_The Statement of the Case_
Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
composure of manner. She was a blond 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 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 can not 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, hawk-like 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 stay, 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
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.
"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
Thirty-fourth 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-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?"
"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, Doctor
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
ε 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 lighted 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 repellent 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.