Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully
up, he placed it in his pocketbook.
“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,” said
he. “You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton
Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you would kindly go
over it all again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”
“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervously
clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands. “You’ll just ask
me anything that I don’t make clear. I’ll begin at the time of my
marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that, though
I’m not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a
matter of five centuries, and there is no better known family in
the County of Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the
Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in Russell Square,
because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it. There
was an American young lady there—Patrick was the name—Elsie
Patrick. In some way we became friends, until before my month was
up I was as much in love as a man could be. We were quietly
married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded
couple. You’ll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a
good old family should marry a wife in this fashion, knowing
nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her and knew
her, it would help you to understand.
“She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can’t say that she
did not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to
do so. ‘I have had some very disagreeable associations in my
life,’ said she, ‘I wish to forget all about them. I would rather
never allude to the past, for it is very painful to me. If you
take me, Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing that she
need be personally ashamed of, but you will have to be content
with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to all that
passed up to the time when I became yours. If these conditions
are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely
life in which you found me.’ It was only the day before our
wedding that she said those very words to me. I told her that I
was content to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good
as my word.
“Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have
been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the
first time signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter
from America. I saw the American stamp. She turned deadly white,
read the letter, and threw it into the fire. She made no allusion
to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a promise,
but she has never known an easy hour from that moment. There is
always a look of fear upon her face—a look as if she were waiting
and expecting. She would do better to trust me. She would find
that I was her best friend. But until she speaks, I can say
nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and
whatever trouble there may have been in her past life it has been
no fault of hers. I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is
not a man in England who ranks his family honour more highly than
I do. She knows it well, and she knew it well before she married
me. She would never bring any stain upon it—of that I am sure.
“Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week
ago—it was the Tuesday of last week—I found on one of the
window-sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like these
upon the paper. They were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it
was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore he knew
nothing about it. Anyhow, they had come there during the night. I
had them washed out, and I only mentioned the matter to my wife
afterwards. To my surprise, she took it very seriously, and
begged me if any more came to let her see them. None did come for
a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lying on
the sundial in the garden. I showed it to Elsie, and down she
dropped in a dead faint. Since then she has looked like a woman
in a dream, half dazed, and with terror always lurking in her
eyes. It was then that I wrote and sent the paper to you, Mr.
Holmes. It was not a thing that I could take to the police, for
they would have laughed at me, but you will tell me what to do. I
am not a rich man, but if there is any danger threatening my
little woman, I would spend my last copper to shield her.”
He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil—simple,
straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and
broad, comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her
shone in his features. Holmes had listened to his story with the
utmost attention, and now he sat for some time in silent thought.
“Don’t you think, Mr. Cubitt,” said he, at last, “that your best
plan would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask
her to share her secret with you?”
Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.
“A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me
she would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But
I am justified in taking my own line—and I will.”
“Then I will help you with all my heart. In the first place, have
you heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?”
“No.”
“I presume that it is a very quiet place. Any fresh face would
cause comment?”
“In the immediate neighbourhood, yes. But we have several small
watering-places not very far away. And the farmers take in
lodgers.”
“These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If it is a purely
arbitrary one, it may be impossible for us to solve it. If, on
the other hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall
get to the bottom of it. But this particular sample is so short
that I can do nothing, and the facts which you have brought me
are so indefinite that we have no basis for an investigation. I
would suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen
lookout, and that you take an exact copy of any fresh dancing men
which may appear. It is a thousand pities that we have not a
reproduction of those which were done in chalk upon the
window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as to any strangers in
the neighbourhood. When you have collected some fresh evidence,
come to me again. That is the best advice which I can give you,
Mr. Hilton Cubitt. If there are any pressing fresh developments,
I shall be always ready to run down and see you in your Norfolk
home.”
The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several
times in the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper from
his notebook and look long and earnestly at the curious figures
inscribed upon it. He made no allusion to the affair, however,
until one afternoon a fortnight or so later. I was going out when
he called me back.
“You had better stay here, Watson.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning. You
remember Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men? He was to reach
Liverpool Street at one-twenty. He may be here at any moment. I
gather from his wire that there have been some new incidents of
importance.”
We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight
from the station as fast as a hansom could bring him. He was
looking worried and depressed, with tired eyes and a lined
forehead.
“It’s getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes,” said he,
as he sank, like a wearied man, into an armchair. “It’s bad
enough to feel that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk,
who have some kind of design upon you, but when, in addition to
that, you know that it is just killing your wife by inches, then
it becomes as much as flesh and blood can endure. She’s wearing
away under it—just wearing away before my eyes.”
“Has she said anything yet?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times when
the poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring
herself to take the plunge. I have tried to help her, but I
daresay I did it clumsily, and scared her from it. She has spoken
about my old family, and our reputation in the county, and our
pride in our unsullied honour, and I always felt it was leading
to the point, but somehow it turned off before we got there.”
“But you have found out something for yourself?”
“A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing-men
pictures for you to examine, and, what is more important, I have
seen the fellow.”
“What, the man who draws them?”
“Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will tell you everything in
order. When I got back after my visit to you, the very first
thing I saw next morning was a fresh crop of dancing men. They
had been drawn in chalk upon the black wooden door of the
tool-house, which stands beside the lawn in full view of the
front windows. I took an exact copy, and here it is.” He unfolded
a paper and laid it upon the table. Here is a copy of the
hieroglyphics: