GRAPHIC

“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton

dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least

six words of the message which have escaped us; but what remains--'Stand

by us for God's sake!'--proves that this young man saw a formidable

danger which approached him, and from which someone else could protect

him. 'US,' mark you! Another person was involved. Who should it be but

the pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state?

What, then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded

man? And what is the third source from which each of them sought for

help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to

that.”

“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I suggested.

“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had already

crossed my mind. But I dare say it may have come to your notice that if

you walk into a post-office and demand to see the counterfoil of another

man's message there may be some disinclination on the part of the

officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in these matters!

However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end

may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,

to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”

There were a number of letters, bills, and note-books, which Holmes

turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting,

penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By the way, I

suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow--nothing amiss with him?”

“Sound as a bell.”

“Have you ever known him ill?”

“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his

knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may have

had some secret trouble. With your assent I will put one or two of these

papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future inquiry.”

“One moment! one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked up to

find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway. He

was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad brimmed top-hat and a

loose white necktie--the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson

or of an undertaker's mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd

appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick

intensity which commanded attention.

“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman's

papers?” he asked.

“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his

disappearance.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by Scotland

Yard.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Cyril Overton.”

“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount-James. I

came round as quickly as the Bayswater 'bus would bring me. So you have

instructed a detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be

prepared to do that.”

“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

“In that case no doubt his family----”

“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don't look to me

for a penny--not a penny! You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am all

the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not

responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I

have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As

to those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that

in case there should be anything of any value among them you will be

held strictly to account for what you do with them.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask in the meanwhile

whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man's

disappearance?”

“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after

himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself I entirely refuse to

accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a mischievous

twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don't quite understand mine. Godfrey

Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped it

could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame

of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely

possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to

gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, and your

treasure.”

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his

neckcloth.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What

inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad--a

staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I'll

have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime

spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone unturned to

bring him safely back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver, or even a

tenner, goes, you can always look to me.”

Even in his chastened frame of mind the noble miser could give us no

information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life

of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a

copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for

his chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to

consult with the other members of his team over the misfortune which had

befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. We

halted outside it.

“It's worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a warrant we

could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage

yet. I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us

venture it.”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to the

young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake about a

telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear

that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if

this was so?”

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

“What o'clock was it?” she asked.

“A little after six.”

“Whom was it to?”

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last words

in it were 'for God's sake,'” he whispered, confidentially; “I am very

anxious at getting no answer.”

The young woman separated one of the forms.

“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon the

counter.

“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said Holmes.

“Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good morning, miss, and

many thanks for having relieved my mind.” He chuckled and rubbed his

hands when we found ourselves in the street once more.

“Well?” I asked.

“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different schemes

for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to

succeed the very first time.”

“And what have you gained?”

“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab. “King's Cross

Station,” said he.

“We have a journey, then?”

“Yes; I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the

indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, “have you any

suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don't think that

among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure.

Surely you don't really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to

give information against his wealthy uncle?”

“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a very

probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the one which was

most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person.”

“It certainly did that. But what are your alternatives?”

“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and

suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important

match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential

to the success of the side. It may, of course, be coincidence, but it

is interesting. Amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal of

outside betting goes on among the public, and it is possible that it

might be worth someone's while to get at a player as the ruffians of

the turf get at a race-horse. There is one explanation. A second

very obvious one is that this young man really is the heir of a great

property, however modest his means may at present be, and it is not

impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted.”

“These theories take no account of the telegram.”

“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid thing

with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to

wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this

telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our

investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised

if before evening we have not cleared it up or made a considerable

advance along it.”

It was already dark when we reached the old University city. Holmes took

a cab at the station, and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr.

Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later we had stopped at a large mansion

in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait

were at last admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the

doctor seated behind his table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that

the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that he

is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the University,

but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science.

Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be

impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the

brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the

inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim,

ascetic, self-contained, formidable--so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He

held my friend's card in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased

expression upon his dour features.

“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your

profession, one of which I by no means approve.”

“In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every

criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of crime,

sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the

community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply

sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism

is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake

up family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally

waste the time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present

moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of

conversing with you.”

“No doubt, doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important

than the treatise. Incidentally I may tell you that we are doing the

reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring

to prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which must

necessarily follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the

official police. You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer who

goes in front of the regular forces of the country. I have come to ask

you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton.”

“What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“He is an intimate friend of mine.”

“You are aware that he has disappeared?”

“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged features

of the doctor.

“He left his hotel last night. He has not been heard of.”

“No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match.”

“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man's fate

interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football match

does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton's

fate. Do you know where he is?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have not seen him since yesterday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you ever know him ill?”

“Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes. “Then perhaps

you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr.

Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong of Cambridge. I

picked it out from among the papers upon his desk.”

The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an

explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes replaced the bill in his note-book. “If you prefer a public

explanation it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have already told

you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and

you would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

“Certainly not.”

“Dear me, dear me; the post-office again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.

“A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey

Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening--a telegram which is

undoubtedly associated with his disappearance--and yet you have not had

it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office here

and register a complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark face

was crimson with fury.

“I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You can tell

your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have anything to

do either with him or with his agents. No, sir, not another word!” He

rang the bell furiously. “John, show these gentlemen out!” A pompous

butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the

street. Holmes burst out laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character,” said

he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turned his talents that way, was

more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty.

And now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this

inhospitable town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case.

This little inn just opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to

our needs. If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries

for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding

than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until nearly

nine o'clock. He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted

with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table, and

when his needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take

that half comic and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him

when his affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused

him to rise and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys

under the glare of a gas-lamp stood before the doctor's door.

“It's been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past six, and

here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and

he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a lecturer and

a consultant, but he does not care for general practice, which distracts

him from his literary work. Why, then, does he make these long journeys,

which must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

“His coachman----”

“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first applied?

I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity or from the

promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me.

Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter

fell through. Relations were strained after that, and further inquiries

out of the question. All that I have learned I got from a friendly

native in the yard of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor's

habits and of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his

words, the carriage came round to the door.”

“Could you not follow it?”

“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea did

cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle shop next

to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to get

started before the carriage was quite out of sight. I rapidly overtook

it, and then, keeping at a discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I

followed its lights until we were clear of the town. We had got well out

on the country road when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The

carriage stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I

had also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that

he feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did not

impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been more admirable

than his way of putting it. I at once rode past the carriage, and,

keeping to the main road, I went on for a few miles, and then halted in

a convenient place to see if the carriage passed. There was no sign of

it, however, and so it became evident that it had turned down one of

several side roads which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw

nothing of the carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after

me. Of course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect

these journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only

inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that everything

which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us; but, now

that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon anyone who may follow him

on these excursions, the affair appears more important, and I shall not

be satisfied until I have made the matter clear.”

“We can follow him to-morrow.”

“Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not familiar

with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend itself to

concealment. All this country that I passed over to-night is as flat and

clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are following is no fool,

as he very clearly showed to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us

know any fresh London developments at this address, and in the meantime

we can only concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name

the obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the

counterfoil of Staunton's urgent message. He knows where the young man

is--to that I'll swear--and if he knows, then it must be our own fault

if we cannot manage to know also. At present it must be admitted that

the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware, Watson, it is

not my habit to leave the game in that condition.”

And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the

mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes passed

across to me with a smile.

“Sir,” it ran, “I can assure you that you are wasting your time in

dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a window at

the back of my brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which will

lead you to the spot from which you started, you have only to follow me.

Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help

Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service you can

do to that gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to

your employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge

will certainly be wasted.

“Yours faithfully,

“LESLIE ARMSTRONG.”

“An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes. “Well,

well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know more before I

leave him.”

“His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping into

it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose I try my

luck upon the bicycle?”

“No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural acumen I do

not think that you are quite a match for the worthy doctor. I think that

possibly I can attain our end by some independent explorations of my

own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own devices, as the

appearance of TWO inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might

excite more gossip than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights

to amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more

favourable report to you before evening.”

Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He came

back at night weary and unsuccessful.

“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor's general

direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that side

of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other local news

agencies. I have covered some ground: Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach,

and Oakington have each been explored and have each proved

disappointing. The daily appearance of a brougham and pair could hardly

have been overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once

more. Is there a telegram for me?”

“Yes; I opened it. Here it is: 'Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon,

Trinity College.' I don't understand it.”

“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in answer

to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon,

and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn. By the way, is there

any news of the match?”

“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its last

edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last sentences of

the description say: 'The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely

attributed to the unfortunate absence of the crack International,

Godfrey Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The

lack of combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both

in attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy and

hard-working pack.'”

“Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified,” said

Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football

does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night, Watson, for I

foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for he

sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I associated that

instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the

worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He laughed at my expression

of dismay, and laid it upon the table.

“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not upon

this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be the

key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my hopes.

I have just returned from a small scouting expedition and everything is

favourable. Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr.

Armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or

food until I run him to his burrow.”

“In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us, for he

is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”

“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where I

cannot follow him. When you have finished come downstairs with me, and

I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in

the work that lies before us.”

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where

he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,

white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

“Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride of the

local draghounds, no very great flier, as his build will show, but

a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but

I expect you will be too fast for a couple of middle-aged London

gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of fastening this leather leash to

your collar. Now, boy, come along, and show what you can do.” He led him

across to the doctor's door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and

then with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,

tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an hour, we

were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.

“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.

“A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I walked

into the doctor's yard this morning and shot my syringe full of aniseed

over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow aniseed from here to John

o' Groat's, and our friend Armstrong would have to drive through the Cam

before he would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This

is how he gave me the slip the other night.”

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a grass-grown

lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another broad road, and the

trail turned hard to the right in the direction of the town, which we

had just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of the town and

continued in the opposite direction to that in which we started.

“This DETOUR has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said Holmes. “No

wonder that my inquiries among those villages led to nothing. The doctor

has certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one would like to

know the reason for such elaborate deception. This should be the village

of Trumpington to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham

coming round the corner. Quick, Watson, quick, or we are done!”

He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant Pompey

after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the hedge when the

carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his

shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of distress.

I could tell by my companion's graver face that he also had seen.

“I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It cannot

be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the cottage in the

field!”

There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our journey.

Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate where the marks of

the brougham's wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across to

the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the hedge, and we hastened

onwards. My friend knocked at the little rustic door, and knocked again

without response. And yet the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound

came to our ears--a kind of drone of misery and despair, which was

indescribably melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced

back at the road which we had just traversed. A brougham was coming down

it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.

“By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles it. We

are bound to see what it means before he comes.”

He opened the door and we stepped into the hall. The droning sound

swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep wail of

distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up and I followed him. He

pushed open a half-closed door and we both stood appalled at the sight

before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her calm,

pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from amid a

great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed, half sitting, half

kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was a young man, whose frame

was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief that he

never looked up until Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.

“Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”

“Yes, yes; I am--but you are too late. She is dead.”

The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that we

were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance. Holmes

was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation, and to explain the

alarm which had been caused to his friends by his sudden disappearance,

when there was a step upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern,

questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at the door.

“So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end, and have

certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your intrusion. I

would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can assure you that if I

were a younger man your monstrous conduct would not pass with impunity.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at cross-purposes,”

said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step downstairs with us we

may each be able to give some light to the other upon this miserable

affair.”

A minute later the grim doctor and ourselves were in the sitting-room

below.

“Well, sir?” said he.

“I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not employed

by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this matter are entirely

against that nobleman. When a man is lost it is my duty to ascertain his

fate, but having done so the matter ends so far as I am concerned; and

so long as there is nothing criminal, I am much more anxious to hush up

private scandals than to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is

no breach of the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my

discretion and my co-operation in keeping the facts out of the papers.”

Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the hand.

“You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank Heaven

that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in this plight

caused me to turn my carriage back, and so to make your acquaintance.

Knowing as much as you do, the situation is very easily explained.

A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time, and became

passionately attached to his landlady's daughter, whom he married. She

was as good as she was beautiful, and as intelligent as she was good.

No man need be ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this

crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his

marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the lad

well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did all I

could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very best to keep

the thing from everyone, for when once such a whisper gets about it is

not long before everyone has heard it. Thanks to this lonely cottage and

his own discretion, Godfrey has up to now succeeded. Their secret was

known to no one save to me and to one excellent servant who has at

present gone for assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a

terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was

consumption of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with

grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he could

not get out of it without explanations which would expose his secret. I

tried to cheer him up by a wire, and he sent me one in reply imploring

me to do all I could. This was the telegram which you appear in some

inexplicable way to have seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger

was, for I knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to

the girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey.

The result was that he came straight away in a state bordering on

frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her

bed, until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is all,

Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that

of your friend.”

Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.

“Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief into the

pale sunlight of the winter day.

*****

THE STRAND MAGAZINE

Vol. 28 SEPTEMBER, 1904

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

XII.--The Adventure of the Abbey Grange.

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning during the winter of '97

that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. It was Holmes. The

candle in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face and told me at a

glance that something was amiss.

“Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word! Into

your clothes and come!”

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab and rattling through the silent

streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first faint winter's

dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see the occasional

figure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred and indistinct in

the opalescent London reek. Holmes nestled in silence into his heavy

coat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was most bitter and

neither of us had broken our fast. It was not until we had consumed some

hot tea at the station, and taken our places in the Kentish train, that

we were sufficiently thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a

note from his pocket and read it aloud:--

“Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent,

“3.30 a.m.

“MY DEAR MR. HOLMES,--I should be very glad of your immediate

assistance in what promises to be a most remarkable case.

It is something quite in your line. Except for releasing the lady

I will see that everything is kept exactly as I have found it,

but I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave

Sir Eustace there.

“Yours faithfully, STANLEY HOPKINS.”

“Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his summons

has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that every one of

his cases has found its way into your collection, and I must admit,

Watson, that you have some power of selection which atones for much

which I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit of looking at

everything from the point of view of a story instead of as a scientific

exercise has ruined what might have been an instructive and even

classical series of demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost

finesse and delicacy in order to dwell upon sensational details which

may excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”

“Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some bitterness.

“I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know, fairly

busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the composition of a

text-book which shall focus the whole art of detection into one volume.

Our present research appears to be a case of murder.”

“You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“I should say so. Hopkins's writing shows considerable agitation, and he

is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been violence, and

that the body is left for our inspection. A mere suicide would not

have caused him to send for me. As to the release of the lady, it would

appear that she has been locked in her room during the tragedy. We

are moving in high life, Watson; crackling paper, 'E.B.' monogram,

coat-of-arms, picturesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will live

up to his reputation and that we shall have an interesting morning. The

crime was committed before twelve last night.”

“How can you possibly tell?”

“By an inspection of the trains and by reckoning the time. The local

police had to be called in, they had to communicate with Scotland Yard,

Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send for me. All that makes

a fair night's work. Well, here we are at Chislehurst Station, and we

shall soon set our doubts at rest.”

A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought us

to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old lodge-keeper, whose

haggard face bore the reflection of some great disaster. The avenue ran

through a noble park, between lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low,

widespread house, pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The

central part was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the

large windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one

wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful figure and

alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins confronted us in the open

doorway.

“I'm very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you too, Dr. Watson! But,

indeed, if I had my time over again I should not have troubled you, for

since the lady has come to herself she has given so clear an account of

the affair that there is not much left for us to do. You remember that

Lewisham gang of burglars?”

“What, the three Randalls?”

“Exactly; the father and two sons. It's their work. I have not a doubt

of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago, and were seen and

described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so near, but it is

they, beyond all doubt. It's a hanging matter this time.”

“Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“Yes; his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

“Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”

“Exactly--one of the richest men in Kent. Lady Brackenstall is in the

morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful experience. She

seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think you had best see her

and hear her account of the facts. Then we will examine the dining-room

together.”

Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so graceful

a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face. She was a

blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would, no doubt, have had the

perfect complexion which goes with such colouring had not her recent

experience left her drawn and haggard. Her sufferings were physical as

well as mental, for over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling,

which her maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with

vinegar and water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her

quick, observant gaze as we entered the room, and the alert expression

of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her courage

had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was enveloped in a

loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a black sequin-covered

dinner-dress was hung upon the couch beside her.

“I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said, wearily;

“could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it necessary, I will

tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they been in the dining-room

yet?”

“I thought they had better hear your ladyship's story first.”

“I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to me to

think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried her face in

her hands. As she did so the loose gown fell back from her forearms.

Holmes uttered an exclamation.

“You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red spots

stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily covered it.

“It is nothing. It has no connection with the hideous business of last

night. If you and your friend will sit down I will tell you all I can.

“I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married about

a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to conceal that our

marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that all our neighbours would

tell you that, even if I were to attempt to deny it. Perhaps the fault

may be partly mine. I was brought up in the freer, less conventional

atmosphere of South Australia, and this English life, with its

proprieties and its primness, is not congenial to me. But the main

reason lies in the one fact which is notorious to everyone, and that is

that Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an

hour is unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive

and high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a

sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is binding.

I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a curse upon the

land--Heaven will not let such wickedness endure.” For an instant she

sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing from under the terrible

mark upon her brow. Then the strong, soothing hand of the austere maid

drew her head down on to the cushion, and the wild anger died away into

passionate sobbing. At last she continued:--

“I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that in this

house all servants sleep in the modern wing. This central block is made

up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen behind and our bedroom above.

My maid Theresa sleeps above my room. There is no one else, and no sound

could alarm those who are in the farther wing. This must have been well

known to the robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

“Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had already gone

to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had remained in her room

at the top of the house until I needed her services. I sat until after

eleven in this room, absorbed in a book. Then I walked round to see

that all was right before I went upstairs. It was my custom to do this

myself, for, as I have explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be

trusted. I went into the kitchen, the butler's pantry, the gun-room,

the billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As I

approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I suddenly

felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was open. I flung

the curtain aside and found myself face to face with a broad-shouldered,

elderly man who had just stepped into the room. The window is a long

French one, which really forms a door leading to the lawn. I held my

bedroom candle lit in my hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I

saw two others, who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the

fellow was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then

by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a savage

blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the ground. I must

have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when I came to myself I

found that they had torn down the bell-rope and had secured me tightly

to the oaken chair which stands at the head of the dining-room table. I

was so firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round my

mouth prevented me from uttering any sound. It was at this instant that

my unfortunate husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some

suspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found.

He was dressed in his shirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn

cudgel in his hand. He rushed at one of the burglars, but another--it

was the elderly man--stooped, picked the poker out of the grate, and

struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell without a groan, and

never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only have

been a very few minutes during which I was insensible. When I opened my

eyes I found that they had collected the silver from the sideboard, and

they had drawn a bottle of wine which stood there. Each of them had a

glass in his hand. I have already told you, have I not, that one was

elderly, with a beard, and the others young, hairless lads. They might

have been a father with his two sons. They talked together in whispers.

Then they came over and made sure that I was still securely bound.

Finally they withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a

quarter of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so my screams

brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon alarmed,

and we sent for the local police, who instantly communicated with

London. That is really all that I can tell you, gentlemen, and I trust

that it will not be necessary for me to go over so painful a story

again.”

“Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

“I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall's patience and

time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the dining-room I should like to

hear your experience.” He looked at the maid.

“I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she. “As I

sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight down by the

lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the time. It was more

than an hour after that I heard my mistress scream, and down I ran, to

find her, poor lamb, just as she says, and him on the floor with his

blood and brains over the room. It was enough to drive a woman out of

her wits, tied there, and her very dress spotted with him; but she never

wanted courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide, and Lady Brackenstall

of Abbey Grange hasn't learned new ways. You've questioned her long

enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room, just with

her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”

With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her

mistress and led her from the room.

“She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her as

a baby, and came with her to England when they first left Australia

eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and the kind of maid

you don't pick up nowadays. This way, Mr. Holmes, if you please!”

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes's expressive face, and I

knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had departed. There

still remained an arrest to be effected, but what were these commonplace

rogues that he should soil his hands with them? An abstruse and learned

specialist who finds that he has been called in for a case of measles

would experience something of the annoyance which I read in my

friend's eyes. Yet the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was

sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his waning

interest.

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling, oaken

panelling, and a fine array of deer's heads and ancient weapons around

the walls. At the farther end from the door was the high French window

of which we had heard. Three smaller windows on the right-hand side

filled the apartment with cold winter sunshine. On the left was a large,

deep fireplace, with a massive, over-hanging oak mantelpiece. Beside

the fireplace was a heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the

bottom. In and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord,

which was secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the

lady the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which it had

been secured still remained. These details only struck our attention

afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by the terrible

object which lay upon the tiger-skin hearthrug in front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of age.

He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white teeth grinning

through his short black beard. His two clenched hands were raised

above his head, and a heavy blackthorn stick lay across them. His dark,

handsome, aquiline features were convulsed into a spasm of vindictive

hatred, which had set his dead face in a terribly fiendish expression.

He had evidently been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he

wore a foppish embroidered night-shirt, and his bare feet projected from

his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room bore

witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck him down.

Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by the concussion.

Holmes examined both it and the indescribable wreck which it had

wrought.

“He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is a

rough customer.”

“You should have no difficulty in getting him.”

“Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and there was

some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we know the gang are

here I don't see how they can escape. We have the news at every seaport

already, and a reward will be offered before evening. What beats me is

how they could have done so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could

describe them, and that we could not fail to recognise the description.”

“Exactly. One would have expected that they would have silenced Lady

Brackenstall as well.”

“They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had recovered from

her faint.”

“That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless they would not

take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem to have

heard some queer stories about him.”

“He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend when

he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he seldom really

went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him at such times, and he

was capable of anything. From what I hear, in spite of all his wealth

and his title, he very nearly came our way once or twice. There was

a scandal about his drenching a dog with petroleum and setting it on

fire--her ladyship's dog, to make the matter worse--and that was only

hushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a decanter at that maid,

Theresa Wright; there was trouble about that. On the whole, and between

ourselves, it will be a brighter house without him. What are you looking

at now?”

Holmes was down on his knees examining with great attention the

knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured. Then he

carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it had snapped off

when the burglar had dragged it down.

“When this was pulled down the bell in the kitchen must have rung

loudly,” he remarked.

“No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of the

house.”

“How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull at a

bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I have

asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that this fellow

must have known the house and its habits. He must have perfectly

understood that the servants would all be in bed at that comparatively

early hour, and that no one could possibly hear a bell ring in the

kitchen. Therefore he must have been in close league with one of the

servants. Surely that is evident. But there are eight servants, and all

of good character.”

“Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the one

at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would involve

treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems devoted. Well,

well, the point is a minor one, and when you have Randall you will

probably find no difficulty in securing his accomplice. The lady's story

certainly seems to be corroborated, if it needed corroboration, by every

detail which we see before us.” He walked to the French window and threw

it open. “There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one

would not expect them. I see that these candles on the mantelpiece have

been lighted.”

“Yes; it was by their light and that of the lady's bedroom candle that

the burglars saw their way about.”

“And what did they take?”

“Well, they did not take much--only half-a-dozen articles of plate off

the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were themselves so

disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did not ransack the

house as they would otherwise have done.”

“No doubt that is true. And yet they drank some wine, I understand.”

“To steady their own nerves.”

“Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been untouched, I

suppose?”

“Yes; and the bottle stands as they left it.”

“Let us look at it. Halloa! halloa! what is this?”

The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with wine,

and one of them containing some dregs of bees-wing. The bottle stood

near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a long, deeply-stained

cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the bottle showed that it was no

common vintage which the murderers had enjoyed.

A change had come over Holmes's manner. He had lost his listless

expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his keen,

deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

“How did they draw it?” he asked.

Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table linen and

a large cork-screw.

“Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”

“No; you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the bottle

was opened.”

“Quite so. As a matter of fact that screw was NOT used. This bottle was

opened by a pocket-screw, probably contained in a knife, and not more

than an inch and a half long. If you examine the top of the cork you

will observe that the screw was driven in three times before the cork

was extracted. It has never been transfixed. This long screw would

have transfixed it and drawn it with a single pull. When you catch this

fellow you will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his

possession.”

“Excellent!” said Hopkins.

“But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall actually

SAW the three men drinking, did she not?”

“Yes; she was clear about that.”

“Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet you must

admit that the three glasses are very remarkable, Hopkins. What, you

see nothing remarkable! Well, well, let it pass. Perhaps when a man has

special knowledge and special powers like my own it rather encourages

him to seek a complex explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of

course, it must be a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good morning,

Hopkins. I don't see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear

to have your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is

arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust that I

shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful conclusion. Come,

Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves more profitably at home.”

During our return journey I could see by Holmes's face that he was much

puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now and then, by an

effort, he would throw off the impression and talk as if the matter were

clear, but then his doubts would settle down upon him again, and his

knitted brows and abstracted eyes would show that his thoughts had gone

back once more to the great dining-room of the Abbey Grange in which

this midnight tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse,

just as our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on

to the platform and pulled me out after him.

“Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear carriages

of our train disappearing round a curve; “I am sorry to make you the

victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life, Watson, I simply

CAN'T leave that case in this condition. Every instinct that I possess

cries out against it. It's wrong--it's all wrong--I'll swear that it's

wrong. And yet the lady's story was complete, the maid's corroboration

was sufficient, the detail was fairly exact. What have I to put against

that? Three wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things for

granted, if I had examined everything with the care which I would have

shown had we approached the case DE NOVO and had no cut-and-dried story

to warp my mind, would I not then have found something more definite

to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down on this bench, Watson, until a

train for Chislehurst arrives, and allow me to lay the evidence before

you, imploring you in the first instance to dismiss from your mind the

idea that anything which the maid or her mistress may have said must

necessarily be true. The lady's charming personality must not be

permitted to warp our judgment.

“Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at it in cold

blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a considerable

haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of them and of their

appearance was in the papers, and would naturally occur to anyone who

wished to invent a story in which imaginary robbers should play a part.

As a matter of fact, burglars who have done a good stroke of business

are, as a rule, only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet

without embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual

for burglars to operate at so early an hour; it is unusual for burglars

to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one would imagine that

was the sure way to make her scream; it is unusual for them to commit

murder when their numbers are sufficient to overpower one man; it is

unusual for them to be content with a limited plunder when there is

much more within their reach; and finally I should say that it was very

unusual for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these

unusuals strike you, Watson?”

“Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each of them

is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of all, as it seems

to me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair.”

“Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson; for it is evident that they

must either kill her or else secure her in such a way that she could

not give immediate notice of their escape. But at any rate I have shown,

have I not, that there is a certain element of improbability about

the lady's story? And now on the top of this comes the incident of the

wine-glasses.”

“What about the wine-glasses?”

“Can you see them in your mind's eye?”

“I see them clearly.”

“We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you as

likely?”

“Why not? There was wine in each glass.”

“Exactly; but there was bees-wing only in one glass. You must have

noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

“The last glass filled would be most likely to contain bees-wing.”

“Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable that

the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily charged with it.

There are two possible explanations, and only two. One is that after the

second glass was filled the bottle was violently agitated, and so the

third glass received the bees-wing. That does not appear probable. No,

no; I am sure that I am right.”

“What, then, do you suppose?”

“That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were poured

into a third glass, so as to give the false impression that three people

had been here. In that way all the bees-wing would be in the last glass,

would it not? Yes, I am convinced that this is so. But if I have hit

upon the true explanation of this one small phenomenon, then in

an instant the case rises from the commonplace to the exceedingly

remarkable, for it can only mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid

have deliberately lied to us, that not one word of their story is to be

believed, that they have some very strong reason for covering the real

criminal, and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any

help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and here,

Watson, is the Chislehurst train.”

The household of the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return, but

Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to report to

head-quarters, took possession of the dining-room, locked the door upon

the inside, and devoted himself for two hours to one of those minute

and laborious investigations which formed the solid basis on which his

brilliant edifices of deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an

interested student who observes the demonstration of his professor,

I followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the

curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope--each in turn was minutely

examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate baronet had been

removed, but all else remained as we had seen it in the morning. Then,

to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on to the massive mantelpiece. Far

above his head hung the few inches of red cord which were still attached

to the wire. For a long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an

attempt to get nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on

the wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end of

the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself which seemed

to engage his attention. Finally he sprang down with an ejaculation of

satisfaction.

“It's all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case--one of the

most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how slow-witted I have

been, and how nearly I have committed the blunder of my lifetime! Now, I

think that with a few missing links my chain is almost complete.”

“You have got your men?”

“Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong as a

lion--witness the blow that bent that poker. Six foot three in height,

active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers; finally, remarkably

quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story is of his concoction. Yes,

Watson, we have come upon the handiwork of a very remarkable individual.

And yet in that bell-rope he has given us a clue which should not have

left us a doubt.”

“Where was the clue?”

“Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would you

expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached to the wire.

Why should it break three inches from the top as this one has done?”

“Because it is frayed there?”

“Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was cunning

enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is not frayed. You

could not observe that from here, but if you were on the mantelpiece you

would see that it is cut clean off without any mark of fraying whatever.

You can reconstruct what occurred. The man needed the rope. He would not

tear it down for fear of giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did

he do? He sprang up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put

his knee on the bracket--you will see the impression in the dust--and so

got his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by at

least three inches, from which I infer that he is at least three inches

a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat of the oaken chair!

What is it?”

“Blood.”

“Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady's story out of court.

If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done, how comes

that mark? No, no; she was placed in the chair AFTER the death of her

husband. I'll wager that the black dress shows a corresponding mark to

this. We have not yet met our Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo,

for it begins in defeat and ends in victory. I should like now to have a

few words with the nurse Theresa. We must be wary for awhile, if we are

to get the information which we want.”

She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse. Taciturn,

suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before Holmes's pleasant

manner and frank acceptance of all that she said thawed her into a

corresponding amiability. She did not attempt to conceal her hatred for

her late employer.

“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard him call

my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not dare to speak so if

her brother had been there. Then it was that he threw it at me. He might

have thrown a dozen if he had but left my bonny bird alone. He was for

ever ill-treating her, and she too proud to complain. She will not even

tell me all that he has done to her. She never told me of those marks on

her arm that you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come

from a stab with a hat-pin. The sly fiend--Heaven forgive me that I

should speak of him so, now that he is dead, but a fiend he was if

ever one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him, only

eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen years. She

had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first voyage--she had

never been from home before. He won her with his title and his money

and his false London ways. If she made a mistake she has paid for it,

if ever a woman did. What month did we meet him? Well, I tell you it was

just after we arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July. They were

married in January of last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room

again, and I have no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too

much of her, for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will

stand.”

Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked brighter

than before. The maid had entered with us, and began once more to foment

the bruise upon her mistress's brow.

“I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine me

again?”

“No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause you any

unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole desire is to make

things easy for you, for I am convinced that you are a much-tried woman.

If you will treat me as a friend and trust me you may find that I will

justify your trust.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“To tell me the truth.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“No, no, Lady Brackenstall, it is no use. You may have heard of any

little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the fact that

your story is an absolute fabrication.”

Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and

frightened eyes.

“You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say that my

mistress has told a lie?”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“Have you nothing to tell me?”

“I have told you everything.”

“Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be

frank?”

For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then some new

strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

“I have told you all I know.”

Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he said,

and without another word we left the room and the house. There was a

pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way. It was frozen

over, but a single hole was left for the convenience of a solitary

swan. Holmes gazed at it and then passed on to the lodge gate. There

he scribbled a short note for Stanley Hopkins and left it with the

lodge-keeper.

“It may be a hit or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do something

for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,” said he. “I will

not quite take him into my confidence yet. I think our next scene of

operations must be the shipping office of the Adelaide-Southampton line,

which stands at the end of Pall Mall, if I remember right. There is a

second line of steamers which connect South Australia with England, but

we will draw the larger cover first.”

Holmes's card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention, and he

was not long in acquiring all the information which he needed. In June

of '95 only one of their line had reached a home port. It was the ROCK

OF GIBRALTAR, their largest and best boat. A reference to the passenger

list showed that Miss Fraser of Adelaide, with her maid, had made the

voyage in her. The boat was now on her way to Australia, somewhere to

the south of the Suez Canal. Her officers were the same as in '95,

with one exception. The first officer, Mr. Jack Croker, had been made a

captain and was to take charge of their new ship, the BASS ROCK, sailing

in two days' time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was

likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to wait for

him.

No; Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to know more

about his record and character.

His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet to

touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a wild,

desperate fellow off the deck of his ship, hot-headed, excitable, but

loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith of the information

with which Holmes left the office of the Adelaide-Southampton company.

Thence he drove to Scotland Yard, but instead of entering he sat in

his cab with his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought. Finally he

drove round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message,

and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more.

“No, I couldn't do it, Watson,” said he, as we re-entered our room.

“Once that warrant was made out nothing on earth would save him. Once

or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my

discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I have

learned caution now, and I had rather play tricks with the law of

England than with my own conscience. Let us know a little more before we

act.”

Before evening we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Things

were not going very well with him.

“I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do sometimes

think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how on earth could

you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom of that pond?”

“I didn't know it.”

“But you told me to examine it.”

“You got it, then?”

“Yes, I got it.”

“I am very glad if I have helped you.”

“But you haven't helped me. You have made the affair far more difficult.

What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and then throw it into

the nearest pond?”

“It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going on the

idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did not want it,

who merely took it for a blind as it were, then they would naturally be

anxious to get rid of it.”

“But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

“Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the French

window there was the pond, with one tempting little hole in the ice,

right in front of their noses. Could there be a better hiding-place?”

“Ah, a hiding-place--that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes, yes,

I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the roads, they

were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they sank it in the pond,

intending to return for it when the coast was clear. Excellent, Mr.

Holmes--that is better than your idea of a blind.”

“Quite so; you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that my

own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have ended in

discovering the silver.”

“Yes, sir, yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad set-back.”

“A set-back?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this

morning.”

“Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory that

they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

“It is fatal, Mr. Holmes, absolutely fatal. Still, there are other gangs

of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang of which the

police have never heard.”

“Quite so; it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes; there is no rest for me until I have got to the bottom

of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

“I have given you one.”

“Which?”

“Well, I suggested a blind.”

“But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”

“Ah, that's the question, of course. But I commend the idea to your

mind. You might possibly find that there was something in it. You won't

stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know how you get on.”

Dinner was over and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to the

matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet to the

cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his watch.

“I expect developments, Watson.”

“When?”

“Now--within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather badly

to Stanley Hopkins just now?”

“I trust your judgment.”

“A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way: what

I know is unofficial; what he knows is official. I have the right to

private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all, or he is a

traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not put him in so

painful a position, and so I reserve my information until my own mind is

clear upon the matter.”

“But when will that be?”

“The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of a

remarkable little drama.”

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to admit as

fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He was a very

tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a skin which had been

burned by tropical suns, and a springy step which showed that the huge

frame was as active as it was strong. He closed the door behind him, and

then he stood with clenched hands and heaving breast, choking down some

overmastering emotion.

“Sit down, Captain Croker. You got my telegram?”

Our visitor sank into an arm-chair and looked from one to the other of

us with questioning eyes.

“I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard that you

had been down to the office. There was no getting away from you. Let's

hear the worst. What are you going to do with me? Arrest me? Speak out,

man! You can't sit there and play with me like a cat with a mouse.”

“Give him a cigar,” said Holmes. “Bite on that, Captain Croker, and

don't let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit here smoking

with you if I thought that you were a common criminal, you may be sure

of that. Be frank with me, and we may do some good. Play tricks with me,

and I'll crush you.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey Grange last

night--a TRUE account, mind you, with nothing added and nothing taken

off. I know so much already that if you go one inch off the straight

I'll blow this police whistle from my window and the affair goes out of

my hands for ever.”

The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his great,

sun-burned hand.

“I'll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your word, and

a white man, and I'll tell you the whole story. But one thing I will say

first. So far as I am concerned I regret nothing and I fear nothing, and

I would do it all again and be proud of the job. Curse the beast, if

he had as many lives as a cat he would owe them all to me! But it's

the lady, Mary--Mary Fraser--for never will I call her by that accursed

name. When I think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life

just to bring one smile to her dear face, it's that that turns my soul

into water. And yet--and yet--what less could I do? I'll tell you my

story, gentlemen, and then I'll ask you as man to man what less could I

do.

“I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect that you

know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was first officer

of the ROCK OF GIBRALTAR. From the first day I met her she was the only

woman to me. Every day of that voyage I loved her more, and many a time

since have I kneeled down in the darkness of the night watch and kissed

the deck of that ship because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was

never engaged to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated

a man. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all

good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a free

woman, but I could never again be a free man.

“Next time I came back from sea I heard of her marriage. Well, why

shouldn't she marry whom she liked? Title and money--who could carry

them better than she? She was born for all that is beautiful and dainty.

I didn't grieve over her marriage. I was not such a selfish hound as

that. I just rejoiced that good luck had come her way, and that she had

not thrown herself away on a penniless sailor. That's how I loved Mary

Fraser.

“Well, I never thought to see her again; but last voyage I was promoted,

and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait for a couple of

months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in a country lane I met

Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me about her, about him, about

everything. I tell you, gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken

hound, that he should dare to raise his hand to her whose boots he was

not worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself--and

met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the other day I had a

notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week, and I determined

that I would see her once before I left. Theresa was always my friend,

for she loved Mary and hated this villain almost as much as I did. From

her I learned the ways of the house. Mary used to sit up reading in her

own little room downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched

at the window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I

know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the frosty

night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front window, and

I found it open before me so as to let me into the dining-room. Again

I heard from her own lips things that made my blood boil, and again

I cursed this brute who mishandled the woman that I loved. Well,

gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the window, in all

innocence, as Heaven is my judge, when he rushed like a madman into the

room, called her the vilest name that a man could use to a woman, and

welted her across the face with the stick he had in his hand. I had

sprung for the poker, and it was a fair fight between us. See here on my

arm where his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through

him as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry? Not I!

It was his life or mine, but far more than that it was his life or hers,

for how could I leave her in the power of this madman? That was how I

killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what would either of you gentlemen

have done if you had been in my position?”

“She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old Theresa down

from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on the sideboard, and I

opened it and poured a little between Mary's lips, for she was half dead

with the shock. Then I took a drop myself. Theresa was as cool as

ice, and it was her plot as much as mine. We must make it appear that

burglars had done the thing. Theresa kept on repeating our story to her

mistress, while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed

her in her chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look

natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could have

got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and pots of

silver, to carry out the idea of a robbery, and there I left them with

orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of an hour's start. I

dropped the silver into the pond and made off for Sydenham, feeling that

for once in my life I had done a real good night's work. And that's the

truth and the whole truth, Mr. Holmes, if it costs me my neck.”

Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room and

shook our visitor by the hand.

“That's what I think,” said he. “I know that every word is true, for you

have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but an acrobat or a

sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from the bracket, and no one

but a sailor could have made the knots with which the cord was fastened

to the chair. Only once had this lady been brought into contact with

sailors, and that was on her voyage, and it was someone of her own class

of life, since she was trying hard to shield him and so showing that she

loved him. You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you when

once I had started upon the right trail.”

“I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge.”

“And the police haven't; nor will they, to the best of my belief. Now,

look here, Captain Croker, this is a very serious matter, though I am

willing to admit that you acted under the most extreme provocation to

which any man could be subjected. I am not sure that in defence of your

own life your action will not be pronounced legitimate. However, that is

for a British jury to decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you

that if you choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours I will

promise you that no one will hinder you.”

“And then it will all come out?”

“Certainly it will come out.”

The sailor flushed with anger.

“What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of law to

understand that Mary would be had as accomplice. Do you think I would

leave her alone to face the music while I slunk away? No, sir; let them

do their worst upon me, but for Heaven's sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way

of keeping my poor Mary out of the courts.”

Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

“I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it is a

great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have given Hopkins

an excellent hint, and if he can't avail himself of it I can do no more.

See here, Captain Croker, we'll do this in due form of law. You are the

prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a man who was

more eminently fitted to represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman

of the jury, you have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner

guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty, my lord,” said I.

“Vox populi, vox Dei. You are acquitted, Captain Croker. So long as the

law does not find some other victim you are safe from me. Come back

to this lady in a year, and may her future and yours justify us in the

judgment which we have pronounced this night.”

*****

THE STRAND MAGAZINE

Vol. 28 DECEMBER, 1904

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

XIII.--The Adventure of the Second Stain.

I HAD intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last of

those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I should ever

communicate to the public. This resolution of mine was not due to any

lack of material, since I have notes of many hundreds of cases to which

I have never alluded, nor was it caused by any waning interest on the

part of my readers in the singular personality and unique methods of

this remarkable man. The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr.

Holmes has shown to the continued publication of his experiences.

So long as he was in actual professional practice the records of

his successes were of some practical value to him; but since he

has definitely retired from London and betaken himself to study and

bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him,

and he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should

be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him that I

had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second Stain” should be

published when the times were ripe, and pointing out to him that it is

only appropriate that this long series of episodes should culminate in

the most important international case which he has ever been called

upon to handle, that I at last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a

carefully-guarded account of the incident should at last be laid before

the public. If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in

certain details the public will readily understand that there is an

excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be nameless,

that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two visitors of

European fame within the walls of our humble room in Baker Street. The

one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and dominant, was none other than

the illustrious Lord Bellinger, twice Premier of Britain. The other,

dark, clear-cut, and elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with

every beauty of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney

Hope, Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in

the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered settee,

and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces that it was

business of the most pressing importance which had brought them. The

Premier's thin, blue-veined hands were clasped tightly over the ivory

head of his umbrella, and his gaunt, ascetic face looked gloomily from

Holmes to me. The European Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache

and fidgeted with the seals of his watch-chain.

“When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight o'clock this

morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It was at his suggestion

that we have both come to you.”

“Have you informed the police?”

“No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive manner for

which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it possible that we

should do so. To inform the police must, in the long run, mean to inform

the public. This is what we particularly desire to avoid.”

“And why, sir?”

“Because the document in question is of such immense importance that

its publication might very easily--I might almost say probably--lead to

European complications of the utmost moment. It is not too much to say

that peace or war may hang upon the issue. Unless its recovery can be

attended with the utmost secrecy, then it may as well not be recovered

at all, for all that is aimed at by those who have taken it is that its

contents should be generally known.”

“I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged if

you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this document

disappeared.”

“That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter--for it

was a letter from a foreign potentate--was received six days ago. It

was of such importance that I have never left it in my safe, but I have

taken it across each evening to my house in Whitehall Terrace, and kept

it in my bedroom in a locked despatch-box. It was there last night. Of

that I am certain. I actually opened the box while I was dressing for

dinner, and saw the document inside. This morning it was gone. The

despatch-box had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all

night. I am a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to

swear that no one could have entered the room during the night. And yet

I repeat that the paper is gone.”

“What time did you dine?”

“Half-past seven.”

“How long was it before you went to bed?”

“My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was half-past

eleven before we went to our room.”

“Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?”

“No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the housemaid in the

morning, and my valet, or my wife's maid, during the rest of the day.

They are both trusty servants who have been with us for some time.

Besides, neither of them could possibly have known that there was

anything more valuable than the ordinary departmental papers in my

despatch-box.”

“Who did know of the existence of that letter?”

“No one in the house.”

“Surely your wife knew?”

“No, sir; I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper this

morning.”

The Premier nodded approvingly.

“I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,” said

he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this importance it

would rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties.”

The European Secretary bowed.

“You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have never

breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”

“Could she have guessed?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed--nor could anyone have

guessed.”

“Have you lost any documents before?”

“No, sir.”

“Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this letter?”

“Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday; but the pledge

of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was increased by the

solemn warning which was given by the Prime Minister. Good heavens,

to think that within a few hours I should myself have lost it!” His

handsome face was distorted with a spasm of despair, and his hands

tore at his hair. For a moment we caught a glimpse of the natural man,

impulsive, ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was

replaced, and the gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of

the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who

know of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

“But abroad?”

“I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote it. I

am well convinced that his Ministers--that the usual official channels

have not been employed.”

Holmes considered for some little time.

“Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document is, and

why its disappearance should have such momentous consequences?”

The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier's shaggy

eyebrows gathered in a frown.

“Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue colour. There

is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion. It is addressed in

large, bold handwriting to--”

“I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed essential as

these details are, my inquiries must go more to the root of things. What

WAS the letter?”

“That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that I

cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the aid of the

powers which you are said to possess you can find such an envelope as

I describe with its enclosure, you will have deserved well of your

country, and earned any reward which it lies in our power to bestow.”

Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

“You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and in

my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I regret

exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any continuation

of this interview would be a waste of time.”

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of his

deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not accustomed,

sir----” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed his seat. For a

minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the old statesman shrugged

his shoulders.

“We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right, and

it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give you our

entire confidence.”

“I agree with you, sir,” said the younger statesman.

“Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that of

your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism also, for

I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the country than that this

affair should come out.”

“You may safely trust us.”

“The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has been

ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this country. It

has been written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility entirely.

Inquiries have shown that his Ministers know nothing of the matter.

At the same time it is couched in so unfortunate a manner, and certain

phrases in it are of so provocative a character, that its publication

would undoubtedly lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this

country. There would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to

say that within a week of the publication of that letter this country

would be involved in a great war.”

Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the Premier.

“Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter--this letter which may well

mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of a hundred

thousand men--which has become lost in this unaccountable fashion.”

“Have you informed the sender?”

“Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.”

“Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”

“No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already understands

that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed manner. It would be a

greater blow to him and to his country than to us if this letter were to

come out.”

“If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come out?

Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”

“There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high international

politics. But if you consider the European situation you will have no

difficulty in perceiving the motive. The whole of Europe is an armed

camp. There is a double league which makes a fair balance of military

power. Great Britain holds the scales. If Britain were driven into

war with one confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other

confederacy, whether they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”

“Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this potentate

to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a breach between his

country and ours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the hands of an

enemy?”

“To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably speeding on

its way thither at the present instant as fast as steam can take it.”

Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned aloud. The

Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

“It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you. There is

no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes, you are in full

possession of the facts. What course do you recommend?”

Holmes shook his head mournfully.

“You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there will be

war?”

“I think it is very probable.”

“Then, sir, prepare for war.”

“That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”

“Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken after

eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope and his wife

were both in the room from that hour until the loss was found out.

It was taken, then, yesterday evening between seven-thirty and

eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour, since whoever took it

evidently knew that it was there and would naturally secure it as early

as possible. Now, sir, if a document of this importance were taken at

that hour, where can it be now? No one has any reason to retain it. It

has been passed rapidly on to those who need it. What chance have we now

to overtake or even to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”

The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

“What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the matter

is indeed out of our hands.”

“Let us presume, for argument's sake, that the document was taken by the

maid or by the valet----”

“They are both old and tried servants.”

“I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor, that

there is no entrance from without, and that from within no one could go

up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the house who has taken it.

To whom would the thief take it? To one of several international spies

and secret agents, whose names are tolerably familiar to me. There are

three who may be said to be the heads of their profession. I will begin

my research by going round and finding if each of them is at his post.

If one is missing--especially if he has disappeared since last night--we

will have some indication as to where the document has gone.”

“Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He would take

the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”

“I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their relations with

the Embassies are often strained.”

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

“I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a prize

to head-quarters with his own hands. I think that your course of action

is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot neglect all our other

duties on account of this one misfortune. Should there be any fresh

developments during the day we shall communicate with you, and you will

no doubt let us know the results of your own inquiries.”

The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in

silence, and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had opened

the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime which had

occurred in London the night before, when my friend gave an exclamation,

sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The situation

is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could be sure which of

them has taken it, it is just possible that it has not yet passed out of

his hands. After all, it is a question of money with these fellows, and

I have the British Treasury behind me. If it's on the market I'll buy

it--if it means another penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable

that the fellow might hold it back to see what bids come from this

side before he tries his luck on the other. There are only those three

capable of playing so bold a game; there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and

Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”