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now.”
And Holmes’s fears came to be realized, for from that day to this no
word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister
German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met
a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving
rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the
fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes’s ingenuity failed ever to
discover the least clew as to their whereabouts.
The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which
they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed
human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset,
however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the
flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been
reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and
iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our
unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin
were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found,
which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have
been already referred to.
How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the
spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a
mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain
tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom
had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the
whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold
or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear
the unconscious man out of the way of danger.
“Well,” said our engineer ruefully, as we took our seats to return once
more to London, “it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my
thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?”
“Experience,” said Holmes, laughing. “Indirectly it may be of value,
you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of
being excellent company for the remainder of your existence.”
Adventure X
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR
The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long
ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which
the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it,
and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this
four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the
full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my
friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter
up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little
sketch of this remarkable episode.
It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was
still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from
an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him.
I had remained in-doors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden
turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the jezail bullet which I
had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign,
throbbed with dull persistency. With my body in one easy-chair and my
legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers,
until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all
aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the
envelope upon the table, and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble
correspondent could be.
“Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked, as he entered. “Your
morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a
tide-waiter.”
“Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he
answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting.
This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon
a man either to be bored or to lie.”
He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.
“Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest after all.”
“Not social, then?”
“No, distinctly professional.”
“And from a noble client?”
“One of the highest in England.”
“My dear fellow, I congratulate you.”
“I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case.
It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this
new investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late,
have you not?”
“It looks like it,” said I, ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the
corner. “I have had nothing else to do.”
“It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read
nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is
always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely
you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?”
“Oh yes, with the deepest interest.”
“That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St.
Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these
papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he
says:
“‘MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—Lord Backwater tells me that I
may place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion.
I have determined, therefore, to call upon you, and to consult
you in reference to the very painful event which has occurred
in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
is acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees
no objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that
it might be of some assistance. I will call at four o’clock in
the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at
that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is
of paramount importance. Yours faithfully, ST. SIMON.’
“It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the
noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer
side of his right little finger,” remarked Holmes, as he folded up the
epistle.
“He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour.”