I turned it over in my mind.

“Yes,” I said; “it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to

take no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose.”

“Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable I have only to consider the

question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress

upon this when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?”

“You will be in such a false position.”

“Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of

regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and

there are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is

the last day of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night this

villain will be as good as his word and will bring about her ruin. I

must, therefore, abandon my client to her fate or I must play this

last card. Between ourselves, Watson, it's a sporting duel between

this fellow Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first

exchanges; but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to fight

it to a finish.”

“Well, I don't like it; but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When do we

start?”

“You are not coming.”

“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of honour--and

I never broke it in my life--that I will take a cab straight to the

police-station and give you away unless you let me share this adventure

with you.”

“You can't help me.”

“How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen. Anyway, my

resolution is taken. Other people beside you have self-respect and even

reputations.”

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on

the shoulder.

“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared the same room

for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the

same cell. You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing to you that I have

always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient criminal.

This is the chance of my lifetime in that direction. See here!” He took

a neat little leather case out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited

a number of shining instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date

burgling kit, with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter,

adaptable keys, and every modern improvement which the march of

civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything is in

order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?”

“I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”

“Excellent. And a mask?”

“I can make a couple out of black silk.”

“I can see that you have a strong natural turn for this sort of thing.

Very good; do you make the masks. We shall have some cold supper before

we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall drive as far as

Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour's walk from there to Appledore

Towers. We shall be at work before midnight. Milverton is a heavy

sleeper and retires punctually at ten-thirty. With any luck we should be

back here by two, with the Lady Eva's letters in my pocket.”

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be two

theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a hansom and

drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our cab, and with our

great-coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold and the wind seemed to

blow through us, we walked along the edge of the Heath.

“It's a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes. “These

documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study, and the study

is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like all these

stout, little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric sleeper.

Agatha--that's my FIANCEE--says it is a joke in the servants' hall that

it's impossible to wake the master. He has a secretary who is devoted to

his interests and never budges from the study all day. That's why we are

going at night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I

met Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so

as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its own

grounds. Through the gate--now to the right among the laurels. We might

put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light

in any of the windows, and everything is working splendidly.”

With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the most

truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy house.

A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined by several

windows and two doors.

“That's his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight into

the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as locked,

and we should make too much noise getting in. Come round here. There's a

greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room.”

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned

the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door

behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The thick,

warm air of the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance of exotic

plants took us by the throat. He seized my hand in the darkness and led

me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes

had remarkable powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark.

Still holding my hand in one of his he opened a door, and I was vaguely

conscious that we had entered a large room in which a cigar had been

smoked not long before. He felt his way among the furniture, opened

another door, and closed it behind us. Putting out my hand I felt

several coats hanging from the wall, and I understood that I was in a

passage. We passed along it, and Holmes very gently opened a door upon

the right-hand side. Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into

my mouth, but I could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat.

A fire was burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with

tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and

then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton's study, and a

PORTIERE at the farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom.

It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door I

saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even if it

had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was a heavy

curtain, which covered the bay window we had seen from outside. On the

other side was the door which communicated with the veranda. A desk

stood in the centre, with a turning chair of shining red leather.

Opposite was a large bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top.

In the corner between the bookcase and the wall there stood a tall green

safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs upon its

face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he crept to the door of

the bedroom, and stood with slanting head listening intently. No sound

came from within. Meanwhile it had struck me that it would be wise

to secure our retreat through the outer door, so I examined it. To my

amazement it was neither locked nor bolted! I touched Holmes on the arm,

and he turned his masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he

was evidently as surprised as I.

“I don't like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. “I

can't quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Yes; stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the inside,

and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way, we can

get through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these window

curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”

I nodded and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed

away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed when

we were the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The high object

of our mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous,

the villainous character of our opponent, all added to the sporting

interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and

exulted in our dangers. With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes

unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his tool with the calm,

scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I

knew that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I

understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this green

and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the reputations of

many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his dress-coat--he had placed

his overcoat on a chair--Holmes laid out two drills, a jemmy, and

several skeleton keys. I stood at the centre door with my eyes glancing

at each of the others, ready for any emergency; though, indeed, my plans

were somewhat vague as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For

half an hour Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one

tool, picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy

of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green door

swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper packets,

each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but it was hard

to read by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern,

for it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to switch on

the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then

in an instant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his

coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window

curtain, motioning me to do the same.

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed

his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A door

slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke itself into

the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in

the passage outside the room. They paused at the door. The door opened.

There was a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door

closed once more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne

to our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued backwards and forwards,

backwards and forwards, within a few yards of us. Finally, there was a

creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a

lock and I heard the rustle of papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the division

of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the pressure

of Holmes's shoulder against mine I knew that he was sharing my

observations. Right in front of us, and almost within our reach, was the

broad, rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that we had entirely

miscalculated his movements, that he had never been to his bedroom,

but that he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the

farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His

broad, grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the

immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in the red

leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long black cigar projecting

at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military smoking jacket,

claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In his hand he held a long

legal document, which he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing

rings of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did so. There was no promise

of a speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable

attitude.

I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake, as

if to say that the situation was within his powers and that he was

easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only too

obvious from my position, that the door of the safe was imperfectly

closed, and that Milverton might at any moment observe it. In my own

mind I had determined that if I were sure, from the rigidity of his

gaze, that it had caught his eye, I would at once spring out, throw my

great-coat over his head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But

Milverton never looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in

his hand, and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of

the lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document and

the cigar he will go to his room; but before he had reached the end of

either there came a remarkable development which turned our thoughts

into quite another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and

once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience. The

idea, however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an

hour never occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from

the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in his

chair. The sound was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap at the

door. Milverton rose and opened it.

“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal

vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman's dress. I

had closed the slit between the curtains as Milverton's face had turned

in our direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it once

more. He had resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an insolent

angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare

of the electric light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over

her face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and fast,

and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with strong emotion.

“Well,” said Milverton, “you've made me lose a good night's rest,

my dear. I hope you'll prove worth it. You couldn't come any other

time--eh?”

The woman shook her head.

“Well, if you couldn't you couldn't. If the Countess is a hard mistress

you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the girl, what are

you shivering about? That's right! Pull yourself together! Now, let us

get down to business.” He took a note from the drawer of his desk. “You

say that you have five letters which compromise the Countess d'Albert.

You want to sell them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only

remains to fix a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course.

If they are really good specimens--Great heavens, is it you?”

The woman without a word had raised her veil and dropped the mantle

from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which confronted

Milverton, a face with a curved nose, strong, dark eyebrows shading

hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth set in a

dangerous smile.

“It is I,” she said; “the woman whose life you have ruined.”

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so very

obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such extremities? I

assure you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has his

business, and what was I to do? I put the price well within your means.

You would not pay.”

“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he--the noblest gentleman

that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace--he broke

his gallant heart and died. You remember that last night when I came

through that door I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you laughed in

my face as you are trying to laugh now, only your coward heart cannot

keep your lips from twitching? Yes, you never thought to see me here

again, but it was that night which taught me how I could meet you face

to face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”

“Don't imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his feet. “I

have only to raise my voice, and I could call my servants and have you

arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave the

room at once as you came, and I will say no more.”

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same deadly

smile on her thin lips.

“You will ruin no more lives as you ruined mine. You will wring no more

hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous thing.

Take that, you hound, and that!--and that!--and that!”

She had drawn a little, gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after

barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt

front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing

furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his feet,

received another shot, and rolled upon the floor. “You've done me,” he

cried, and lay still. The woman looked at him intently and ground her

heel into his upturned face. She looked again, but there was no sound

or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated

room, and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate;

but as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton's shrinking

body I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes's cold, strong grasp

upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining

grip--that it was no affair of ours; that justice had overtaken a

villain; that we had our own duties and our own objects which were not

to be lost sight of. But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when

Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned

the key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house

and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the

household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the safe,

filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured them all into

the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe was empty. Someone

turned the handle and beat upon the outside of the door. Holmes looked

swiftly round. The letter which had been the messenger of death for

Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed

it in among the blazing papers. Then he drew the key from the outer

door, passed through after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way,

Watson,” said he; “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly.

Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door

was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden was

alive with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we emerged

from the veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to know

the ground perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation

of small trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting

behind us. It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang

to the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man behind

me grab at my ankle; but I kicked myself free and scrambled over a

glass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among some bushes; but Holmes

had me on my feet in an instant, and together we dashed away across the

huge expanse of Hampstead Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before

Holmes at last halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence

behind us. We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after

the remarkable experience which I have recorded when Mr. Lestrade, of

Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our modest

sitting-room.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good morning. May I ask if you are

very busy just now?”

“Not too busy to listen to you.”

“I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you

might care to assist us in a most remarkable case which occurred only

last night at Hampstead.”

“Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

“A murder--a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you

are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you

would step down to Appledore Towers and give us the benefit of your

advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr.

Milverton for some time, and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a

villain. He is known to have held papers which he used for blackmailing

purposes. These papers have all been burned by the murderers. No article

of value was taken, as it is probable that the criminals were men of

good position, whose sole object was to prevent social exposure.”

“Criminals!” said Holmes. “Plural!”

“Yes, there were two of them. They were, as nearly as possible, captured

red-handed. We have their foot-marks, we have their description; it's

ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow was a bit too active,

but the second was caught by the under-gardener and only got away after

a struggle. He was a middle-sized, strongly-built man--square jaw, thick

neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

“That's rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Why, it might be a

description of Watson!”

“It's true,” said the inspector, with much amusement. “It might be a

description of Watson.”

“Well, I am afraid I can't help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The fact

is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one of the

most dangerous men in London, and that I think there are certain crimes

which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify

private revenge. No, it's no use arguing. I have made up my mind. My

sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I

will not handle this case.”

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had

witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most

thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes and

his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall something to

his memory. We were in the middle of our lunch when he suddenly sprang

to his feet. “By Jove, Watson; I've got it!” he cried. “Take your hat!

Come with me!” He hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along

Oxford Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here on the

left hand there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the

celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes's eyes fixed themselves upon

one of them, and following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and

stately lady in Court dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble

head. I looked at that delicately-curved nose, at the marked eyebrows,

at the straight mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I

caught my breath as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman

and statesman whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and

he put his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.

*****

THE STRAND MAGAZINE

Vol. 27 MAY, 1904

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

VIII.--The Adventure of the Six Napoleons.

IT was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to

look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock

Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on

at the police head-quarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would

bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the

details of any case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able

occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or

suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the

newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his

cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there IS something on my

mind. And yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to

bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is

undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out

of the common. But in my opinion it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than

ours.”

“Disease?” said I.

“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness too! You wouldn't think there was

anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon the

First that he would break any image of him that he could see.”

Holmes sank back in his chair.

“That's no business of mine,” said he.

“Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary

in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from

the doctor and on to the policeman.”

Holmes sat up again.

“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

Lestrade took out his official note-book and refreshed his memory from

its pages.

“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at the

shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and

statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop

for an instant when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster

bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art upon the

counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road,

but, although several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man

run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any

means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless

acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported

to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not worth

more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too

childish for any particular investigation.

“The second case, however, was more serious and also more singular. It

occurred only last night.

“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson's

shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr. Barnicot,

who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames.

His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but

he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles

away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his

house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some

little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster

casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One

of these he placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the

other on the mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr.

Barnicot came down this morning he was astonished to find that his house

had been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save

the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been

dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered

fragments were discovered.”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“This is certainly very novel,” said he.

“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet. Dr.

Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and you can imagine

his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been

opened in the night, and that the broken pieces of his second bust were

strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood.

In neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to

the criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you

have got the facts.”

“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I ask

whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were the exact

duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop?”

“They were taken from the same mould.”

“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them

is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how many

hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is

too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast

should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust.”

“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand, this

Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these

three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So,

although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it

is very probable that these three were the only ones in that district.

Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr.

Watson?”

“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I answered.

“There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have

called the 'idee fixe,' which may be trifling in character, and

accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read

deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary

family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such

an 'idee fixe' and under its influence be capable of any fantastic

outrage.”

“That won't do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head; “for no

amount of 'idee fixe' would enable your interesting monomaniac to find

out where these busts were situated.”

“Well, how do YOU explain it?”

“I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain

method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr.

Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was

taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there

was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair

seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I

reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising

commencement. You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of

the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which

the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford,

therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall

be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh

developments of so singular a chain of events.”

The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an

infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still

dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the door and

Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:--

“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.--Lestrade.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

“Don't know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the

story of the statues. In that case our friend, the image-breaker, has

begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the

table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater

just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one

of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings.

As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house lined by a

curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

“By George! it's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will hold

the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in that

fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this, Watson? The

top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow!

Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know

all about it.”

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a

sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly

man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was

introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of the

Central Press Syndicate.

“It's the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You seemed

interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be

glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver

turn.”

“What has it turned to, then?”

“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has

occurred?”

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.

“It's an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have been

collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news has

come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two

words together. If I had come in here as a journalist I should have

interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is

I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a

string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However,

I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explain

this queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the

story.”

Holmes sat down and listened.

“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought for

this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from Harding

Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of my

journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early

morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back

of the top of the house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that

I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,

and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five

minutes later, there came a most horrible yell--the most dreadful sound,

Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I

live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the

poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window

wide open, and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the

mantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my

understanding, for it was only a plaster cast and of no real value

whatever.

“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window

could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was clearly

what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door. Stepping

out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who was lying there. I

ran back for a light, and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his

throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his

knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my

dreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must

have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman

standing over me in the hall.”

“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“There's nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall see the

body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He is a

tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly

dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp

knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon

which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not

know. There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save

an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here

it is.”

It was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera. It

represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man with thick eyebrows, and

a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face like the muzzle

of a baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of

this picture.

“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front

garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken into

fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?”

“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the carpet and

the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active

man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach

that window-ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively

simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr.

Harker?”

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no doubt

that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with

full details. It's like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at

Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal

the only one that had no account of it, for I was too shaken to write

it. And now I'll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep.”

As we left the room we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the

foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a

few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this

presentment of the great Emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic

and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered in

splintered shards upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and

examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and his

purposeful manner that at last he was upon a clue.

“Well?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet--and yet--well, we

have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling

bust was worth more in the eyes of this strange criminal than a human

life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not

break it in the house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it

was his sole object.”

“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly knew

what he was doing.”

“Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very

particularly to the position of this house in the garden of which the

bust was destroyed.”

Lestrade looked about him.

“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in

the garden.”

“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he

must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it

there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased

the risk of someone meeting him?”

“I give it up,” said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was

his reason.”

“By Jove! that's true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to think of

it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr.

Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

“To remember it--to docket it. We may come on something later which will

bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?”

“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify

the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we have

found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good start

in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it was

who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don't

you think so?”

“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach

the case.”

“What would you do, then?”

“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way! I suggest that you

go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and each

will supplement the other.”

“Very good,” said Lestrade.

“If you are going back to Pitt Street you might see Mr. Horace Harker.

Tell him from me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is

certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic with Napoleonic delusions was

in his house last night. It will be useful for his article.”

Lestrade stared.

“You don't seriously believe that?”

Holmes smiled.

“Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will interest Mr.

Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate.

Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather

complex day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could

make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o'clock this

evening. Until then I should like to keep this photograph found in the

dead man's pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company

and assistance upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken

to-night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until

then, good-bye and good luck!”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where he

stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been

purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be

absent until after noon, and that he was himself a newcomer who could

give us no information. Holmes's face showed his disappointment and

annoyance.

“Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he

said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon if Mr. Harding

will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised,

endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if

there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable

fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see

if he can throw any light upon the problem.”

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's establishment. He

was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates and

taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and break one's

goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.

Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot, that's what I make it. No one but an

Anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans, that's what

I call 'em. Who did I get the statues from? I don't see what that has to

do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder

and Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the

trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three--two and

one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot's and one smashed in broad daylight

on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don't. Yes, I do,

though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who

made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit and gild and

frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I've heard

nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he came from nor where he

went to. I have nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two

days before the bust was smashed.”

“Well, that's all we could reasonably expect to get from Morse Hudson,”

said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as a

common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a

ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder and Co., of Stepney,

the source and origin of busts. I shall be surprised if we don't get

some help down there.”

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London,

hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London,

and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a

hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with

the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode

of wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we

searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry.

Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding.

The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly, and gave a clear

answer to all Holmes's questions. A reference to his books showed that

hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine's head of

Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year

or so before had been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent

to Harding Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six

should be different to any of the other casts. He could suggest no

possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy them--in fact, he

laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the

retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from

each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris

were joined together to make the complete bust. The work was usually

done by Italians in the room we were in. When finished the busts were

put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was

all he could tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the

manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his

blue Teutonic eyes.

“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This has

always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we have

ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was more than a

year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came

to the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo

was his name--his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging

a man with such a face. But he was a good workman, one of the best.”

“What did he get?”

“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out

now; but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his

here, and I dare say he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin--not a word, I beg

you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it the more

important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the sale

of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could

you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?”

“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered. “Yes,”

he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was paid last on May

20th.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don't think that I need intrude upon your

time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution that he should

say nothing as to our researches we turned our faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty

luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced

“Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of the paper

showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after

all. Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and flowery

rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the

cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this: 'It is

satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of opinion upon

this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced members of

the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting

expert, have each come to the conclusion that the grotesque series of

incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy

rather than from deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration

can cover the facts.' The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution

if you only know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished,

we will hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding

Brothers has to say to the matter.”

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little

person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.

“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.

Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some

months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder and Co., of

Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say by consulting

our sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries

here. One to Mr. Harker, you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of

Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of

Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you

show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir,

for I've seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,

sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I dare say

they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no

particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it's

a very strange business, and I hope that you'll let me know if anything

comes of your inquiries.”

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evidence, and I

could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs

were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried,

we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when

we reached Baker Street the detective was already there, and we found

him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance

showed that his day's work had not been in vain.

“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my friend

explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale

manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning.”

“The busts!” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr.

Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but

I think I have done a better day's work than you. I have identified the

dead man.”

“You don't say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the

Italian quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his

neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the

South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His

name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest

cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you

know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder.

Now you see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is

probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has broken

the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the

photograph we found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not

knife the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,

he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own

death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn't quite follow

your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After all,

that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is the murder

that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all

the threads into my hands.”

“And the next stage?”

“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian quarter,

find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the charge

of murder. Will you come with us?”

“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can't

say for certain, because it all depends--well, it all depends upon

a factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great

hopes--in fact, the betting is exactly two to one--that if you will come

with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels.”

“In the Italian quarter?”

“No; I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him. If

you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I'll promise to go

to the Italian quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by

the delay. And now I think that a few hours' sleep would do us all good,

for I do not propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and it is unlikely

that we shall be back before morning. You'll dine with us, Lestrade, and

then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In

the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express

messenger, for I have a letter to send, and it is important that it

should go at once.”

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old daily

papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last he

descended it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to

either of us as to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had

followed step by step the methods by which he had traced the various

windings of this complex case, and, though I could not yet perceive the

goal which we would reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected

this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts,

one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our

journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the

cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening

paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his

scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that

I should take my revolver with me. He had himself picked up the loaded

hunting-crop which was his favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a spot

at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed to

wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant

houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street

lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the gate-post of one of them. The

occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was dark save for a

fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single blurred circle on to

the garden path. The wooden fence which separated the grounds from the

road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was

that we crouched.

“I fear that you'll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may thank

our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we can even venture to

smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two to one chance that we get

something to pay us for our trouble.”

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had

led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In

an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden

gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an

ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown

from over the door and disappear against the black shadow of the house.

There was a long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very

gentle creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The

noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was making

his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside

the room. What he sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the

flash through another blind, and then through another.

“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,”

Lestrade whispered.

But before we could move the man had emerged again. As he came out into

the glimmering patch of light we saw that he carried something white

under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the

deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down

his burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap,

followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was

doing that he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot.

With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later

Lestrade and I had him by either wrist and the handcuffs had been

fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with

writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that it was

indeed the man of the photograph whom we had secured.

But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.

Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining

that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon

like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken

into similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to

the light, but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of

plaster. He had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew

up, the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund figure

in shirt and trousers, presented himself.

“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note

which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you told

me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments. Well,

I'm very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen,

that you will come in and have some refreshment.”

However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so

within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four upon

our way to London. Not a word would our captive say; but he glared at us

from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within

his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough

at the police-station to learn that a search of his clothing revealed

nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of

which bore copious traces of recent blood.

“That's all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all these

gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that my theory of

the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am exceedingly obliged

to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon

him. I don't quite understand it all yet.”

“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes.

“Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and

it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end.

If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock to-morrow I

think I shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the

entire meaning of this business, which presents some features which make

it absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you

to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you

will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the

Napoleonic busts.”

When we met again next evening Lestrade was furnished with much

information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo,

second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among the Italian

colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest

living, but he had taken to evil courses and had twice already been

in gaol--once for a petty theft and once, as we had already heard, for

stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His

reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to

answer any questions upon the subject; but the police had discovered

that these same busts might very well have been made by his own hands,

since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of

Gelder and Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,

Holmes listened with polite attention; but I, who knew him so well,

could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a

mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which

he was wont to assume. At last he started in his chair and his eyes

brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard

steps upon the stairs, and an elderly, red-faced man with grizzled

side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an

old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?” said

he.

“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late; but the trains were awkward.

You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”

“Exactly.”

“I have your letter here. You said, 'I desire to possess a copy of

Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one

which is in your possession.' Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine how

you knew that I owned such a thing.”

“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very

simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you

their last copy, and he gave me your address.”

“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”

“No, he did not.”

“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave

fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that

before I take ten pounds from you.”

“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have named

that price, so I intend to stick to it.”

“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up

with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his bag, and at

last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which

we had already seen more than once in fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the

table.

“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of

these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible

right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you

see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank

you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good

evening.”

When our visitor had disappeared Sherlock Holmes's movements were such

as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth from

a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly-acquired

bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop

and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure

broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered

remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he held up one

splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a

pudding.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl

of the Borgias.”

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous

impulse, we both broke out clapping as at the well-wrought crisis of a

play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed to

us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience.

It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning

machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The

same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain

from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by

spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now existing

in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of

inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna's bedroom at

the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of

the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder and Co.,

of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the

disappearance of this valuable jewel, and the vain efforts of the London

police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case; but I was

unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the

Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother

in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The

maid's name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that

this Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been

looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the

disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of

Beppo for some crime of violence, an event which took place in the

factory of Gelder and Co., at the very moment when these busts were

being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see

them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented

themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have

stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro's confederate, he

may have been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no

consequence to us which is the correct solution.

“The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment, when it was

on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory in

which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to

conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found

on him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying

in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a

skilful workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the

pearl, and with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It

was an admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo

was condemned to a year's imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six

busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his

treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell

him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl

would adhere to it--as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and

he conducted his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance.

Through a cousin who works with Gelder he found out the retail firms who

had bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson,

and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.

Then, with the help of some Italian EMPLOYEE, he succeeded in finding out

where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's. There

he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the

loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed.”

“If he was his confederate why should he carry his photograph?” I asked.

“As a means of tracing him if he wished to inquire about him from any

third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder

I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his

movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so

he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could

not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker's bust. I had not even

concluded for certain that it was the pearl; but it was evident to me

that he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past

the other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp

overlooking it. Since Harker's bust was one in three the chances were

exactly as I told you, two to one against the pearl being inside it.

There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the

London one first. I warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid

a second tragedy, and we went down with the happiest results. By that

time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we

were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one event with the

other. There only remained a single bust--the Reading one--and the pearl

must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner--and there it

lies.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“Well,” said Lestrade, “I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.

Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than

that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very

proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there's not a man, from

the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to

shake you by the hand.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away it seemed

to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I

had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker

once more. “Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said he, “and get out

the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If

any little problem comes your way I shall be happy, if I can, to give

you a hint or two as to its solution.”

*****

THE STRAND MAGAZINE

Vol. 27 JUNE, 1904

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

IX.--The Adventure of the Three Students.

IT was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I need

not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in

one of our great University towns, and it was during this time that the

small but instructive adventure which I am about to relate befell us. It

will be obvious that any details which would help the reader to exactly

identify the college or the criminal would be injudicious and offensive.

So painful a scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion

the incident itself may, however, be described, since it serves to

illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was remarkable.

I will endeavour in my statement to avoid such terms as would serve

to limit the events to any particular place, or give a clue as to the

people concerned.

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library

where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early

English charters--researches which led to results so striking that they

may be the subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was that one

evening we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames,

tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke's. Mr. Soames was a tall,

spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known

him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular occasion he was

in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear something

very unusual had occurred.

“I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your valuable

time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke's, and really, but

for the happy chance of your being in the town, I should have been at a

loss what to do.”

“I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my friend

answered. “I should much prefer that you called in the aid of the

police.”

“No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once the

law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of those

cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most essential to

avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well known as your powers, and you

are the one man in the world who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to

do what you can.”

My friend's temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the

congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrap-books, his

chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He

shrugged his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor

in hurried words and with much excitable gesticulation poured forth his

story.

“I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day

of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the

examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists of

a large passage of Greek translation which the candidate has not seen.

This passage is printed on the examination paper, and it would naturally

be an immense advantage if the candidate could prepare it in advance.

For this reason great care is taken to keep the paper secret.

“To-day about three o'clock the proofs of this paper arrived from the

printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I had

to read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely correct. At

four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had, however, promised to

take tea in a friend's rooms, so I left the proof upon my desk. I was

absent rather more than an hour.

“You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double--a green

baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached my outer

door I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I imagined that I

had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I found that it was

all right. The only duplicate which existed, so far as I knew, was that

which belonged to my servant, Bannister, a man who has looked after my

room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I

found that the key was indeed his, that he had entered my room to know

if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key in the

door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been within a very

few minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would

have mattered little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has

produced the most deplorable consequences.

“The moment I looked at my table I was aware that someone had rummaged

among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had left them all

together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on the floor, one was

on the side table near the window, and the third was where I had left

it.”

Holmes stirred for the first time.

“The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third where

you left it,” said he.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know that?”

“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable

liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the utmost

earnestness, and I am convinced that he was speaking the truth. The

alternative was that someone passing had observed the key in the door,

had known that I was out, and had entered to look at the papers. A large

sum of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one,

and an unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an

advantage over his fellows.

“Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted

when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I gave

him a little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair while I made a

most careful examination of the room. I soon saw that the intruder had

left other traces of his presence besides the rumpled papers. On the

table in the window were several shreds from a pencil which had been

sharpened. A broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the

rascal had copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and

had been compelled to put a fresh point to it.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his

attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has been your

friend.”

“This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of red

leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was

smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about three inches

long--not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this, but on

the table I found a small ball of black dough, or clay, with specks

of something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced that

these marks were left by the man who rifled the papers. There were no

footmarks and no other evidence as to his identity. I was at my wits'

ends, when suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that you were in

the town, and I came straight round to put the matter into your hands.

Do help me, Mr. Holmes! You see my dilemma. Either I must find the

man or else the examination must be postponed until fresh papers are

prepared, and since this cannot be done without explanation there

will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud not only on the

college, but on the University. Above all things I desire to settle the

matter quietly and discreetly.”

“I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I

can,” said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The case is not

entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you in your room after

the papers came to you?”

“Yes; young Daulat Ras, an Indian student who lives on the same stair,

came in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”

“For which he was entered?”

“Yes.”

“And the papers were on your table?”

“To the best of my belief they were rolled up.”

“But might be recognised as proofs?”

“Possibly.”

“No one else in your room?”

“No.”

“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”

“No one save the printer.”

“Did this man Bannister know?”

“No, certainly not. No one knew.”

“Where is Bannister now?”

“He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I was

in such a hurry to come to you.”

“You left your door open?”

“I locked up the papers first.”

“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames, that unless the Indian student

recognised the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them came

upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there.”

“So it seems to me.”

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

“Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases,

Watson--mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now, Mr.

Soames--at your disposal!”

The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed window on

to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic arched

door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor was the tutor's

room. Above were three students, one on each story. It was already

twilight when we reached the scene of our problem. Holmes halted and

looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached it, and, standing on

tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the room.

“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except the

one pane,” said our learned guide.

“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced at

our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be learned here we had best

go inside.”

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We

stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.

“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly hope

for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite recovered.

You left him in a chair, you say; which chair?”

“By the window there.”

“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished

with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what has

happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by

sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the window table,

because from there he could see if you came across the courtyard, and so

could effect an escape.”

“As a matter of fact he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered by the

side door.”

“Ah, that's good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the

three strips. No finger impressions--no! Well, he carried over this one

first and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using

every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less. Then he

tossed it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of that when

your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat--VERY hurried,

since he had not time to replace the papers which would tell you that he

had been there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as

you entered the outer door?”

“No, I can't say I was.”

“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as you

observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The pencil

was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a soft lead;

the outer colour was dark blue, the maker's name was printed in silver

lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an inch and a half

long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man.

When I add that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have an

additional aid.”

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. “I can

follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this matter of the

length----”

Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear

wood after them.

“You see?”

“No, I fear that even now----”

“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What

could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that Johann

Faber is the most common maker's name. Is it not clear that there is

just as much of the pencil left as usually follows the Johann?” He held

the small table sideways to the electric light. “I was hoping that if

the paper on which he wrote was thin some trace of it might come through

upon this polished surface. No, I see nothing. I don't think there is

anything more to be learned here. Now for the central table. This small

pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly

pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say, there

appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very interesting.

And the cut--a positive tear, I see. It began with a thin scratch and

ended in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to you for directing my

attention to this case, Mr. Soames. Where does that door lead to?”

“To my bedroom.”

“Have you been in it since your adventure?”

“No; I came straight away for you.”

“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned

room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute until I have examined the

floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your clothes

behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this room he must

do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No

one there, I suppose?”

As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and

alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As

a matter of fact the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or four

suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away and

stooped suddenly to the floor.

“Halloa! What's this?” said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the one

upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm in the

glare of the electric light.

“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in

your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

“What could he have wanted there?”

“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and so

he had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he do?

He caught up everything which would betray him and he rushed into your

bedroom to conceal himself.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that all the time I

was talking to Bannister in this room we had the man prisoner if we had

only known it?”

“So I read it.”

“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don't know whether

you observed my bedroom window?”

“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging on

hinge and large enough to admit a man.”

“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be

partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there, left

traces as he passed through the bedroom, and, finally, finding the door

open have escaped that way.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that there are

three students who use this stair and are in the habit of passing your

door?”

“Yes, there are.”

“And they are all in for this examination?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?”

Soames hesitated.

“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to throw

suspicion where there are no proofs.”

“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men

who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine

scholar and athlete; plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for

the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He is

a fine, manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist,

who ruined himself on the turf. My scholar has been left very poor, but

he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.

“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a quiet,

inscrutable fellow, as most of those Indians are. He is well up in his

work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady and methodical.

“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow when

he chooses to work--one of the brightest intellects of the University,

but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was nearly expelled

over a card scandal in his first year. He has been idling all this term,

and he must look forward with dread to the examination.”

“Then it is he whom you suspect?”

“I dare not go so far as that. But of the three he is perhaps the least

unlikely.”

“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,

Bannister.”

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of

fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the quiet

routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his nervousness,

and his fingers could not keep still.

“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his

master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very day

when there were these papers inside?”

“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same

thing at other times.”

“When did you enter the room?”

“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames's tea time.”

“How long did you stay?”

“When I saw that he was absent I withdrew at once.”

“Did you look at these papers on the table?”

“No, sir; certainly not.”

“How came you to leave the key in the door?”

“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the key.

Then I forgot.”

“Has the outer door a spring lock?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it was open all the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone in the room could get out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much

disturbed?”

“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that I

have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder near

the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

“I don't know, sir. It didn't matter to me where I sat.”

“I really don't think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was looking

very bad--quite ghastly.”

“You stayed here when your master left?”

“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my room.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don't believe there is any

gentleman in this University who is capable of profiting by such an

action. No, sir, I'll not believe it.”

“Thank you; that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You have not

mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that anything is

amiss?”

“No, sir; not a word.”

“You haven't seen any of them?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle, if

you please.”

Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.

“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking up.

“Halloa! What's that? One of them seems restless enough.”

It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his

blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is it

possible?”

“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms is

quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors to

go over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you.”

“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's door. A

tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome

when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of

mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with

one of them that he insisted on drawing it on his note-book, broke his

pencil, had to borrow one from our host, and finally borrowed a knife to

sharpen his own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms

of the Indian--a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance

and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural studies had come to

an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had come upon the

clue for which he was searching. Only at the third did our visit prove

abortive. The outer door would not open to our knock, and nothing more

substantial than a torrent of bad language came from behind it. “I

don't care who you are. You can go to blazes!” roared the angry voice.

“To-morrow's the exam, and I won't be drawn by anyone.”

“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew

down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was

knocking, but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and,

indeed, under the circumstances rather suspicious.”

Holmes's response was a curious one.

“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the

Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be about

it.”

“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I wish you

good-night.”

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good gracious,

Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt fashion!

You don't seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the examination. I

must take some definite action to-night. I cannot allow the examination

to be held if one of the papers has been tampered with. The situation

must be faced.”

“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow morning

and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a position

then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile you change

nothing--nothing at all.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some

way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me, also

the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle we again looked up at

the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were invisible.

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came out

into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game--sort of three-card

trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one of them. You

take your choice. Which is yours?”

“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst

record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be

pacing his room all the time?”

“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to learn

anything by heart.”

“He looked at us in a queer way.”

“So would you if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were

preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of

value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives--all was

satisfactory. But that fellow DOES puzzle me.”

“Who?”

“Why, Bannister, the servant. What's his game in the matter?”

“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

“So he did me. That's the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly

honest man--well, well, here's a large stationer's. We shall begin our

researches here.”

There were only four stationers of any consequence in the town, and at

each Holmes produced his pencil chips and bid high for a duplicate. All

were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual size

of pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My friend did not

appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged his shoulders in

half-humorous resignation.

“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run

to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a

sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine,

and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What with your

eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I expect that

you will get notice to quit and that I shall share your downfall--not,

however, before we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the

careless servant, and the three enterprising students.”

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he sat

lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At eight in

the morning he came into my room just as I finished my toilet.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke's. Can you

do without breakfast?”

“Certainly.”

“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him

something positive.”

“Have you anything positive to tell him?”

“I think so.”

“You have formed a conclusion?”

“Yes, my dear Watson; I have solved the mystery.”

“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”

“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at the

untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours' hard work and covered at

least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at that!”

He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of black,

doughy clay.

“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday!”

“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3

came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come

along and put friend Soames out of his pain.”

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation

when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination would

commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the facts

public and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable scholarship.

He could hardly stand still, so great was his mental agitation, and he

ran towards Holmes with two eager hands outstretched.

“Thank Heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up in

despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

“Yes; let it proceed by all means.”

“But this rascal----?”

“He shall not compete.”

“You know him?”

“I think so. If this matter is not to become public we must give

ourselves certain powers, and resolve ourselves into a small private

court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson, you here! I'll

take the arm-chair in the middle. I think that we are now sufficiently

imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

Bannister entered, and shrunk back in evident surprise and fear at our

judicial appearance.

“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister, will you

please tell us the truth about yesterday's incident?”

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

“I have told you everything, sir.”

“Nothing to add?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down

on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some object

which would have shown who had been in the room?”

Bannister's face was ghastly.

“No, sir; certainly not.”

“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit that

I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the moment

that Mr. Soames's back was turned you released the man who was hiding in

that bedroom.”

Bannister licked his dry lips.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Ah, that's a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the truth,

but now I know that you have lied.”

The man's face set in sullen defiance.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Come, come, Bannister!”

“No, sir; there was no one.”

“In that case you can give us no further information. Would you please

remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door. Now, Soames,

I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go up to the room of

young Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into yours.”

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student. He

was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy step

and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at each of us,

and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in

the farther corner.

“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all

quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes

between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to know,

Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit such an

action as that of yesterday?”

The unfortunate young man staggered back and cast a look full of horror

and reproach at Bannister.

“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir; I never said a word--never one word!” cried

the servant.

“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that after

Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and that your only chance

lies in a frank confession.”

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his

writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside

the table and, burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a storm

of passionate sobbing.

“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly; “it is human to err, and at least

no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would be

easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you can

check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don't trouble to

answer. Listen, and see that I do you no injustice.

“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not even

Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room, the case

began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one could, of

course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own office. The

Indian I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a roll he

could not possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it seemed an

unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room,

and that by chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I

dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How

did he know?

“When I approached your room I examined the window. You amused me by

supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having

in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced

himself through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall

a man would need to be in order to see as he passed what papers were on

the central table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort.

No one less than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason

to think that if one of your three students was a man of unusual height

he was the most worth watching of the three.

“I entered and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of

the side table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in

your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a long-distance

jumper. Then the whole thing came to me in an instant, and I only needed

certain corroborative proofs, which I speedily obtained.

“What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his afternoon at

the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the jump. He returned

carrying his jumping shoes, which are provided, as you are aware, with

several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by means of his

great height, these proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they

were. No harm would have been done had it not been that as he passed

your door he perceived the key which had been left by the carelessness

of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to enter and see if they

were indeed the proofs. It was not a dangerous exploit, for he could

always pretend that he had simply looked in to ask a question.

“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that

he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it you

put on that chair near the window?”

“Gloves,” said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on the

chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He thought

the tutor must return by the main gate, and that he would see him. As we

know, he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him at the very

door. There was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves, but he caught

up his shoes and darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch

on that table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the

bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe had been

drawn in that direction and that the culprit had taken refuge there. The

earth round the spike had been left on the table, and a second sample

was loosened and fell in the bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the

athletic grounds this morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in

the jumping-pit, and carried away a specimen of it, together with

some of the fine tan or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the

athlete from slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”

The student had drawn himself erect.

“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

“Good heavens, have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has

bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you

early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I

knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that I

have said, 'I have determined not to go in for the examination. I have

been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to

South Africa at once.”'

“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by your

unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your purpose?”

Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you from what

I have said that only you could have let this young man out, since you

were left in the room, and must have locked the door when you went out.

As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible. Can you not clear

up the last point in this mystery, and tell us the reasons for your

action?”

“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known; but with all your

cleverness it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when

I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman's father.

When he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I never forgot

my old employer because he was down in the world. I watched his son all

I could for the sake of the old days. Well, sir, when I came into this

room yesterday when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was

Mr. Gilchrist's tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves

well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them the game

was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would budge me until

Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out came my poor young master, whom I

had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all to me. Wasn't it natural,

sir, that I should save him, and wasn't it natural also that I should

try to speak to him as his dead father would have done, and make him

understand that he could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me,

sir?”

“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. “Well,

Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our

breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust that

a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen low.

Let us see in the future how high you can rise.”

*****

THE STRAND MAGAZINE

Vol. 28 JULY, 1904

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

X.--The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez.

WHEN I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our

work for the year 1894 I confess that it is very difficult for me,

out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most

interesting in themselves and at the same time most conducive to a

display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I

turn over the pages I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red

leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I find an

account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient

British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also

within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the

Boulevard assassin--an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph letter

of thanks from the French President and the Order of the Legion of

Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am

of opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest

as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the

lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those subsequent

developments which threw so curious a light upon the causes of the

crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November. Holmes

and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a

powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon

a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the

wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the

windows. It was strange there in the very depths of the town, with ten

miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of

Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London

was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the

window and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps

gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab

was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

“Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said

Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I've done

enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can

make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating

from the second half of the fifteenth century. Halloa! halloa! halloa!

What's this?”

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse's

hoofs and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the kerb. The

cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

“Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats

and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather.

Wait a bit, though! There's the cab off again! There's hope yet. He'd

have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and

open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had no

difficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising

detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very

practical interest.

“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes's voice from above. “I hope you have

no designs upon us on such a night as this.”

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining

waterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes knocked a blaze out of

the logs in the grate.

“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he. “Here's

a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a

lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something

important which has brought you out in such a gale.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise you.

Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?”

“I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not

missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my feet. It's down

in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I was

wired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at five, conducted

my investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the last train, and

straight to you by cab.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?”

“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can

see it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet at first

it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong. There's no motive, Mr.

Holmes. That's what bothers me--I can't put my hand on a motive. Here's

a man dead--there's no denying that--but, so far as I can see, no reason

on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Let us hear about it,” said he.

“I've got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I want now

is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out,

is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was

taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was

an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobbling

round the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the

gardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who

called upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very

learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper,

Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him

since his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character. The

Professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about

a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were

not successes; but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man

straight from the University, seems to have been just what his employer

wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor's

dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references and

passages which bore upon the next day's work. This Willoughby Smith has

nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at

Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a

decent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no weak spot in him at all.

And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the

Professor's study under circumstances which can point only to murder.”

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to

the fire while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed

his singular narrative.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don't suppose you could

find a household more self-contained or free from outside influences.

Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the garden gate. The

Professor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else. Young

Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived very much as his

employer did. The two women had nothing to take them from the

house. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the bath-chair, is an Army

pensioner--an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live

in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the

garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the grounds

of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is a

hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It opens with a

latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in.

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only

person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the

forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in

hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram was

still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday.

The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the

house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a

sitting-room; but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the

passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not

see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm

tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later

there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse

scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a

man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook

the old house, and then all was silence. The maid stood petrified for a

moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study

door was shut, and she opened it. Inside young Mr. Willoughby Smith was

stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she

tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of

his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had

divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had

been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small

sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with

an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the

Professor's own desk.

“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on

pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes

for an instant. 'The Professor,' he murmured--'it was she.' The maid is

prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately

to say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he

fell back dead.

“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but

she was just too late to catch the young man's dying words. Leaving

Susan with the body, she hurried to the Professor's room. He was sitting

up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him

that something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear

that the Professor was still in his night-clothes, and, indeed, it was

impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders

were to come at twelve o'clock. The Professor declares that he heard the

distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation

of the young man's last words, 'The Professor--it was she,' but imagines

that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby

Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for the

crime. His first action was to send Mortimer the gardener for the local

police. A little later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was

moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no one

should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a splendid

chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

There was really nothing wanting.”

“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat bitter

smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you make of

it?”

“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which

will give you a general idea of the position of the Professor's study

and the various points of the case. It will help you in following my

investigation.”

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it

across Holmes's knee. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studied it

over his shoulder.