
                               A STUDY IN SCARLET

     In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
     University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the
     course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my
     studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland
     Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India
     at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had
     broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had
     advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's
     country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in
     the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in
     safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new
     duties.

     The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had
     nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade
     and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal
     battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail
     bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I
     should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not
     been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who
     threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to
     the British lines.

     Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had
     undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to
     the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already
     improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to
     bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric
     fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was
     despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became
     convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board
     determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to
     England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and
     landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health
     irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government
     to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

     I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as
     air--or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day
     will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally
     gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers
     and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for
     some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless,
     meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably
     more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances
     become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis
     and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a
     complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter
     alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to
     take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive
     domicile.

     On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at
     the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and
     turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser
     under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face in the great
     wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In
     old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now
     I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be
     delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to
     lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a
     hansom.

     "Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he asked in
     undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.
     "You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut."

     I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded
     it by the time that we reached our destination.

     "Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my
     misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"

     "Looking for lodgings," I answered. "Trying to solve the problem as
     to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable
     price."

     "That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second
     man to-day that has used that expression to me."

     "And who was the first?" I asked.

     "A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the
     hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not
     get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had
     found, and which were too much for his purse."

     "By Jove!" I cried, "if he really wants someone to share the rooms
     and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a
     partner to being alone."

     Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass.
     "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not
     care for him as a constant companion."

     "Why, what is there against him?"

     "Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little
     queer in his ideas--an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far
     as I know he is a decent fellow enough."

     "A medical student, I suppose?" said I.

     "No--I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is
     well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I
     know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His
     studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of
     out-of-the way knowledge which would astonish his professors."

     "Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.

     "No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be
     communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."

     "I should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with anyone, I
     should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong
     enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in
     Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How
     could I meet this friend of yours?"

     "He is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion. "He
     either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from
     morning to night. If you like, we shall drive round together after
     luncheon."

     "Certainly," I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other
     channels.

     As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn,
     Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I
     proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.

     "You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said; "I know
     nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally
     in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not
     hold me responsible."

     "If we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I answered. "It
     seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at my companion, "that
     you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this
     fellow's temper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be mealy-mouthed
     about it."

     "It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered with a
     laugh. "Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes--it
     approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a
     little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of
     malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in
     order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I
     think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He
     appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge."

     "Very right too."

     "Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the
     subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking
     rather a bizarre shape."

     "Beating the subjects!"

     "Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw
     him at it with my own eyes."

     "And yet you say he is not a medical student?"

     "No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we
     are, and you must form your own impressions about him." As he spoke,
     we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door,
     which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar
     ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone
     staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of
     whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low
     arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical
     laboratory.

     This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.
     Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,
     test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering
     flames. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over
     a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he
     glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've
     found it! I've found it," he shouted to my companion, running towards
     us with a test-tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent which is
     precipitated by hoemoglobin, and by nothing else." Had he discovered
     a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

     "Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.

     "How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength
     for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in
     Afghanistan, I perceive."

     "How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.

     "Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is
     about hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this
     discovery of mine?"

     "It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but
     practically--"

     "Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.
     Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains.
     Come over here now!" He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his
     eagerness, and drew me over to the table at which he had been
     working. "Let us have some fresh blood," he said, digging a long
     bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood
     in a chemical pipette. "Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a
     litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the
     appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than
     one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to
     obtain the characteristic reaction." As he spoke, he threw into the
     vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a
     transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany
     colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the
     glass jar.

     "Ha! ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a
     child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"

     "It seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.

     "Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and
     uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles.
     The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this
     appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test
     been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who
     would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

     "Indeed!" I murmured.

     "Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is
     suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His
     linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon
     them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit
     stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many
     an expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have
     the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any
     difficulty."

     His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his
     heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his
     imagination.

     "You are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably surprised at
     his enthusiasm.

     "There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would
     certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there
     was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of
     Montpellier, and Samson of new Orleans. I could name a score of cases
     in which it would have been decisive."

     "You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a
     laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police
     News of the Past.'"

     "Very interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked Sherlock
     Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his
     finger. "I have to be careful," he continued, turning to me with a
     smile, "for I dabble with poisons a good deal." He held out his hand
     as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar
     pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.

     "We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a high
     three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his
     foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were
     complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I
     thought that I had better bring you together."

     Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms
     with me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he said, "which
     would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong
     tobacco, I hope?"

     "I always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.

     "That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and
     occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

     "By no means."

     "Let me see--what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at
     times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I
     am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right.
     What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to
     know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

     I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said,
     "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at
     all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another
     set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at
     present."

     "Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?" he asked,
     anxiously.

     "It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a
     treat for the gods--a badly-played one--"

     "Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think we may
     consider the thing as settled--that is, if the rooms are agreeable to
     you."

     "When shall we see them?"

     "Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle
     everything," he answered.

     "All right--noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.

     We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together
     towards my hotel.

     "By the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford,
     "how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?"

     My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his little
     peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted to know how he
     finds things out."

     "Oh! a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is very
     piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. 'The
     proper study of mankind is man,' you know."

     "You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.
     "You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager he learns more
     about you than you about him. Good-bye."

     "Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably
     interested in my new acquaintance.

     We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No.
     221b, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They
     consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large
     airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad
     windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so
     moderate did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain
     was concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession.
     That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the
     following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
     portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking
     and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we
     gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our
     new surroundings.

     Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet
     in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be
     up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out
     before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the
     chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and
     occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the
     lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy when the
     working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize
     him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the
     sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning
     to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant
     expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being
     addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and
     cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.

     As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his
     aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and
     appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual
     observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively
     lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp
     and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have
     alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an
     air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and
     squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were
     invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was
     possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had
     occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile
     philosophical instruments.

     The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how
     much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to
     break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned
     himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how
     objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my
     attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather
     was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me
     and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these
     circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around
     my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel
     it.

     He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question,
     confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear
     to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a
     degree in science or any other recognized portal which would give him
     an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies
     was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so
     extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly
     astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise
     information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory
     readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No
     man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good
     reason for doing so.

     His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary
     literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to
     nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest
     way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a
     climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of
     the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System.
     That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not
     be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me
     such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.

     "You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of
     surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it."

     "To forget it!"

     "You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is
     like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such
     furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort
     that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to
     him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other
     things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now
     the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into
     his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help
     him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and
     all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that
     little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend
     upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you
     forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest
     importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the
     useful ones."

     "But the Solar System!" I protested.

     "What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently; "you say
     that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make
     a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."

     I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but
     something in his manner showed me that the question would be an
     unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and
     endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said that he would
     acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore
     all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to
     him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he
     had shown me that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a
     pencil and jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the document
     when I had completed it. It ran in this way--

     Sherlock Holmes--his limits.
     
     1. Knowledge of Literature.--Nil.
     2. Philosophy.--Nil.
     3. Astronomy.--Nil.
     4. Politics.--Feeble.
     5. Botany.--Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons
     generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.
     6. Geology.--Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different
     soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his
     trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of
     London he had received them.
     7. Chemistry.--Profound.
     8. Anatomy.--Accurate, but unsystematic.
     9. Sensational Literature.--Immense. He appears to know every detail
     of every horror perpetrated in the century.
     10. Plays the violin well.
     11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
     12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

     When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair.
     "If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all
     these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them
     all," I said to myself, "I may as well give up the attempt at once."

     I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These
     were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
     accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I
     knew well, because at my request he has played me some of
     Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself,
     however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized
     air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his
     eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his
     knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally
     they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts
     which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or
     whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more
     than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these
     exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by
     playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a
     slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.

     During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to
     think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself.
     Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those
     in the most different classes of society. There was one little sallow
     rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade,
     and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning a
     young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour
     or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor,
     looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and
     who was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another
     occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my
     companion; and on another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform.
     When any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance,
     Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I
     would retire to my bed-room. He always apologized to me for putting
     me to this inconvenience. "I have to use this room as a place of
     business," he said, "and these people are my clients." Again I had an
     opportunity of asking him a point blank question, and again my
     delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I
     imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding
     to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject
     of his own accord.

     It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that
     I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes
     had not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so
     accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my
     coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang
     the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was ready. Then I picked
     up a magazine from the table and attempted to while away the time
     with it, while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the
     articles had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to
     run my eye through it.

     Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attempted
     to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and
     systematic examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as
     being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The
     reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to
     be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary
     expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a
     man's inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility
     in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His
     conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So
     startling would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they
     learned the processes by which he had arrived at them they might well
     consider him as a necromancer.

     "From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could infer the
     possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard
     of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of
     which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all
     other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can
     only be acquired by long and patient study nor is life long enough to
     allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.
     Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which
     present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin by
     mastering more elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a
     fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to distinguish the history of the
     man, and the trade or profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such
     an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and
     teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's finger
     nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the
     callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his
     shirt cuffs--by each of these things a man's calling is plainly
     revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent
     enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."

     "What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the
     table, "I never read such rubbish in my life."

     "What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     "Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I
     sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have
     marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me
     though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who
     evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own
     study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in
     a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the
     trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one
     against him."

     "You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly.  "As
     for the article I wrote it myself."

     "You!"

     "Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The
     theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be
     so chimerical are really extremely practical--so practical that I
     depend upon them for my bread and cheese."

     "And how?" I asked involuntarily.

     "Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the
     world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that
     is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of
     private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I
     manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence
     before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of
     the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family
     resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a
     thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the
     thousand and first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got
     himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what
     brought him here."

     "And these other people?"

     "They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all
     people who are in trouble about something, and want a little
     enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments,
     and then I pocket my fee."

     "But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room you
     can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although
     they have seen every detail for themselves?"

     "Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case
     turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about
     and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special
     knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters
     wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which
     aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work.
     Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised
     when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had come from
     Afghanistan."

     "You were told, no doubt."

     "Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long
     habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I
     arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate
     steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran,
     'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a
     military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the
     tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of
     his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and
     sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been
     injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the
     tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got
     his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought
     did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from
     Afghanistan, and you were astonished."

     "It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind
     me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals
     did exist outside of stories."

     Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you
     are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in
     my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of
     breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a
     quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He
     had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a
     phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."

     "Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to
     your idea of a detective?"

     Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable
     bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to
     recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively
     ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could
     have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It
     might be made a text-book for detectives to teach them what to
     avoid."

     I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired
     treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and
     stood looking out into the busy street. "This fellow may be very
     clever," I said to myself, "but he is certainly very conceited."

     "There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he said,
     querulously. "What is the use of having brains in our profession? I
     know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives
     or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of
     natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what
     is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some
     bungling villany with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland
     Yard official can see through it."

     I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought
     it best to change the topic.

     "I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a
     stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the
     other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a
     large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a
     message.

     "You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.

     "Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I cannot
     verify his guess."

     The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we
     were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly
     across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and
     heavy steps ascending the stair.

     "For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and
     handing my friend the letter.

     Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little
     thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I ask, my lad," I
     said, in the blandest voice, "what your trade may be?"

     "Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform away for repairs."

     "And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my
     companion.

     "A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,
     sir."

     He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was
     gone.


     I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the
     practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his
     powers of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some
     lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a
     pre-arranged episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly
     object he could have in taking me in was past my comprehension. When
     I looked at him he had finished reading the note, and his eyes had
     assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mental
     abstraction.

     "How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.

     "Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.

     "Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."

     "I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely; then with a
     smile, "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but
     perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that
     man was a sergeant of Marines?"

     "No, indeed."

     "It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were
     asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some
     difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the
     street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the
     fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,
     however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He
     was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of
     command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and
     swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the
     face of him--all facts which led me to believe that he had been a
     sergeant."

     "Wonderful!" I ejaculated.

     "Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that
     he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "I said just
     now that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong--look at
     this!" He threw me over the note which the commissionaire had
     brought.

     "Why," I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"

     "It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked, calmly.
     "Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"

     This is the letter which I read to him--

     "My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     "There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston
     Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there
     about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one,
     suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in
     the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a
     gentleman, well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the
     name of 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no
     robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death.
     There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his
     person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house;
     indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the
     house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left
     everything in statu quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to
     come I shall give you fuller details, and would esteem it a great
     kindness if you would favour me with your opinion.
     "Yours faithfully,
     "Tobias Gregson."

     "Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend
     remarked; "he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both
     quick and energetic, but conventional--shockingly so. They have their
     knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of
     professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they
     are both put upon the scent."

     I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely there is
     not a moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order you a cab?"

     "I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy
     devil that ever stood in shoe leather--that is, when the fit is on
     me, for I can be spry enough at times."

     "Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."

     "My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the
     whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will
     pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage."

     "But he begs you to help him."

     "Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but
     he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third
     person. However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it
     out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing
     else. Come on!"

     He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed
     that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

     "Get your hat," he said.

     "You wish me to come?"

     "Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both
     in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

     It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the
     house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets
     beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away
     about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and
     an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the
     melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

     "You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said
     at last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

     "No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize
     before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

     "You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger;
     "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very
     much mistaken."

     "So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so
     from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our
     journey upon foot.

     Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It
     was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two
     being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers
     of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that
     here and there a "To Let" card had developed like a cataract upon the
     bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered
     eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the
     street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour,
     and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The
     whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through
     the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a
     fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning
     a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
     who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of
     catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

     I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into
     the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared
     to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which,
     under the circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he
     lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground,
     the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having
     finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather
     down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes
     riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile,
     and heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many
     marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but since the police had
     been coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion
     could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
     extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties,
     that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden
     from me.

     At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
     flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward
     and wrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of
     you to come," he said, "I have had everything left untouched."

     "Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a
     herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess.
     No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson,
     before you permitted this."

     "I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said
     evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon
     him to look after this."

     Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two
     such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be
     much for a third party to find out," he said.

     Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have
     done all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though,
     and I knew your taste for such things."

     "You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     "No, sir."

     "Nor Lestrade?"

     "No, sir."

     "Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark
     he strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features
     expressed his astonishment.

     A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and
     offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One
     of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged
     to the dining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious
     affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that
     subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of death inspires.

     It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence
     of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it
     was blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips
     had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster
     beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a
     mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was
     stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty
     that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to
     everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which
     coated the whole apartment.

     All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was
     centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched
     upon the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the
     discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or
     forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp
     curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a
     heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured
     trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed
     and trim, was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were
     clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were
     interlocked as though his death struggle had been a grievous one. On
     his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and as it seemed
     to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human features. This
     malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead,
     blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly
     simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,
     unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it
     appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy
     apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban
     London.

     Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway,
     and greeted my companion and myself.

     "This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I
     have seen, and I am no chicken."

     "There is no clue?" said Gregson.

     "None at all," chimed in Lestrade.

     Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it
     intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing
     to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

     "Positive!" cried both detectives.

     "Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second
     individual--presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It
     reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen,
     in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?"

     "No, sir."

     "Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun.
     It has all been done before."

     As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
     everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes
     wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon.
     So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have
     guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he
     sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his
     patent leather boots.

     "He has not been moved at all?" he asked.

     "No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."

     "You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothing
     more to be learned."

     Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they
     entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As
     they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
     Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.

     "There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding-ring."

     He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all
     gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that
     circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

     "This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were
     complicated enough before."

     "You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's
     nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his
     pockets?"

     "We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects
     upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163,
     by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold
     ring, with masonic device. Gold pin--bull-dog's head, with rubies as
     eyes. Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of
     Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse,
     but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket
     edition of Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson
     upon the fly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and
     one to Joseph Stangerson."

     "At what address?"

     "American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are both
     from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their
     boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about
     to return to New York."

     "Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"

     "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements
     sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the
     American Exchange, but he has not returned yet."

     "Have you sent to Cleveland?"

     "We telegraphed this morning."

     "How did you word your inquiries?"

     "We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be
     glad of any information which could help us."

     "You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you
     to be crucial?"

     "I asked about Stangerson."

     "Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case
     appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"

     "I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended voice.

     Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make
     some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we
     were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the
     scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

     "Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest
     importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a
     careful examination of the walls."

     The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a
     state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his
     colleague.

     "Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of
     which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now,
     stand there!"

     He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

     "Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

     I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
     particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a
     yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was
     scrawled in blood-red letters a single word--

                                     RACHE.

     "What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a
     showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in
     the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there.
     The murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear
     where it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of
     suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will
     tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time,
     and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the
     darkest portion of the wall."

     "And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked Gregson in
     a depreciatory voice.

     "Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name
     Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You
     mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find
     that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very
     well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and
     clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

     "I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled the
     little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You
     certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,
     and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the
     other participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to
     examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

     As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying
     glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted
     noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally
     kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with
     his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for
     he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping
     up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries
     suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was
     irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it
     dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its
     eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes
     or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact
     care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me,
     and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally
     incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a
     little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an
     envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass the word upon the wall,
     going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This
     done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his
     glass in his pocket.

     "They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he
     remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply
     to detective work."

     Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur
     companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They
     evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to
     realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed
     towards some definite and practical end.

     "What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.

     "It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to
     presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now
     that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world
     of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how
     your investigations go," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you
     any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the
     constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

     Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off
     duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park
     Gate."

     Holmes took a note of the address.

     "Come along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll
     tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he continued,
     turning to the two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the
     murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime
     of life, had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed
     boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim
     in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old
     shoes and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability the
     murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand
     were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may
     assist you."

     Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

     "If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.

     "Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other
     thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is
     the German for 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss
     Rachel."

     With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
     open-mouthed behind him. 

     It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock
     Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
     long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take
     us to the address given us by Lestrade.

     "There is nothing like first hand evidence," he remarked; "as a
     matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still
     we may as well learn all that is to be learned."

     "You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure as you
     pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."

     "There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing
     which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts
     with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had
     no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep
     impression must have been there during the night. There were the
     marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far
     more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was
     a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not
     there at any time during the morning--I have Gregson's word for
     that--it follows that it must have been there during the night, and,
     therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the house."

     "That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's
     height?"

     "Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from
     the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though
     there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow's
     stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a
     way of checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his
     instinct leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that
     writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."

     "And his age?" I asked.

     "Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest
     effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the
     breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked
     across. Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had
     hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply
     applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts of observation and
     deduction which I advocated in that article. Is there anything else
     that puzzles you?"

     "The finger nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.

     "The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in
     blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly
     scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the
     man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from
     the floor. It was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash as is only
     made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar
     ashes--in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I
     flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any
     known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such
     details that the skilled detective differs from the Gregson and
     Lestrade type."

     "And the florid face?" I asked.

     "Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was
     right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair."

     I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I remarked;
     "the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came
     these two men--if there were two men--into an empty house? What has
     become of the cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another
     to take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of
     the murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman's
     ring there? Above all, why should the second man write up the German
     word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible
     way of reconciling all these facts."

     My companion smiled approvingly.

     "You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,"
     he said. "There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite
     made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade's discovery it
     was simply a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by
     suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a
     German. The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German
     fashion. Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin character,
     so that we may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a
     clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert
     inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not going to tell you much more of
     the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has
     explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of
     working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary
     individual after all."

     "I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought detection as
     near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."

     My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest
     way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as
     sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of
     her beauty.

     "I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent-leathers and
     Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway
     together as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability.
     When they got inside they walked up and down the room--or rather,
     Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I
     could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked
     he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length
     of his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up,
     no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I
     know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have
     a good working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up,
     for I want to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this
     afternoon."

     This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its
     way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In
     the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a
     stand. "That's Audley Court in there," he said, pointing to a narrow
     slit in the line of dead-coloured brick. "You'll find me here when
     you come back."

     Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led
     us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings.
     We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines
     of discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which
     was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was
     engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we
     were shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.

     He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed
     in his slumbers. "I made my report at the office," he said.

     Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it
     pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from your
     own lips," he said.

     "I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the constable
     answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.

     "Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."

     Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though
     determined not to omit anything in his narrative.

     "I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from ten
     at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the
     'White Hart'; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one
     o'clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher--him who has the
     Holland Grove beat--and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta
     Street a-talkin'. Presently--maybe about two or a little after--I
     thought I would take a look round and see that all was right down the
     Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet
     all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin'
     down, thinkin' between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot
     would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the
     window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in
     Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who
     won't have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant what lived
     in one of them died o' typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap
     therefore at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as
     something was wrong. When I got to the door--"

     "You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my companion
     interrupted. "What did you do that for?"

     Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the
     utmost amazement upon his features.

     "Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to know it,
     Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still
     and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the worse for some one
     with me. I ain't afeared of anything on this side o' the grave; but I
     thought that maybe it was him that died o' the typhoid inspecting the
     drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I
     walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher's lantern, but
     there wasn't no sign of him nor of anyone else."

     "There was no one in the street?"

     "Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself
     together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet
     inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin'. There
     was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece--a red wax one--and by its
     light I saw--"

     "Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several
     times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through
     and tried the kitchen door, and then--"

     John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in
     his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he cried. "It seems to
     me that you knows a deal more than you should."

     Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.
     "Don't get arresting me for the murder," he said. "I am one of the
     hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for
     that. Go on, though. What did you do next?"

     Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified
     expression. "I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That
     brought Murcher and two more to the spot."

     "Was the street empty then?"

     "Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."

     "What do you mean?"

     The constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a
     drunk chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so cryin' drunk as
     that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up ag'in the
     railings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's
     New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less
     help."

     "What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. "He
     was an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha' found hisself
     in the station if we hadn't been so took up."

     "His face--his dress--didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke in
     impatiently.

     "I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him
     up--me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face,
     the lower part muffled round--"

     "That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"

     "We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman said, in
     an aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way home all right."

     "How was he dressed?"

     "A brown overcoat."

     "Had he a whip in his hand?"

     "A whip--no."

     "He must have left it behind," muttered my companion. "You didn't
     happen to see or hear a cab after that?"

     "No."

     "There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said, standing up
     and taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in
     the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament.
     You might have gained your sergeant's stripes last night. The man
     whom you held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this
     mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it
     now; I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor."

     We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant
     incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

     "The blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our
     lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of
     good luck, and not taking advantage of it."

     "I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of
     this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery.
     But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is
     not the way of criminals."

     "The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have
     no other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the
     ring. I shall have him, Doctor--I'll lay you two to one that I have
     him. I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you,
     and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in
     scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the
     scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of
     life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every
     inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack
     and her bowing are splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she
     plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."

     Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a
     lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

     Our morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I
     was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the
     concert, I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of
     hours' sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much
     excited by all that had occurred, and the strangest fancies and
     surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw
     before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the murdered man.
     So sinister was the impression which that face had produced upon me
     that I found it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who
     had removed its owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke
     vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch
     J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be
     done, and that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the
     eyes of the law.

     The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion's
     hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how
     he had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected
     something which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not
     poison, what had caused the man's death, since there was neither
     wound nor marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood
     was that which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of
     a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have
     wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved,
     I felt that sleep would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or
     myself. His quiet self-confident manner convinced me that he had
     already formed a theory which explained all the facts, though what it
     was I could not for an instant conjecture.

     He was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concert
     could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table
     before he appeared.

     "It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you remember
     what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing
     and appreciating it existed among the human race long before the
     power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly
     influenced by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those
     misty centuries when the world was in its childhood."

     "That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.

     "One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret
     Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quite
     yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."

     "To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more
     case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades
     hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve."

     "I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the
     imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have
     you seen the evening paper?"

     "No."

     "It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention
     the fact that when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding ring fell
     upon the floor. It is just as well it does not."

     "Why?"

     "Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent to every
     paper this morning immediately after the affair."

     He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated.
     It was the first announcement in the "Found" column. "In Brixton
     Road, this morning," it ran, "a plain gold wedding ring, found in the
     roadway between the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr.
     Watson, 221b, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening."

     "Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some of these
     dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair."

     "That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone applies, I
     have no ring."

     "Oh yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do very well.
     It is almost a facsimile."

     "And who do you expect will answer this advertisement."

     "Why, the man in the brown coat--our florid friend with the square
     toes. If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice."

     "Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

     "Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every
     reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything
     than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while
     stooping over Drebber's body, and did not miss it at the time. After
     leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried back, but found
     the police already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving
     the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay
     the suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at the
     gate. Now put yourself in that man's place. On thinking the matter
     over, it must have occurred to him that it was possible that he had
     lost the ring in the road after leaving the house. What would he do,
     then? He would eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of
     seeing it among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light
     upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There
     would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring should be
     connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see
     him within an hour."

     "And then?" I asked.

     "Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?"

     "I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."

     "You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man, and
     though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for
     anything."

     I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with
     the pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his
     favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

     "The plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had an
     answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct
     one."

     "And that is?" I asked eagerly.

     "My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked. "Put
     your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an
     ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at
     him too hard."

     "It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.

     "Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door
     slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you!
     This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--De Jure
     inter Gentes--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642.
     Charles' head was still firm on his shoulders when this little
     brown-backed volume was struck off."

     "Who is the printer?"

     "Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very
     faded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who
     William Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I
     suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man,
     I think."

     As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose
     softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the
     servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she
     opened it.

     "Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We
     could not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some one
     began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and
     shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my
     companion as he listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and
     there was a feeble tap at the door.

     "Come in," I cried.

     At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a
     very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared
     to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a
     curtsey, she stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling
     in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion,
     and his face had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was
     all I could do to keep my countenance.

     The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
     advertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen," she
     said, dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the Brixton
     Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time
     twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and
     what he'd say if he comes 'ome and found her without her ring is more
     than I can think, he being short enough at the best o' times, but
     more especially when he has the drink. If it please you, she went to
     the circus last night along with--"

     "Is that her ring?" I asked.

     "The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad
     woman this night. That's the ring."

     "And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.

     "13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."

     "The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,"
     said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

     The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
     red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for my address," she said.
     "Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

     "And your name is--?"

     "My name is Sawyer--her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married
     her--and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no
     steward in the company more thought of; but when on shore, what with
     the women and what with liquor shops--"

     "Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience to a
     sign from my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I
     am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner."

     With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old
     crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs.
     Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and
     rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an
     ulster and a cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must
     be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me." The hall
     door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had
     descended the stair. Looking through the window I could see her
     walking feebly along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her
     some little distance behind. "Either his whole theory is incorrect,"
     I thought to myself, "or else he will be led now to the heart of the
     mystery." There was no need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for
     I felt that sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his
     adventure.

     It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he
     might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the
     pages of Henri Murger's Vie de BohÃ¨me. Ten o'clock passed, and I
     heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven,
     and the more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for
     the same destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the
     sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his
     face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to
     be struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the
     day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.

     "I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he
     cried, dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much that
     they would never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to
     laugh, because I know that I will be even with them in the long run."

     "What is it then?" I asked.

     "Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had
     gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being
     foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler
     which was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the
     address, but I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out
     loud enough to be heard at the other side of the street, 'Drive to
     13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look
     genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched
     myself behind. That's an art which every detective should be an
     expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never drew rein until we
     reached the street in question. I hopped off before we came to the
     door, and strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I saw
     the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw him open the door
     and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him he
     was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to
     the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I listened to.
     There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it will be
     some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13 we found
     that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, named Keswick,
     and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been
     heard of there."

     "You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that tottering,
     feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in
     motion, without either you or the driver seeing her?"

     "Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the
     old women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an
     active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was
     inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this
     means of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is
     not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to
     risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my
     advice and turn in."

     I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I
     left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into
     the watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
     violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem
     which he had set himself to unravel.

     The papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they
     termed it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had
     leaders upon it in addition. There was some information in them which
     was new to me. I still retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and
     extracts bearing upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of
     them:--

     The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there had
     seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German
     name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister
     inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political
     refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in
     America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
     laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the
     Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers,
     the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff
     Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the Government
     and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.

     The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the
     sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from
     the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent
     weakening of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman
     who had been residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed
     at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace,
     Camberwell. He was accompanied in his travels by his private
     secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their
     landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station
     with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool express. They
     were afterwards seen together upon the platform. Nothing more is
     known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was, as recorded, discovered
     in an empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How he
     came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are still
     involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the whereabouts of
     Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson,
     of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it is
     confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
     throw light upon the matter.

     The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being
     a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which
     animated the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to
     our shores a number of men who might have made excellent citizens
     were they not soured by the recollection of all that they had
     undergone. Among these men there was a stringent code of honour, any
     infringement of which was punished by death. Every effort should be
     made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some
     particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had been
     gained by the discovery of the address of the house at which he had
     boarded--a result which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy
     of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

     Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast,
     and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

     "I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be
     sure to score."

     "That depends on how it turns out."

     "Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught,
     it will be on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be
     in spite of their exertions. It's heads I win and tails you lose.
     Whatever they do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours
     un plus sot qui l'admire.'"

     "What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there came the
     pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by
     audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

     "It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said
     my companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room
     half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I
     clapped eyes on.

     "'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little
     scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. "In
     future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you
     must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?"

     "No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.

     "I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are
     your wages." He handed each of them a shilling. "Now, off you go, and
     come back with a better report next time."

     He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many
     rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

     "There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than
     out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked. "The mere sight of an
     official-looking person seals men's lips. These youngsters, however,
     go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too;
     all they want is organisation."

     "Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.

     "Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a
     matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a
     vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude
     written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he
     is stopping. There he is!"

     There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
     fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
     burst into our sitting-room.

     "My dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,
     "congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."

     A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's expressive
     face.

     "Do you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.

     "The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key."

     "And his name is?"

     "Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy," cried
     Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.

     Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

     "Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said. "We are anxious
     to know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?"

     "I don't mind if I do," the detective answered. "The tremendous
     exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have
     worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the
     strain upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
     for we are both brain-workers."

     "You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely. "Let us hear how
     you arrived at this most gratifying result."

     The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed
     complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a
     paroxysm of amusement.

     "The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade, who thinks
     himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is
     after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime
     than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this
     time."

     The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

     "And how did you get your clue?"

     "Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is
     strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to
     contend with was the finding of this American's antecedents. Some
     people would have waited until their advertisements were answered, or
     until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not
     Tobias Gregson's way of going to work. You remember the hat beside
     the dead man?"

     "Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell
     Road."

     Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

     "I had no idea that you noticed that," he said. "Have you been
     there?"

     "No."

     "Ha!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never neglect a
     chance, however small it may seem."

     "To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes, sententiously.

     "Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of
     that size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it
     at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at
     Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at
     his address."

     "Smart--very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.

     "I next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the detective. "I
     found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,
     too--an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about
     the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape
     my notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes, when you come upon the right scent--a kind of thrill in your
     nerves. 'Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder
     Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.

     "The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word. The
     daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people
     knew something of the matter.

     "'At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?' I
     asked.

     "'At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her
     agitation. 'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two
     trains--one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first.'

     "'And was that the last which you saw of him?'

     "A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the
     question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds
     before she could get out the single word 'Yes'--and when it did come
     it was in a husky unnatural tone.

     "There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a
     calm clear voice.

     "'No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said. 'Let us be
     frank with this gentleman. We did see Mr. Drebber again.'

     "'God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands
     and sinking back in her chair. 'You have murdered your brother.'

     "'Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl answered
     firmly.

     "'You had best tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-confidences
     are worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of
     it.'

     "'On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then, turning to
     me, 'I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on
     behalf of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand
     in this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is,
     however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to
     be compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high
     character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'

     "'Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I answered.
     'Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.'

     "'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said, and
     her daughter withdrew. 'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no intention
     of telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it
     I have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you
     all without omitting any particular.'

     "'It is your wisest course,' said I.

     "'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his
     secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I
     noticed a "Copenhagen" label upon each of their trunks, showing that
     that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet
     reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise.
     He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his ways. The very night
     of his arrival he became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed,
     after twelve o'clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be
     sober. His manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free
     and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude
     towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way
     which, fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one
     occasion he actually seized her in his arms and embraced her--an
     outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him for his
     unmanly conduct.'

     "'But why did you stand all this,' I asked. 'I suppose that you can
     get rid of your boarders when you wish.'

     "Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would to God
     that I had given him notice on the very day that he came,' she said.
     'But it was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day
     each--fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a
     widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the
     money. I acted for the best. This last was too much, however, and I
     gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was the reason of his
     going.'

     "'Well?'

     "'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave
     just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper
     is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed
     the door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas,
     in less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that
     Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the
     worse for drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting
     with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed
     his train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed
     to her that she should fly with him. "You are of age," he said, "and
     there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never
     mind the old girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You
     shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so frightened that she
     shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured
     to draw her towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son
     Arthur came into the room. What happened then I do not know. I heard
     oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to
     raise my head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the
     doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine
     fellow will trouble us again," he said. "I will just go after him and
     see what he does with himself." With those words he took his hat and
     started off down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr.
     Drebber's mysterious death.'

     "This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gasps and
     pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the
     words. I made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that
     there should be no possibility of a mistake."

     "It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. "What
     happened next?"

     "When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued, "I saw that
     the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way
     which I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour
     her son returned.

     "'I do not know,' she answered.

     "'Not know?'

     "'No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'

     "'After you went to bed?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'When did you go to bed?'

     "'About eleven.'

     "'So your son was gone at least two hours?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'Possibly four or five?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'What was he doing during that time?'

     "'I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very lips.

     "Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out
     where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and
     arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to
     come quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, 'I suppose you
     are arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel
     Drebber,' he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his
     alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect."

     "Very," said Holmes.

     "He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as
     having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel."

     "What is your theory, then?"

     "Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton
     Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the
     course of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of
     the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The
     night was so wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the
     body of his victim into the empty house. As to the candle, and the
     blood, and the writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so
     many tricks to throw the police on to the wrong scent."

     "Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really, Gregson,
     you are getting along. We shall make something of you yet."

     "I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the
     detective answered proudly. "The young man volunteered a statement,
     in which he said that after following Drebber some time, the latter
     perceived him, and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his
     way home he met an old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On
     being asked where this old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any
     satisfactory reply. I think the whole case fits together uncommonly
     well. What amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off
     upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of--Why, by
     Jove, here's the very man himself!"

     It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were
     talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness
     which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however,
     wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were
     disarranged and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of
     consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he
     appeared to be embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the
     room, fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. "This
     is a most extraordinary case," he said at last--"a most
     incomprehensible affair."

     "Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson, triumphantly. "I
     thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find
     the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"

     "The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely, "was
     murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning."
     
     The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and
     so unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumbfounded. Gregson
     sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and
     water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were
     compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.

     "Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."

     "It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a
     chair. "I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war."

     "Are you--are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stammered
     Gregson.

     "I have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the first to
     discover what had occurred."

     "We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes observed.
     "Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?"

     "I have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself. "I freely
     confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in
     the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was
     completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out
     what had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at
     Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At
     two in the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The
     question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been
     employed between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become
     of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description
     of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats.
     I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in
     the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his
     companion had become separated, the natural course for the latter
     would be to put up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then
     to hang about the station again next morning."

     "They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,"
     remarked Holmes.

     "So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making
     enquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early,
     and at eight o'clock I reached Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little
     George Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was
     living there, they at once answered me in the affirmative.

     "'No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,' they said.
     'He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'

     "'Where is he now?' I asked.

     "'He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'

     "'I will go up and see him at once,' I said.

     "It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and
     lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me
     the room: it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor
     leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about
     to go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel
     sickish, in spite of my twenty years' experience. From under the door
     there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across
     the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the other
     side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted
     when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our
     shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was open,
     and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his
     nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time, for his
     limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the Boots
     recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had engaged
     the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was
     a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart.
     And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose
     was above the murdered man?"

     I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror,
     even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

     "The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.

     "That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all
     silent for a while.

     There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the
     deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness
     to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of
     battle tingled as I thought of it.

     "The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing on his
     way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the
     mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which
     usually lay there, was raised against one of the windows of the
     second floor, which was wide open. After passing, he looked back and
     saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that
     the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the
     hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his
     own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He has an
     impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed
     in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some little
     time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin,
     where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had
     deliberately wiped his knife."

     I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which
     tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of
     exultation or satisfaction upon his face.

     "Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the
     murderer?" he asked.

     "Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but it seems
     that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd
     pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of
     these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them.
     There were no papers or memoranda in the murdered man's pocket,
     except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and
     containing the words, 'J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name
     appended to this message."

     "And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.

     "Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he had read
     himself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair
     beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the
     window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills."

     Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

     "The last link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete."

     The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

     "I have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently, "all the
     threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course,
     details to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts,
     from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up
     to the discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them
     with my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you
     lay your hand upon those pills?"

     "I have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box; "I took
     them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a
     place of safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my
     taking these pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any
     importance to them."

     "Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to me, "are
     those ordinary pills?"

     They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small,
     round, and almost transparent against the light. "From their
     lightness and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in
     water," I remarked.

     "Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going down and
     fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so
     long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain
     yesterday."

     I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It's
     laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from
     its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already
     exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a
     cushion on the rug.

     "I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes, and drawing
     his penknife he suited the action to the word. "One half we return
     into the box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this
     wine glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our
     friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves."

     "This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured tone of
     one who suspects that he is being laughed at, "I cannot see, however,
     what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson."

     "Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has
     everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the
     mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he
     laps it up readily enough."

     As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer
     and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry.
     Sherlock Holmes' earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we
     all sat in silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some
     startling effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to
     lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but
     apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.

     Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without
     result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment
     appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers
     upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience.
     So great was his emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while
     the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this
     check which he had met.

     "It can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from his
     chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is impossible that
     it should be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in
     the case of Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson.
     And yet they are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of
     reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible! And yet this
     wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!" With a
     perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in
     two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The
     unfortunate creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in
     it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid
     and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.

     Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from
     his forehead. "I should have more faith," he said; "I ought to know
     by this time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train
     of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some
     other interpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the
     most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to
     have known that before ever I saw the box at all."

     This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could
     hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead
     dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It
     seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing
     away, and I began to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.

     "All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you
     failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the
     single real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune
     to seize upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has
     served to confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the
     logical sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and
     made the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me and to
     strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness
     with mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious
     because it presents no new or special features from which deductions
     may be drawn. This murder would have been infinitely more difficult
     to unravel had the body of the victim been simply found lying in the
     roadway without any of those outrÃ© and sensational accompaniments
     which have rendered it remarkable. These strange details, far from
     making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of making
     it less so."

     Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable
     impatience, could contain himself no longer. "Look here, Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a
     smart man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want
     something more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a
     case of taking the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was
     wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second
     affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that
     he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there,
     and seem to know more than we do, but the time has come when we feel
     that we have a right to ask you straight how much you do know of the
     business. Can you name the man who did it?"

     "I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked
     Lestrade. "We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have
     remarked more than once since I have been in the room that you had
     all the evidence which you require. Surely you will not withhold it
     any longer."

     "Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might give him
     time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity."

     Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He
     continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his
     chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in
     thought.

     "There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping abruptly
     and facing us. "You can put that consideration out of the question.
     You have asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere
     knowing of his name is a small thing, however, compared with the
     power of laying our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do.
     I have good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it
     is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and
     desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion
     to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man
     has no idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of
     securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change
     his name, and vanish in an instant among the four million inhabitants
     of this great city. Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings,
     I am bound to say that I consider these men to be more than a match
     for the official force, and that is why I have not asked your
     assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to
     this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to
     promise that the instant that I can communicate with you without
     endangering my own combinations, I shall do so."

     Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this
     assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police.
     The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the
     other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither
     of them had time to speak, however, before there was a tap at the
     door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, young Wiggins,
     introduced his insignificant and unsavoury person.

     "Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab
     downstairs."

     "Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce this
     pattern at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel
     handcuffs from a drawer. "See how beautifully the spring works. They
     fasten in an instant."

     "The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can only
     find the man to put them on."

     "Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well
     help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."

     I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about
     to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about
     it. There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out
     and began to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman
     entered the room.

     "Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling
     over his task, and never turning his head.

     The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put
     down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click,
     the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

     "Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to
     Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph
     Stangerson."

     The whole thing occurred in a moment--so quickly that I had no time
     to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of
     Holmes' triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the
     cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering
     handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a
     second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with an
     inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from
     Holmes's grasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and
     glass gave way before him; but before he got quite through, Gregson,
     Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds. He was
     dragged back into the room, and then commenced a terrific conflict.
     So powerful and so fierce was he, that the four of us were shaken off
     again and again. He appeared to have the convulsive strength of a man
     in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled by his
     passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in
     diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in
     getting his hand inside his neckcloth and half-strangling him that we
     made him realize that his struggles were of no avail; and even then
     we felt no security until we had pinioned his feet as well as his
     hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and panting.

     "We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to take him
     to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant
     smile, "we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very
     welcome to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no
     danger that I will refuse to answer them."

     In the central portion of the great North American Continent there
     lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served
     as a barrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra
     Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to
     the Colorado upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence.
     Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim district. It
     comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy
     valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged
     caÃ±ons; and there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with
     snow, and in summer are grey with the saline alkali dust. They all
     preserve, however, the common characteristics of barrenness,
     inhospitality, and misery.

     There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees
     or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other
     hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose
     sight of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon
     their prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps
     heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through
     the dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the
     rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

     In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from
     the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach
     stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of
     alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes.
     On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain
     peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great
     stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor of anything
     appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no
     movement upon the dull, grey earth--above all, there is absolute
     silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that
     mighty wilderness; nothing but silence--complete and heart-subduing
     silence.

     It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
     plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one
     sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is
     lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden
     down by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are
     scattered white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out
     against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They
     are bones: some large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate.
     The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen
     hundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by these
     scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.

     Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
     eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His
     appearance was such that he might have been the very genius or demon
     of the region. An observer would have found it difficult to say
     whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and
     haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the
     projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and
     dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with
     an unnatural lustre; while the hand which grasped his rifle was
     hardly more fleshy than that of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned
     upon his weapon for support, and yet his tall figure and the massive
     framework of his bones suggested a wiry and vigorous constitution.
     His gaunt face, however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily over
     his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him that
     senile and decrepit appearance. The man was dying--dying from hunger
     and from thirst.

     He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
     elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the
     great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of
     savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which
     might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape
     there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with
     wild questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had
     come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to
     die. "Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence,"
     he muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

     Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless
     rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had
     carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too
     heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the
     ground with some little violence. Instantly there broke from the grey
     parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small,
     scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two little speckled,
     dimpled fists.

     "You've hurt me!" said a childish voice reproachfully.

     "Have I though," the man answered penitently, "I didn't go for to do
     it." As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty
     little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart
     pink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother's care.
     The child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that
     she had suffered less than her companion.

     "How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the
     towsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.

     "Kiss it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity, shoving
     the injured part up to him. "That's what mother used to do. Where's
     mother?"

     "Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long."

     "Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye;
     she 'most always did if she was just goin' over to Auntie's for tea,
     and now she's been away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it?
     Ain't there no water, nor nothing to eat?"

     "No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient
     awhile, and then you'll be all right. Put your head up agin me like
     that, and then you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your
     lips is like leather, but I guess I'd best let you know how the cards
     lie. What's that you've got?"

     "Pretty things! fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically,
     holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to
     home I'll give them to brother Bob."

     "You'll see prettier things than them soon," said the man
     confidently. "You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you
     though--you remember when we left the river?"

     "Oh, yes."

     "Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But
     there was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it
     didn't turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the
     likes of you and--and--"

     "And you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion gravely,
     staring up at his grimy visage.

     "No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then
     Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then,
     dearie, your mother."

     "Then mother's a deader too," cried the little girl dropping her face
     in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

     "Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some
     chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder
     and we tramped it together. It don't seem as though we've improved
     matters. There's an almighty small chance for us now!"

     "Do you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, checking
     her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.

     "I guess that's about the size of it."

     "Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You
     gave me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be
     with mother again."

     "Yes, you will, dearie."

     "And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she
     meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot
     of buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me
     was fond of. How long will it be first?"

     "I don't know--not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the
     northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared
     three little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly
     did they approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large
     brown birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and
     then settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were
     buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming is the forerunner of
     death.

     "Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their
     ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did
     God make this country?"

     "Of course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this
     unexpected question.

     "He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the
     little girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in
     these parts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and
     the trees."

     "What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked
     diffidently.

     "It ain't night yet," she answered.

     "It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you
     bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the
     waggon when we was on the Plains."

     "Why don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with wondering
     eyes.

     "I disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none since I was
     half the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say
     them out, and I'll stand by and come in on the choruses."

     "Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the
     shawl out for that purpose. "You've got to put your hands up like
     this. It makes you feel kind o' good."

     It was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to
     see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the
     little prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her
     chubby face, and his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to
     the cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being with
     whom they were face to face, while the two voices--the one thin and
     clear, the other deep and harsh--united in the entreaty for mercy and
     forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the
     shadow of the boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the
     broad breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some
     time, but Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and
     three nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly
     the eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and
     lower upon the breast, until the man's grizzled beard was mixed with
     the gold tresses of his companion, and both slept the same deep and
     dreamless slumber.

     Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight
     would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali
     plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and
     hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but
     gradually growing higher and broader until it formed a solid,
     well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in size until it
     became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitude of
     moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come
     to the conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which graze
     upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously
     impossible in these arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to
     the solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing, the
     canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures of armed horsemen
     began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself
     as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a
     caravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains,
     the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the
     enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons and carts, men
     on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along
     under burdens, and children who toddled beside the waggons or peeped
     out from under the white coverings. This was evidently no ordinary
     party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been
     compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new
     country. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and
     rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of
     wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not
     sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.

     At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave
     ironfaced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with
     rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held a
     short council among themselves.

     "The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,
     clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

     "To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio
     Grande," said another.

     "Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the
     rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."

     "Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party.

     They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
     keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag
     above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,
     showing up hard and bright against the grey rocks behind. At the
     sight there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of
     guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the
     vanguard. The word "Redskins" was on every lip.

     "There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who
     appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are
     no other tribes until we cross the great mountains."

     "Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson," asked one of the
     band.

     "And I," "and I," cried a dozen voices.

     "Leave your horses below and we will await you here," the Elder
     answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened
     their horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up
     to the object which had excited their curiosity. They advanced
     rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of
     practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below could see them
     flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the
     skyline. The young man who had first given the alarm was leading
     them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw up his hands, as though
     overcome with astonishment, and on joining him they were affected in
     the same way by the sight which met their eyes.

     On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a
     single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man,
     long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His
     placid face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep.
     Beside him lay a little child, with her round white arms encircling
     his brown sinewy neck, and her golden haired head resting upon the
     breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the
     regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played
     over her infantile features. Her plump little white legs terminating
     in white socks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange
     contrast to the long shrivelled members of her companion. On the
     ledge of rock above this strange couple there stood three solemn
     buzzards, who, at the sight of the new comers uttered raucous screams
     of disappointment and flapped sullenly away.

     The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about
     them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down
     upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken
     him, and which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of
     beasts. His face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed,
     and he passed his boney hand over his eyes. "This is what they call
     delirium, I guess," he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding
     on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing but looked all round
     her with the wondering questioning gaze of childhood.

     The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways
     that their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little
     girl, and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported
     her gaunt companion, and assisted him towards the waggons.

     "My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and that
     little un are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all
     dead o' thirst and hunger away down in the south."

     "Is she your child?" asked someone.

     "I guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's mine 'cause
     I saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from
     this day on. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with
     curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a
     powerful lot of ye."

     "Nigh upon ten thousand," said one of the young men; "we are the
     persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona."

     "I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have
     chosen a fair crowd of ye."

     "Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other sternly. "We
     are of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian
     letters on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy
     Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of
     Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We have come to seek a
     refuge from the violent man and from the godless, even though it be
     the heart of the desert."

     The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier.
     "I see," he said, "you are the Mormons."

     "We are the Mormons," answered his companions with one voice.

     "And where are you going?"

     "We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of
     our Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be
     done with you."

     They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were
     surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced meek-looking women,
     strong laughing children, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the
     cries of astonishment and of commiseration which arose from them when
     they perceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution
     of the other. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on,
     followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a waggon,
     which was conspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and
     smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the
     others were furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the
     driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years
     of age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as
     a leader. He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd
     approached he laid it aside, and listened attentively to an account
     of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaways.

     "If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be
     as believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold.
     Better far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that
     you should prove to be that little speck of decay which in time
     corrupts the whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?"

     "Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with such
     emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader
     alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

     "Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food and drink,
     and the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our
     holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"

     "On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled
     down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died
     away in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips
     and a creaking of wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon
     the whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder to whose
     care the two waifs had been committed, led them to his waggon, where
     a meal was already awaiting them.

     "You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have
     recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and
     forever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he
     has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of
     God."

     This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations
     endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final
     haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of
     the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with a constancy almost
     unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage beast,
     hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease--every impediment which Nature
     could place in the way--had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon
     tenacity. Yet the long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken
     the hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one who did not
     sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad
     valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them, and learned from
     the lips of their leader that this was the promised land, and that
     these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.

     Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well
     as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which
     the future city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned
     and allotted in proportion to the standing of each individual. The
     tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the
     town streets and squares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country
     there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next
     summer saw the whole country golden with the wheat crop. Everything
     prospered in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple
     which they had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and
     larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the
     twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw was never
     absent from the monument which the immigrants erected to Him who had
     led them safe through many dangers.

     The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared
     his fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the
     Mormons to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was
     borne along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat
     which she shared with the Mormon's three wives and with his son, a
     headstrong forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity
     of childhood, from the shock caused by her mother's death, she soon
     became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself to this new life
     in her moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having
     recovered from his privations, distinguished himself as a useful
     guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem
     of his new companions, that when they reached the end of their
     wanderings, it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with
     as large and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with
     the exception of Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston,
     and Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.

     On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial
     log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that
     it grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind,
     keen in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron
     constitution enabled him to work morning and evening at improving and
     tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that
     belonged to him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better
     off than his neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was
     rich, and in twelve there were not half a dozen men in the whole of
     Salt Lake City who could compare with him. From the great inland sea
     to the distant Wahsatch Mountains there was no name better known than
     that of John Ferrier.

     There was one way and only one in which he offended the
     susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion
     could ever induce him to set up a female establishment after the
     manner of his companions. He never gave reasons for this persistent
     refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and inflexibly adhering
     to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness
     in his adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of
     wealth and reluctance to incur expense. Others, again, spoke of some
     early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who had pined away on
     the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained
     strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformed to the
     religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an
     orthodox and straight-walking man.

     Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted
     father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the
     balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother
     to the young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and
     stronger, her cheek more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a
     wayfarer upon the high road which ran by Ferrier's farm felt
     long-forgotten thoughts revive in their mind as they watched her
     lithe girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields, or met her
     mounted upon her father's mustang, and managing it with all the ease
     and grace of a true child of the West. So the bud blossomed into a
     flower, and the year which saw her father the richest of the farmers
     left her as fair a specimen of American girlhood as could be found in
     the whole Pacific slope.

     It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child
     had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That
     mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by
     dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of
     a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her,
     and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a
     larger nature has awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall
     that day and remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn
     of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious
     enough in itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and
     that of many besides.

     It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as
     the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields
     and in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the
     dusty high roads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all
     heading to the west, for the gold fever had broken out in California,
     and the Overland Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too,
     were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture
     lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary
     of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage,
     threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there
     galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and
     her long chestnut hair floating out behind her. She had a commission
     from her father in the City, and was dashing in as she had done many
     a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of
     her task and how it was to be performed. The travel-stained
     adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even the unemotional
     Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their accustomed
     stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.

     She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road
     blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen
     wild-looking herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she
     endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what
     appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it, however,
     before the beasts closed in behind her, and she found herself
     completely imbedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned
     bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was not
     alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of every opportunity to
     urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her way through the
     cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures, either by
     accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank of the
     mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon
     its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way
     that would have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation
     was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it
     against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all
     that the girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip
     would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and
     terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began
     to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising
     cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she
     might have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice
     at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same moment a
     sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and
     forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the outskirts.

     "You're not hurt, I hope, miss," said her preserver, respectfully.

     She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm
     awful frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought
     that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?"

     "Thank God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a
     tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse,
     and clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over
     his shoulders. "I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier," he
     remarked, "I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask
     him if he remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the
     same Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick."

     "Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?" she asked, demurely.

     The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes
     sparkled with pleasure. "I'll do so," he said, "we've been in the
     mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting
     condition. He must take us as he finds us."

     "He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered,
     "he's awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have
     never got over it."

     "Neither would I," said her companion.

     "You! Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you,
     anyhow. You ain't even a friend of ours."

     The young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that
     Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.

     "There, I didn't mean that," she said; "of course, you are a friend
     now. You must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won't
     trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!"

     "Good-bye," he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over
     her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with
     her riding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling
     cloud of dust.

     Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and
     taciturn. He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting
     for silver, and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of
     raising capital enough to work some lodes which they had discovered.
     He had been as keen as any of them upon the business until this
     sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into another channel. The
     sight of the fair young girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierra
     breezes, had stirred his volcanic, untamed heart to its very depths.
     When she had vanished from his sight, he realized that a crisis had
     come in his life, and that neither silver speculations nor any other
     questions could ever be of such importance to him as this new and
     all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in his heart was not
     the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce
     passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He had been
     accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart
     that he would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance
     could render him successful.

     He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his
     face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the
     valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning
     the news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this
     Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
     Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
     could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost
     in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper,
     a silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were
     to be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon
     became a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his
     virtues. On such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek
     and her bright, happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young
     heart was no longer her own. Her honest father may not have observed
     these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man
     who had won her affections.

     It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and
     pulled up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet
     him. He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

     "I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing
     tenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now,
     but will you be ready to come when I am here again?"

     "And when will that be?" she asked, blushing and laughing.

     "A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then,
     my darling. There's no one who can stand between us."

     "And how about father?" she asked.

     "He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all
     right. I have no fear on that head."

     "Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's
     no more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad
     breast.

     "Thank God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is
     settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They
     are waiting for me at the caÃ±on. Good-bye, my own darling--good-bye.
     In two months you shall see me."

     He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his
     horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though
     afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at
     what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until he
     vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
     happiest girl in all Utah.

     Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had
     departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within
     him when he thought of the young man's return, and of the impending
     loss of his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled
     him to the arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had
     always determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing
     would ever induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a
     marriage he regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a
     disgrace. Whatever he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that
     one point he was inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject,
     however, for to express an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter
     in those days in the Land of the Saints.

     Yes, a dangerous matter--so dangerous that even the most saintly
     dared only whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest
     something which fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring
     down a swift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had
     now turned persecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the
     most terrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the
     German Vehmgericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able
     to put a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a
     cloud over the State of Utah.

     Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this
     organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and
     omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out
     against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone
     or what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at
     home, but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at
     the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was
     followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be
     of this terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that
     men went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of
     the wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed
     them.

     At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the
     recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished
     afterwards to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a
     wider range. The supply of adult women was running short, and
     polygamy without a female population on which to draw was a barren
     doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be bandied about--rumours
     of murdered immigrants and rifled camps in regions where Indians had
     never been seen. Fresh women appeared in the harems of the
     Elders--women who pined and wept, and bore upon their faces the
     traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated wanderers upon the
     mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked, stealthy, and
     noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These tales and
     rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and
     re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.
     To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the
     Danite Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened
     one.

     Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible
     results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it
     inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless
     society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and
     violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.
     The very friend to whom you communicated your misgivings as to the
     Prophet and his mission, might be one of those who would come forth
     at night with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation. Hence
     every man feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which
     were nearest his heart.

     One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his
     wheatfields, when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking
     through the window, saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming
     up the pathway. His heart leapt to his mouth, for this was none other
     than the great Brigham Young himself. Full of trepidation--for he
     knew that such a visit boded him little good--Ferrier ran to the door
     to greet the Mormon chief. The latter, however, received his
     salutations coldly, and followed him with a stern face into the
     sitting-room.

     "Brother Ferrier," he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer
     keenly from under his light-coloured eyelashes, "the true believers
     have been good friends to you. We picked you up when you were
     starving in the desert, we shared our food with you, led you safe to
     the Chosen Valley, gave you a goodly share of land, and allowed you
     to wax rich under our protection. Is not this so?"

     "It is so," answered John Ferrier.

     "In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that
     you should embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its
     usages. This you promised to do, and this, if common report says
     truly, you have neglected."

     "And how have I neglected it?" asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands
     in expostulation. "Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not
     attended at the Temple? Have I not--?"

     "Where are your wives?" asked Young, looking round him. "Call them
     in, that I may greet them."

     "It is true that I have not married," Ferrier answered. "But women
     were few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not
     a lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my wants."

     "It is of that daughter that I would speak to you," said the leader
     of the Mormons. "She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has
     found favour in the eyes of many who are high in the land."

     John Ferrier groaned internally.

     "There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve--stories that
     she is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle
     tongues. What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted
     Joseph Smith? 'Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the
     elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.' This
     being so, it is impossible that you, who profess the holy creed,
     should suffer your daughter to violate it."

     John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his
     riding-whip.

     "Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested--so it has been
     decided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we
     would not have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of
     all choice. We Elders have many heifers*1, but our children must also
     be provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either
     of them would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her
     choose between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith.
     What say you to that?"

     Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.

     "You will give us time," he said at last. "My daughter is very
     young--she is scarce of an age to marry."

     "She shall have a month to choose," said Young, rising from his seat.
     "At the end of that time she shall give her answer."

     He was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face
     and flashing eyes. "It were better for you, John Ferrier," he
     thundered, "that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon
     the Sierra Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills against
     the orders of the Holy Four!"

     With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and
     Ferrier heard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.

     He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how
     he should broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid
     upon his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance
     at her pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had
     passed.

     "I could not help it," she said, in answer to his look. "His voice
     rang through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?"

     "Don't you scare yourself," he answered, drawing her to him, and
     passing his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair.
     "We'll fix it up somehow or another. You don't find your fancy kind
     o' lessening for this chap, do you?"

     A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.

     "No; of course not. I shouldn't care to hear you say you did. He's a
     likely lad, and he's a Christian, which is more than these folk here,
     in spite o' all their praying and preaching. There's a party starting
     for Nevada to-morrow, and I'll manage to send him a message letting
     him know the hole we are in. If I know anything o' that young man,
     he'll be back here with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs."

     Lucy laughed through her tears at her father's description.

     "When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you
     that I am frightened, dear. One hears--one hears such dreadful
     stories about those who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always
     happens to them."

     "But we haven't opposed him yet," her father answered. "It will be
     time to look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before
     us; at the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah."

     "Leave Utah!"

     "That's about the size of it."

     "But the farm?"

     "We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To
     tell the truth, Lucy, it isn't the first time I have thought of doing
     it. I don't care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do
     to their darned prophet. I'm a free-born American, and it's all new
     to me. Guess I'm too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this
     farm, he might chance to run up against a charge of buckshot
     travelling in the opposite direction."

     "But they won't let us leave," his daughter objected.

     "Wait till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that. In the
     meantime, don't you fret yourself, my dearie, and don't get your eyes
     swelled up, else he'll be walking into me when he sees you. There's
     nothing to be afeared about, and there's no danger at all."

     John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident
     tone, but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to
     the fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned
     and loaded the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of his
     bedroom.

     On the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet,
     John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his
     acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted
     him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man
     of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it
     was that he should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his
     mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.

     As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to
     each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on
     entering to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room.
     One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair,
     with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked
     youth with coarse bloated features, was standing in front of the
     window with his hands in his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both
     of them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one in the
     rocking-chair commenced the conversation.

     "Maybe you don't know us," he said. "This here is the son of Elder
     Drebber, and I'm Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the
     desert when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the
     true fold."

     "As He will all the nations in His own good time," said the other in
     a nasal voice; "He grindeth slowly but exceeding small."

     John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

     "We have come," continued Stangerson, "at the advice of our fathers
     to solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem
     good to you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber
     here has seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one."

     "Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson," cried the other; "the question is not
     how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now
     given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man."

     "But my prospects are better," said the other, warmly. "When the Lord
     removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather
     factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church."

     "It will be for the maiden to decide," rejoined young Drebber,
     smirking at his own reflection in the glass. "We will leave it all to
     her decision."

     During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway,
     hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two
     visitors.

     "Look here," he said at last, striding up to them, "when my daughter
     summons you, you can come, but until then I don't want to see your
     faces again."

     The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this
     competition between them for the maiden's hand was the highest of
     honours both to her and her father.

     "There are two ways out of the room," cried Ferrier; "there is the
     door, and there is the window. Which do you care to use?"

     His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening,
     that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat.
     The old farmer followed them to the door.

     "Let me know when you have settled which it is to be," he said,
     sardonically.

     "You shall smart for this!" Stangerson cried, white with rage. "You
     have defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to
     the end of your days."

     "The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you," cried young Drebber;
     "He will arise and smite you!"

     "Then I'll start the smiting," exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would
     have rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm
     and restrained him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of
     horses' hoofs told him that they were beyond his reach.

     "The young canting rascals!" he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration
     from his forehead; "I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl,
     than the wife of either of them."

     "And so should I, father," she answered, with spirit; "but Jefferson
     will soon be here."

     "Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for
     we do not know what their next move may be."

     It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and
     help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted
     daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there had never been
     such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of the Elders. If
     minor errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this
     arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would be of no
     avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been
     spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church.
     He was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors
     which hung over him. Any known danger he could face with a firm lip,
     but this suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his
     daughter, however, and affected to make light of the whole matter,
     though she, with the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at
     ease.

     He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from
     Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in
     an unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to his
     surprise, a small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of his
     bed just over his chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling
     letters:--

     "Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then--"

     The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How
     this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his
     servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been
     secured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter,
     but the incident struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days
     were evidently the balance of the month which Young had promised.
     What strength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such
     mysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struck
     him to the heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.

     Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their
     breakfast when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the
     centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently,
     the number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and he did not
     enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and
     ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27
     had been painted upon the outside of his door.

     Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his
     unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some
     conspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of the
     month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon the walls,
     sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small placards
     stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance
     John Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warnings
     proceeded. A horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at
     the sight of them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had
     the troubled look of some hunted creature. He had but one hope in
     life now, and that was for the arrival of the young hunter from
     Nevada.

     Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no
     news of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still
     there came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the
     road, or a driver shouted at his team, the old farmer hurried to the
     gate thinking that help had arrived at last. At last, when he saw
     five give way to four and that again to three, he lost heart, and
     abandoned all hope of escape. Single-handed, and with his limited
     knowledge of the mountains which surrounded the settlement, he knew
     that he was powerless. The more-frequented roads were strictly
     watched and guarded, and none could pass along them without an order
     from the Council. Turn which way he would, there appeared to be no
     avoiding the blow which hung over him. Yet the old man never wavered
     in his resolution to part with life itself before he consented to
     what he regarded as his daughter's dishonour.

     He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles,
     and searching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown
     the figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be
     the last of the allotted time. What was to happen then? All manner of
     vague and terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his
     daughter--what was to become of her after he was gone? Was there no
     escape from the invisible network which was drawn all round them. He
     sank his head upon the table and sobbed at the thought of his own
     impotence.

     What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching
     sound--low, but very distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from
     the door of the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened
     intently. There was a pause for a few moments, and then the low
     insidious sound was repeated. Someone was evidently tapping very
     gently upon one of the panels of the door. Was it some midnight
     assassin who had come to carry out the murderous orders of the secret
     tribunal? Or was it some agent who was marking up that the last day
     of grace had arrived. John Ferrier felt that instant death would be
     better than the suspense which shook his nerves and chilled his
     heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt and threw the door open.

     Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars
     were twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before
     the farmer's eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there
     nor on the road was any human being to be seen. With a sigh of
     relief, Ferrier looked to right and to left, until happening to
     glance straight down at his own feet he saw to his astonishment a man
     lying flat upon his face upon the ground, with arms and legs all
     asprawl.

     So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall
     with his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out.
     His first thought was that the prostrate figure was that of some
     wounded or dying man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along the
     ground and into the hall with the rapidity and noiselessness of a
     serpent. Once within the house the man sprang to his feet, closed the
     door, and revealed to the astonished farmer the fierce face and
     resolute expression of Jefferson Hope.

     "Good God!" gasped John Ferrier. "How you scared me! Whatever made
     you come in like that."

     "Give me food," the other said, hoarsely. "I have had no time for
     bite or sup for eight-and-forty hours." He flung himself upon the
     cold meat and bread which were still lying upon the table from his
     host's supper, and devoured it voraciously. "Does Lucy bear up well?"
     he asked, when he had satisfied his hunger.

     "Yes. She does not know the danger," her father answered.

     "That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I
     crawled my way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they're not
     quite sharp enough to catch a Washoe hunter."

     John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had a
     devoted ally. He seized the young man's leathery hand and wrung it
     cordially. "You're a man to be proud of," he said. "There are not
     many who would come to share our danger and our troubles."

     "You've hit it there, pard," the young hunter answered. "I have a
     respect for you, but if you were alone in this business I'd think
     twice before I put my head into such a hornet's nest. It's Lucy that
     brings me here, and before harm comes on her I guess there will be
     one less o' the Hope family in Utah."

     "What are we to do?"

     "To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are
     lost. I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How
     much money have you?"

     "Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes."

     "That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for
     Carson City through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as
     well that the servants do not sleep in the house."

     While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching
     journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find
     into a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he
     knew by experience that the mountain wells were few and far between.
     He had hardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned
     with his daughter all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting
     between the lovers was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious,
     and there was much to be done.

     "We must make our start at once," said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a
     low but resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the
     peril, but has steeled his heart to meet it. "The front and back
     entrances are watched, but with caution we may get away through the
     side window and across the fields. Once on the road we are only two
     miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we
     should be half-way through the mountains."

     "What if we are stopped," asked Ferrier.

     Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his
     tunic. "If they are too many for us we shall take two or three of
     them with us," he said with a sinister smile.

     The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the
     darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his
     own, and which he was now about to abandon for ever. He had long
     nerved himself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of the
     honour and happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his
     ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees
     and the broad silent stretch of grain-land, that it was difficult to
     realize that the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the
     white face and set expression of the young hunter showed that in his
     approach to the house he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that
     head.

     Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the
     scanty provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing
     a few of her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly
     and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured
     the night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden.
     With bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and
     gained the shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came
     to the gap which opened into the cornfields. They had just reached
     this point when the young man seized his two companions and dragged
     them down into the shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.

     It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the
     ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before
     the melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards
     of them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small
     distance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the
     gap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal
     cry again, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.

     "To-morrow at midnight," said the first who appeared to be in
     authority. "When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times."

     "It is well," returned the other. "Shall I tell Brother Drebber?"

     "Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!"

     "Seven to five!" repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away
     in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been
     some form of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps
     had died away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and
     helping his companions through the gap, led the way across the fields
     at the top of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when
     her strength appeared to fail her.

     "Hurry on! hurry on!" he gasped from time to time. "We are through
     the line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!"

     Once on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they
     meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid
     recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter branched away into a
     rugged and narrow footpath which led to the mountains. Two dark
     jagged peaks loomed above them through the darkness, and the defile
     which led between them was the Eagle CaÃ±on in which the horses were
     awaiting them. With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way
     among the great boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse,
     until he came to the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the
     faithful animals had been picketed. The girl was placed upon the
     mule, and old Ferrier upon one of the horses, with his money-bag,
     while Jefferson Hope led the other along the precipitous and
     dangerous path.

     It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face
     Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up
     a thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long
     basaltic columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some
     petrified monster. On the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and
     debris made all advance impossible. Between the two ran the irregular
     track, so narrow in places that they had to travel in Indian file,
     and so rough that only practised riders could have traversed it at
     all. Yet in spite of all dangers and difficulties, the hearts of the
     fugitives were light within them, for every step increased the
     distance between them and the terrible despotism from which they were
     flying.

     They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the
     jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and
     most desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry,
     and pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track, showing
     out dark and plain against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel.
     He saw them as soon as they perceived him, and his military challenge
     of "Who goes there?" rang through the silent ravine.

     "Travellers for Nevada," said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the
     rifle which hung by his saddle.

     They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down
     at them as if dissatisfied at their reply.

     "By whose permission?" he asked.

     "The Holy Four," answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught
     him that that was the highest authority to which he could refer.

     "Nine from seven," cried the sentinel.

     "Seven from five," returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the
     countersign which he had heard in the garden.

     "Pass, and the Lord go with you," said the voice from above. Beyond
     his post the path broadened out, and the horses were able to break
     into a trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher
     leaning upon his gun, and knew that they had passed the outlying post
     of the chosen people, and that freedom lay before them.

     All night their course lay through intricate defiles and over
     irregular and rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way,
     but Hope's intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain
     the track once more. When morning broke, a scene of marvellous though
     savage beauty lay before them. In every direction the great
     snow-capped peaks hemmed them in, peeping over each other's shoulders
     to the far horizon. So steep were the rocky banks on either side of
     them, that the larch and the pine seemed to be suspended over their
     heads, and to need only a gust of wind to come hurtling down upon
     them. Nor was the fear entirely an illusion, for the barren valley
     was thickly strewn with trees and boulders which had fallen in a
     similar manner. Even as they passed, a great rock came thundering
     down with a hoarse rattle which woke the echoes in the silent gorges,
     and startled the weary horses into a gallop.

     As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the
     great mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival,
     until they were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle
     cheered the hearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy.
     At a wild torrent which swept out of a ravine they called a halt and
     watered their horses, while they partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy
     and her father would fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was
     inexorable. "They will be upon our track by this time," he said.
     "Everything depends upon our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest
     for the remainder of our lives."

     During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles,
     and by evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles
     from their enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling
     crag, where the rocks offered some protection from the chill wind,
     and there huddled together for warmth, they enjoyed a few hours'
     sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were up and on their way once
     more. They had seen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope
     began to think that they were fairly out of the reach of the terrible
     organization whose enmity they had incurred. He little knew how far
     that iron grasp could reach, or how soon it was to close upon them
     and crush them.

     About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store
     of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little
     uneasiness, however, for there was game to be had among the
     mountains, and he had frequently before had to depend upon his rifle
     for the needs of life. Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled together a
     few dried branches and made a blazing fire, at which his companions
     might warm themselves, for they were now nearly five thousand feet
     above the sea level, and the air was bitter and keen. Having tethered
     the horses, and bade Lucy adieu, he threw his gun over his shoulder,
     and set out in search of whatever chance might throw in his way.
     Looking back he saw the old man and the young girl crouching over the
     blazing fire, while the three animals stood motionless in the
     back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them from his view.

     He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another
     without success, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees,
     and other indications, he judged that there were numerous bears in
     the vicinity. At last, after two or three hours' fruitless search, he
     was thinking of turning back in despair, when casting his eyes
     upwards he saw a sight which sent a thrill of pleasure through his
     heart. On the edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet
     above him, there stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep in
     appearance, but armed with a pair of gigantic horns. The
     big-horn--for so it is called--was acting, probably, as a guardian
     over a flock which were invisible to the hunter; but fortunately it
     was heading in the opposite direction, and had not perceived him.
     Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and took a long
     and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang into the
     air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and then
     came crashing down into the valley beneath.

     The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented
     himself with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this
     trophy over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the
     evening was already drawing in. He had hardly started, however,
     before he realized the difficulty which faced him. In his eagerness
     he had wandered far past the ravines which were known to him, and it
     was no easy matter to pick out the path which he had taken. The
     valley in which he found himself divided and sub-divided into many
     gorges, which were so like each other that it was impossible to
     distinguish one from the other. He followed one for a mile or more
     until he came to a mountain torrent which he was sure that he had
     never seen before. Convinced that he had taken the wrong turn, he
     tried another, but with the same result. Night was coming on rapidly,
     and it was almost dark before he at last found himself in a defile
     which was familiar to him. Even then it was no easy matter to keep to
     the right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and the high cliffs
     on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed down with
     his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along, keeping
     up his heart by the reflection that every step brought him nearer to
     Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure them food for the
     remainder of their journey.

     He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left
     them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of the
     cliffs which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him
     anxiously, for he had been absent nearly five hours. In the gladness
     of his heart he put his hands to his mouth and made the glen re-echo
     to a loud halloo as a signal that he was coming. He paused and
     listened for an answer. None came save his own cry, which clattered
     up the dreary silent ravines, and was borne back to his ears in
     countless repetitions. Again he shouted, even louder than before, and
     again no whisper came back from the friends whom he had left such a
     short time ago. A vague, nameless dread came over him, and he hurried
     onwards frantically, dropping the precious food in his agitation.

     When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where
     the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes
     there, but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The
     same dead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed
     to convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the
     remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only
     too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during
     his absence--a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left
     no traces behind it.

     Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head
     spin round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from
     falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily
     recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece
     of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and
     proceeded with its help to examine the little camp. The ground was
     all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing that a large party of
     mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the direction of their
     tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City.
     Had they carried back both of his companions with them? Jefferson
     Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must have done so, when
     his eye fell upon an object which made every nerve of his body tingle
     within him. A little way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap
     of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been there before. There was
     no mistaking it for anything but a newly-dug grave. As the young
     hunter approached it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on
     it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The
     inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:

                                  JOHN FERRIER,
                           Formerly of Salt Lake City,
                             Died August 4th, 1860.
                                        

     The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was
     gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked
     wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there was no
     sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to
     fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the harem of the
     Elder's son. As the young fellow realized the certainty of her fate,
     and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he wished that he, too, was
     lying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.

     Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which
     springs from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could
     at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and
     perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained
     vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the Indians amongst
     whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the
     only one thing which could assuage his grief would be thorough and
     complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His
     strong will and untiring energy should, he determined, be devoted to
     that one end. With a grim, white face, he retraced his steps to where
     he had dropped the food, and having stirred up the smouldering fire,
     he cooked enough to last him for a few days. This he made up into a
     bundle, and, tired as he was, he set himself to walk back through the
     mountains upon the track of the avenging angels.

     For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which
     he had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down
     among the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before
     daybreak he was always well on his way. On the sixth day, he reached
     the Eagle CaÃ±on, from which they had commenced their ill-fated
     flight. Thence he could look down upon the home of the saints. Worn
     and exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and shook his gaunt hand
     fiercely at the silent widespread city beneath him. As he looked at
     it, he observed that there were flags in some of the principal
     streets, and other signs of festivity. He was still speculating as to
     what this might mean when he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and
     saw a mounted man riding towards him. As he approached, he recognized
     him as a Mormon named Cowper, to whom he had rendered services at
     different times. He therefore accosted him when he got up to him,
     with the object of finding out what Lucy Ferrier's fate had been.

     "I am Jefferson Hope," he said. "You remember me."

     The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment--indeed, it
     was difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with
     ghastly white face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of
     former days. Having, however, at last, satisfied himself as to his
     identity, the man's surprise changed to consternation.

     "You are mad to come here," he cried. "It is as much as my own life
     is worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you
     from the Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away."

     "I don't fear them, or their warrant," Hope said, earnestly. "You
     must know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by
     everything you hold dear to answer a few questions. We have always
     been friends. For God's sake, don't refuse to answer me."

     "What is it?" the Mormon asked uneasily. "Be quick. The very rocks
     have ears and the trees eyes."

     "What has become of Lucy Ferrier?"

     "She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up,
     you have no life left in you."

     "Don't mind me," said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips,
     and had sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning.
     "Married, you say?"

     "Married yesterday--that's what those flags are for on the Endowment
     House. There was some words between young Drebber and young
     Stangerson as to which was to have her. They'd both been in the party
     that followed them, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed
     to give him the best claim; but when they argued it out in council,
     Drebber's party was the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to
     him. No one won't have her very long though, for I saw death in her
     face yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are you off,
     then?"

     "Yes, I am off," said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat.
     His face might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was
     its expression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.

     "Where are you going?"

     "Never mind," he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his
     shoulder, strode off down the gorge and so away into the heart of the
     mountains to the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there
     was none so fierce and so dangerous as himself.

     The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it
     was the terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful
     marriage into which she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her
     head again, but pined away and died within a month. Her sottish
     husband, who had married her principally for the sake of John
     Ferrier's property, did not affect any great grief at his
     bereavement; but his other wives mourned over her, and sat up with
     her the night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom. They were
     grouped round the bier in the early hours of the morning, when, to
     their inexpressible fear and astonishment, the door was flung open,
     and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in tattered garments strode
     into the room. Without a glance or a word to the cowering women, he
     walked up to the white silent figure which had once contained the
     pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he pressed his lips
     reverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching up her hand, he
     took the wedding-ring from her finger. "She shall not be buried in
     that," he cried with a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could be
     raised sprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief
     was the episode, that the watchers might have found it hard to
     believe it themselves or persuade other people of it, had it not been
     for the undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as
     having been a bride had disappeared.

     For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading
     a strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for
     vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the
     weird figure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which
     haunted the lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through
     Stangerson's window and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot
     of him. On another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great
     boulder crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by
     throwing himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long
     in discovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led
     repeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or
     killing their enemy, but always without success. Then they adopted
     the precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of
     having their houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax
     these measures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their
     opponent, and they hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.

     Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter's
     mind was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of
     revenge had taken such complete possession of it that there was no
     room for any other emotion. He was, however, above all things
     practical. He soon realized that even his iron constitution could not
     stand the incessant strain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and
     want of wholesome food were wearing him out. If he died like a dog
     among the mountains, what was to become of his revenge then? And yet
     such a death was sure to overtake him if he persisted. He felt that
     that was to play his enemy's game, so he reluctantly returned to the
     old Nevada mines, there to recruit his health and to amass money
     enough to allow him to pursue his object without privation.

     His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a
     combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the
     mines for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his memory
     of his wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on
     that memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier's grave.
     Disguised, and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake City,
     careless what became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he
     knew to be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There
     had been a schism among the Chosen People a few months before, some
     of the younger members of the Church having rebelled against the
     authority of the Elders, and the result had been the secession of a
     certain number of the malcontents, who had left Utah and become
     Gentiles. Among these had been Drebber and Stangerson; and no one
     knew whither they had gone. Rumour reported that Drebber had managed
     to convert a large part of his property into money, and that he had
     departed a wealthy man, while his companion, Stangerson, was
     comparatively poor. There was no clue at all, however, as to their
     whereabouts.

     Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of
     revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never
     faltered for a moment. With the small competence he possessed, eked
     out by such employment as he could pick up, he travelled from town to
     town through the United States in quest of his enemies. Year passed
     into year, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered on,
     a human bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object upon
     which he had devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded.
     It was but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told
     him that Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit
     of. He returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance
     all arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his
     window, had recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read murder
     in his eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace, accompanied by
     Stangerson, who had become his private secretary, and represented to
     him that they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and
     hatred of an old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was taken into
     custody, and not being able to find sureties, was detained for some
     weeks. When at last he was liberated, it was only to find that
     Drebber's house was deserted, and that he and his secretary had
     departed for Europe.

     Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred
     urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and
     for some time he had to return to work, saving every dollar for his
     approaching journey. At last, having collected enough to keep life in
     him, he departed for Europe, and tracked his enemies from city to
     city, working his way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking
     the fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had departed for
     Paris; and when he followed them there he learned that they had just
     set off for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days
     late, for they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded
     in running them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do
     better than quote the old hunter's own account, as duly recorded in
     Dr. Watson's Journal, to which we are already under such obligations.

     Our prisoner's furious resistance did not apparently indicate any
     ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself
     powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes
     that he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. "I guess you're going
     to take me to the police-station," he remarked to Sherlock Holmes.
     "My cab's at the door. If you'll loose my legs I'll walk down to it.
     I'm not so light to lift as I used to be."

     Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this
     proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner
     at his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his
     ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself
     that they were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself,
     as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man;
     and his dark sunburned face bore an expression of determination and
     energy which was as formidable as his personal strength.

     "If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you
     are the man for it," he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at
     my fellow-lodger. "The way you kept on my trail was a caution."

     "You had better come with me," said Holmes to the two detectives.

     "I can drive you," said Lestrade.

     "Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have
     taken an interest in the case and may as well stick to us."

     I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made
     no attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been
     his, and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the
     horse, and brought us in a very short time to our destination. We
     were ushered into a small chamber where a police Inspector noted down
     our prisoner's name and the names of the men with whose murder he had
     been charged. The official was a white-faced unemotional man, who
     went through his duties in a dull mechanical way. "The prisoner will
     be put before the magistrates in the course of the week," he said;
     "in the mean time, Mr. Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you
     wish to say? I must warn you that your words will be taken down, and
     may be used against you."

     "I've got a good deal to say," our prisoner said slowly. "I want to
     tell you gentlemen all about it."

     "Hadn't you better reserve that for your trial?" asked the Inspector.

     "I may never be tried," he answered. "You needn't look startled. It
     isn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?" He turned his
     fierce dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

     "Yes; I am," I answered.

     "Then put your hand here," he said, with a smile, motioning with his
     manacled wrists towards his chest.

     I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing
     and commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest
     seemed to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when
     some powerful engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could
     hear a dull humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same
     source.

     "Why," I cried, "you have an aortic aneurism!"

     "That's what they call it," he said, placidly. "I went to a Doctor
     last week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before
     many days passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from
     over-exposure and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've
     done my work now, and I don't care how soon I go, but I should like
     to leave some account of the business behind me. I don't want to be
     remembered as a common cut-throat."

     The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to
     the advisability of allowing him to tell his story.

     "Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?" the former
     asked.

     "Most certainly there is," I answered.

     "In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to
     take his statement," said the Inspector. "You are at liberty, sir, to
     give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down."

     "I'll sit down, with your leave," the prisoner said, suiting the
     action to the word. "This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and
     the tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I'm on the
     brink of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I
     say is the absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no
     consequence to me."

     With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began
     the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical
     manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace
     enough. I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I
     have had access to Lestrade's note-book, in which the prisoner's
     words were taken down exactly as they were uttered.

     "It don't much matter to you why I hated these men," he said; "it's
     enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings--a
     father and a daughter--and that they had, therefore, forfeited their
     own lives. After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime,
     it was impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any
     court. I knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should
     be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You'd have done
     the same, if you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my
     place.

     "That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago.
     She was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart
     over it. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed
     that his dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his
     last thoughts should be of the crime for which he was punished. I
     have carried it about with me, and have followed him and his
     accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought to
     tire me out, but they could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is
     likely enough, I die knowing that my work in this world is done, and
     well done. They have perished, and by my hand. There is nothing left
     for me to hope for, or to desire.

     "They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me
     to follow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I
     found that I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving
     and riding are as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a
     cabowner's office, and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain
     sum a week to the owner, and whatever was over that I might keep for
     myself. There was seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along
     somehow. The hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that
     of all the mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most
     confusing. I had a map beside me though, and when once I had spotted
     the principal hotels and stations, I got on pretty well.

     "It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were
     living; but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across
     them. They were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other
     side of the river. When once I found them out I knew that I had them
     at my mercy. I had grown my beard, and there was no chance of their
     recognizing me. I would dog them and follow them until I saw my
     opportunity. I was determined that they should not escape me again.

     "They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about
     London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my
     cab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then
     they could not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or
     late at night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get
     behind hand with my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long
     as I could lay my hand upon the men I wanted.

     "They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there
     was some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out
     alone, and never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind
     them every day, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was
     drunk half the time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I
     watched them late and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but
     I was not discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost
     come. My only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a
     little too soon and leave my work undone.

     "At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as
     the street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive
     up to their door. Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a
     time Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up
     my horse and kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for
     I feared that they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston
     Station they got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed
     them on to the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train,
     and the guard answer that one had just gone and there would not be
     another for some hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but
     Drebber was rather pleased than otherwise. I got so close to them in
     the bustle that I could hear every word that passed between them.
     Drebber said that he had a little business of his own to do, and that
     if the other would wait for him he would soon rejoin him. His
     companion remonstrated with him, and reminded him that they had
     resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the matter was a
     delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch what
     Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out swearing, and
     reminded him that he was nothing more than his paid servant, and that
     he must not presume to dictate to him. On that the Secretary gave it
     up as a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he missed the
     last train he should rejoin him at Halliday's Private Hotel; to which
     Drebber answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven,
     and made his way out of the station.

     "The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my
     enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other, but
     singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue
     precipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction
     in vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that
     strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans
     arranged by which I should have the opportunity of making the man who
     had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. It
     chanced that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in
     looking over some houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of
     one of them in my carriage. It was claimed that same evening, and
     returned; but in the interval I had taken a moulding of it, and had a
     duplicate constructed. By means of this I had access to at least one
     spot in this great city where I could rely upon being free from
     interruption. How to get Drebber to that house was the difficult
     problem which I had now to solve.

     "He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops,
     staying for nearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out
     he staggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was
     a hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so
     close that the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the
     whole way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of
     streets, until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the
     Terrace in which he had boarded. I could not imagine what his
     intention was in returning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab
     a hundred yards or so from the house. He entered it, and his hansom
     drove away. Give me a glass of water, if you please. My mouth gets
     dry with the talking."

     I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

     "That's better," he said. "Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour,
     or more, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling
     inside the house. Next moment the door was flung open and two men
     appeared, one of whom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap
     whom I had never seen before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar,
     and when they came to the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a
     kick which sent him half across the road. 'You hound,' he cried,
     shaking his stick at him; 'I'll teach you to insult an honest girl!'
     He was so hot that I think he would have thrashed Drebber with his
     cudgel, only that the cur staggered away down the road as fast as his
     legs would carry him. He ran as far as the corner, and then, seeing
     my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. 'Drive me to Halliday's Private
     Hotel,' said he.

     "When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy
     that I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I
     drove along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I
     might take him right out into the country, and there in some deserted
     lane have my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this,
     when he solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him
     again, and he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in,
     leaving word that I should wait for him. There he remained until
     closing time, and when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the
     game was in my own hands.

     "Don't imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would
     only have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring
     myself to do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for
     his life if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets
     which I have filled in America during my wandering life, I was once
     janitor and sweeper out of the laboratory at York College. One day
     the professor was lecturing on poisons, and he showed his students
     some alkaloid, as he called it, which he had extracted from some
     South American arrow poison, and which was so powerful that the least
     grain meant instant death. I spotted the bottle in which this
     preparation was kept, and when they were all gone, I helped myself to
     a little of it. I was a fairly good dispenser, so I worked this
     alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and each pill I put in a box with
     a similar pill made without the poison. I determined at the time that
     when I had my chance, my gentlemen should each have a draw out of one
     of these boxes, while I ate the pill that remained. It would be quite
     as deadly, and a good deal less noisy than firing across a
     handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes about with me,
     and the time had now come when I was to use them.

     "It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard
     and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad
     within--so glad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation.
     If any of you gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for
     it during twenty long years, and then suddenly found it within your
     reach, you would understand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at
     it to steady my nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples
     throbbing with excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier
     and sweet Lucy looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me,
     just as plain as I see you all in this room. All the way they were
     ahead of me, one on each side of the horse until I pulled up at the
     house in the Brixton Road.

     "There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the
     dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber
     all huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm,
     'It's time to get out,' I said.

     "'All right, cabby,' said he.

     "I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned,
     for he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden.
     I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a
     little top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it, and led him
     into the front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father
     and the daughter were walking in front of us.

     "'It's infernally dark,' said he, stamping about.

     "'We'll soon have a light,' I said, striking a match and putting it
     to a wax candle which I had brought with me. 'Now, Enoch Drebber,' I
     continued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, 'who
     am I?'

     "He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I
     saw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features,
     which showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face,
     and I saw the perspiration break out upon his brow, while his teeth
     chattered in his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the
     door and laughed loud and long. I had always known that vengeance
     would be sweet, but I had never hoped for the contentment of soul
     which now possessed me.

     "'You dog!' I said; 'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St.
     Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your
     wanderings have come to an end, for either you or I shall never see
     to-morrow's sun rise.' He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and I
     could see on his face that he thought I was mad. So I was for the
     time. The pulses in my temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I
     believe I would have had a fit of some sort if the blood had not
     gushed from my nose and relieved me.

     "'What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried, locking the door,
     and shaking the key in his face. 'Punishment has been slow in coming,
     but it has overtaken you at last.' I saw his coward lips tremble as I
     spoke. He would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it
     was useless.

     "'Would you murder me?' he stammered.

     "'There is no murder,' I answered. 'Who talks of murdering a mad dog?
     What mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from
     her slaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and
     shameless harem.'

     "'It was not I who killed her father,' he cried.

     "'But it was you who broke her innocent heart,' I shrieked, thrusting
     the box before him. 'Let the high God judge between us. Choose and
     eat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what
     you leave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we
     are ruled by chance.'

     "He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my
     knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I
     swallowed the other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a
     minute or more, waiting to see which was to live and which was to
     die. Shall I ever forget the look which came over his face when the
     first warning pangs told him that the poison was in his system? I
     laughed as I saw it, and held Lucy's marriage ring in front of his
     eyes. It was but for a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is
     rapid. A spasm of pain contorted his features; he threw his hands out
     in front of him, staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily
     upon the floor. I turned him over with my foot, and placed my hand
     upon his heart. There was no movement. He was dead!

     "The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice
     of it. I don't know what it was that put it into my head to write
     upon the wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of
     setting the police upon a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and
     cheerful. I remembered a German being found in New York with RACHE
     written up above him, and it was argued at the time in the newspapers
     that the secret societies must have done it. I guessed that what
     puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped my
     finger in my own blood and printed it on a convenient place on the
     wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found that there was nobody
     about, and that the night was still very wild. I had driven some
     distance when I put my hand into the pocket in which I usually kept
     Lucy's ring, and found that it was not there. I was thunderstruck at
     this, for it was the only memento that I had of her. Thinking that I
     might have dropped it when I stooped over Drebber's body, I drove
     back, and leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly up to the
     house--for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose the ring.
     When I arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a
     police-officer who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his
     suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.

     "That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was
     to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier's debt. I
     knew that he was staying at Halliday's Private Hotel, and I hung
     about all day, but he never came out. I fancy that he suspected
     something when Drebber failed to put in an appearance. He was
     cunning, was Stangerson, and always on his guard. If he thought he
     could keep me off by staying indoors he was very much mistaken. I
     soon found out which was the window of his bedroom, and early next
     morning I took advantage of some ladders which were lying in the lane
     behind the hotel, and so made my way into his room in the grey of the
     dawn. I woke him up and told him that the hour had come when he was
     to answer for the life he had taken so long before. I described
     Drebber's death to him, and I gave him the same choice of the
     poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of safety which
     that offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my throat. In
     self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been the same
     in any case, for Providence would never have allowed his guilty hand
     to pick out anything but the poison.

     "I have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am about done up.
     I went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I
     could save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the
     yard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called
     Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at
     221b, Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm, and the next
     thing I knew, this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and
     as neatly snackled as ever I saw in my life. That's the whole of my
     story, gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold
     that I am just as much an officer of justice as you are."

     So thrilling had the man's narrative been, and his manner was so
     impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional
     detectives, blase as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to
     be keenly interested in the man's story. When he finished we sat for
     some minutes in a stillness which was only broken by the scratching
     of Lestrade's pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his
     shorthand account.

     "There is only one point on which I should like a little more
     information," Sherlock Holmes said at last. "Who was your accomplice
     who came for the ring which I advertised?"

     The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. "I can tell my own
     secrets," he said, "but I don't get other people into trouble. I saw
     your advertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be
     the ring which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think
     you'll own he did it smartly."

     "Not a doubt of that," said Holmes heartily.

     "Now, gentlemen," the Inspector remarked gravely, "the forms of the
     law must be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought
     before the magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until
     then I will be responsible for him." He rang the bell as he spoke,
     and Jefferson Hope was led off by a couple of warders, while my
     friend and I made our way out of the Station and took a cab back to
     Baker Street.

     We had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the
     Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our
     testimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson
     Hope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict justice would
     be meted out to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism
     burst, and he was found in the morning stretched upon the floor of
     the cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had been
     able in his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on
     work well done.

     "Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death," Holmes remarked,
     as we chatted it over next evening. "Where will their grand
     advertisement be now?"

     "I don't see that they had very much to do with his capture," I
     answered.

     "What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence," returned
     my companion, bitterly. "The question is, what can you make people
     believe that you have done. Never mind," he continued, more brightly,
     after a pause. "I would not have missed the investigation for
     anything. There has been no better case within my recollection.
     Simple as it was, there were several most instructive points about
     it."

     "Simple!" I ejaculated.

     "Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise," said
     Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise. "The proof of its intrinsic
     simplicity is, that without any help save a few very ordinary
     deductions I was able to lay my hand upon the criminal within three
     days."

     "That is true," said I.

     "I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is
     usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this
     sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a
     very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not
     practise it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful
     to reason forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are
     fifty who can reason synthetically for one who can reason
     analytically."

     "I confess," said I, "that I do not quite follow you."

     "I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it
     clearer. Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will
     tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together
     in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass.
     There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would
     be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps
     were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I
     talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically."

     "I understand," said I.

     "Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to
     find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you
     the different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I
     approached the house, as you know, on foot, and with my mind entirely
     free from all impressions. I naturally began by examining the
     roadway, and there, as I have already explained to you, I saw clearly
     the marks of a cab, which, I ascertained by inquiry, must have been
     there during the night. I satisfied myself that it was a cab and not
     a private carriage by the narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary
     London growler is considerably less wide than a gentleman's brougham.

     "This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the
     garden path, which happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly
     suitable for taking impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a
     mere trampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes every mark upon
     its surface had a meaning. There is no branch of detective science
     which is so important and so much neglected as the art of tracing
     footsteps. Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and much
     practice has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks
     of the constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had
     first passed through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had
     been before the others, because in places their marks had been
     entirely obliterated by the others coming upon the top of them. In
     this way my second link was formed, which told me that the nocturnal
     visitors were two in number, one remarkable for his height (as I
     calculated from the length of his stride), and the other fashionably
     dressed, to judge from the small and elegant impression left by his
     boots.

     "On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My
     well-booted man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the
     murder, if murder there was. There was no wound upon the dead man's
     person, but the agitated expression upon his face assured me that he
     had foreseen his fate before it came upon him. Men who die from heart
     disease, or any sudden natural cause, never by any chance exhibit
     agitation upon their features. Having sniffed the dead man's lips I
     detected a slightly sour smell, and I came to the conclusion that he
     had had poison forced upon him. Again, I argued that it had been
     forced upon him from the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By
     the method of exclusion, I had arrived at this result, for no other
     hypothesis would meet the facts. Do not imagine that it was a very
     unheard of idea. The forcible administration of poison is by no means
     a new thing in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in Odessa, and of
     Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at once to any toxicologist.

     "And now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had
     not been the object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it
     politics, then, or was it a woman? That was the question which
     confronted me. I was inclined from the first to the latter
     supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to do their work
     and to fly. This murder had, on the contrary, been done most
     deliberately, and the perpetrator had left his tracks all over the
     room, showing that he had been there all the time. It must have been
     a private wrong, and not a political one, which called for such a
     methodical revenge. When the inscription was discovered upon the wall
     I was more inclined than ever to my opinion. The thing was too
     evidently a blind. When the ring was found, however, it settled the
     question. Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of
     some dead or absent woman. It was at this point that I asked Gregson
     whether he had enquired in his telegram to Cleveland as to any
     particular point in Mr. Drebber's former career. He answered, you
     remember, in the negative.

     "I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which
     confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer's height, and furnished
     me with the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the
     length of his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since
     there were no signs of a struggle, that the blood which covered the
     floor had burst from the murderer's nose in his excitement. I could
     perceive that the track of blood coincided with the track of his
     feet. It is seldom that any man, unless he is very full-blooded,
     breaks out in this way through emotion, so I hazarded the opinion
     that the criminal was probably a robust and ruddy-faced man. Events
     proved that I had judged correctly.

     "Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected.
     I telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my
     enquiry to the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch
     Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had
     already applied for the protection of the law against an old rival in
     love, named Jefferson Hope, and that this same Hope was at present in
     Europe. I knew now that I held the clue to the mystery in my hand,
     and all that remained was to secure the murderer.

     "I had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked
     into the house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had
     driven the cab. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had
     wandered on in a way which would have been impossible had there been
     anyone in charge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he
     were inside the house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane
     man would carry out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it
     were, of a third person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly,
     supposing one man wished to dog another through London, what better
     means could he adopt than to turn cabdriver. All these considerations
     led me to the irresistible conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be
     found among the jarveys of the Metropolis.

     "If he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased
     to be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden chance
     would be likely to draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for
     a time at least, continue to perform his duties. There was no reason
     to suppose that he was going under an assumed name. Why should he
     change his name in a country where no one knew his original one? I
     therefore organized my Street Arab detective corps, and sent them
     systematically to every cab proprietor in London until they ferreted
     out the man that I wanted. How well they succeeded, and how quickly I
     took advantage of it, are still fresh in your recollection. The
     murder of Stangerson was an incident which was entirely unexpected,
     but which could hardly in any case have been prevented. Through it,
     as you know, I came into possession of the pills, the existence of
     which I had already surmised. You see the whole thing is a chain of
     logical sequences without a break or flaw."

     "It is wonderful!" I cried. "Your merits should be publicly
     recognized. You should publish an account of the case. If you won't,
     I will for you."

     "You may do what you like, Doctor," he answered. "See here!" he
     continued, handing a paper over to me, "look at this!"

     It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed
     was devoted to the case in question.

     "The public," it said, "have lost a sensational treat through the
     sudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr.
     Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case
     will probably be never known now, though we are informed upon good
     authority that the crime was the result of an old standing and
     romantic feud, in which love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that
     both the victims belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day
     Saints, and Hope, the deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake
     City. If the case has had no other effect, it, at least, brings out
     in the most striking manner the efficiency of our detective police
     force, and will serve as a lesson to all foreigners that they will do
     wisely to settle their feuds at home, and not to carry them on to
     British soil. It is an open secret that the credit of this smart
     capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials,
     Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it appears, in
     the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an
     amateur, shown some talent in the detective line, and who, with such
     instructors, may hope in time to attain to some degree of their
     skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort will be
     presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of their
     services."

     "Didn't I tell you so when we started?" cried Sherlock Holmes with a
     laugh. "That's the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a
     testimonial!"

     "Never mind," I answered, "I have all the facts in my journal, and
     the public shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself
     contented by the consciousness of success, like the Roman miser--

                      "'Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
                 Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca.'"






                              THE SIGN OF THE FOUR

     Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece
     and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,
     white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled
     back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested
     thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred
     with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point
     home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the
     velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

     Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance,
     but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from
     day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my
     conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked
     the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I
     should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the
     cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with
     whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His
     great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had
     of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and
     backward in crossing him.

     Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken
     with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
     deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
     longer.

     "Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"

     He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which
     he had opened. "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per-cent solution.
     Would you care to try it?"

     "No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My constitution has not got
     over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra
     strain upon it."

     He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.
     "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it,
     however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind
     that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

     "But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may,
     as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and
     morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at
     last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction
     comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why
     should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great
     powers with which you have been endowed?  Remember that I speak not
     only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose
     constitution he is to some extent answerable."

     He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his fingertips
     together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who
     has a relish for conversation.

     "My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me
     work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate
     analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then
     with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of
     existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen
     my own particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the
     only one in the world."

     "The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

     "The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered.  "I am the
     last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or
     Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the
     way, is their normal state--the matter is laid before me. I examine
     the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim
     no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work
     itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my
     highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my
     methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."

     "Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything
     in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat
     fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

     He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.  "Honestly, I
     cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an
     exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
     manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which
     produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
     elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

     "But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with
     the facts."

     "Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
     proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the
     case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
     effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

     I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially
     designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the
     egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should
     be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years
     that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small
     vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no
     remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail
     bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me
     from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

     "My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes,
     after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted
     last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
     rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has
     all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the
     wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher
     developments of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and
     possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two
     parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis
     in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the
     letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance." He
     tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I
     glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration,
     with stray magnifiques, coup-de-maÃ®tres and tours-de-force, all
     testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.

     "He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

     "Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes,
     lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of
     the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the
     power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in
     knowledge; and that may come in time. He is now translating my small
     works into French."

     "Your works?"

     "Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty
     of several monographs. They are all upon technical subjects. Here,
     for example, is one 'Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the
     Various Tobaccoes.' In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of
     cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with colored plates
     illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point which is
     continually turning up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of
     supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example,
     that some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian
     lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye
     there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly
     and the white fluff of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a
     potato."

     "You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.

     "I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing
     of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as
     a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon
     the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes
     of the hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers,
     and diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great practical interest
     to the scientific detective,--especially in cases of unclaimed
     bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary
     you with my hobby."

     "Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the greatest interest
     to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your
     practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation
     and deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

     "Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his armchair,
     and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example,
     observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
     Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there
     you dispatched a telegram."

     "Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don't
     see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and
     I have mentioned it to no one."

     "It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my
     surprise,--"so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous;
     and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of
     deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould
     adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they
     have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in
     such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.
     The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as
     I know, nowhere else in the neighborhood. So much is observation. The
     rest is deduction."

     "How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

     "Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat
     opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that
     you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of postcards.  What
     could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire?
     Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the
     truth."

     "In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought.
     "The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest.  Would you
     think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe
     test?"

     "On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a
     second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any
     problem which you might submit to me."

     "I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any
     object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality
     upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I
     have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would
     you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or
     habits of the late owner?"

     I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in
     my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I
     intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
     occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard
     at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his
     naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep
     from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case
     to and handed it back.

     "There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been
     recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

     "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to
     me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most
     lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he
     expect from an uncleaned watch?

     "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he
     observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes.
     "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged
     to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

     "That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

     "Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is
     nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so
     it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descents to the
     eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the
     father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years.
     It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

     "Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"

     "He was a man of untidy habits,--very untidy and careless. He was
     left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for
     some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity,
     and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather."

     I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with
     considerable bitterness in my heart.

     "This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed
     that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into
     the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this
     knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that
     you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to
     speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

     "My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. 
     Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how
     personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you,
     however, that I never even knew that you had a brother until you
     handed me the watch."

     "Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these
     facts? They are absolutely correct in every particular."

     "Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance of
     probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

     "But it was not mere guess-work?"

     "No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit,--destructive to the
     logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do
     not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which
     large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that
     your brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that
     watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but
     it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard
     objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no
     great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so
     cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched
     inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty
     well provided for in other respects."

     I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

     "It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a
     watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the
     inside of the case. It is more handy than a label, as there is no
     risk of the number being lost or transposed. There are no less than
     four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case.
     Inference,--that your brother was often at low water. Secondary
     inference,--that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could
     not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner
     plate, which contains the key-hole. Look at the thousands of
     scratches all round the hole,--marks where the key has slipped. What
     sober man's key could have scored those grooves? But you will never
     see a drunkard's watch without them. He winds it at night, and he
     leaves these traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all
     this?"

     "It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I regret the injustice
     which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvellous
     faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot
     at present?"

     "None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without brain-work. What else
     is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a
     dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls
     down the street and drifts across the duncolored houses. What could
     be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having
     powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime
     is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those
     which are commonplace have any function upon earth."

     I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, when with a crisp
     knock our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

     "A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

     "Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Hum! I have no recollection of the
     name. Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson. Don't go, doctor. I
     should prefer that you remain."

     Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
     composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well
     gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a
     plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a
     suggestion of limited means. The dress was a sombre grayish beige,
     untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull
     hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her
     face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but
     her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were
     singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which
     extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never
     looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and
     sensitive nature. I could not but observe that as she took the seat
     which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her hand
     quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.

     "I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled
     my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic
     complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

     "Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe that I
     was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember
     it, was a very simple one."

     "She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of mine.
     I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly
     inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."

     Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned forward in
     his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his
     clear-cut, hawklike features. "State your case," said he, in brisk,
     business tones.

     I felt that my position was an embarrassing one. "You will, I am
     sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

     To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.
     "If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop, he might
     be of inestimable service to me."

     I relapsed into my chair.

     "Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was an
     officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a
     child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England. I was
     placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at
     Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age.
     In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment,
     obtained twelve months' leave and came home. He telegraphed to me
     from London that he had arrived all safe, and directed me to come
     down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his address. His message,
     as I remember, was full of kindness and love. On reaching London I
     drove to the Langham, and was informed that Captain Morstan was
     staying there, but that he had gone out the night before and had not
     yet returned. I waited all day without news of him. That night, on
     the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the
     police, and next morning we advertised in all the papers. Our
     inquiries let to no result; and from that day to this no word has
     ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with his heart
     full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and instead--" She
     put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the sentence.

     "The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

     "He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878,--nearly ten years
     ago."

     "His luggage?"

     "Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a
     clue,--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
     curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers
     in charge of the convict-guard there."

     "Had he any friends in town?"

     "Only one that we know of,--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the
     34th Bombay Infantry. The major had retired some little time before,
     and lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of course, but
     he did not even know that his brother officer was in England."

     "A singular case," remarked Holmes.

     "I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About six
     years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an advertisement
     appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan and
     stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward. There was
     no name or address appended. I had at that time just entered the
     family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her
     advice I published my address in the advertisement column. The same
     day there arrived through the post a small card-board box addressed
     to me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No
     word of writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same
     date there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar
     pearl, without any clue as to the sender. They have been pronounced
     by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You
     can see for yourselves that they are very handsome." She opened a
     flat box as she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I
     had ever seen.

     "Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Has
     anything else occurred to you?"

     "Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come to you.  This
     morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for
     yourself."

     "Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope too, please. Postmark,
     London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man's thumb-mark on corner,--probably
     postman. Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet.
     Particular man in his stationery. No address. 'Be at the third pillar
     from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o'clock.
     If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman,
     and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be
     in vain. Your unknown friend.' Well, really, this is a very pretty
     little mystery.  What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

     "That is exactly what I want to ask you."

     "Then we shall most certainly go. You and I and--yes, why, Dr. 
     Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I
     have worked together before."

     "But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice
     and expression.

     "I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any
     service."

     "You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a retired life,
     and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it
     will do, I suppose?"

     "You must not be later," said Holmes. "There is one other point,
     however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
     addresses?"

     "I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of
     paper.

     "You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition.
     Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave
     little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised
     hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no
     question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will
     break out, and see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtedly by
     the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss
     Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of
     your father?"

     "Nothing could be more unlike."

     "I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at
     six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter
     before then. It is only half-past three. Au revoir, then."

     "Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from
     one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and
     hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
     down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a
     speck in the sombre crowd.

     "What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.

     He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping
     eyelids. "Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe."

     "You really are an automaton,--a calculating-machine!" I cried.
     "There is something positively inhuman in you at times."

     He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to
     allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is
     to me a mere unit,--a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities
     are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most
     winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little
     children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my
     acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a
     million upon the London poor."

     "In this case, however--"

     "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you
     ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make
     of this fellow's scribble?"

     "It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business habits
     and some force of character."

     Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They
     hardly rise above the common herd. That d might be an a, and that l
     an e. Men of character always differentiate their long letters,
     however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his k's and
     self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few
     references to make. Let me recommend this book,--one of the most
     remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man. I
     shall be back in an hour."

     I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were
     far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our
     late visitor,--her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the
     strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the
     time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty
     now,--a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and
     become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such
     dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk
     and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What
     was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account,
     that I should dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a
     factor,--nothing more. If my future were black, it was better surely
     to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere
     will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination.

     It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager,
     and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated with
     fits of the blackest depression.

     "There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup
     of tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of
     only one explanation."

     "What! you have solved it already?"

     "Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive
     fact, that is all. It is, however, very suggestive. The details are
     still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of
     the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th
     Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

     "I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

     "No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan
     disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is
     Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.
     Four years later Sholto dies. Within a week of his death Captain
     Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated
     from year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her
     as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this
     deprivation of her father? And why should the presents begin
     immediately after Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir
     knows something of the mystery and desires to make compensation? Have
     you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?"

     "But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too,
     should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the
     letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is
     too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other
     injustice in her case that you know of."

     "There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
     Sherlock Holmes, pensively. "But our expedition of to-night will
     solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is
     inside. Are you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a
     little past the hour."

     I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes
     took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It
     was clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious
     one.

     Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was
     composed, but pale. She must have been more than woman if she did not
     feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were
     embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered
     the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

     "Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "His
     letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were in
     command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a
     great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in papa's
     desk which no one could understand. I don't suppose that it is of the
     slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I
     brought it with me. It is here."

     Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his
     knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his double
     lens.

     "It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked. "It has at
     some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a
     plan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and
     passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it
     is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing.  In the left-hand
     corner is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with
     their arms touching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse
     characters, 'The sign of the four,--Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh,
     Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that I do not see how this
     bears upon the matter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance.
     It has been kept carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as
     clean as the other."

     "It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

     "Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of
     use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be
     much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must
     reconsider my ideas." He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by
     his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss
     Morstan and I chatted in an undertone about our present expedition
     and its possible outcome, but our companion maintained his
     impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey.

     It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day
     had been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great
     city. Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down
     the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which
     threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow
     glare from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous
     air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded
     thoroughfare. There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like
     in the endless procession of faces which flitted across these narrow
     bars of light,--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human
     kind, they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into
     the gloom once more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull,
     heavy evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged,
     combined to make me nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss
     Morstan's manner that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes
     alone could rise superior to petty influences. He held his open
     note-book upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down figures
     and memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

     At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the
     side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and
     four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of
     shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly
     reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,
     dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

     "Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

     "I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said
     she.

     He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon
     us. "You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manner,
     "but I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your
     companions is a police-officer."

     "I give you my word on that," she answered.

     He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
     four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us
     mounted to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly
     done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away
     at a furious pace through the foggy streets.

     The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place,
     on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete
     hoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else we had good
     reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.
     Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I
     endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures
     in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at
     our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories
     were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one
     moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of
     night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I
     had some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon,
     what with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London,
     I lost my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going
     a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he
     muttered the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out
     by tortuous by-streets.

     "Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the
     Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.
     Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses
     of the river."

     We did indeed bet a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the
     lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on,
     and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

     "Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.
     Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not
     appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

     We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
     Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse
     glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came
     rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden,
     and then again interminable lines of new staring brick
     buildings,--the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing
     out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a
     new terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at
     which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single
     glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was
     instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban,
     white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something
     strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the
     commonplace door-way of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

     "The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a
     high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me,
     khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me."

     We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and
     worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he
     threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the
     centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a
     bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining
     scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from
     fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his
     features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but
     never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip,
     and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove
     feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part
     of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the
     impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his
     thirtieth year.

     "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high
     voice. "Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A
     small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking.  An oasis of art
     in the howling desert of South London."

     We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which
     he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a
     diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and
     glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back
     here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental
     vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that
     the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great
     tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern
     luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A
     lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost
     invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it
     filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.

     "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
     smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these
     gentlemen--"

     "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."

     "A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope?
     Might I ask you--would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as
     to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may
     rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

     I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
     anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he
     shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You
     have no cause for uneasiness."

     "You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily.  "I
     am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve.
     I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father,
     Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he
     might have been alive now."

     I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
     callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan
     sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart
     that he was dead," said she.

     "I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I
     can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may
     say. I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to
     you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The
     three of us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us
     have no outsiders,--no police or officials. We can settle everything
     satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing
     would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down
     upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery
     blue eyes.

     "For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go
     no further."

     I nodded to show my agreement.

     "That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of
     Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I
     open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
     tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am
     a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He
     applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
     through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our
     heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange,
     jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in
     the centre.

     "When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,
     "I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
     disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the
     liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my
     man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete
     confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were
     dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse
     these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might
     even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than
     a policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough
     materialism. I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live,
     as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may
     call myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is
     a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
     doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question
     about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."

     "You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here
     at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is
     very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as
     possible."

     "At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
     certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall
     all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
     very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to
     me. I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine
     what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

     "If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
     once," I ventured to remark.

     He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he
     cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that
     sudden way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to
     each other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are
     several points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only
     lay the facts before you as far as I know them myself.

     "My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of
     the Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live
     at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and
     brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
     of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these
     advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My
     twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

     "I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
     disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,
     and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
     the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations
     as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect
     that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all
     men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

     "We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
     danger--overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone,
     and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
     Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.
     He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never
     tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to
     men with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver
     at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman
     canvassing for orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter
     up. My brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's,
     but events have since led us to change our opinion.

     "Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a
     great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he
     opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in
     the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it
     that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered
     for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse,
     and towards the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all
     hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us.

     "When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and
     breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon
     either side of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a
     remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much by
     emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in his own very
     words.

     "'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this
     supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The
     cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has
     withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which should have
     been hers. And yet I have made no use of it myself,--so blind and
     foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been
     so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with another. See
     that chaplet dipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that
     I could not bear to part with, although I had got it out with the
     design of sending it to her. You, my sons, will give her a fair share
     of the Agra treasure. But send her nothing--not even the
     chaplet--until I am gone. After all, men have been as bad as this and
     have recovered.

     "'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had suffered
     for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I
     alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of
     circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I
     brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he
     came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the
     station, and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now
     dead. Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of
     the treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of
     his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand
     to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards,
     cutting his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I
     stooped over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

     "'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do.
     My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could
     not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused
     of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in
     his head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could
     not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure, which
     I was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no
     soul upon earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no
     necessity why any soul ever should know.

     "'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my
     servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door
     behind him. "Do not fear, Sahib," he said. "No one need know that you
     have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?" "I did
     not kill him," said I. Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I
     heard it all, Sahib," said he. "I heard you quarrel, and I heard the
     blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put
     him away together." That was enough to decide met. If my own servant
     could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good
     before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar and I
     disposed of the body that night, and within a few days the London
     papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan.
     You will see from what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the
     matter. My fault lies in the fact that we concealed not only the
     body, but also the treasure, and that I have clung to Morstan's share
     as well as to my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution. Put
     your ears down to my mouth. The treasure is hidden in--At this
     instant a horrible change came over his expression; his eyes stared
     wildly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can never
     forget, 'Keep him out! For Christ's sake keep him out'! We both
     stared round at the window behind us upon which his gaze was fixed. A
     face was looking in at us out of the darkness. We could see the
     whitening of the nose where it was pressed against the glass. It was
     a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an expression of
     concentrated malevolence. My brother and I rushed towards the window,
     but the man was gone. When we returned to my father his head had
     dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

     "We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the
     intruder, save that just under the window a single footmark was
     visible in the flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have
     thought that our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.
     We soon, however, had another and a more striking proof that there
     were secret agencies at work all round us. The window of my father's
     room was found open in the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been
     rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with the
     words 'The sign of the four' scrawled across it. What the phrase
     meant, or who our secret visitor may have been, we never knew. As far
     as we can judge, none of my father's property had been actually
     stolen, though everything had been turned out. My brother and I
     naturally associated this peculiar incident with the fear which
     haunted my father during his life; but it is still a complete mystery
     to us."

     The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully
     for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his
     extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's death
     Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared that
     she was about to faint. She rallied however, on drinking a glass of
     water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon
     the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
     abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering
     eyes. As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day
     he had complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at
     least was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr.
     Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious
     pride at the effect which his story had produced, and then continued
     between the puffs of his overgrown pipe.

     "My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited
     as to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for
     months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
     discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the
     hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died. We
     could judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which
     he had taken out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had
     some little discussion. The pearls were evidently of great value, and
     he was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was
     himself a little inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, that
     if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and
     finally bring us into trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade
     him to let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached
     pearl at fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel
     destitute."

     "It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly. "It was
     extremely good of you."

     The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. "We were your trustees,"
     he said. "That was the view which I took of it, though Brother
     Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty
     of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would have been
     such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion.
     'Le mauvais goÃ»t mÃ¨ne au crime.' The French have a very neat way of
     putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went
     so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself: so I left
     Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me.
     Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme importance has
     occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I instantly communicated
     with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood
     and demand our share. I explained my views last night to Brother
     Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors."

     Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious
     settee. We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new
     development which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the
     first to spring to his feet.

     "You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he. "It is
     possible that we may be able to make you some small return by
     throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as
     Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the
     matter through without delay."

     Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his
     hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged
     topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up,
     in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his
     attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which
     covered the ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile
     and peaky face. "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he
     led the way down the passage. "I am compelled to be a
     valetudinarian."

     Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently
     prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.
     Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
     the rattle of the wheels.

     "Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he. "How do you think he found
     out where the treasure was? He had come to the conclusion that it was
     somewhere indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the house,
     and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be
     unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the
     building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of
     all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space
     between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the
     total to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted
     for. These could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a
     hole, therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the highest room,
     and there, sure enough, he came upon another little garret above it,
     which had been sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood
     the treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through
     the hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at
     not less than half a million sterling."

     At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another
     open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change
     from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it
     was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am
     ashamed to say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my
     heart turned as heavy as lead within me. I stammered out some few
     halting words of congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head
     drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a
     confirmed hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was
     pouring forth interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring
     information as to the composition and action of innumerable quack
     nostrums, some of which he bore about in a leather case in his
     pocket. I trust that he may not remember any of the answers which I
     gave him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him
     against the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor oil,
     while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However
     that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a
     jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the door.

     "This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,
     as he handed her out.

     It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our
     night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind
     us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the
     westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a
     moon peeping occasionally through the rifts. It was clear enough to
     see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the
     side-lamps from the carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

     Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a
     very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow
     iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our
     guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

     "Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

     "It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

     There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The
     door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the
     opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his
     protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

     "That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders
     about them from the master."

     "No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I
     should bring some friends.

     "He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no
     orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can
     let you in, but your friends must just stop where they are."

     This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in
     a perplexed and helpless manner. "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!"
     he said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the
     young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road at this hour."

     "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably. "Folk may be
     friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's. He pays me well
     to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know none o' your
     friends."

     "Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially. "I don't
     think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember the amateur who
     fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your
     benefit four years back?"

     "Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth!
     how could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet
     you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under
     the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that
     has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you
     had joined the fancy."

     "You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
     scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our
     friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

     "In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he answered.
     "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be
     certain of your friends before I let them in."

     Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump
     of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a
     moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast
     size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck
     a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and
     the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

     "I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I
     distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is
     no light in his window. I do not know what to make of it."

     "Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

     "Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the favorite son,
     you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more
     than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up there where the
     moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from
     within, I think."

     "None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little
     window beside the door."

     "Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone
     sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind
     waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and
     she has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But hush! what is
     that?"

     He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light
     flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and
     we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
     black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and
     most pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken whimpering of a
     frightened woman.

     "It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in the
     house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried for the
     door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman
     admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

     "Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you
     have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings
     until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
     monotone.

     Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and
     peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which
     cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand
     was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two
     who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word
     or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of
     trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have
     marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural
     thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me,
     there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and
     protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there
     was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.

     "What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

     "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in
     it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near
     Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."

     "And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the
     treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking
     for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

     At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto
     came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his
     eyes.

     "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am
     frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half
     blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from
     the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a
     terrified child.

     "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

     "Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to
     giving directions."

     We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the
     left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down
     with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of
     Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

     "God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob.
     "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this
     day!"

     Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few
     words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back into the
     others bloodless cheeks.

     "Master has locked himself in and will now answer me," she explained.
     "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be
     alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went
     up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr.
     Thaddeus,--you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr.
     Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I
     never saw him with such a face on him as that."

     Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's
     teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to
     pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees
     were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his
     lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to
     me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting
     which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step,
     holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss
     Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

     The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some
     length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it
     and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same
     slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our
     long black shadows streaming backwards down the corridor. The third
     door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving
     any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It
     was locked on the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt,
     as we could see when we set our lamp up against it. The key being
     turned, however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes
     bent down to it, and instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of
     the breath.

     "There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved
     than I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?"

     I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was
     streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty
     radiance. Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the
     air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,--the very face
     of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the
     same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance.
     The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and
     unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring
     to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to
     that of our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure
     that he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had
     mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.

     "This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

     "The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he
     put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not
     yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time
     it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within
     Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

     It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double
     line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite
     the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners,
     test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in
     wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken,
     for a stream of dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the
     air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of
     steps stood at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath
     and plaster, and above them there was an opening in the ceiling large
     enough for a man to pass through. At the foot of the steps a long
     coil of rope was thrown carelessly together.

     By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was
     seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and
     that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold,
     and had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only
     his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most
     fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar
     instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
     hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn
     sheet of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced
     at it, and then handed it to me.

     "You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

     In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The
     sign of the four."

     "In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

     "It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I
     expected it. Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long, dark
     thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

     "It looks like a thorn," said I.

     "It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is
     poisoned."

     I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin
     so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of
     blood showed where the puncture had been.

     "This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows darker
     instead of clearer."

     "On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I only
     require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

     We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the
     chamber. He was still standing in the door-way, the very picture of
     terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, however,
     he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

     "The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of the
     treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him
     to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him here last
     night, and I heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs."

     "What time was that?"

     "It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be
     called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh,
     yes, I am sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen? Surely you
     don't think that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought you
     here if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad!"
     He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive
     frenzy.

     "You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly,
     putting his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive down
     to the station to report this matter to the police. Offer to assist
     them in every way. We shall wait here until your return."

     The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him
     stumbling down the stairs in the dark.

     "Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour
     to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told
     you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of
     over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something
     deeper underlying it."

     "Simple!" I ejaculated.

     "Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor
     expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, that your
     footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first
     place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not
     been opened since last night. How of the window?" He carried the lamp
     across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but
     addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on
     the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us
     open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has
     mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the
     print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy
     mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See
     here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration."

     I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. "This is not a
     footmark," said I.

     "It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a
     wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot
     with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the
     timber-toe."

     "It is the wooden-legged man."

     "Quite so. But there has been some one else,--a very able and
     efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

     I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on
     that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground,
     and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a
     crevice in the brick-work.

     "It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

     "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who
     lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing
     one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you
     were an active man, you might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would
     depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up
     the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the
     inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor
     point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our
     wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional
     sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than
     one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I
     gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin
     off his hand."

     "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more
     unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he
     into the room?"

     "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of
     interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the
     commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals
     of crime in this country,--though parallel cases suggest themselves
     from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

     "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is
     inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?"

     "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered
     that possibility."

     "How then?" I persisted.

     "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How
     often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible
     whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We know that
     he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also
     know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is
     no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?"

     "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

     "Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the
     kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches
     to the room above,--the secret room in which the treasure was found."

     He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he
     swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached
     down for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

     The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way
     and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin
     lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from
     beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner
     shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any
     sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

     "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand
     against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to
     the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping
     at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One
     entered. Let us see if we can find one other traces of his
     individuality."

     He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the
     second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.
     For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes.
     The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked
     foot,--clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the
     size of those of an ordinary man.

     "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing."

     He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered
     for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory
     failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is
     nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down."

     "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly,
     when we had regained the lower room once more.

     "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a
     touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be
     instructive to compare results."

     "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered.

     "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way.
     "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will
     look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about
     the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long
     thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes
     gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and
     furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound
     picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible
     criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity
     against the law, instead of exerting them in its defense. As he
     hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out
     into a loud crow of delight.

     "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little
     trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the
     creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here
     at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked,
     You see, and the stuff has leaked out."

     "What then?" I asked.

     "Why, we have got him, that's all," said he. "I know a dog that would
     follow that scent to the world's end. If a pack can track a trailed
     herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow
     so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of
     three. The answer should give us the--But halloo! here are the
     accredited representatives of the law."

     Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below,
     and the hall door shut with a loud crash.

     "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this
     poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?"

     "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

     "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding
     the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of the face,
     this Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers
     called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

     "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,--"some
     strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

     "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn
     muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for
     the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I
     discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force
     into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would
     be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in
     his chair. Now examine the thorn."

     I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was
     long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though
     some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been
     trimmed and rounded off with a knife.

     "Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

     "No, it certainly is not."

     "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
     But here are the regulars: so the auxiliary forces may beat a
     retreat."

     As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on
     the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode
     heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a
     pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from
     between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an
     inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

     "Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a
     pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as
     full as a rabbit-warren!"

     "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,
     quietly.

     "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
     theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on
     causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It's
     true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was
     more by good luck than good guidance."

     "It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

     "Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all
     this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here,--no room for
     theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
     case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d'you think
     the man died of?"

     "Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes,
     dryly.

     "No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
     sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a
     million missing. How was the window?"

     "Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

     "Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do
     with the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died in a fit;
     but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes
     come upon me at times.--Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr.
     Sholto. Your friend can remain.--What do you think of this, Holmes?
     Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The
     brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure.
     How's that?"

     "On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door
     on the inside."

     "Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter.
     This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was a quarrel; so
     much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much
     also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him.
     His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most
     disturbed state of mind. His appearance is--well, not attractive. You
     see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close
     upon him."

     "You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes.
     "This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be
     poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this
     card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay
     this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit
     into your theory?"

     "Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously.
     "House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and
     if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made
     murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some
     hocus-pocus,--a blind, as like as not. The only question is, how did
     he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof." With great
     activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed
     through into the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his
     exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trap-door.

     "He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.
     "He has occasional glimmerings of reason. Il n'y a pas des sots si
     incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"

     "You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
     "Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case
     is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and
     it is partly open."

     "It was I who opened it."

     "Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen
     at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our
     gentleman got away. Inspector!"

     "Yes, sir," from the passage.

     "Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.--Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to
     inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you.
     I arrest you in the Queen's name as being concerned in the death of
     your brother."

     "There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing
     out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

     "Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think
     that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

     "Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist,--don't promise too much!"
     snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you
     think."

     "Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
     present of the name and description of one of the two people who were
     in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
     Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his
     right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the
     inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an
     iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned,
     and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some
     assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of
     skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man--"

     "Ah! the other man--?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
     impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of
     the other's manner.

     "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
     heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the
     pair of them. A word with you, Watson."

     He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence,"
     he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose
     of our journey."

     "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that
     Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

     "No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
     in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here
     if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"

     "By no means. I don't think I could rest until I know more of this
     fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life,
     but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange
     surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like,
     however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so
     far."

     "Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We
     shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to
     exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. When you
     have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane,
     down near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the
     right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's: Sherman is the name. You will
     see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman
     up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You
     will bring Toby back in the cab with you."

     "A dog, I suppose."

     "Yes,--a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would
     rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of
     London."

     "I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back
     before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

     "And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs.
     Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me,
     sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's
     methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms. 'Wir sind
     gewohnt, daÃŸ die Menschen verhÃ¶hnen was sie nicht verstehen.' Goethe
     is always pithy."

     The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
     Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had
     borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
     than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the
     side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first
     turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,--so sorely
     had she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me
     since that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She
     little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of
     self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out
     to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the
     conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave
     nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two
     thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was
     weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a
     disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still,
     she was rich. If Holmes's researches were successful, she would be an
     heiress. Was it fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon
     should take such advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought
     about? Might she not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I
     could not bear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind.
     This Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

     It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The
     servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
     interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received
     that she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door
     herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how
     tenderly her arm stole round the other's waist and how motherly was
     the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid
     dependant, but an honored friend. I was introduced, and Mrs.
     Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and tell her our adventures.
     I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and promised
     faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with
     the case. As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to
     see that little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging
     figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining through stained
     glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to
     catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the
     midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.

     And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
     grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
     rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the original
     problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain
     Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the
     letter,--we had had light upon all those events. They had only led
     us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian
     treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange
     scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure
     immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer, the very
     singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable
     weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding with those upon
     Captain Morstan's chart,--here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man
     less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of
     ever finding the clue.

     Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the
     lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3
     before I could make my impression. At last, however, there was the
     glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the
     upper window.

     "Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. "If you kick up any
     more row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon
     you."

     "If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

     "Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in
     the bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it."

     "But I want a dog," I cried.

     "I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for
     when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

     "Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began, but the words had a most magical
     effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute
     the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old
     man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted
     glasses.

     "A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he.  "Step in,
     sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty,
     would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust
     its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't
     mind that, sir: it's only a slow-worm. It hain't got no fangs, so I
     gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the bettles down. You must
     not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm guyed
     at by the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lane
     to knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"

     "He wanted a dog of yours."

     "Ah! that would be Toby."

     "Yes, Toby was the name."

     "Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved slowly forward with
     his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round
     him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there
     were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny
     and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn
     fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as
     our voices disturbed their slumbers.

     Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel
     and half lurcher, brown-and-white in color, with a very clumsy
     waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar
     which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an
     alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about
     accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I
     found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The
     ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory,
     and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two
     constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with
     the dog on my mentioning the detective's name.

     Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets,
     smoking his pipe.

     "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Athelney Jones
     has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He
     has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the
     housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves,
     but for a sergeant up-stairs. Leave the dog here, and come up."

     We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs. The room
     was as we had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
     central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the
     corner.

     "Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this
     bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank
     you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.--Just you carry them
     down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my
     handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the
     garret with me for a moment."

     We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more
     upon the footsteps in the dust.

     "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you
     observe anything noteworthy about them?"

     "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

     "Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"

     "They appear to be much as other footmarks."

     "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the
     dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief
     difference?"

     "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe
     distinctly divided."

     "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you
     kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the
     wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my
     hand."

     I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
     smell.

     "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If you can trace him,
     I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run
     down-stairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

     By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on
     the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling
     very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of
     chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more
     upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him
     seated at one of the corner eaves.

     "That You, Watson?" he cried.

     "Yes."

     "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"

     "A water-barrel."

     "Top on it?"

     "Yes."

     "No sign of a ladder?"

     "No."

     "Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck place. I ought to be
     able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels
     pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow."

     There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily
     down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the
     barrel, and from there to the earth.

     "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
     boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
     had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express
     it."

     The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven
     out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it.
     In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were
     half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the
     other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

     "They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick
     yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
     are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in
     our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself.
     Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

     "Certainly," I answered.

     "Your leg will stand it?"

     "Oh, yes."

     "Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He
     pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
     creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most
     comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of
     a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance,
     fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and let him to the
     foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a
     succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the
     ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a
     pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed.

     The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
     distance in the cold gray light. The square, massive house, with its
     black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and
     forlorn, behind us. Our course let right across the grounds, in and
     out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and
     intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and
     ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized
     with the black tragedy which hung over it.

     On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
     underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
     young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
     loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
     lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.
     Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over
     upon the other side.

     "There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted
     up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white
     plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain
     since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their
     eight-and-twenty hours' start."

     I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
     traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My
     fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,
     but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent
     smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents.

     "Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this
     case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
     in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
     them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and,
     since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I
     neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the
     pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to
     be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for
     this too palpable clue."

     "There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that
     I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case,
     even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to
     me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you
     describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

     "Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be
     theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in
     command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
     treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
     Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
     Morstan's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
     associates,--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
     it. Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the
     treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some
     condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did
     not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious.
     The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close
     association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure
     because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not
     get away."

     "But that is mere speculation," said I.

     "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the
     facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto
     remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his
     treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a
     great fright. What was that?"

     "A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

     "Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known
     what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a
     surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a
     wooden-legged man,--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white
     tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one
     white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or
     Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with
     confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan
     Small. Does the reasoning strike yo as being faulty?"

     "No: it is clear and concise."

     "Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let
     us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the
     double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and
     of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out
     where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications
     with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom
     we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character.
     Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no
     one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died.
     Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy
     lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of
     the guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only
     deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with
     hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that night,
     searches his private papers in the hope of discovering some
     memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a memento of
     his visit in the short inscription upon the card. He had doubtless
     planned beforehand that should he slay the major he would leave some
     such record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder,
     but, from the point of view of the four associates, something in the
     nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this
     kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and usually afford
     valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you follow all this?"

     "Very clearly."

     "Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a
     secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he
     leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
     discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again
     trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan,
     with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of
     Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious
     associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot
     into creasote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay
     officer with a damaged tendo Achillis."

     "But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the
     crime."

     "Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way the
     stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against
     Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
     simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter.
     There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his
     companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so
     Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the
     ground, and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far
     as I can decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he
     must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in
     such an oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from
     the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His
     hairiness was the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus
     Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don't know that there is
     anything else."

     "The associate?"

     "Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all
     about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that one
     little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.
     Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank.
     It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a
     stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with our petty
     ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces
     of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

     "Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle."

     "That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one
     curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of man's real
     greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
     see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a
     proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You
     have not a pistol, have you?"

     "I have my stick."

     "It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
     to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
     nasty I shall shoot him dead." He took out his revolver as he spoke,
     and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
     right-hand pocket of his jacket.

     We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
     half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,
     however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
     laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
     taking down shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square-topped
     corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking
     men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after
     their morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly
     at us as we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the
     right nor to the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to the
     ground and an occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.

     We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
     ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the
     side-streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed
     to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
     escaping observation. They had never kept to the main road if a
     parallel side-street would serve their turn. At the foot of
     Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street
     and Miles Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place,
     Toby ceased to advance, but began to run backwards and forwards with
     one ear cocked and the other drooping, the very picture of canine
     indecision. Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from
     time to time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

     "What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They
     surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

     "Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

     "Ah! it's all right. He's off again," said my companion, in a tone of
     relief.

     He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly made up
     his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he
     had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before,
     for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his
     leash and tried to break into a run. I cold see by the gleam in
     Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

     Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
     Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here
     the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side-gate
     into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the
     dog raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a
     passage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
     sprang upon a large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on
     which it had been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes,
     Toby stood upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for
     some sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of
     the trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was
     heavy with the smell of creasote.

     Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst
     simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

     "What now?" I asked. "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

     "He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down
     from the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you
     consider how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is
     no great wonder that our trail should have been crossed. It is much
     used now, especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to
     blame."

     "We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

     "Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what
     puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were
     two different trails running in opposite directions. We took the
     wrong one. It only remains to follow the other."

     There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place
     where he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and
     finally dashed off in a fresh direction.

     "We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where
     the creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

     "I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,
     whereas the barrel passed down the roadway. No, we are on the true
     scent now."

     It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place
     and Prince's Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
     the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us
     to the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the
     dark current beyond.

     "We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here."
     Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on
     the edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but,
     though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

     Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a
     wooden placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith"
     was printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to
     hire by the hour or day." A second inscription above the door
     informed us that a steam launch was kept,--a statement which was
     confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes
     looked slowly round, and his face assumed an ominous expression.

     "This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are sharper than I
     expected. They seem to have covered their tracks. There has, I fear,
     been preconcerted management here."

     He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a
     little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a
     stoutish, red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.

     "You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted. "Come back, you
     young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that,
     he'll let us hear of it."

     "Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. "What a rosy-cheeked
     young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?"

     The youth pondered for a moment. "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

     "Nothing you would like better?"

     "I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some
     thought.

     "Here you are, then! Catch!--A fine child, Mrs. Smith!"

     "Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a'most too
     much for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a
     time."

     "Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for
     that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

     "He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I
     am beginnin' to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a
     boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well."

     "I wanted to hire his steam launch."

     "Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.
     That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than
     would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he'd been away in the
     barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as
     far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha'
     stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?"

     "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

     "He might, sir, but it weren't his way. Many a time I've heard him
     call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I
     don't like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish
     talk. What did he want always knockin' about here for?"

     "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

     "Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for
     my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what's
     more, my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch. I
     tell you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."

     "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You
     are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell
     that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don't
     quite understand how you can be so sure."

     "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.
     He tapped at the winder,--about three it would be. 'Show a leg,
     matey,' says he: 'time to turn out guard.' My old man woke up
     Jim,--that's my eldest,--and away they went, without so much as a
     word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones."

     "And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

     "Couldn't say, I am sure, sir. I didn't hear no one else."

     "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have
     heard good reports of the--Let me see, what is her name?"

     "The Aurora, sir."

     "Ah! She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad
     in the beam?"

     "No, indeed. She's as trim a little thing as any on the river. She's
     been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

     "Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going
     down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora I shall
     let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"

     "No, sir. Black with a white band."

     "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs.
     Smith.--There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take
     it and cross the river.

     "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in
     the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their
     information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do,
     they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them
     under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want."

     "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

     "What would you do, then?"

     "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the
     Aurora."

     "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at
     any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.
     Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for
     miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set
     about it alone."

     "Employ the police, then."

     "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He
     is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would
     injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out
     myself, now that we have gone so far."

     "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?"

     "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their
     heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are
     likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly
     safe they will be in no hurry. Jones's energy will be of use to us
     there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily
     press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong
     scent."

     "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank
     Penitentiary.

     "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's
     sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.
     Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be
     of use to us yet."

     We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes
     despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we
     resumed our journey.

     "I am sure I don't know."

     "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force
     whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

     "Well," said I, laughing.

     "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail,
     I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to
     my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his
     gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast."

     It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a
     strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was
     limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the
     professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I
     look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as
     the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him,
     and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure,
     however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged
     rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it
     I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it
     it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a
     petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as
     that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold
     stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

     A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
     wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid
     and Holmes pouring out the coffee.

     "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.
     "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up
     between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your
     ham and eggs first."

     I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed
     "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

     "About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr.
     Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found
     dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far
     as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr.
     Sholto's person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the
     deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried
     off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
     Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother
     of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney
     Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened
     to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within
     half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced
     faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the
     criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus
     Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper,
     Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or
     gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or
     thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's
     well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation
     have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not
     have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their
     way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into
     a room which communicated with that in which the body was found. This
     fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that
     it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of
     the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on
     such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but
     think that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our
     detectives more decentralized, and so brought into closer and more
     effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to
     investigate."

     "Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. "What
     do you think of it?"

     "I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested
     for the crime."

     "So do I. I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen
     to have another of his attacks of energy."

     At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear
     Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of
     expostulation and dismay.

     "By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are
     really after us."

     "No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force,--the
     Baker Street irregulars."

     As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the
     stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and
     ragged little street-Arabs. There was some show of discipline among
     them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in
     line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number,
     taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of
     lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable
     little carecrow.

     "Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em on sharp. Three
     bob and a tanner for tickets."

     "Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver. "In future they
     can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house
     invaded in this way. However, it is just as well that you should all
     hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts of a steam
     launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red
     streaks, funnel black with a white band. She is down the river
     somewhere. I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage
     opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You must divide it
     out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly. Let me know the
     moment you have news. Is that all clear?"

     "Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

     "The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.
     Here's a day in advance. Now off you go!" He handed them a shilling
     each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
     later streaming down the street.

     "If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he
     rose from the table and lit his pipe. "They can go everywhere, see
     everything, overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening that
     they have spotted her. In the mean while, we can do nothing but await
     results. We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the
     Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

     "Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you going to bed,
     Holmes?"

     "No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember
     feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am
     going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair
     client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy task, this of ours
     ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man
     must, I should think, be absolutely unique."

     "That other man again!"

     "I have no wish to make a mystery of him,--to you, anyway. But you
     must have formed your own opinion. Now, do consider the data.
     Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
     stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What
     do you make of all this?"

     "A savage!" I exclaimed. "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the
     associates of Jonathan Small."

     "Hardly that," said he. "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I
     was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the
     footmarks caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants
     of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such
     marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet. The
     sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the
     others, because the thong is commonly passed between. These little
     darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They are from a blow-pipe.
     Now, then, where are we to find our savage?"

     "South American," I hazarded.

     He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the
     shelf. "This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now being
     published. It may be looked upon as the very latest authority. What
     have we here? 'Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of
     Sumatra, in the Bay of Bengal.' Hum! hum!  What's all this? Moist
     climate, coral reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland
     Island, cottonwoods--Ah, here we are. 'The aborigines of the Andaman
     Islands may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race
     upon this earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of
     Africa, the Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians.
     The average height is rather below four feet, although many
     full-grown adults may be found who are very much smaller than this.
     They are a fierce, morose, and intractable people, though capable of
     forming most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been
     gained.' Mark that, Watson. Now, then, listen to this. 'They are
     naturally hideous, having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes,
     and distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably
     small. So intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the
     British official have failed to win them over in any degree. They
     have always been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the
     survivors with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their
     poisoned arrows. These massacres are invariably concluded by a
     cannibal feast.' Nice, amiable people, Watson! If this fellow had
     been left to his own unaided devices this affair might have taken an
     even more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small
     would give a good deal not to have employed him."

     "But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

     "Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already
     determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very
     wonderful that this islander should be with him. No doubt we shall
     know all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly
     done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep."

     He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out
     he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,--his own, no doubt,
     for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague
     remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and
     fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a
     soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet
     face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.

     It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and
     refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save
     that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked
     across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and
     troubled.

     "You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared that our talk would wake
     you."

     "I heard nothing," I answered. "Have you had fresh news, then?"

     "Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised and disappointed. I
     expected something definite by this time.  Wiggins has just been up
     to report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a
     provoking check, for every hour is of importance."

     "Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for
     another night's outing."

     "No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the
     message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do
     what you will, but I must remain on guard."

     "Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil
     Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday."

     "On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile
     in his eyes.

     "Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were anxious to hear what
     happened."

     "I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be
     entirely trusted,--not the best of them."

     I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be
     back in an hour or two," I remarked.

     "All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you
     may as well return Toby, for I don't think it is at all likely that
     we shall have any use for him now."

     I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a
     half-sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane. At
     Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's
     adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was
     full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing,
     however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I
     spoke of Mr. Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and
     method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to
     startle and amaze them.

     "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a
     million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.
     They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl."

     "And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a
     bright glance at me.

     "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I
     don't think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it
     must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"

     It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed
     no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss
     of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took
     small interest.

     "It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing
     else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most
     kindly and honorably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this
     dreadful and unfounded charge."

     It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I
     reached home. My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he
     had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but
     there was none.

     "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs. 
     Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds.

     "No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking
     her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?"

     "Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

     "Well, he's that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he
     walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound
     of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering,
     and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with 'What
     is that, Mrs. Hudson?' And now he has slammed off to his room, but I
     can hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he's not going to
     be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling
     medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don't
     know how ever I got out of the room."

     "I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I
     answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter
     upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to
     our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through
     the long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his
     tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this
     involuntary inaction.

     At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of
     feverish color upon either cheek.

     "You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you
     marching about in the night."

     "No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is
     consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,
     when all else had been overcome. I know the men, the launch,
     everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at
     work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been
     searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith
     heard of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they
     have scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that."

     "Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

     "No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries made, and there
     is a launch of that description."

     "Could it have gone up the river?"

     "I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-party
     who will work up as far as Richmond. If no news comes to-day, I shall
     start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat.
     But surely, surely, we shall hear something."

     We did not, however. Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or
     from the other agencies. There were articles in most of the papers
     upon the Norwood tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to
     the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were to be found,
     however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the
     following day. I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report
     our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes
     dejected and somewhat morose. He would hardly reply to my questions,
     and busied himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which
     involved much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at
     last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the
     small hours of the morning I could hear the clinking of his
     test-tubes which told me that he was still engaged in his malodorous
     experiment.

     In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him
     standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a
     pea-jacket, and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

     "I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I have been turning it
     over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it. It is worth
     trying, at all events."

     "Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

     "No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my
     representative. I am loath to go, for it is quite on the cards that
     some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent
     about it last night. I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and
     to act on your own judgment if any news should come. Can I rely upon
     you?"

     "Most certainly."

     "I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can
     hardly tell yet where I may find myself. If I am in luck, however, I
     may not be gone so very long. I shall have news of some sort or other
     before I get back."

     I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On opening the
     Standard, however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the
     business.

     "With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have
     reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex
     and mysterious than was originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown
     that it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been
     in any way concerned in the matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs.
     Bernstone, were both released yesterday evening. It is believed,
     however, that the police have a clue as to the real culprits, and
     that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard,
     with all his well-known energy and sagacity. Further arrests may be
     expected at any moment."

     "That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I. "Friend Sholto
     is safe, at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it
     seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a
     blunder."

     I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye
     caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran in this way:

     "Lost.--Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left
     Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the
     steam launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a
     white band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can
     give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221b Baker
     Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the
     launch Aurora."

     This was clearly Holmes's doing. The Baker Street address was enough
     to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be
     read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the
     natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

     It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to the door, or a
     sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes
     returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my
     thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the
     ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there
     be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning. Might
     he be suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible
     that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory
     upon faulty premises? I had never known him to be wrong; and yet the
     keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I
     thought, to fall into error through the over-refinement of his
     logic,--his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a
     plainer and more commonplace one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the
     other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the
     reasons for his deductions. When I looked back on the long chain of
     curious circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all
     tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself that
     even if Holmes's explanation were incorrect the true theory must be
     equally outrÃ© and startling.

     At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell,
     an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a
     person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was
     he, however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense
     who had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His
     expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

     "Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I
     understand."

     "Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you
     would care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

     "Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a
     red bandanna handkerchief.

     "And a whiskey-and-soda?"

     "Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have
     had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this
     Norwood case?"

     "I remember that you expressed one."

     "Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn
     tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the
     middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be
     shaken. From the time that he left his brother's room he was never
     out of sight of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed
     over roofs and through trap-doors. It's a very dark case, and my
     professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of a little
     assistance."

     "We all need help sometimes," said I.

     "Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he,
     in a husky and confidential voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat.
     I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never
     saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is
     irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at
     theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most
     promising officer, and I don't care who knows it. I have had a wire
     from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some
     clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message."

     He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was
     dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it
     said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track
     of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be
     in at the finish."

     "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said
     I.

     "Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed Jones, with evident
     satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of
     course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an
     officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one
     at the door. Perhaps this is he."

     A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and
     rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or
     twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at
     last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance
     corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man,
     clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his
     throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing
     was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his
     shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had
     a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face
     save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and
     long gray side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a
     respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

     "What is it, my man?" I asked.

     He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.

     "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

     "No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have
     for him."

     "It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

     "But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai
     Smith's boat?"

     "Yes. I knows well where it is. An' I knows where the men he is after
     are. An' I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it."

     "Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

     "It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant
     obstinacy of a very old man.

     "Well, you must wait for him."

     "No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr.
     Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself.
     I don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a
     word."

     He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.

     "Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have important information,
     and you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or
     not, until our friend returns."

     The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney
     Jones put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness
     of resistance.

     "Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. "I
     come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my
     life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!"

     "You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall recompense you for
     the loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not
     have long to wait."

     He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face
     resting on his hands. Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk.
     Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

     "I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said.

     We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes sitting close to us
     with an air of quiet amusement.

     "Holmes!" I exclaimed. "You here! But where is the old man?"

     "Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair.
     "Here he is,--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise
     was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that
     test."

     "Ah, you rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. "You would have made
     an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and
     those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew
     the glint of your eye, though. You didn't get away from us so easily,
     you see."

     "I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his
     cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know
     me,--especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my
     cases: so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise
     like this. You got my wire?"

     "Yes; that was what brought me here."

     "How has your case prospered?"

     "It has all come to nothing. I have had to release two of my
     prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two."

     "Never mind. We shall give you two others in the place of them. But
     you must put yourself under my orders. You are welcome to all the
     official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. Is
     that agreed?"

     "Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

     "Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--a
     steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock."

     "That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can
     step across the road and telephone to make sure."

     "Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

     "There will be two or three in the boat. What else?"

     "When we secure the men we shall get the treasure. I think that it
     would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the
     young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the
     first to open it.--Eh, Watson?"

     "It would be a great pleasure to me."

     "Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head.
     "However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at
     it. The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the authorities
     until after the official investigation."

     "Certainly. That is easily managed. One other point. I should much
     like to have a few details about this matter from the lips of
     Jonathan Small himself. You know I like to work the detail of my
     cases out. There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview
     with him, either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is
     efficiently guarded?"

     "Well, you are master of the situation. I have had no proof yet of
     the existence of this Jonathan Small. However, if you can catch him I
     don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."

     "That is understood, then?"

     "Perfectly. Is there anything else?"

     "Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in
     half an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a
     little choice in white wines.--Watson, you have never yet recognized
     my merits as a housekeeper."

     Our meal was a merry one. Holmes coud talk exceedingly well when he
     chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of
     nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on
     a quick succession of subjects,--on miracle-plays, on medieval
     pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on
     the war-ships of the future,--handling each as though he had made a
     special study of it. His bright humor marked the reaction from his
     black depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a
     sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and face his dinner with
     the air of a bon vivant. For myself, I felt elated at the thought
     that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of
     Holmes's gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which
     had brought us together.

     When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at this watch, and filled
     up three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of
     our little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you
     a pistol, Watson?"

     "I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

     "You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that
     the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six."

     It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf,
     and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically.

     "Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

     "Yes,--that green lamp at the side."

     "Then take it off."

     The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were
     cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at
     the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors
     forward.

     "Where to?" asked Jones.

     "To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson's Yard."

     Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines
     of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with
     satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

     "We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

     "Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us."

     "We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a name for being a
     clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how
     annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

     "Yes."

     "Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical
     analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of
     work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving
     the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of
     the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been
     up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at
     any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly
     have been scuttled to hide their traces,--though that always remained
     as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small
     had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable
     of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a
     product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had
     certainly been in London some time--as we had evidence that he
     maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could hardly
     leave at a moment's notice, but would need some little time, if it
     were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of
     probability, at any rate."

     "It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable
     that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his
     expedition."

     "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a
     retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that
     he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me.
     Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his
     companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise
     to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He
     was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their
     head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back
     before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o'clock, according
     to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and
     people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did
     not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved
     his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with
     the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see
     what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they
     would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at
     Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged
     for passages to America or the Colonies."

     "But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings."

     "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in
     spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small,
     and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably
     consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would
     make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How,
     then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when
     wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I
     could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over
     to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling
     change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or hard, and so
     be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at
     a few hours' notice."

     "That seems simple enough."

     "It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be
     overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at
     once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down
     the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
     sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the Aurora had been handed over
     to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial
     directions as to her rudder. 'There ain't naught amiss with her
     rudder,' said the foreman. 'There she lies, with the red streaks.' At
     that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing
     owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course,
     have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his
     launch. 'I want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he,--'eight
     o'clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept
     waiting.' They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of
     money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some
     distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the
     yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I
     stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water's
     edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be
     lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not
     take men, treasure, and all."

     "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men
     or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should
     have had a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when
     they came down."

     "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd
     fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him
     suspicious lie snug for another week."

     "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their
     hiding-place," said I.

     "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a
     hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he
     has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him
     messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and
     this is the best."

     While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the
     long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City
     the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of
     St. Paul's. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.

     "That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of
     masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here
     under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of
     night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I
     see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a
     handkerchief."

     "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them,"
     said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the
     policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going
     forward.

     "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It
     is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be
     certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and
     they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light.
     We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the
     gaslight."

     "They are coming from work in the yard."

     "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little
     immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look
     at them. There is no a priori probability about it. A strange enigma
     is man!"

     "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested.

     "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks
     that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the
     aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example,
     never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with
     precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but
     percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a
     handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder."

     "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly."

     "And there is the Aurora," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the
     devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the
     yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves
     to have the heels of us!"

     She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind
     two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up
     before we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the
     shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at her and
     shook his head.

     "She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall catch her."

     "We must catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth. "Heap it on,
     stokers! Make her do all she can! If we burn the boat we must have
     them!"

     We were fairly after her now. The furnaces roared, and the powerful
     engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic heart. Her sharp,
     steep prow cut through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to
     right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines we sprang
     and quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our
     bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right
     ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the Aurora lay, and the
     swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was
     going. We flashed past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and
     out, behind this one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the
     darkness, but still the Aurora thundered on, and still we followed
     close upon her track.

     "Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the
     engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager,
     aquiline face. "Get every pound of steam you can."

     "I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the Aurora.

     "I am sure of it," said I. "We shall be up with her in a very few
     minutes."

     At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with
     three barges in tow blundered in between us. It was only by putting
     our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could
     round them and recover our way the Aurora had gained a good two
     hundred yards. She was still, however, well in view, and the murky
     uncertain twilight was setting into a clear starlit night. Our
     boilers were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated
     and creaked with the fierce energy which was driving us along. We had
     shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long
     Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs. The
     dull blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into the
     dainty Aurora. Jones turned our search-light upon her, so that we
     could plainly see the figures upon her deck. One man sat by the
     stern, with something black between his knees over which he stooped.
     Beside him lay a dark mass which looked like a Newfoundland dog. The
     boy held the tiller, while against the red glare of the furnace I
     could see old Smith, stripped to the waist, and shovelling coals for
     dear life. They may have had some doubt at first as to whether we
     were really pursuing them, but now as we followed every winding and
     turning which they took there could no longer be any question about
     it. At Greenwich we were about three hundred paces behind them. At
     Blackwall we could not have been more than two hundred and fifty. I
     have coursed many creatures in many countries during my checkered
     career, but never did sport give me such a wild thrill as this mad,
     flying man-hunt down the Thames. Steadily we drew in upon them, yard
     by yard. In the silence of the night we could hear the panting and
     clanking of their machinery. The man in the stern still crouched upon
     the deck, and his arms were moving as though he were busy, while
     every now and then he would look up and measure with a glance the
     distance which still separated us. Nearer we came and nearer. Jones
     yelled to them to stop. We were not more than four boat's lengths
     behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace. It was a clear
     reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and the
     melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other. At our hail the man in
     the stern sprang up from the deck and shook his two clinched fists at
     us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized,
     powerful man, and as he stood poising himself with legs astride I
     could see that from the thigh downwards there was but a wooden stump
     upon the right side. At the sound of his strident, angry cries there
     was movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck. It straightened
     itself into a little black man--the smallest I have ever seen--with a
     great, misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair.
     Holmes had already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the
     sight of this savage, distorted creature. He was wrapped in some sort
     of dark ulster or blanket, which left only his face exposed; but that
     face was enough to give a man a sleepless night. Never have I seen
     features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty. His small
     eyes glowed and burned with a sombre light, and his thick lips were
     writhed back from his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with a
     half animal fury.

     "Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly. We were within a
     boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry. I
     can see the two of them now as they stood, the white man with his
     legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed dwarf with
     his hideous face, and his strong yellow teeth gnashing at us in the
     light of our lantern.

     It was well that we had so clear a view of him. Even as we looked he
     plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood,
     like a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out
     together. He whirled round, threw up his arms, and with a kind of
     choking cough fell sideways into the stream. I caught one glimpse of
     his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters. At
     the same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself upon the rudder
     and put it hard down, so that his boat made straight in for the
     southern bank, while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a
     few feet. We were round after her in an instant, but she was already
     nearly at the bank. It was a wild and desolate place, where the moon
     glimmered upon a wide expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant
     water and beds of decaying vegetation. The launch with a dull thud
     ran up upon the mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her stern flush
     with the water. The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly sank
     its whole length into the sodden soil. In vain he struggled and
     writhed. Not one step could he possibly take either forwards or
     backwards. He yelled in impotent rage, and kicked frantically into
     the mud with his other foot, but his struggles only bored his wooden
     pin the deeper into the sticky bank. When we brought our launch
     alongside he was so firmly anchored that it was only by throwing the
     end of a rope over his shoulders that we were able to haul him out,
     and to drag him, like some evil fish, over our side. The two Smiths,
     father and son, sat sullenly in their launch, but came aboard meekly
     enough when commanded. The Aurora herself we hauled off and made fast
     to our stern. A solid iron chest of Indian workmanship stood upon the
     deck. This, there could be no question, was the same that had
     contained the ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos. There was no key,
     but it was of considerable weight, so we transferred it carefully to
     our own little cabin. As we steamed slowly up-stream again, we
     flashed our search-light in every direction, but there was no sign of
     the Islander. Somewhere in the dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames
     lie the bones of that strange visitor to our shores.

     "See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway. "We were
     hardly quick enough with our pistols." There, sure enough, just
     behind where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts
     which we knew so well. It must have whizzed between us at the instant
     that we fired. Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoulders in his
     easy fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the
     horrible death which had passed so close to us that night.

     Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he had
     done so much and waited so long to gain. He was a sunburned,
     reckless-eyed fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all over
     his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life. There was
     a singular prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who
     was not to be easily turned from his purpose. His age may have been
     fifty or thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with
     gray. His face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy
     brows and aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible
     expression when moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed hands
     upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with
     his keen, twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his
     ill-doings. It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in
     his rigid and contained countenance. Once he looked up at me with a
     gleam of something like humour in his eyes.

     "Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry
     that it has come to this."

     "And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly. "I don't believe that I can
     swing over the job. I give you my word on the book that I never
     raised hand against Mr. Sholto. It was that little hell-hound Tonga
     who shot one of his cursed darts into him. I had no part in it, sir.
     I was as grieved as if it had been my blood-relation. I welted the
     little devil with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done,
     and I could not undo it again."

     "Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best take a pull out of my
     flask, for you are very wet. How could you expect so small and weak a
     man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him while
     you were climbing the rope?"

     "You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. The
     truth is that I hoped to find the room clear. I knew the habits of
     the house pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually
     went down to his supper. I shall make no secret of the business. The
     best defence that I can make is just the simple truth. Now, if it had
     been the old major I would have swung for him with a light heart. I
     would have thought no more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar.
     But it's cursed hard that I should be lagged over this young Sholto,
     with whom I had no quarrel whatever."

     "You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard. He
     is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a true
     account of the matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if you
     do I hope that I may be of use to you.  I think I can prove that the
     poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before ever you reached
     the room."

     "That he was, sir. I never got such a turn in my life as when I saw
     him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed through
     the window. It fairly shook me, sir. I'd have half killed Tonga for
     it if he had not scrambled off. That was how he came to leave his
     club, and some of his darts too, as he tells me, which I dare say
     helped to put you on our track; though how you kept on it is more
     than I can tell. I don't feel no malice against you for it. But it
     does seem a queer thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I who
     have a fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money should spend
     the first half of my life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and
     am like to spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor. It was an
     evil day for me when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet
     and had to do with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything
     but a curse yet upon the man who owned it. To him it brought murder,
     to Major Sholto it brought fear and guilt, to me it has meant slavery
     for life."

     At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy
     shoulders into the tiny cabin. "Quite a family party," he remarked.
     "I think I shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes.  Well, I think we
     may all congratulate each other. Pity we didn't take the other alive;
     but there was no choice. I say, Holmes, you must confess that you cut
     it rather fine. It was all we could do to overhaul her."

     "All is well that ends well," said Holmes. "But I certainly did not
     know that the Aurora was such a clipper."

     "Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that
     if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should
     never have caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood
     business."

     "Neither he did," cried our prisoner,--"not a word. I chose his
     launch because I heard that she was a flier. We told him nothing, but
     we paid him well, and he was to get something handsome if we reached
     our vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, outward bound for the
     Brazils."

     "Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no wrong comes to
     him. If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick
     in condemning them." It was amusing to notice how the consequential
     Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of
     the capture. From the slight smile which played over Sherlock
     Holmes's face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon
     him.

     "We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall
     land you, Dr. Watson, with the treasure-box. I need hardly tell you
     that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing
     this. It is most irregular; but of course an agreement is an
     agreement. I must, however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector
     with you, since you have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no
     doubt?"

     "Yes, I shall drive."

     "It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first.
     You will have to break it open. Where is the key, my man?"

     "At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly.

     "Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have
     had work enough already through you. However, doctor, I need not warn
     you to be careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street
     rooms. You will find us there, on our way to the station."

     They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff,
     genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour's drive
     brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servant seemed surprised at
     so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she
     explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in
     the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving
     the obliging inspector in the cab.

     She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white
     diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and
     waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned
     back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and
     tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant
     hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and
     her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the
     sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright
     flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale cheeks.

     "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester
     had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you.
     What news have you brought me?"

     "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the
     box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my
     heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is
     worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune."

     She glanced at iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked,
     coolly enough.

     "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half
     is Thaddeus Sholto's. You will have a couple of hundred thousand
     each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be
     few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?"

     I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that
     she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her
     eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously.

     "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you."

     "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes.
     With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue
     which has taxed even his analytical genius.  As it was, we very
     nearly lost it at the last moment."

     "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she.

     I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her
     last,--Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the Aurora,
     the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and
     the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and
     shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the
     dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I
     feared that she was about to faint.

     "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water.
     "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed
     my friends in such horrible peril."

     "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no
     more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the
     treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it
     with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see
     it."

     "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no
     eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that
     it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize
     which had cost so much to win.

     "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian
     work, I suppose?"

     "Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

     "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone
     must be of some value. Where is the key?"

     "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs.
     Forrester's poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp,
     wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end
     of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open
     with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We
     both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty!

     No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch
     thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest
     constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or
     crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and
     completely empty.

     "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

     As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great
     shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra
     treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed.
     It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize
     nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank
     God!" I ejaculated from my very heart.

     She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say
     that?" she asked.

     "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She
     did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a
     man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my
     lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is
     why I said, 'Thank God.'"

     "Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my
     side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had
     gained one.

     A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary
     time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him
     the empty box.

     "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money
     there is no pay. This night's work would have been worth a tenner
     each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there."

     "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you
     are rewarded, treasure or no."

     The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It's a bad job,"
     he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think."

     His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank
     enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They
     had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had
     changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon
     the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual
     listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with
     his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty
     box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud.

     "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

     "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he
     cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can't have the loot
     I'll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no
     living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the
     Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have
     the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through
     for them as much as for myself. It's been the sign of four with us
     always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have
     done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to
     kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich
     that we did for Achmet. You'll find the treasure where the key is,
     and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us,
     I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this
     journey."

     "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you
     had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been
     easier for you to have thrown box and all."

     "Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered,
     with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt
     me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a
     river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a
     harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when
     you came up with us. However, there's no good grieving over it. I've
     had ups in my life, and I've had downs, but I've learned not to cry
     over spilled milk."

     "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you
     had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would
     have had a better chance at your trial."

     "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is
     this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it
     up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it!
     Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under
     the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts,
     bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed
     black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That
     was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice
     because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that
     another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have
     one of Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's cell and
     feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that
     should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this
     came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the
     handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his
     hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the
     man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had
     possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict
     was upon his track.

     "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly.
     "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may
     originally have been on your side."

     "Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see
     that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists.
     Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If
     you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say
     to you is God's truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the
     glass beside me here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry.

     "I am a Worcestershire man myself,--born near Pershore. I dare say
     you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look.
     I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is
     that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they
     would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going
     folk, small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side,
     while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was
     about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess
     over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the queen's
     shilling and joining the 3d Buffs, which was just starting for India.

     "I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got
     past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool
     enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company
     sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was
     one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just
     as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a
     surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock
     and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder
     had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months
     in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it
     with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided
     out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation.

     "I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for
     I was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. However,
     my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named
     Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an
     overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work. He
     happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had taken an interest
     in me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel
     recommended me strongly for the post and, as the work was mostly to
     be done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough
     knee left to keep good grip on the saddle. What I had to do was to
     ride over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked,
     and to report the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable
     quarters, and altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my
     life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, and he would
     often drop into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white
     folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do
     here at home.

     "Well, I was never in luck's way long. Suddenly, without a note of
     warning, the great mutiny broke upon us. One month India lay as still
     and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there
     were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was
     a perfect hell. Of course you know all about it, gentlemen,--a deal
     more than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only
     know what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation was at a place
     called Muttra, near the border of the Northwest Provinces. Night
     after night the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and
     day after day we had small companies of Europeans passing through our
     estate with their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where
     were the nearest troops. Mr. Abelwhite was an obstinate man. He had
     it in his head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it
     would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up. There he sat on his
     veranda, drinking whiskey-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the
     country was in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and
     Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the book-work and the
     managing. Well, one fine day the crash came. I had been away on a
     distant plantation, and was riding slowly home in the evening, when
     my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the bottom of a
     steep nullah. I rode down to see what it was, and the cold struck
     through my heart when I found it was Dawson's wife, all cut into
     ribbons, and half eaten by jackals and native dogs. A little further
     up the road Dawson himself was lying on his face, quite dead, with an
     empty revolver in his hand and four Sepoys lying across each other in
     front of him. I reined up my horse, wondering which way I should
     turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke curling up from
     Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning to burst through the
     roof. I knew then that I could do my employer no good, but would only
     throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter. From where I stood
     I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with their red coats still
     on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning house. Some of
     them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sang past my head; so I
     broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late at night
     safe within the walls at Agra.

     "As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. The
     whole country was up like a swarm of bees. Wherever the English could
     collect in little bands they held just the ground that their guns
     commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives. It was a
     fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the cruellest part of
     it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and
     gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and trained,
     handling our own weapons, and blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra
     there were the 3d Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse,
     and a battery of artillery. A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants
     had been formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all. We went out
     to meet the rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back
     for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon the
     city. Nothing but the worst news came to us from every side,--which
     is not to be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will see
     that we were right in the heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than
     a hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the south.
     From every point on the compass there was nothing but torture and
     murder and outrage.

     "The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce
     devil-worshippers of all sorts. Our handful of men were lost among
     the narrow, winding streets. Our leader moved across the river,
     therefore, and took up his position in the old fort at Agra. I don't
     know if any of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that
     old fort. It is a very queer place,--the queerest that ever I was in,
     and I have been in some rum corners, too. First of all, it is
     enormous in size. I should think that the enclosure must be acres and
     acres. There is a modern part, which took all our garrison, women,
     children, stores, and everything else, with plenty of room over. But
     the modern part is nothing like the size of the old quarter, where
     nobody goes, and which is given over to the scorpions and the
     centipedes. It is all full of great deserted halls, and winding
     passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy
     enough for folk to get lost in it. For this reason it was seldom that
     any one went into it, though now and again a party with torches might
     go exploring.

     "The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects
     it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had
     to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which
     was actually held by our troops. We were short-handed, with hardly
     men enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns.
     It was impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at
     every one of the innumerable gates. What we did was to organize a
     central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate
     under the charge of one white man and two or three natives. I was
     selected to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small
     isolated door upon the southwest side of the building. Two Sikh
     troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if
     anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely upon help
     coming at once from the central guard. As the guard was a good two
     hundred paces away, however, and as the space between was cut up into
     a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great doubts as to
     whether they could arrive in time to be of any use in case of an
     actual attack.

     "Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me,
     since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that. For two
     nights I kept the watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall,
     fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both
     old fighting-men who had borne arms against us at Chilian-wallah.
     They could talk English pretty well, but I could get little out of
     them. They preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their
     queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I used to stand outside the gate-way,
     looking down on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights
     of the great city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and
     the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang,
     were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbors across
     the stream. Every two hours the officer of the night used to come
     round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well.

     "The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small,
     driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gate-way hour after
     hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk,
     but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed,
     and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my
     companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe,
     and laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two
     Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled
     it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and
     swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a
     step.

     "My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the
     rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door
     were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women
     and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen
     think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my
     word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the
     knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a
     scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The
     man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced
     myself to it, he whispered, 'Don't make a noise. The fort is safe
     enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river.' There was
     the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my
     voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow's brown eyes. I
     waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted
     from me.

     "'Listen to me, Sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the
     one whom they called Abdullah Khan. 'You must either be with us now
     or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us
     to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on
     the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown
     into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel
     army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We
     can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing,
     and all must be done before the rounds come again.'

     "'How can I decide?' said I. 'You have not told me what you want of
     me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of
     the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your
     knife and welcome.'

     "'It is nothing against the fort,' said he. 'We only ask you to do
     that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be
     rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon
     the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever
     known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A
     quarter of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer.'

     "'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked. 'I am as ready to be rich
     as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.'

     "'You will swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father, by
     the honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no
     hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards?'

     "'I will swear it,' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not
     endangered.'

     "'Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of
     the treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us.'

     "'There are but three,' said I.

     "'No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell the tale to you
     while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and
     give notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell
     it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee,
     and that we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you
     had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your blood would
     have been upon the knife, and your body in the water. But the Sikh
     knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. Hearken,
     then, to what I have to say.

     "'There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth,
     though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and
     more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and
     hoards his gold rather than spend it. When the troubles broke out he
     would be friends both with the lion and the tiger,--with the Sepoy
     and with the Company's raj. Soon, however, it seemed to him that the
     white men's day was come, for through all the land he could hear of
     nothing but of their death and their overthrow. Yet, being a careful
     man, he made such plans that, come what might, half at least of his
     treasure should be left to him. That which was in gold and silver he
     kept by him in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones
     and the choicest pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent
     it by a trusty servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should
     take it to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace.
     Thus, if the rebels won he would have his money, but if the Company
     conquered his jewels would be saved to him. Having thus divided his
     hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were
     strong upon his borders. By doing this, mark you, Sahib, his property
     becomes the due of those who have been true to their salt.

     "'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is
     now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort.
     He has with him as travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost Akbar,
     who knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised this night to lead him
     to a side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for his
     purpose. Here he will come presently, and here he will find Mahomet
     Singh and myself awaiting him. The place is lonely, and none shall
     know of his coming. The world shall know of the merchant Achmet no
     more, but the great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among us.
     What say you to it, Sahib?'

     "In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred
     thing; but it is very different when there is fire and blood all
     round you and you have been used to meeting death at every turn.
     Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air
     to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart turned to it, and
     I thought of what I might do in the old country with it, and how my
     folk would stare when they saw their ne'er-do-well coming back with
     his pockets full of gold moidores. I had, therefore, already made up
     my mind. Abdullah Khan, however, thinking that I hesitated, pressed
     the matter more closely.

     "'Consider, Sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the
     commandant he will be hung or shot, and his jewels taken by the
     government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them. Now,
     since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest as well?
     The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's coffers. There
     will be enough to make every one of us rich men and great chiefs. No
     one can know about the matter, for here we are cut off from all men.
     What could be better for the purpose?  Say again, then, Sahib,
     whether you are with us, or if we must look upon you as an enemy.'

     "'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.

     "'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock. 'You see
     that we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be broken. We
     have now only to wait for my brother and the merchant.'

     "'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?' I asked.

     "'The plan is his. He has devised it. We will go to the gate and
     share the watch with Mahomet Singh.'

     "The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the beginning
     of the wet season. Brown, heavy clouds were drifting across the sky,
     and it was hard to see more than a stone-cast. A deep moat lay in
     front of our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up, and
     it could easily be crossed. It was strange to me to be standing there
     with those two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was coming to
     his death.

     "Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the other
     side of the moat. It vanished among the mound-heaps, and then
     appeared again coming slowly in our direction.

     "'Here they are!' I exclaimed.

     "'You will challenge him, Sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah. 'Give
     him no cause for fear. Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest
     while you stay here on guard. Have the lantern ready to uncover, that
     we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

     "The light had flickered onwards, now stopping and now advancing,
     until I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the moat. I
     let them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and
     climb half-way up to the gate, before I challenged them.

     "'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

     "'Friends,' came the answer. I uncovered my lantern and threw a flood
     of light upon them. The first was an enormous Sikh, with a black
     beard which swept nearly down to his cummerbund. Outside of a show I
     have never seen so tall a man. The other was a little, fat, round
     fellow, with a great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand, done up
     in a shawl. He seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his hands
     twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept turning to left and
     right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he
     ventures out from his hole. It gave me the chills to think of killing
     him, but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as hard as a
     flint within me. When he saw my white face he gave a little chirrup
     of joy and came running up towards me.

     "'Your protection, Sahib,' he panted,--'your protection for the
     unhappy merchant Achmet. I have travelled across Rajpootana that I
     might seek the shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed and
     beaten and abused because I have been the friend of the Company. It
     is a blessed night this when I am once more in safety,--I and my poor
     possessions.'

     "'What have you in the bundle?' I asked.

     "'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little family
     matters which are of no value to others, but which I should be sorry
     to lose. Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young Sahib,
     and your governor also, if he will give me the shelter I ask.'

     "I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man. The more I
     looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that we
     should slay him in cold blood. It was best to get it over.

     "'Take him to the main guard,' said I. The two Sikhs closed in upon
     him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in
     through the dark gate-way. Never was a man so compassed round with
     death. I remained at the gate-way with the lantern.

     "I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through
     the lonely corridors. Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a
     scuffle, with the sound of blows. A moment later there came, to my
     horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud
     breathing of a running man. I turned my lantern down the long,
     straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind,
     with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels,
     bounding like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh, with a knife
     flashing in his hand. I have never seen a man run so fast as that
     little merchant. He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if
     he once passed me and got to the open air he would save himself yet.
     My heart softened to him, but again the thought of his treasure
     turned me hard and bitter. I cast my firelock between his legs as he
     raced past, and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit. Ere he could
     stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife twice
     in his side. The man never uttered moan nor moved muscle, but lay
     were he had fallen. I think myself that he may have broken his neck
     with the fall. You see, gentlemen, that I am keeping my promise. I am
     telling you every work of the business just exactly as it happened,
     whether it is in my favor or not."

     He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whiskey-and-water
     which Holmes had brewed for him. For myself, I confess that I had now
     conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only for this
     cold-blooded business in which he had been concerned, but even more
     for the somewhat flippant and careless way in which he narrated it.
     Whatever punishment was in store for him, I felt that he might expect
     no sympathy from me. Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands
     upon their knees, deeply interested in the story, but with the same
     disgust written upon their faces.  He may have observed it, for there
     was a touch of defiance in his voice and manner as he proceeded.

     "It was all very bad, no doubt," said he. "I should like to know how
     many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this loot when
     they knew that they would have their throats cut for their pains.
     Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in the fort. If he
     had got out, the whole business would come to light, and I should
     have been court-martialled and shot as likely as not; for people were
     not very lenient at a time like that."

     "Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly.

     "Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I. A fine weight he
     was, too, for all that he was so short. Mahomet Singh was left to
     guard the door. We took him to a place which the Sikhs had already
     prepared. It was some distance off, where a winding passage leads to
     a great empty hall, the brick walls of which were all crumbling to
     pieces. The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a natural
     grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him
     over with loose bricks. This done, we all went back to the treasure.

     "It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked. The box
     was the same which now lies open upon your table. A key was hung by a
     silken cord to that carved handle upon the top. We opened it, and the
     light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I have
     read of and thought about when I was a little lad at Pershore. It was
     blinding to look upon them. When we had feasted our eyes we took them
     all out and made a list of them. There were one hundred and
     forty-three diamonds of the first water, including one which has been
     called, I believe, 'the Great Mogul' and is said to be the second
     largest stone in existence. Then there were ninety-seven very fine
     emeralds, and one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which, however,
     were small. There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten
     sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls, onyxes,
     cats'-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names of which I
     did not know at the time, though I have become more familiar with
     them since. Besides this, there were nearly three hundred very fine
     pearls, twelve of which were set in a gold coronet. By the way, these
     last had been taken out of the chest and were not there when I
     recovered it.

     "After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the chest
     and carried them to the gate-way to show them to Mahomet Singh. Then
     we solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true to
     our secret. We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe place until the
     country should be at peace again, and then to divide it equally among
     ourselves. There was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of
     such value were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there was
     no privacy in the fort nor any place where we could keep them. We
     carried the box, therefore, into the same hall where we had buried
     the body, and there, under certain bricks in the best-preserved wall,
     we made a hollow and put our treasure. We made careful note of the
     place, and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and put
     the sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we
     should each always act for all, so that none might take advantage.
     That is an oath that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I
     have never broken.

     "Well, there's no use my telling you gentlemen what came of the
     Indian mutiny. After Wilson took Delhi and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow
     the back of the business was broken. Fresh troops came pouring in,
     and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. A flying column
     under Colonel Greathed came round to Agra and cleared the Pandies
     away from it. Peace seemed to be settling upon the country, and we
     four were beginning to hope that the time was at hand when we might
     safely go off with our shares of the plunder. In a moment, however,
     our hopes were shattered by our being arrested as the murderers of
     Achmet.

     "It came about in this way. When the rajah put his jewels into the
     hands of Achmet he did it because he knew that he was a trusty man.
     They are suspicious folk in the East, however: so what does this
     rajah do but take a second even more trusty servant and set him to
     play the spy upon the first? This second man was ordered never to let
     Achmet out of his sight, and he followed him like his shadow. He went
     after him that night and saw him pass through the doorway. Of course
     he thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and applied for admission
     there himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet. This
     seemed to him so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of
     guides, who brought it to the ears of the commandant. A thorough
     search was quickly made, and the body was discovered. Thus at the
     very moment that we thought that all was safe we were all four seized
     and brought to trial on a charge of murder,--three of us because we
     had held the gate that night, and the fourth because he was known to
     have been in the company of the murdered man. Not a word about the
     jewels came out at the trial, for the rajah had been deposed and
     driven out of India: so no one had any particular interest in them.
     The murder, however, was clearly made out, and it was certain that we
     must all have been concerned in it. The three Sikhs got penal
     servitude for life, and I was condemned to death, though my sentence
     was afterwards commuted into the same as the others.

     "It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then.
     There we were all four tied by the leg and with precious little
     chance of ever getting out again, while we each held a secret which
     might have put each of us in a palace if we could only have made use
     of it. It was enough to make a man eat his heart out to have to stand
     the kick and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have rice to
     eat and water to drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready for him
     outside, just waiting to be picked up. It might have driven me mad;
     but I was always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and bided
     my time.

     "At last it seemed to me to have come. I was changed from Agra to
     Madras, and from there to Blair Island in the Andamans. There are
     very few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved
     well from the first, I soon found myself a sort of privileged person.
     I was given a hut in Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes
     of Mount Harriet, and I was left pretty much to myself. It is a
     dreary, fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little clearings was
     infested with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow a
     poisoned dart at us if they saw a chance. There was digging, and
     ditching, and yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so
     we were busy enough all day; though in the evening we had a little
     time to ourselves. Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs
     for the surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge. All the
     time I was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is hundreds
     of miles from any other land, and there is little or no wind in those
     seas: so it was a terribly difficult job to get away.

     "The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and the
     other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening and play
     cards. The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next to his
     sitting-room, with a small window between us. Often, if I felt
     lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and then,
     standing there, I could hear their talk and watch their play. I am
     fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having
     one to watch the others. There was Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and
     Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native troops,
     and there was the surgeon himself, and two or three prison-officials,
     crafty old hands who played a nice sly safe game. A very snug little
     party they used to make.

     "Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that was
     that the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to win. Mind,
     I don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it was. These
     prison-chaps had done little else than play cards ever since they had
     been at the Andamans, and they knew each other's game to a point,
     while the others just played to pass the time and threw their cards
     down anyhow. Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and
     the poorer they got the more keen they were to play. Major Sholto was
     the hardest hit. He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but soon
     it came to notes of hand and for big sums. He sometimes would win for
     a few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck would set in
     against him worse than ever. All day he would wander about as black
     as thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for
     him.

     "One night he lost even more heavily than usual. I was sitting in my
     hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to
     their quarters. They were bosom friends, those two, and never far
     apart. The major was raving about his losses.

     "'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut. 'I
     shall have to send in my papers. I am a ruined man.'

     "'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the
     shoulder. 'I've had a nasty facer myself, but--' That was all I could
     hear, but it was enough to set me thinking.

     A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach: so I
     took the chance of speaking to him.

     "'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.

     "'Well, Small, what is it?' he asked, taking his cheroot from his
     lips.

     "'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to
     whom hidden treasure should be handed over. I know where half a
     million worth lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps
     the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper
     authorities, and then perhaps they would get my sentence shortened
     for me.'

     "'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I
     was in earnest.

     "'Quite that, sir,--in jewels and pearls. It lies there ready for
     anyone. And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is
     outlawed and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the first
     comer.'

     "'To government, Small,' he stammered,--'to government.' But he said
     it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him.

     "'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the
     Governor-General?' said I, quietly.

     "'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might
     repent. Let me hear all about it, Small. Give me the facts.'

     "I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not
     identify the places. When I had finished he stood stock still and
     full of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was
     a struggle going on within him.

     "'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last. 'You
     must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again
     soon.'

     "Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in
     the dead of the night with a lantern.

     "'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your
     own lips, Small,' said he.

     "I repeated it as I had told it before.

     "'It rings true, eh?' said he. 'It's good enough to act upon?'

     "Captain Morstan nodded.

     "'Look here, Small,' said the major. 'We have been talking it over,
     my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this
     secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a
     private concern of your own, which of course you have the power of
     disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price
     would you ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at
     least look into it, if we could agree as to terms.' He tried to speak
     in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement
     and greed.

     "'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be cool,
     but feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one bargain which a
     man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my
     freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs.  We shall then
     take yo into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide
     between you.'

     "'Hum!' said he. 'A fifth share! That is not very tempting.'

     "'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.

     "'But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask
     an impossibility.'

     "'Nothing of the sort,' I answered. 'I have thought it all out to the
     last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat
     fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time.
     There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras
     which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall
     engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any
     part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the
     bargain.'

     "'If there were only one,' he said.

     "'None or all,' I answered. 'We have sworn it. The four of us must
     always act together.'

     "'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word. He does
     not flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him.'

     "'It's a dirty business,' the other answered. 'Yet, as you say, the
     money would save our commissions handsomely.'

     "'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet
     you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me
     where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to
     India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.'

     "'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot. 'I must have
     the consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none
     with us.'

     "'Nonsense!' he broke in. 'What have three black fellows to do with
     our agreement?'

     "'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go
     together.'

     "Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh,
     Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter
     over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to provide
     both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort and mark
     the place in the wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to
     go to India to test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it
     there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was
     to lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and
     finally to return to his duties. Captain Morstan was then to apply
     for leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a
     final division of the treasure, he taking the major's share as well
     as his own. All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the mind
     could think or the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink,
     and by the morning I had the two charts all ready, signed with the
     sign of four,--that is, of Abdullah, Akbar, Mahomet, and myself.

     "Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my
     friend Mr. Jones is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey. I'll
     make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto went off to India, but
     he never came back again. Captain Morstan showed me his name among a
     list of passengers in one of the mail-boats very shortly afterwards.
     His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army,
     yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated us. Morstan
     went over to Agra shortly afterwards, and found, as we expected, that
     the treasure was indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all,
     without carrying out one of the conditions on which we had sold him
     the secret. From that day I lived only for vengeance. I thought of it
     by day and I nursed it by night. It became an overpowering, absorbing
     passion with me. I cared nothing for the law,--nothing for the
     gallows. To escape, to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his
     throat,--that was my one thought. Even the Agra treasure had come to
     be a smaller thing in my mind than the slaying of Sholto.

     "Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one
     which I did not carry out. But it was weary years before my time
     came. I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine. One
     day when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little Andaman Islander
     was picked up by a convict-gang in the woods. He was sick to death,
     and had gone to a lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though he
     was as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of months I got
     him all right and able to walk. He took a kind of fancy to me then,
     and would hardly go back to his woods, but was always hanging about
     my hut. I learned a little of his lingo from him, and this made him
     all the fonder of me.

     "Tonga--for that was his name--was a fine boatman, and owned a big,
     roomy canoe of his own. When I found that he was devoted to me and
     would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance of escape. I talked it
     over with him. He was to bring his boat round on a certain night to
     an old wharf which was never guarded, and there he was to pick me up.
     I gave him directions to have several gourds of water and a lot of
     yams, cocoa-nuts, and sweet potatoes.

     "He was stanch and true, was little Tonga. No man ever had a more
     faithful mate. At the night named he had his boat at the wharf. As it
     chanced, however, there was one of the convict-guard down there,--a
     vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting and injuring
     me. I had always vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance. It was as
     if fate had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt before I
     left the island. He stood on the bank with his back to me, and his
     carbine on his shoulder. I looked about for a stone to beat out his
     brains with, but none could I see.

     "Then a queer thought came into my head and showed me where I could
     lay my hand on a weapon. I sat down in the darkness and unstrapped my
     wooden leg. With three long hops I was on him. He put his carbine to
     his shoulder, but I struck him full, and knocked the whole front of
     his skull in. You can see the split in the wood now where I hit him.
     We both went down together, for I could not keep my balance, but when
     I got up I found him still lying quiet enough. I made for the boat,
     and in an hour we were well out at sea. Tonga had brought all his
     earthly possessions with him, his arms and his gods. Among other
     things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some Andaman cocoa-nut
     matting, with which I made a sort of sail. For ten days we were
     beating about, trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we were picked
     up by a trader which was going from Singapore to Jiddah with a cargo
     of Malay pilgrims. They were a rum crowd, and Tonga and I soon
     managed to settle down among them. They had one very good quality:
     they let you alone and asked no questions.

     "Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little chum
     and I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have you here
     until the sun was shining. Here and there we drifted about the world,
     something always turning up to keep us from London. All the time,
     however, I never lost sight of my purpose. I would dream of Sholto at
     night. A hundred times I have killed him in my sleep. At last,
     however, some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in England.
     I had no great difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set to
     work to discover whether he had realized the treasure, or if he still
     had it. I made friends with someone who could help me,--I name no
     names, for I don't want to get any one else in a hole,--and I soon
     found that he still had the jewels. Then I tried to get at him in
     many ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters,
     besides his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him.

     "One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I hurried at once to
     the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that,
     and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his
     sons on each side of him. I'd have come through and taken my chance
     with the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped,
     and I knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night,
     though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of
     where he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however: so I
     came away, bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I left I
     bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a
     satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our hatred: so I
     scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the
     chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It was too much that he should
     be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he had
     robbed and befooled.

     "We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs
     and other such places as the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat
     and dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies after a
     day's work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and
     for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were
     hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited
     for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the
     house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory. I came at
     once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how with my
     wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a
     trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour. It
     seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I
     brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He
     could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof,
     but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the
     room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in
     killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting
     about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made
     at him with the rope's end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty
     imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down
     myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to
     show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most
     right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and
     made off the way that he had come.

     "I don't know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a
     waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch, the Aurora, so I
     thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old
     Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship.
     He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in
     our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you,
     gentlemen, it is not to amuse you,--for you have not done me a very
     good turn,--but it is because I believe the best defence I can make
     is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I
     have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the
     death of his son."

     "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up
     to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me
     in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your
     own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had
     lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat."

     "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe
     at the time."

     "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that."

     "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked
     the convict, affably.

     "I think not, thank you," my companion answered.

     "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humored,
     and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is
     duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend
     asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller
     here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two
     inspectors down-stairs. I am much obliged to you both for your
     assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to
     you."

     "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.

     "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room.
     "I'll take particular care that you don't club me with your wooden
     leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman
     Isles."

     "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after
     we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the
     last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your
     methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband
     in prospective."

     He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really
     cannot congratulate you."

     I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my
     choice?" I asked.

     "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I
     ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have
     been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in
     which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her
     father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is
     opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I
     should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."

     "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the
     ordeal. But you look weary."

     "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag
     for a week."

     "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call
     laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigor."

     "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine
     loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of
     those lines of old Goethe,--

              Schade, daÃŸ die Natur nur einen Mensch aus Dir schuf,
             Denn zum wÃ¼rdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

     "By the way, a propos of this Norwood business, you see that they
     had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none
     other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided
     honor of having caught one fish in his great haul."

     "The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all
     the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the
     credit, pray what remains for you?"

     "For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the
     cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.


                              A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA


     To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him
     mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
     predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any
     emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one
     particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably
     balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and
     observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would
     have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer
     passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things
     for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives
     and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions
     into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to
     introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his
     mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of
     his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong
     emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to
     him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and
     questionable memory.

     I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away
     from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred
     interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master
     of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,
     while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole
     Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among
     his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and
     ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his
     own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study
     of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers
     of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those
     mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official
     police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings:
     of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his
     clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at
     Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
     delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
     Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared
     with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former
     friend and companion.

     One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was returning
     from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil
     practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the
     well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with
     my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was
     seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was
     employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit,
     and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in
     a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly,
     eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped
     behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude
     and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen
     out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new
     problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had
     formerly been in part my own.

     His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think,
     to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved
     me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a
     spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the
     fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

     "Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have put
     on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

     "Seven!" I answered.

     "Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I
     fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me
     that you intended to go into harness."

     "Then, how do you know?"

     "I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
     yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
     careless servant girl?"

     "My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly have
     been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had
     a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I
     have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary
     Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but
     there, again, I fail to see how you work it out."

     He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

     "It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the
     inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the
     leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have
     been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the
     edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you
     see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and
     that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the
     London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my
     rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver
     upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his
     top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be
     dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the
     medical profession."

     I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
     process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I
     remarked, "the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously
     simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive
     instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your
     process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours."

     "Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself
     down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe. The
     distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps
     which lead up from the hall to this room."

     "Frequently."

     "How often?"

     "Well, some hundreds of times."

     "Then how many are there?"

     "How many? I don't know."

     "Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just
     my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have
     both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are interested in these
     little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or
     two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this." He
     threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note-paper which had been
     lying open upon the table. "It came by the last post," said he. "Read
     it aloud."

     The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

     "There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock,"
     it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the
     very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses
     of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
     matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
     This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your
     chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
     wear a mask."

     "This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine that it
     means?"

     "I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one
     has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories,
     instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you
     deduce from it?"

     I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
     written.

     "The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked,
     endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper could
     not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong
     and stiff."

     "Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an English
     paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

     I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a large
     "G" with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.

     "What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.

     "The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."

     "Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for 'Gesellschaft,'
     which is the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction like
     our 'Co.' 'P,' of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the 'Eg.' Let
     us glance at our Continental Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown
     volume from his shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are, Egria. It is
     in a German-speaking country--in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad.
     'Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for
     its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what
     do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue
     triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

     "The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

     "Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note
     the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account of you we
     have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian could not
     have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his
     verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this
     German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to
     showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve
     all our doubts."

     As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and grating
     wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
     whistled.

     "A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing out of
     the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred
     and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, if
     there is nothing else."

     "I think that I had better go, Holmes."

     "Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.
     And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it."

     "But your client--"

     "Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.
     Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention."

     A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in
     the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a
     loud and authoritative tap.

     "Come in!" said Holmes.

     A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six
     inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress
     was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as
     akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the
     sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue
     cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with
     flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which
     consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up
     his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur,
     completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by
     his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand,
     while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past
     the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted
     that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered.
     From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong
     character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin
     suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

     "You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly
     marked German accent. "I told you that I would call." He looked from
     one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

     "Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and colleague,
     Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases.
     Whom have I the honour to address?"

     "You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
     understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and
     discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
     importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you
     alone."

     I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back
     into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say before
     this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

     The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said he,
     "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of
     that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not
     too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence
     upon European history."

     "I promise," said Holmes.

     "And I."

     "You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The
     august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you,
     and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called
     myself is not exactly my own."

     "I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly.

     "The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to
     be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and
     seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak
     plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein,
     hereditary kings of Bohemia."

     "I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in
     his armchair and closing his eyes.

     Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
     lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as
     the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes
     slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic
     client.

     "If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked,
     "I should be better able to advise you."

     The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in
     uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he
     tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You are
     right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal
     it?"

     "Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken before I
     was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
     Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of
     Bohemia."

     "But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once
     more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you can
     understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own
     person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to
     an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito
     from Prague for the purpose of consulting you."

     "Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

     "The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy
     visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
     adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you."

     "Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without
     opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing
     all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to
     name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish
     information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between
     that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written
     a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

     "Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.
     Contralto--hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of
     Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in London--quite
     so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young
     person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of
     getting those letters back."

     "Precisely so. But how--"

     "Was there a secret marriage?"

     "None."

     "No legal papers or certificates?"

     "None."

     "Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
     produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to
     prove their authenticity?"

     "There is the writing."

     "Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

     "My private note-paper."

     "Stolen."

     "My own seal."

     "Imitated."

     "My photograph."

     "Bought."

     "We were both in the photograph."

     "Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an
     indiscretion."

     "I was mad--insane."

     "You have compromised yourself seriously."

     "I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now."

     "It must be recovered."

     "We have tried and failed."

     "Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought."

     "She will not sell."

     "Stolen, then."

     "Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her
     house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has
     been waylaid. There has been no result."

     "No sign of it?"

     "Absolutely none."

     Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.

     "But a very serious one to me," returned the King reproachfully.

     "Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?"

     "To ruin me."

     "But how?"

     "I am about to be married."

     "So I have heard."

     "To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King
     of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She
     is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my
     conduct would bring the matter to an end."

     "And Irene Adler?"

     "Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know
     that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of
     steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind
     of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another
     woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go--none."

     "You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

     "I am sure."

     "And why?"

     "Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
     betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."

     "Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn. "That is
     very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look
     into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London
     for the present?"

     "Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the
     Count Von Kramm."

     "Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."

     "Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."

     "Then, as to money?"

     "You have carte blanche."

     "Absolutely?"

     "I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to
     have that photograph."

     "And for present expenses?"

     The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and
     laid it on the table.

     "There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,"
     he said.

     Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed
     it to him.

     "And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

     "Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

     Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he. "Was the
     photograph a cabinet?"

     "It was."

     "Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have
     some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added, as the
     wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If you will be
     good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock I should
     like to chat this little matter over with you."

     At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not
     yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house
     shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down beside the
     fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he
     might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though
     it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were
     associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still,
     the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it
     a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the
     investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his
     masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning,
     which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to
     follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most
     inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success
     that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my
     head.

     It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking
     groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
     disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my
     friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three
     times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he
     vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes
     tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his
     pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed
     heartily for some minutes.

     "Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until
     he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

     "What is it?"

     "It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed
     my morning, or what I ended by doing."

     "I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits,
     and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."

     "Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you,
     however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning
     in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful
     sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you
     will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is
     a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front
     right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large
     sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows
     almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners
     which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save
     that the passage window could be reached from the top of the
     coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every
     point of view, but without noting anything else of interest.

     "I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there
     was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I
     lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in
     exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two fills of shag
     tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler,
     to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in
     whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was
     compelled to listen to."

     "And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

     "Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is the
     daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
     Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts,
     drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner.
     Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one
     male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and
     dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a
     Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a
     cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from
     Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all
     they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once
     more, and to think over my plan of campaign.

     "This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter.
     He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between
     them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client,
     his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably
     transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less
     likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should
     continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the
     gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it
     widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these
     details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are
     to understand the situation."

     "I am following you closely," I answered.

     "I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove
     up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably
     handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached--evidently the man of
     whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the
     cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with
     the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.

     "He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses
     of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down,
     talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing.
     Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he
     stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and
     looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 'first to
     Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St.
     Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty
     minutes!'

     "Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do
     well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the
     coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear,
     while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles.
     It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it.
     I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely
     woman, with a face that a man might die for.

     "'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a sovereign
     if you reach it in twenty minutes.'

     "This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing
     whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her
     landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at
     such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. 'The
     Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it
     in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of
     course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

     "My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the
     others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their
     steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the
     man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the
     two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be
     expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in
     front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler
     who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at
     the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard
     as he could towards me.

     "'Thank God,' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'

     "'What then?' I asked.

     "'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

     "I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I
     found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and
     vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting
     in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton,
     bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman
     thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the
     clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous
     position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the
     thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there
     had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman
     absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and
     that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally
     out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a
     sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the
     occasion."

     "This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what then?"

     "Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the
     pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very
     prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door,
     however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to
     her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,' she
     said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different
     directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements."

     "Which are?"

     "Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the bell.
     "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier
     still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your
     co-operation."

     "I shall be delighted."

     "You don't mind breaking the law?"

     "Not in the least."

     "Nor running a chance of arrest?"

     "Not in a good cause."

     "Oh, the cause is excellent!"

     "Then I am your man."

     "I was sure that I might rely on you."

     "But what is it you wish?"

     "When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to
     you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our
     landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not
     much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the
     scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her
     drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."

     "And what then?"

     "You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur.
     There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not
     interfere, come what may. You understand?"

     "I am to be neutral?"

     "To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
     unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed
     into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room
     window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open
     window."

     "Yes."

     "You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

     "Yes."

     "And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what I
     give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire.
     You quite follow me?"

     "Entirely."

     "It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long cigar-shaped
     roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket,
     fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task
     is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be
     taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of
     the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have
     made myself clear?"

     "I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at
     the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire,
     and to wait you at the corner of the street."

     "Precisely."

     "Then you may entirely rely on me."

     "That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I
     prepare for the new role I have to play."

     He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the
     character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman.
     His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his
     sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent
     curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It
     was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his
     manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he
     assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute
     reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.

     It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still
     wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine
     Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as
     we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming
     of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from
     Sherlock Holmes' succinct description, but the locality appeared to
     be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street
     in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a
     group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a
     scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with
     a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up
     and down with cigars in their mouths.

     "You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the
     house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph
     becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be
     as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is
     to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is--Where
     are we to find the photograph?"

     "Where, indeed?"

     "It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is
     cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress.
     She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and
     searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may
     take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."

     "Where, then?"

     "Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am
     inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they
     like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone
     else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell
     what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a
     business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it
     within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It
     must be in her own house."

     "But it has twice been burgled."

     "Pshaw! They did not know how to look."

     "But how will you look?"

     "I will not look."

     "What then?"

     "I will get her to show me."

     "But she will refuse."

     "She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her
     carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."

     As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round the
     curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to
     the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at
     the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a
     copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up
     with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was
     increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the
     loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the
     other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had
     stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed
     and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their
     fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady;
     but just as he reached her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground,
     with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the
     guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in
     the other, while a number of better-dressed people, who had watched
     the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady
     and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call
     her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her
     superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back
     into the street.

     "Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

     "He is dead," cried several voices.

     "No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But he'll be gone
     before you can get him to hospital."

     "He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had the lady's
     purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a
     rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."

     "He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"

     "Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable
     sofa. This way, please!"

     Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in
     the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my
     post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not
     been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do
     not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for
     the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily
     ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature
     against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which
     she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest
     treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had
     intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from
     under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We
     are but preventing her from injuring another.

     Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who
     is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At
     the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed
     my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The word was no sooner
     out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and
     ill--gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids--joined in a general
     shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and
     out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a
     moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it
     was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way
     to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find
     my friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He
     walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had
     turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware
     Road.

     "You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could have
     been better. It is all right."

     "You have the photograph?"

     "I know where it is."

     "And how did you find out?"

     "She showed me, as I told you she would."

     "I am still in the dark."

     "I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter was
     perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was
     an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

     "I guessed as much."

     "Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the
     palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my
     face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

     "That also I could fathom."

     "Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else
     could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room
     which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was
     determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air,
     they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance."

     "How did that help you?"

     "It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire,
     her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most.
     It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once
     taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution
     scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle
     business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches
     for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had
     nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest
     of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably
     done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel.
     She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a
     sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an
     instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I
     cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the
     rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose,
     and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether
     to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had
     come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to wait.
     A little over-precipitance may ruin all."

     "And now?" I asked.

     "Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King
     to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be
     shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable
     that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It
     might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own
     hands."

     "And when will you call?"

     "At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a
     clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a
     complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King
     without delay."

     We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was
     searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

     "Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

     There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
     greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
     hurried by.

     "I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the dimly
     lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been."

     I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our
     toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into
     the room.

     "You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by
     either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

     "Not yet."

     "But you have hopes?"

     "I have hopes."

     "Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

     "We must have a cab."

     "No, my brougham is waiting."

     "Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off once
     more for Briony Lodge.

     "Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

     "Married! When?"

     "Yesterday."

     "But to whom?"

     "To an English lawyer named Norton."

     "But she could not love him."

     "I am in hopes that she does."

     "And why in hopes?"

     "Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If
     the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she
     does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should
     interfere with your Majesty's plan."

     "It is true. And yet--Well! I wish she had been of my own station!
     What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a moody silence,
     which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

     The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon
     the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
     brougham.

     "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

     "I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a
     questioning and rather startled gaze.

     "Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left
     this morning with her husband by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross
     for the Continent."

     "What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and
     surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"

     "Never to return."

     "And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."

     "We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the
     drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was
     scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open
     drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her
     flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding
     shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a
     letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress,
     the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till
     called for." My friend tore it open and we all three read it
     together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in
     this way:

     "My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     "You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after
     the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how
     I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against
     you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent it
     would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with
     all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I
     became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
     old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
     myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of
     the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,
     ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came
     down just as you departed.
     "Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was
     really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
     Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for
     the Temple to see my husband.
     "We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so
     formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you
     call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace.
     I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he
     will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep
     it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will
     always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I
     leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear
     Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
     "Very truly yours,
     "Irene Norton, nÃ©e Adler."

     "What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we
     had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and
     resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it
     not a pity that she was not on my level?" 

     "From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very
     different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry
     that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more
     successful conclusion."

     "On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be
     more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is
     now as safe as if it were in the fire."

     "I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

     "I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can
     reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his
     finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

     "Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,"
     said Holmes.

     "You have but to name it."

     "This photograph!"

     The King stared at him in amazement.

     "Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."

     "I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the
     matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed,
     and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had
     stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

     And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of
     Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by
     a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women,
     but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene
     Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the
     honourable title of the woman.

