“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing,
and yet I know it well.”

“‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge
error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in
patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book,
octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man
with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very
much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have
no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”

“None. Neville wrote those words.”

“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the
clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is
over.”

“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”

“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The
ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”

“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”

“Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
posted to-day.”

“That is possible.”

“If so, much may have happened between.”

“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well
with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if
evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself
in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly
with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think
that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his
death?”

“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be
more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in
this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
letters, why should he remain away from you?”

“I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.”

“And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?”

“No.”

“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”

“Very much so.”

“Was the window open?”

“Yes.”

“Then he might have called to you?”

“He might.”

“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”

“Yes.”

“A call for help, you thought?”

“Yes. He waved his hands.”

“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?”

“It is possible.”

“And you thought he was pulled back?”

“He disappeared so suddenly.”

“He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”

“No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.”

“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
clothes on?”

“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”

“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”

“Never.”

“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”

“Never.”

“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which
I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and
then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.”

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he
had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for
a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking
at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or
convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident
to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off
his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then
wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions
from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of
Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an
ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In
the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe
between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the
ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with
the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I
dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me
to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The
pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the
room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap
of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

“Awake, Watson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Game for a morning drive?”

“Certainly.”

“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as
he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
horse.

“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his
boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”

“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.

“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he
continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and
I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on,
my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the
half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away
we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring,
bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on
either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.

“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the
horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole,
but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
horse’s head while the other led us in.

“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.

“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”

“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the
stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to
have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.”

It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table,
and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his
desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with
being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”

“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”

“So I heard. You have him here?”

“In the cells.”

“Is he quiet?”

“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”

“Dirty?”

“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is
as black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he
will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would
agree with me that he needed it.”

“I should like to see him very much.”

“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your
bag.”

“No, I think that I’ll take it.”

“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage,
opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a
whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He
quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced
through.

“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face
towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was
a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a
coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He
was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its
contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three
teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red
hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.

“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he
might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened
the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very
large bath-sponge.

“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.

“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.”

“Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a
credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?” He slipped his key into the
lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half
turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes
stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it
twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.

“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee,
in the county of Kent.”

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off
under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown
tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and
the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A
twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his
bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and
smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy
bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a
scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

“Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man.
I know him from the photograph.”

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself
to his destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?”

“With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged
with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the
inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the
force, but this really takes the cake.”

“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has
been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.”

“No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes.
“You would have done better to have trusted your wife.”

“It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God
help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an
exposure! What can I do?”

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly
on the shoulder.

“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he,
“of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you
convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against
you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should
find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure,
make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the
proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.”

“God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured
imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable
secret as a family blot to my children.

“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education.
I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a
reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to
have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I
volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my
adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I
could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I
had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been
famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my
attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by
the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head
of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business
part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar.
For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the
evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26_s_.
4_d_.

“I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some
time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me
for £ 25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden
idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked
for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the
City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the
debt.

“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work
at £ 2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by
smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and
sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but
the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day
in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly
face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret.
He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam
Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the
evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This
fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew
that my secret was safe in his possession.

“Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money.
I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £ 700
a year—which is less than my average takings—but I had exceptional
advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of
repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised
character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver,
poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take
£ 2.

“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,
and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real
occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She
little knew what.

“Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room
above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my
horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with
her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms
to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated
him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice
downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off
my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and
wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But
then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and
that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by
my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the
bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the
coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in
which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it
disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but
at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few
minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of
being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his
murderer.

“I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was
determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my
preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a
moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried
scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.”

“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.

“Good God! What a week she must have spent!”

“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and
I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter
unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who
forgot all about it for some days.”

“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of
it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”

“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”

“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to
hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”

“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”

“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be
taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure,
Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared
the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.”

“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and
consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker
Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.”

VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a
pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch
was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and
disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in
several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair
suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the
purpose of examination.

“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”

“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in
the direction of the old hat—“but there are points in connection with
it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as
it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is
the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the
punishment of some crime.”

“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those
whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million
human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square
miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity,
every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and
many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and
bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of
such.”

“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have
added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”

“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers,
to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of
the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small
matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson,
the commissionaire?”

“Yes.”

“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”

“It is his hat.”

“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning,
in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting
at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about
four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a
very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was
making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he
saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and
carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the
corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a
little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on
which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his
head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward
to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at
having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in
uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and
vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of
Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of
Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and
also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a
most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”

“Which surely he restored to their owner?”

“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs.
Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s
left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible
upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers,
and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy
to restore lost property to any one of them.”

“What, then, did Peterson do?”

“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to
fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the
hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”

“Did he not advertise?”

“No.”

“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”

“Only as much as we can deduce.”

“From his hat?”

“Precisely.”

“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”

“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as
to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but
was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes
had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was
pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For
the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several
places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.

“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to
reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
inferences.”

“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it
might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences
which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is
of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon
evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing
to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his
fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at
work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife
has ceased to love him.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued,
disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life,
goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has
grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which
he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are
to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely
improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”

“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”

“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these
results, you are unable to see how they are attained?”

“I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was
intellectual?”

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the
forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of
cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have
something in it.”

“The decline of his fortunes, then?”

“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came
in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of
ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy
so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he
has assuredly gone down in the world.”

“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and
the moral retrogression?”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his
finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are
never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this
precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the
elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has
less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some
of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign
that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.”

“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”

“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled,
that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to
be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining.
The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the
scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a
distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the
gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house,
showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the
marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer
perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of
training.”

“But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.”

“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your
wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also
have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”

“But he might be a bachelor.”

“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”

“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that
the gas is not laid on in his house?”

“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no
less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a
guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from
a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”

“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said
just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the
loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open,
and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with
flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.

“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.

“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through
the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get
a fairer view of the man’s excited face.

“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his
hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the
dark hollow of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he,
“this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”

“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were
putty.”

“It’s more than a precious stone. It is _the_ precious stone.”

“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.

“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
read the advertisement about it in _The Times_ every day lately. It is
absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
reward offered of £ 1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
the market price.”

“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped
down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
gem.”

“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I
remarked.

“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a
plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s
jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I
believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
following paragraph:

“Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted
from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as
the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his
evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room
of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he
might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had
remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called
away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the
bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in
which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep
her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly
gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone
could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine
Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of
dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,
where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given
against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the
offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of
intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion
and was carried out of court.”

“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing
aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of
events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a
goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little
deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less
innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and
the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and
all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we
must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and
ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do
this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly
in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall
have recourse to other methods.”

“What will you say?”

“Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the
corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker
can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker
Street.’ That is clear and concise.”

“Very. But will he see it?”

“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,
the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in
breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of
nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the
impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the
introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who
knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run
down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening
papers.”

“In which, sir?”

“Oh, in the _Globe_, _Star_, _Pall Mall_, _St. James’s Gazette_,
_Evening News_, _Standard_, _Echo_, and any others that occur to you.”

“Very well, sir. And this stone?”

“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just
buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must
have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your
family is now devouring.”

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it
against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it
glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and
older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not
yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in
southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the
carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite
of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two
murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought
about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal.
Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows
and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to
the Countess to say that we have it.”

“Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”

“I cannot tell.”

“Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
anything to do with the matter?”

“It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was
of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
to our advertisement.”

“And you can do nothing until then?”

“Nothing.”

“In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come
back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like
to see the solution of so tangled a business.”

“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe.
By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs.
Hudson to examine its crop.”

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six
when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which
was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened,
and we were shown up together to Holmes’ room.

“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and
greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so
readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right
time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”

“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”

He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad,
intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A
touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended
hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black
frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up,
and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff
or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with
care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and
letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

“We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we
expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at
a loss to know now why you did not advertise.”

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so
plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that
the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the
bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at
recovering them.”

“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat
it.”

“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

“Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I
presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the
same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
well?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your
own bird, so if you wish—”

The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as
relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see
what use the _disjecta membra_ of my late acquaintance are going to be
to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my
attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his
shoulders.

“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way,
would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am
somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
goose.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained
property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha
Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the
day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name,
instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence
every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were
duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you,
sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.”
With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and
strode off upon his way.

“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door
behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about
the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up
this clue while it is still hot.”

“By all means.”

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as
we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street,
and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an
hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small
public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into
Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two
glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said
he.

“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.

“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was
a member of your goose club.”

“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not _our_ geese.”

“Indeed! Whose, then?”

“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”

“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”

“Breckinridge is his name.”

“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and
prosperity to your house. Good-night.”

“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so
homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless
we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but
confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation
which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has
placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to
the south, then, and quick march!”

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man,
with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up
the shutters.

“Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

“Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
slabs of marble.

“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”

“That’s no good.”

“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”

“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”

“Who by?”

“The landlord of the Alpha.”

“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”

“Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
salesman.

“Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo,
“what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”

“It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
which you supplied to the Alpha.”

“Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”

“Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should
be so warm over such a trifle.”

“Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I
pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the
geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they
were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over
them.”

“Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making
inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is
off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter
of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country
bred.”

“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the
salesman.

“It’s nothing of the kind.”

“I say it is.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them
ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the
Alpha were town bred.”

“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”

“Will you bet, then?”

“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll
have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”

The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.

The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out
of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left
in my shop. You see this little book?”

“Well?”

“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then,
here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”

“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.

“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”

Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott,
117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’”

“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”

“‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7_s_. 6_d_.’”

“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”

“‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12_s_.’”

“What have you to say now?”

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a
man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
was peculiar to him.

“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said
he. “I daresay that if I had put £ 100 down in front of him, that man
would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him
by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I
fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains
to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott
to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear
from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides
ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
fiercely at the cringing figure.

“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were
all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your
silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and
I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese
off you?”

“No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.

“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”

“She told me to ask you.”

“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough
of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer
flitted away into the darkness.

“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come
with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding
through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring
stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him
upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light
that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.

“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice.

“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help
overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
think that I could be of assistance to you.”

“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
people don’t know.”

“But you can know nothing of this?”

“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some
geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman
named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and
by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.”

“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the
little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can
hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.”

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case
we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept
market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it
is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”

The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he
answered with a sidelong glance.

“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward
doing business with an alias.”

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said
he, “my real name is James Ryder.”

“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into
the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you
would wish to know.”

The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into
the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker
Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin
breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of
his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The
fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
became of those geese?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which
you were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.”

Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me
where it went to?”

“It came here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you
should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the
bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here
in my museum.”

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his
right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue
carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain
whether to claim or to disown it.

“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll
be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not
got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of
brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to
be sure!”

For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought
a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened
eyes at his accuser.

“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could
possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that
little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had
heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”

“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling
voice.

“I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had
been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would
rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some
small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you
managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you
rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man
arrested. You then—”

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of
my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went
wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible.
Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”

“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to
cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner
in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.”

“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge
against him will break down.”

“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose
into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope
of safety.”

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just
as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it
seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at
once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it
into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the
hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and
I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and
lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the
way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a
detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring
down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what
was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been
upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard
and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.

“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just
been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell
into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what
they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two
things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where
he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn
the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the
agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any
moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my
waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and
looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and
suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the
best detective that ever lived.

“My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of
her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as
good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my
stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this
I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I
caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat
as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the
stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature
flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the
matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered
off among the others.

“‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was
feeling which was the fattest.’

“‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it.
It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which
makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’

“‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d
rather have that one I was handling just now.’

“‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened
it expressly for you.’

“‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.

“‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you
want, then?’

“‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
flock.’

“‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’

“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the
way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it
was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and
we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for
there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake
had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried
into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.

“‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.

“‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’

“‘Which dealer’s?’

“‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’

“‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the
one I chose?’

“‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell
them apart.’

“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet
would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at
once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You
heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like
that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am
myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever
having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me!
God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in
his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the
measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the
table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

“Get out!” said he.

“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”

“No more words. Get out!”

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the
stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls
from the street.

“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay
pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If
Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will
not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am
commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul.
This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened.
Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides,
it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most
singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If
you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin
another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief
feature.”

VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange,
but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his
art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself
with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even
the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any
which presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The
events in question occurred in the early days of my association with
Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is
possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a
promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been
freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom
the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now
come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread
rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the
matter even more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find
Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was
a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me
that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some
surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself
regular in my habits.

“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot
this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me,
and I on you.”

“What is it, then—a fire?”

“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable
state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in
the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at
this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds,
I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to
communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am
sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I
should call you and give you the chance.”

“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he
unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on
my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down
to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who
had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up
to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that
you are shivering.”

“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.

“What, then?”

“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she
spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes,
like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of
a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her
expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one
of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting
her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
have come in by train this morning, I see.”

“You know me, then?”

“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the
station.”

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.

“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The
marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand
side of the driver.”

“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I
started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and
came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no
longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,
save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little
aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.
Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from
her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could
help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,
with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find
me ungrateful.”

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.

“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with
an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,
madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I
did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put
to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay
before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter.”

“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in
the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing
answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may
advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”

“I am all attention, madam.”

“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”

Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.

“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin
was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency.
Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a
fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term
of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
disappointed man.

“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister
Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of
my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less
than £ 1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum
should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly
after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years
ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live
with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my
mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no
obstacle to our happiness.

“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in
the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came
out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his
path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in
the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe,
been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,
until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would
fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and
absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream,
and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather
together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no
friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these
vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land
which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the
hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for
weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent
over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and
a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the
villagers almost as much as their master.

“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no
great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a
long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the
time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even
as mine has.”

“Your sister is dead, then?”

“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at
Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to
whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when
my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within
a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the
terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.”

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed
and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and
glanced across at his visitor.

“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.

“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very
old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of
the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second
my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself
plain?”

“Perfectly so.”

“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the
strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her
room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to
leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

“‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the
dead of the night?’

“‘Never,’ said I.

“‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
sleep?’

“‘Certainly not. But why?’

“‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the
morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has
awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the next
room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
whether you had heard it.’

“‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’

“‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
not hear it also.’

“‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’

“‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at
me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the
lock.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in
at night?”

“Always.”

“And why?”

“I think that I mentioned to you that the Doctor kept a cheetah and a
baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”

“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”

“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune
impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you
know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely
allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain
was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the
hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified
woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed,
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my
door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a
few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.
As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing
what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I
saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her
hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that
of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She
writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I
bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never
forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There
was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with
her finger into the air in the direction of the Doctor’s room, but a
fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling
loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his
dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious,
and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid
from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and
died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful
end of my beloved sister.”

“One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?”

“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale
and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”

“Was your sister dressed?”

“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.”

“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
coroner come to?”

“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct
had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been
fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when
she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon
her.”

“How about poison?”

“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”

“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”

“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”

“Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?”

“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”

“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled
band?”

“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium,
sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to
these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted
handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have
suggested the strange adjective which she used.”

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your
narrative.”

“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in
marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr.
Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no
opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the
spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the
building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to
move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very
bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last
night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly
heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the
herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was
to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however,
so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a
dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead,
from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing
you and asking your advice.”

“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”

“Yes, all.”

“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the
hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the
marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.

“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.

The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a
hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his
hands and stared into the crackling fire.

“This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand
details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course
of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to
Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms
without the knowledge of your stepfather?”

“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now,
but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.”

“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”

“By no means.”

“Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?”

“I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there
in time for your coming.”

“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small
business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”

“No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my
trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
from the room.

“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.

“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”

“Dark enough and sinister enough.”

“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her
sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious
end.”

“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman?”

“I cannot think.”

“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion
to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a
metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars
that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that
there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along
those lines.”

“But what, then, did the gipsies do?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“I see many objections to any such theory.”

“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!”

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in
his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of
the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to
side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with
the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the
other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,
fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird
of prey.

“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.

“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion
quietly.

“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”

“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.”

“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
traced her. What has she been saying to you?”

“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.

“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously.

“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my
companion imperturbably.

“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I
have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”

My friend smiled.

“Holmes, the busybody!”

His smile broadened.

“Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!”

Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,”
said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
draught.”

“I will go when I have had my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward,
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling
the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not
quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up
the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

“Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we
shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’
Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this
matter.”

It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
with notes and figures.

“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its
exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the
investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the
time of the wife’s death was little short of £ 1,100, is now, through
the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £ 750. Each daughter can
claim an income of £ 250, in case of marriage. It is evident,
therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a
mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very
serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has
proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way
of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for
dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting
ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and
drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your
revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument
with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a
tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the
air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least
there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring
and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in
the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his
eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.
Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed
over the meadows.

“Look there!” said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into
a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out
the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

“Stoke Moran?” said he.

“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the
driver.

“There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we
are going.”

“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs
some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll
find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath over the
fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”

“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his
eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
Leatherhead.

“I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this
fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite
business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see
that we have been as good as our word.”

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she
cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly.
Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
before evening.”

“We have had the pleasure of making the Doctor’s acquaintance,” said
Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

“Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.”

“So it appears.”

“He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will
he say when he returns?”

“He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more
cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him
to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at
Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us
at once to the rooms which we are to examine.”

The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on
each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked
with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of
ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the
right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that
this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected
against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but
there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes
walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep
attention the outsides of the windows.

“This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to
Dr. Roylott’s chamber?”

“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”

“Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not
seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.”

“There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
room.”

“Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows
in it, of course?”

“Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.”

“As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable
from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room
and bar your shutters?”

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the
open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but
without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!”
said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly
presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they
were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the
matter.”

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so
we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round
and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old
and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of
the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent,
while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in
every detail of the apartment.

“Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last pointing to a
thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
lying upon the pillow.

“It goes to the housekeeper’s room.”

“It looks newer than the other things?”

“Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.”

“Your sister asked for it, I suppose?”

“No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
wanted for ourselves.”

“Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand
and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks
between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which
the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent
some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall.
Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.

“Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.

“Won’t it ring?”

“No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
opening for the ventilator is.”

“How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”

“Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or
two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a
builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the
same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!”

“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.

“Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes.

“Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.”

“They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy
bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
inner apartment.”

Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his
step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden
shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair
beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table,
and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye.
Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the
keenest interest.

“What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.

“My stepfather’s business papers.”

“Oh! you have seen inside, then?”

“Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.”

“There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”

“No. What a strange idea!”

“Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on
the top of it.

“No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.”

“Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay.
There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down
in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the
greatest attention.

“Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his
lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!”

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one
corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied
so as to make a loop of whipcord.

“What do you make of that, Watson?”

“It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.”

“That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and
when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I
think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.”

I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was
when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked
several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself
liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his
reverie.

“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect.”

“I shall most certainly do so.”

“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
upon your compliance.”

“I assure you that I am in your hands.”

“In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your
room.”

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village
inn over there?”

“Yes, that is the Crown.”

“Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?”

“Certainly.”

“You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the
night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put
your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to
occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage
there for one night.”

“Oh, yes, easily.”

“The rest you will leave in our hands.”

“But what will you do?”

“We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
cause of this noise which has disturbed you.”

“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said
Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve.

“Perhaps I have.”

“Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s
death.”

“I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.”

“You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she
died from some sudden fright.”

“No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.
Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and
be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured
that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.”

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from
our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby
Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure
of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing
the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the Doctor’s
voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him.
The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring
up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering
darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There
is a distinct element of danger.”

“Can I be of assistance?”

“Your presence might be invaluable.”

“Then I shall certainly come.”

“It is very kind of you.”

“You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than
was visible to me.”

“No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that
you saw all that I did.”

“I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.”

“You saw the ventilator, too?”

“Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a
small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
hardly pass through.”

“I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
Moran.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister
could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once
that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only
be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s
inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.”

“But what harm can there be in that?”

“Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
not that strike you?”

“I cannot as yet see any connection.”

“Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”

“No.”

“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that
before?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call
it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”

“Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are
only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”

“Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is
the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds
for a few hours to something more cheerful.”

About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all
was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly
away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright
light shone out right in front of us.

“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes
from the middle window.”

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining
that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was
possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were
out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow
light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our
sombre errand.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we
reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed
to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass
with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the
darkness.

“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice
upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put
his lips to my ear.

“It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”

I had forgotten the strange pets which the Doctor affected. There was a
cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of
his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that
I could do to distinguish the words:

“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”

I nodded to show that I had heard.

“We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”

I nodded again.

“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol
ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and
you in that chair.”

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed
beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle.
Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound,
not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat
open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous
tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of
light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our
very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah
was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the
parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they
seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and
still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room
had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then
all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an
hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became
audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of
steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it,
Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with
his cane at the bell-pull.

“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a
low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes
made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed
so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and
filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing
up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the
night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled
up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all
mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the
village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the
sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood
gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died
away into the silence from which it rose.

“What can it mean?” I gasped.

“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after
all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
Roylott’s room.”

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then
he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked
pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of
light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long
grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short
stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin
was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at
the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow
band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round
his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.

“The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to
move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He
has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth,
recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he
digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we
can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county
police know what has happened.”

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and
throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid
perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe,
which he closed upon it.

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke
Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has
already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news
to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the
care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official
inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while
indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet
to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled
back next day.

“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word
‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the
appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of
her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I
can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an
occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door.
My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to
this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The
discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the
floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as
a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed.
The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it
with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of
creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track.
The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be
discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a
clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity
with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point
of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who
could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where
the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of
course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to
the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we
saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this
ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it
would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not
bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but
sooner or later she must fall a victim.

“I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An
inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk,
and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which
may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was
obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe
upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the
steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the
creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit
the light and attacked it.”

“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”

“And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the
other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its
snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s
death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my
conscience.”

IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S THUMB

Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there
were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice—that
of Mr. Hatherley’s thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness. Of
these the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute and
original observer, but the other was so strange in its inception and so
dramatic in its details that it may be the more worthy of being placed
upon record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for those
deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable
results. The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the
newspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less
striking when set forth _en bloc_ in a single half-column of print than
when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery
clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which
leads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a
deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served
to weaken the effect.

It was in the summer of ’89, not long after my marriage, that the
events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to
civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street
rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even
persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit
us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no
very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from
among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and
lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my virtues and of
endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might have any
influence.

One morning, at a little before seven o’clock, I was awakened by the
maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from
Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed
hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom
trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the
guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.

“I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder;
“he’s all right.”

“What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some
strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

“It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d bring him round
myself; then he couldn’t slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I
must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you.” And off
he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank him.

I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table.
He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap
which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a
handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He
was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong,
masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression
of a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took
all his strength of mind to control.

“I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said he, “but I have had
a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this
morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a
doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a
card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table.”

I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic
engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor).” That was the name, style,
and abode of my morning visitor. “I regret that I have kept you
waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library-chair. “You are fresh from
a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous
occupation.”

“Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,” said he, and laughed. He
laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his
chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against
that laugh.

“Stop it!” I cried; “pull yourself together!” and I poured out some
water from a caraffe.

It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical
outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is
over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and
pale-looking.

“I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped.

“Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy into the water, and the
colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

“That’s better!” said he. “And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly
attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be.”

He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my
hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding
fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have
been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.

“Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury. It must have bled
considerably.”

“Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have
been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was
still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round
the wrist and braced it up with a twig.”

“Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.”

“It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own
province.”

“This has been done,” said I, examining the wound, “by a very heavy and
sharp instrument.”

“A thing like a cleaver,” said he.

“An accident, I presume?”

“By no means.”

“What! a murderous attack?”

“Very murderous indeed.”

“You horrify me.”

I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it
over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without
wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.

“How is that?” I asked when I had finished.

“Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was
very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through.”

“Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying
to your nerves.”

“Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but,
between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this
wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for
it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof
with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which
I can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will
be done.”

“Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you
desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my
friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police.”

“Oh, I have heard of that fellow,” answered my visitor, “and I should
be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must
use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to
him?”

“I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.”

“I should be immensely obliged to you.”

“We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a
little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?”

“Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story.”

“Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an
instant.” I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife,
and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new
acquaintance to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in
his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of _The Times_ and smoking
his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and
dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and
collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his
quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us
in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance
upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of
brandy and water within his reach.

“It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr.
Hatherley,” said he. “Pray, lie down there and make yourself absolutely
at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep up
your strength with a little stimulant.”

“Thank you,” said my patient, “but I have felt another man since the
doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the
cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I
shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences.”

Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded expression
which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him,
and we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor
detailed to us.

“You must know,” said he, “that I am an orphan and a bachelor, residing
alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engineer,
and I have had considerable experience of my work during the seven
years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm,
of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time, and having also
come into a fair sum of money through my poor father’s death, I
determined to start in business for myself and took professional
chambers in Victoria Street.

“I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business
a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so. During two
years I have had three consultations and one small job, and that is
absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My gross takings
amount to £ 27 10_s_. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in
the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began
to sink, and I came to believe that I should never have any practice at
all.

“Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my
clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me
upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of ‘Colonel
Lysander Stark’ engraved upon it. Close at his heels came the colonel
himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an exceeding
thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His whole
face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was
drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation
seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was
bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but
neatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than
thirty.

“‘Mr. Hatherley?’ said he, with something of a German accent. ‘You have
been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only
proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of
preserving a secret.’

“I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an
address. ‘May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?’

“‘Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at
this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an orphan
and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.’

“‘That is quite correct,’ I answered; ‘but you will excuse me if I say
that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional
qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter that
you wished to speak to me?’

“‘Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the
point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy
is quite essential—absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we
may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who lives in
the bosom of his family.’

“‘If I promise to keep a secret,’ said I, ‘you may absolutely depend
upon my doing so.’

“He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had
never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

“‘Do you promise, then?’ said he at last.

“‘Yes, I promise.’

“‘Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No reference
to the matter at all, either in word or writing?’

“‘I have already given you my word.’

“‘Very good.’ He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across
the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was empty.

“‘That’s all right,’ said he, coming back. ‘I know that clerks are
sometimes curious as to their master’s affairs. Now we can talk in
safety.’ He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare at
me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.

“A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to
rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my
dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my
impatience.

“‘I beg that you will state your business, sir,’ said I; ‘my time is of
value.’ Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to
my lips.

“‘How would fifty guineas for a night’s work suit you?’ he asked.

“‘Most admirably.’

“‘I say a night’s work, but an hour’s would be nearer the mark. I
simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has
got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it
right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?’

“‘The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.’

“‘Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train.’

“‘Where to?’

“‘To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of
Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from
Paddington which would bring you there at about 11:15.’

“‘Very good.’

“‘I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.’

“‘There is a drive, then?’

“‘Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven
miles from Eyford Station.’

“‘Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would
be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night.’

“‘Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.’

“‘That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient hour?’

“‘We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to recompense
you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a young and
unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very heads of
your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw out of the
business, there is plenty of time to do so.’

“I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be
to me. ‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘I shall be very happy to accommodate