“Yes,” I said, “it is morally justifiable so long as our object
is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal
purpose.”
“Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to
consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should
not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate
need of his help?”
“You will be in such a false position.”
“Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way
of regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the
money, and there are none of her people in whom she could
confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can
get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his
word and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my
client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between
ourselves, Watson, it’s a sporting duel between this fellow
Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first
exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to
fight it to a finish.”
“Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When
do we start?”
“You are not coming.”
“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of
honour—and I never broke it in my life—that I will take a cab
straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let
me share this adventure with you.”
“You can’t help me.”
“How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my
resolution is taken. Other people besides you have self-respect,
and even reputations.”
Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped
me on the shoulder.
“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same
room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by
sharing the same cell. You know, Watson, I don’t mind confessing
to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a
highly efficient criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in
that direction. See here!” He took a neat little leather case out
of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining
instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit,
with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable
keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything
is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?”
“I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”
“Excellent! And a mask?”
“I can make a couple out of black silk.”
“I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of
thing. Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold
supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall
drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour’s walk
from there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before
midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually at
ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by two, with the
Lady Eva’s letters in my pocket.”
Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to
be two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked
up a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid
off our cab, and with our great coats buttoned up, for it was
bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked
along the edge of the heath.
“It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes.
“These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow’s study,
and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other
hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he
is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha—that’s my _fiancée_—says it is a
joke in the servants’ hall that it’s impossible to wake the
master. He has a secretary who is devoted to his interests, and
never budges from the study all day. That’s why we are going at
night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met
Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so
as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its
own grounds. Through the gate—now to the right among the laurels.
We might put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a
glimmer of light in any of the windows, and everything is working
splendidly.”
With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of
the most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent,
gloomy house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of
it, lined by several windows and two doors.
“That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight
into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well
as locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come
round here. There’s a greenhouse which opens into the
drawing-room.”
The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and
turned the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had
closed the door behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes
of the law. The thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich,
choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the throat. He
seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of
shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had remarkable
powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still
holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was
vaguely conscious that we had entered a large room in which a
cigar had been smoked not long before. He felt his way among the
furniture, opened another door, and closed it behind us. Putting
out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I
understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it and Holmes
very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something
rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could
have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was
burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with
tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow,
and then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton’s
study, and a _portière_ at the farther side showed the entrance
to his bedroom.
It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the
door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was
unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side
of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay window
we had seen from outside. On the other side was the door which
communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a
turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a large
bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner,
between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall, green
safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs
upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he
crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head
listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither
locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his
masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was
evidently as surprised as I.
“I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear.
“I can’t quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other
way, we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide
behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”
I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had
passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had
ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of its
defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness that
it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of our
opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure.
Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dangers.
With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of
instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific
accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew
that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I
understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this
green and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the
reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his
dress-coat—he had placed his overcoat on a chair—Holmes laid out
two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready
for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague
as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour,
Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool,
picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy
of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green
door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper
packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out,
but it was as hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew
out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with
Milverton in the next room, to switch on the electric light.
Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant
he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed
his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window curtain,
motioning me to do the same.
It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had
alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within
the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull
murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps
rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside the room.
They paused at the door. The door opened. There was a sharp snick
as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once more,
and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils.
Then the footsteps continued backward and forward, backward and
forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a creak from
a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock,
and I heard the rustle of papers.
So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From
the pressure of Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he
was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost
within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It
was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,
that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been
sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing
of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,
grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in
the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar
projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military
smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In
his hand he held a long, legal document which he was reading in
an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips
as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his
composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.
I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring
shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers, and
that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen
what was only too obvious from my position, that the door of the
safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any
moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were
sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye,
I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his head,
pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never
looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand,
and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of the
lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document
and the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had reached
the end of either, there came a remarkable development, which
turned our thoughts into quite another channel.
Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch,
and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of
impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment
at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound
reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his
papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated, and
then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose and
opened it.
“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”
So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the
nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a
woman’s dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as
Milverton’s face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured
very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the
cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of
his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric
light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her
face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and
fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with
strong emotion.
“Well,” said Milverton, “you made me lose a good night’s rest, my
dear. I hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other
time—eh?”
The woman shook her head.
“Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard
mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless
the girl, what are you shivering about? That’s right. Pull
yourself together. Now, let us get down to business.” He took a
notebook from the drawer of his desk. “You say that you have five
letters which compromise the Countess d’Albert. You want to sell
them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix
a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they
are really good specimens—Great heavens, is it you?”
The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the
mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face
which confronted Milverton—a face with a curved nose, strong,
dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,
thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.
“It is I,” she said, “the woman whose life you have ruined.”
Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so
very obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such
extremities? I assure you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord,
but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I put the
price well within your means. You would not pay.”
“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he—the noblest
gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy
to lace—he broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that
last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed
you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to
laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from
twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it
was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to face,
and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”
“Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his
feet. “I have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants
and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural
anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I will say no
more.”
The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
deadly smile on her thin lips.
“You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will
wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of
a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound—and that!—and that!—and
that!”
She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel
after barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of
his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the
table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he
staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the
floor. “You’ve done me,” he cried, and lay still. The woman
looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his upturned
face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I
heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room,
and the avenger was gone.
No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his
fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into
Milverton’s shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt
Holmes’s cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole
argument of that firm, restraining grip—that it was no affair of
ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we had our own
duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost sight of.
But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with
swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned the
key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house
and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the
household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the
safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured
them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe
was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of
the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had been
the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his
blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing
papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through
after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way, Watson,” said
he, “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”
I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so
swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The
front door was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The
whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow raised a
view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed hard at
our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly, and he
threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small trees, I
close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us.
It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to
the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man
behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and
scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among
some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and
together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last
halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us.
We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.
We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day
after the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr.
Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was
ushered into our modest sitting-room.
“Good-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good-morning. May I ask if
you are very busy just now?”
“Not too busy to listen to you.”
“I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand,
you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which
occurred only last night at Hampstead.”
“Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”
“A murder—a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen
you are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour
if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us the
benefit of your advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our
eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and, between
ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have held
papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers have
all been burned by the murderers. No article of value was taken,
as it is probable that the criminals were men of good position,
whose sole object was to prevent social exposure.”
“Criminals?” said Holmes. “Plural?”
“Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible
captured red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their
description, it’s ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow
was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the
under-gardener, and only got away after a struggle. He was a
middle-sized, strongly built man—square jaw, thick neck,
moustache, a mask over his eyes.”
“That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “My, it might be a
description of Watson!”
“It’s true,” said the inspector, with amusement. “It might be a
description of Watson.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The
fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him
one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there
are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which
therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no
use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the
criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this
case.”
Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant
eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to
recall something to his memory. We were in the middle of our
lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. “By Jove, Watson,
I’ve got it!” he cried. “Take your hat! Come with me!” He hurried
at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until
we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the left hand,
there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the
celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes’s eyes fixed
themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the
picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high
diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that delicately
curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and
the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I
read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put
his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.