Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,
there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name, John
H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed
with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the
curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to
examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were complete failures,
and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no final explanation is
forthcoming. A problem without a solution may interest the student,
but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader. Among these unfinished
tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own
house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world. No less
remarkable is that of the cutter _Alicia_, which sailed one spring
morning into a small patch of mist from where she never again emerged,
nor was anything further ever heard of herself and her crew. A third
case worthy of note is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known
journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a
matchbox in front of him which contained a remarkable worm, said to be
unknown to science. Apart from these unfathomed cases, there are some
which involve the secrets of private families to an extent which would
mean consternation in many exalted quarters if it were thought possible
that they might find their way into print. I need not say that such a
breach of confidence is unthinkable, and that these records will be
separated and destroyed now that my friend has time to turn his
energies to the matter. There remain a considerable residue of cases
of greater or less interest which I might have edited before had I not
feared to give the public a surfeit which might react upon the
reputation of the man whom above all others I revere. In some I was
myself concerned and can speak as an eye-witness, while in others I was
either not present or played so small a part that they could only be
told as by a third person. The following narrative is drawn from my
own experience.
It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing how
the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary plane
tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to breakfast
prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for, like all great
artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings. On the contrary,
I found that he had nearly finished his meal, and that his mood was
particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat sinister
cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter moments.
"You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.
"The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he
answered. "It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case.
After a month of trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once more."
"Might I share it?"
"There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have consumed
the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has favoured us.
Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of the _Family
Herald_ which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table. Even so
trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which is
conscious of the passage of time, and incompatible with the love
romance in that excellent periodical."
A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were face
to face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.
"You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?" he said.
"You mean the American Senator?"
"Well, he was once Senator for some Western State, but is better known
as the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world."
"Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time.
His name is very familiar."
"Yes; he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years ago.
Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?"
"Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But
I really know nothing of the details."
Holmes waved his hand towards some papers on a chair. "I had no idea
that the case was coming my way or I should have had my extracts
ready," said he. "The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly
sensational, appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting
personality of the accused does not obscure the clearness of the
evidence. That was the view taken by the coroner's jury and also in
the police-court proceedings. It is now referred to the Assizes at
Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can discover facts,
Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new and
unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope for."
"Your client?"
"Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved
habit, Watson, of telling a story backwards. You had best read this
first."
The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand,
ran as follows:
CLARIDGE'S HOTEL, _October_ 3_rd_.