The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

THE EXPLOITS OF

SHERLOCK HOLMES

by Adrian Conan Doyle

and John Dickson Carr

About the authors

Adrian Conan Doyle, the youngest son of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his literary executor, worked on the stories in this book using the very desk on which his father wrote.

John Dickson Carr was one of America’s most celebrated mystery writers, the author of forty-six novels (including The Three Coffins and Till Death Do Us Part) — and of twenty-four more under the pen name of Carter Dickson.

CONTENTS

ALWAYS HOLMES

By Adrian Conan Doyle and John Dickson Carr

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SEVEN CLOCKS

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLD HUNTER

THE ADVENTURE OF THE WAX GAMBLERS

THE ADVENTURE OF THE HIGHGATE MIRACLE

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK BARONET

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SEALED ROOM

By Adrian Conan Doyle

THE ADVENTURE OF FOULKES RATH

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBAS RUBY

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DARK ANGELS

THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO WOMEN

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEPTFORD HORROR

THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED WIDOW

ALWAYS HOLMES

It is fairly certain that no reader of the Strand Magazine in 1887 could have guessed that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, then making their debut in that British magazine, would soon become the world's most famous characters of fiction. It is, however, quite certain that their creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, had no inkling of it at that time nor many years later when he decided to do away with Holmes by having him pushed off a cliff at the Reichenbach Falls. This incident created such reper­cussions that public clamor forced Conan Doyle to bring his hero right back to life and to the familiar surroundings of his lodgings at 221 B Baker Street.

In view of Holmes's immense popularity it is not surprising that in the hearts and minds of hundreds of millions his name has not only become a household word, but also that of a man thought to have lived. Actually, the invention of Holmes is much less an invention than some people think. The chivalry of Holmes, his penetrating mind, his erudition, his physical feats and his entire character are really and truly those of the genius who created him. Sir Arthur in real life, as Holmes in fiction, came to the rescue of people convicted for crimes they did not commit and he used the very logic and deductive reasoning that enabled Holmes to solve the problems of his clients. Sir Arthur, like Holmes, was a man of unusual physical strength who would undoubtedly have been a great boxer had he pursued that endeavor rather than being first a doctor, then a writer.

Even Holmes's background, to a certain extent, par­allels that of the man who created him.

Though his ancestors were of the Irish landed gentry, Sir Arthur's grandmother, like Holmes's was of French extraction. His grandfather, John Doyle, was the most brilliant political cartoonist of the early 1800's. His uncle Richard ("Dicky") Doyle drew the cover for Punch which is still used. His uncle Henry Doyle was the director of the National Gallery of Ireland. His uncle James the compiler of The Chronicle of England. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his immediate forbears are the only family in Great Britain to have given in the space of three generations five separate members to the record of achievement, The National Biography.

And yet, despite his distinguished ancestry, despite his celebrated historical novels, and despite his glorious Boer War record, Conan Doyle is best known to the world for having created Sherlock Holmes.

Since 1887, books of Sherlock Holmes have been translated into every known language and have never been out of print. Holmes has been the hero of fifteen different legitimate stage plays, more than one thousand radio dramatizations, and he is now making his television debut in America, having already appeared on television in England.

Some of the investigative methods created for Holmes by Sir Arthur were shortly thereafter adopted by Scotland Yard, the French Surete and police forces of many other nations. Holmes has even become the cult of many societies and the object of many imitations all of which have failed to catch the spirit of the man about whom Somerset Maugham says, in his recent book, The Vagrant Mood: "No detective stories have had the popularity of Conan Doyle's and because of the invention of Sherlock Holmes I think it may be admitted that none has so well deserved it."

It is fortunate for the millions of Holmes's admirers that this new series of stories, The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes, comes from the pen of Sir Arthur's youngest son, Adrian Conan Doyle, in collaboration with John Dickson Carr, who is the author of the widely acclaimed Life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and has also written many of probably the best contemporary mystery novels. Adrian Conan Doyle, the author of Heaven Has Claws, a personal-experience book about his deep-sea fishing expeditions, was brought up in the tradition of the Victorian era and in close contact with his father. The son, like the father, has a lust for adventure, cherishes relics of the past, and above all has the same sense of chivalry that so completely characterized his father—or should we say Holmes?

Adrian Conan Doyle uses the very desk on which his father wrote. He is surrounded by the same objects that his father handled, and he has in every way endeavored to recreate each particle of atmosphere that formed Sir Arthur's environment.

The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes are based on the unsolved cases to which Watson refers in the original fifty-six short stories and four novels. Sherlockians will find added interest in the quotations which appear at the end of each story. Here are the references to the unsolved cases of Sherlock Holmes as they appeared in the original stories by Arthur Conan Doyle and which the present authors used as their points of departure for the twelve cases which follow. The plots are new, but the stories are painstaking reproductions of the originals, in construc­tion as well as in texture. Conan Doyle and Carr wrote together "The Adventure of the Seven Clocks" and "The Adventure of the Gold Hunter." "The Adventure of the Wax Gamblers" and "The Adventure of the Highgate Miracle" were written almost entirely by Carr. "The Adventure of the Black Baronet" and "The Adventure of the Sealed Room" were written almost entirely by Conan Doyle. The last six stories were conceived and written by Adrian Conan Doyle after John Dickson Carr suffered a brief illness.

The Exploits were inspired by the single desire of pro­ducing stories of the "old vintage"; of recreating those moments of true delight when the approaching step of a new client tells us that "the game's afoot," or when Holmes unravels his solutions to the astonished questioning of his colleagues, as in these celebrated four lines from "Silver Blaze," when the inspector asks Holmes:

"Is there any point to which you wish to draw my attention?"

"To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time'

"The dog did nothing in the night-time."

"That was the curious incident," remarked Holmes.

—THE PUBLISHERS

THE EXPLOITS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

1

The Adventure of the Seven Clocks

I find recorded in my notebook that it was on the after­noon of Wednesday, the 16th of November, 1887, when the attention of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was first drawn to the singular affair of the man who hated clocks.

I have written elsewhere that I had heard only a vague account of this matter, since it occurred shortly after my marriage. Indeed, I have gone so far as to state that my first post-nuptial call on Holmes was in March of the following year. But the case in question was a matter of such extreme delicacy that I trust my readers will forgive its suppression by one whose pen has ever been guided by discretion rather than by sensationalism.

A few weeks following my marriage, then, my wife was obliged to leave London on a matter which concerned Thaddeus Sholto and vitally affected our future fortunes. Finding our new home insupportable without her presence, for eight days I returned to the old rooms in Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes made me welcome without ques­tion or comment. Yet I must confess that the next day, the 16th of November, began inauspiciously.

It was bitter, frosty weather. All morning the yellow-brown fog pressed against the windows. Lamps and gas-jets were burning, as well as a good fire, and their light shone on a breakfast-table uncleared at past midday.

Sherlock Holmes was moody and distraught. Curled up in his arm-chair in the old mouse-coloured dressing-gown and with a cherry-wood pipe in his mouth, he scanned the morning newspapers, now and again utter­ing some derisive comment.

"You find little of interest?" I asked.

"My dear Watson," said he, "I begin to fear that life has become one flat and monotonous plain ever since the affair of the notorious Blessington."

"And yet," I remonstrated, "surely this has been a year of memorable cases? You are over-stimulated, my dear fellow."

" 'Pon my word, Watson, you are scarcely the man to preach on that subject. Last night, after I had ventured to offer you a bottle of Beaune at dinner, you held forth so interminably on the joys of wedlock that I feared you would never have done."

"My dear fellow! You imply that I was over-stimulated with wine!" My friend regarded me in his singular fashion.

"Not with wine, perhaps," said he. "However!" And he indicated the newspapers. "Have you glanced over the balderdash with which the press have seen fit to regale us!"

"I fear not. This copy of the British Medical Journal—"

"Well, well!" said he. "Here we find column upon column devoted to next year's racing season. For some reason it seems perpetually to astonish the British public that one horse can run faster than another. Again, for the dozenth time, we have the Nihilists hatching some dark plot against the Grand Duke Alexei at Odessa. One entire leading article is devoted to the doubtless trenchant question, 'Should Shop-Assistants Marry?' "

I forbore to interrupt him, lest his bitterness increase.

"Where is crime, Watson? Where is the weird, where that touch of the outrй without which a problem in itself is as sand and dry grass? Have we lost them forever?"

"Hark!" said I. "Surely that was the bell?"

"And someone in a hurry, if we may judge from its clamour."

With one accord we stepped to the window, and looked down into Baker Street. The fog had partly lifted. At the kerb before our door stood a handsome closed car­riage. A top-hatted coachman in livery was just closing the carriage-door, whose panel bore the letter "M." From below came the murmur of voices followed by light, quick footsteps on the stairs, and the door of our sitting-room was flung open.

Both of us were surprised, I think, to perceive that our caller was a young lady: a girl, rather, since she could hardly have been as much as eighteen, and seldom in a young face have I seen such beauty and refinement as well as sensitiveness. Her large blue eyes regarded us with agitated appeal. Her abundant auburn hair was confined in a small hat; and over her travelling-dress she wore a dark-red jacket trimmed with strips of astrakhan. In one gloved hand she held a travelling-case with the letters "C.F." over some sort of label. Her other hand was pressed to her heart.

"Oh, please, please forgive this intrusion!" she pleaded, in a breathless but low and melodious voice. "Which of you, I beg, is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

My companion inclined his head.

"I am Mr. Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson."

"Thank heaven I have found you at home! My er­rand—"

But our visitor could go no further than "My errand." She stammered, a deep blush spread up over her face, and she lowered her eyes. Gently Sherlock Holmes took the travelling-case from her hand, and pushed an arm­chair towards the fire.

"Pray be seated, madam, and compose yourself," said he, laying aside his cherry-wood pipe.

"I thank you, Mr. Holmes," replied the young lady, shrinking into the chair and giving him a grateful look. "They say, sir, that you can read the human heart."

"H'm! For poetry, I fear, you must address yourself to Watson."

"That you can read the secrets of your clients, and even the—the errands upon which they come, when they have said not a single word!"

"They over-estimate my powers," he answered, smiling. "Beyond the obvious facts that you are a lady's companion, that you seldom travel yet have recently returned from a journey to Switzerland, and that your errand here concerns a man who has engaged your affections, I can deduce nothing."

The young lady gave a violent start, and I myself was taken aback.

"Holmes," cried I, "this is too much. How could you possibly know this?"

"How, indeed?" echoed the young lady.

"I see it, I observe it. The travelling-case, though far from new, is neither worn nor battered by travel. Yet I need not insult your intelligence by calling attention to the paper label of the Hotel Splendide, at Grindelwald in Switzerland, which has been affixed with gum to the side of the case."

"But the other point?" I insisted.

"The lady's attire, though in impeccable taste, is neither new nor costly. Yet she has stayed at the best hotel in Grindelwald, and she arrives in a carriage of the well-to-do. Since her own initials, 'C.F.,' do not match the 'M.' on the carriage-panel, we may assume her to occupy a position of equality in some well-to-do family. Her youth precludes the position of governess, and we are left with a lady's companion. As for the man who has engaged her affections, her blushes and lowered eyelids proclaim as much. Absurd, is it not?"

"But it is true, Mr. Holmes!" cried our visitor, clasping her hands together in even deeper agitation. "My name is Celia Forsythe, and for over a year I have been companion to Lady Mayo, of Groxton Low Hall, in Surrey. Charles—"

"Charles? That is the name of the gentleman in ques­tion?"

Miss Forsythe nodded her head without looking up.

"If I hesitate to speak of him," she continued, "it is because I fear you may laugh at me. I fear you may think me mad; or, worse still, that poor Charles himself is mad."

"And why should I think so, Miss Forsythe?"

"Mr. Holmes, he cannot endure the sight of a clock!"

"Of a clock?"

"In the past fortnight, sir, and for no explicable reason, he has destroyed seven clocks. Two of them he smashed in public, and before my own eyes!"

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his long, thin fingers together.

"Come," said he, "this is most satis—most curious. Pray continue your narrative."

"I despair of doing so, Mr. Holmes. Yet I will try. For the past year I have been very happy in the employ of Lady Mayo. I must tell you that both my parents are dead, but I received a good education and such references as I could obtain were fortunately satisfactory. Lady Mayo, I must acknowledge, is of somewhat forbidding appearance. She is of the old school, stately and austere. Yet to me she has been kindness itself. In fact, it was she who suggested that we take the holiday in Switzer­land, fearing that the isolation of Groxton Low Hall might depress my spirits. In the train between Paris and Grindelwald we met—met Charles. I should say Mr. Charles Hendon."

Holmes had relapsed into the arm-chair, putting his finger-tips together as was his wont when he was in a judicial mood.

"Then this was the first time you had met the gentle­man?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!"

"I see. And how did the acquaintanceship come about?"

"A trifling matter, Mr. Holmes. We three were alone in a first-class carriage. Charles's manners are so beautiful, his voice so fine, his smile so captivating—"

"No doubt. But pray be precise as to details."

Miss Forsythe opened wide her large blue eyes.

"I believe it was the window," said she. "Charles (I may tell you that he has remarkable eyes and a heavy brown moustache) bowed and requested Lady Mayo's permission to lower the window. She assented, and in a few moments they were chatting together like old friends."

"H'm! I see."

"Lady Mayo, in turn, presented me to Charles. The journey to Grindelwald passed quickly and happily. And yet, no sooner had we entered the foyer of the Hotel Splendide, than there occurred the first of the horrible shocks which have since made my life wretched.

"Despite its name, the hotel proved to be rather small and charming. Even then, I knew Mr. Hendon for a man of some importance, though he had described himself modestly as a single gentleman travelling with only one manservant. The manager of the hotel, M. Branger, ap­proached and bowed deeply both to Lady Mayo and to Mr. Hendon. With M. Branger he exchanged some words in a low voice and the manager bowed deeply again. Whereupon Charles turned round, smiling, and then quite suddenly his whole demeanour altered.

"I can still see him standing there, in his long coat and top hat, with a heavy malacca walking-stick under his arm. His back was turned towards an ornamental half-circle of ferns and evergreens surrounding a fireplace with a low mantelshelf on which stood a Swiss clock of ex­quisite design.

"Up to this time I had not even observed the clock. But Charles, uttering a stifled cry, rushed towards the fireplace. Lifting the heavy walking-stick, he brought it crashing down on the hood of the clock, and rained blow after blow until the clock fell in tinkling ruins on the hearth.

"Then he turned round and walked slowly back. With­out a word of explanation he took out a pocketbook, gave to M. Branger a bank-note which would ten times over have paid for the clock, and began lightly to speak of other matters.

"You may well imagine, Mr. Holmes, that we stood as though stunned. My impression was that Lady Mayo, for all her dignity, was frightened. Yet I swear Charles had not been frightened; he had been merely furious and determined. At this point I caught sight of Charles's manservant, who was standing in the background amid luggage. He is a small, spare man with mutton-chop whiskers; and upon his face there was an expression only of embarrassment and, though it hurts me to breathe the word, of deep shame.

"No word was spoken at the time, and the incident was forgotten. For two days Charles was his usual serene self. On the third morning, when we met him in the dining-room for breakfast, it happened again.

"The windows of the dining-room had their heavy cur­tains partly drawn against the dazzle of sun on the first snow. The room was fairly well filled with other guests taking breakfast. Only then did I remark that Charles, who had just returned from a morning walk, still carried the malacca stick in his hand.

" 'Breathe this air, madame!' he was saying gaily to Lady Mayo. 'You will find it as invigorating as any food or drink!'

"At this he paused, and glanced towards one of the windows. Plunging past us, he struck heavily at the cur­tain and then tore it aside to disclose the ruins of a large clock shaped like a smiling sun-face. I think I should have fainted if Lady Mayo had not grasped my arm."

Miss Forsythe, who had removed her gloves, now pressed her hands against her cheeks.

"But not only does Charles smash clocks," she went on. "He buries them in the snow, and even hides them in the cupboard of his own room."

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

"In the cupboard?" exclaimed he, frowning. "This is even more singular! How did you become aware of the circumstance?"

"To my shame, Mr. Holmes, I was reduced to ques­tioning his servant."

"To your shame?"

"I had no right to do so. In my humble position, Charles would never—that is, I could mean nothing to him! I had no right!"

"You had every right, Miss Forsythe," answered Holmes kindly. "Then you questioned the servant, whom you describe as a small, spare man with muttonchop whiskers. His name?"

"His name is Trepley, I believe. More than once I have heard Charles address him as 'Trep." And I vow, Mr. Holmes, he is the faithfullest creature alive. Even the sight of his dogged English face was a comfort to me. He knew, he felt, he sensed my—my interest, and he told me that his master had buried or concealed five other clocks. Though he refused to say so, I could tell he shared my fears. Yet Charles is not mad! He is not! You yourself must admit that, because of the final incident."

"Yes?"

"It took place only four days ago. You must know that Lady Mayo's suite included a small drawing-room containing a piano. I am passionately devoted to music, and it was my habit to play to Lady Mayo and Charles after tea. On this occasion I had scarcely begun to play when a hotel servant entered with a letter for Charles."

"One moment. Did you observe the postmark?"

"Yes; it was foreign." Miss Forsythe spoke in some surprise. "But surely it was of no importance, since you—"

"Since I—what?"

A sudden touch of bewilderment was manifest in our client's expression, and then, as though, to drive away some perplexity, she hurried on with her narrative.

"Charles tore open the letter, read it, and turned deathly pale. With an incoherent exclamation he rushed from the room. When we descended half an hour later, it was only to discover that he and Trepley had departed with all his luggage. He left no message. He sent no word. I have not seen him since."

Celia Forsythe lowered her head, and tears glimmered in her eyes.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, I have been frank with you. I beg that you will be equally frank with me. What did you write in that letter?"

The question was so startling that I, for one, leaned back in my chair. Sherlock Holmes's face was without expression. His long, nervous fingers reached out for the tobacco in the Persian slipper, and began to fill a clay pipe.

"In the letter, you say," he stated rather than asked.

"Yes! You wrote that letter. I saw your signature. That is why I am here!"

"Dear me!" remarked Holmes. He was silent for several minutes, the blue smoke curling about him, and his eyes fixed vacantly upon the clock on the mantelshelf.

"There are times, Miss Forsythe," he said at last, "when one must be guarded in one's replies. I have only one more question to ask you."

"Well, Mr. Holmes?"

"Did Lady Mayo still preserve her friendliness for Mr. Charles Hendon?"

"Oh, yes! She became quite attached to him. More than once I heard her address him as Alec, apparently her nickname for him." Miss Forsythe paused, with an air of doubt, and even suspicion. "But what can you mean by such a question?"

Holmes rose to his feet.

"Only, madam, that I shall be happy to look into this matter for you. You return to Groxton Low Hall this evening?"

"Yes. But surely you have more to say to me than this? You have answered not one of my questions!"

"Well, well! I have my methods, as Watson here can tell you. But if you could find it convenient to come here, say a week from this day, at nine o'clock in the evening? Thank you. Then I shall hope to have some news for you."

Palpably it was a dismissal. Miss Forsythe rose to her feet, and looked at him so forlornly that I felt the need to interpose some word of comfort.

"Be of good cheer, madam!" I cried, gently taking her hand. "You may have every confidence in my friend Mr. Holmes; and, if I may say so, in myself as well."

I was rewarded by a gracious and grateful smile. When the door had closed behind our fair visitor, I turned to my companion with some asperity.

"I do feel, Holmes, that you might have treated the young lady with more sympathy."

"Oh? Sets the wind in that quarter?"

"Holmes, for shame!" said I, flinging myself into my chair. "The affair is trivial, no doubt. But why you should have written a letter to this clock-breaking madman I cannot conjecture."

Holmes leaned across and laid his long, thin forefinger upon my knee.

"Watson, I wrote no such letter."

"What?" I exclaimed.

"Tut, it is not the first time my name has been borrowed by others! There is devilry here, Watson, else I am much mistaken."

"You take it seriously, then?"

"So seriously that I leave for the Continent tonight."

"For the Continent? For Switzerland?"

"No, no; what have we to do with Switzerland? Our trail lies further afield."

"Then where do you go?"

"Surely that is obvious?"

"My dear Holmes!"

"Yet nearly all the data are before you, and, as I in­formed Miss Forsythe, you know my methods. Use them, Watson! Use them!"

Already the first lamps were glimmering through the fog in Baker Street, when my friend's simple preparations were completed. He stood at the doorway of our sitting-room, tall and gaunt in his ear-flapped travelling-cap and long Inverness cape, his Gladstone bag at his feet, and regarded me with singular fixity.

"One last word, Watson, since you still appear to see no light. I would remind you that Mr. Charles Hendon cannot endure the s—"

"But that is clear enough! He cannot bear the sight of a clock."

Holmes shook his head.

"Not necessarily," said he. "I would further draw your attention to the other five clocks, as described by the servant."

"Mr. Charles Hendon did not smash those clocks!"

"That is why I draw your attention to them. Until nine o'clock this day week, Watson!"

A moment more, and I was alone.

During the dreary week which followed, I occupied myself as best I might. I played billiards with Thurston. I smoked many pipes of Ship's, and I pondered over the notes in the case of Mr. Charles Hendon. One does not associate for some years with Sherlock Holmes without becoming more observant than most. It seemed to me that some dark and sinister peril hung over that poor young lady, Miss Forsythe, nor did I trust either the too-handsome Charles Hendon or the enigmatic Lady Mayo.

On Wednesday, November 23rd, my wife returned with the welcome news that our fortunes were in better order and that I should soon be able to buy a small practice. Her home-coming was a joyous one. That night, as we sat hand in hand before the fire in our lodgings, I told her something of the strange problem before me. I spoke of Miss Forsythe, touching on her parlous plight, and on her youth and beauty and refinement. My wife did not reply, but sat looking thoughtfully at the fire.

It was the distant chime of Big Ben striking the half hour after eight, which roused me.

"By Jove, Mary!" cried I. "I had all but forgotten!"

"Forgotten?" repeated my wife, with a slight start.

"I have promised to be in Baker Street at nine o'clock tonight. Miss Forsythe is to be there."

My wife drew back her hand.

"Then you had best be off at once," said she, with a coldness which astonished me. "You are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases."

Puzzled and somewhat hurt, I took my hat and my departure. It was a bitter-cold night, with no breath of fog, but with the roads ice-blocked in mud. Within the half hour a hansom set me down in Baker Street. With a thrill of excitement I observed that Sherlock Holmes had returned from his mission. The upper windows were lighted, and several times I saw his gaunt shadow pass and repass on the blinds.

Letting myself in with a latch-key, I went softly up the stairs and opened the door of the sitting-room. Clearly Holmes had only just returned, for his cape, his cloth cap, and his old Gladstone bag were scattered about the room in his customary untidy fashion.

He stood at his desk, his back towards me, and the light of the green-shaded desk-lamp falling over him as he ripped open envelopes in a small pile of correspon­dence. At the opening of the door he turned round, but his face fell.

"Ah, Watson, it is you. I had hoped to see Miss For­sythe. She is late."

"By heaven, Holmes! If those scoundrels have harmed the young lady, I swear they shall answer to me!'

"Scoundrels?"

"I refer to Mr. Charles Hendon, and, though it grieves me to say as much about a woman, to Lady Mayo as well."

The harsh, eager lines of his face softened. "Good old Watson!" said he. "Always hurrying to the rescue of beauty in distress. And a pretty hash you have made of it, upon occasion."

"Then I trust," I replied with dignity, "that your own mission on the Continent was a success?"

"A touch, Watson! Pray forgive my outburst of nerves. No, my mission was not a success. It seemed to me that I had a direct summons to a certain European city whose name you will readily infer. I went there, and returned in what I fancy is record time."

"Well?"

"The—Mr. Hendon, Watson, is a badly frightened man. Yet he is not without wit. No sooner had he left Switzerland, than he must have divined that the false letter was a decoy to trap him. But I lost him. Where is he now? And be good enough to explain why you should call him a scoundrel."

"I spoke, perhaps, in the heat of the moment. Yet I cannot help disliking the fellow."

"Why?"

"In one of doubtless exalted position, a certain elab­orateness of manner is permissible. But he bows too much! He makes scenes in public. He affects the Con­tinental habit of addressing an English lady as 'madame,' instead of an honest 'madam.' Holmes, it is all con­foundedly un-English!"

My friend regarded me strangely, as though taken aback, and was about to reply when we heard the clatter of a four-wheeler drawing up outside our street-door. Less than a minute later Celia Forsythe was in the room, followed by a small, hard-looking, dogged man in a bowler hat with a curly brim. From his mutton-chop whiskers I deduced him to be Trepley, the man-servant.

Miss Forsythe's face was aglow with the cold. She wore a short fur jacket, and carried a dainty muff.

"Mr. Holmes," she burst out without preamble, "Charles is in England!"

"So I had already supposed. And where is he?"

"At Groxton Low Hall. I should have sent a telegram yesterday, save that Lady Mayo forbade me to do so."

"Fool that I am!" said Holmes, striking his fist upon the desk. "You spoke of its isolation, I think. Watson! Will you oblige me with the large-scale map of Surrey? Thank you." His voice grew more harsh. "What's this, what's this?"

"My dear fellow," I expostulated, "can you read villainy in a map?"

"Open country, Watson! Fields. Woods. The nearest railway station fully three miles from Groxton Low Hall!" Holmes groaned. "Miss Forsythe, Miss Forsythe, you have much to answer for!"

The young lady fell back a step in amazement.

"I have much to answer for?" she cried. "Can you credit me, sir, when I tell you that so much continued mystery has all but driven the wits from my head? Neither Charles nor Lady Mayo will speak a word."

"Of explanation?"

"Precisely!" She nodded her head towards the servant. "Charles has sent Trepley to London with a letter, to be delivered by hand, and I am not even suffered to know its contents."

"Sorry, miss," observed the little man, gruffly but deferentially. "That's orders."

For the first time I noted that Trepley, who was dressed more like a groom than a manservant, jealously pressed an envelope flat between his hands as though he feared someone might snatch it away. His pale eyes, framed in the mutton-chop whiskers, moved slowly round the room. Sherlock Holmes advanced towards him.

"You will be good enough to show me that envelope, my man," he said.

I have often remarked that a stupid person is the most doggedly loyal. Trepley's eyes were almost those of a fanatic.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I will not. I will do as I have been ordered, come what may!"

"I tell you, man, this is no time to hesitate. I don't wish to read the letter. I wish merely to see the address on the front and the seal on the back. Quickly, now! It may mean your master's life!"

Trepley hesitated and moistened his lips. Gingerly, still gripping one corner of the envelope, he held it out with­out releasing it. Holmes whistled.

"Come!" said he. "It is addressed to no less a person­age than Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner of Metro­politan Police. And the seal? Ah! Just as I thought. You are engaged to deliver this letter at once?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Then off with you! But detain the four-wheeler, for the rest of us will want it presently."

He did not speak until Trepley had clattered down the stairs. But the old feverishness was again upon him.

"And now, Watson, you might just look up the trams in Bradshaw. Are you armed?"

"My stick."

"For once, I fear, it may prove inadequate." And he opened the left-hand drawer of the desk-table. "Oblige me by slipping this into your greatcoat pocket. A .320 Webley, with Eley's No. 2 cartridges—"

As the light gleamed on the barrel of the revolver, Celia Forsythe uttered a cry and put one hand on the mantelpiece to steady herself.

"Mr. Holmes!" she began, and then seemed to change her mind. "There are frequent trains to Groxton station, which, as you say, is three miles from the Hall. Indeed, there is one in twenty minutes."

"Excellent!"

"But we must not take it"

"Must not take it, madam?"

"I have had no time to tell you, but Lady Mayo herself now appeals to you for help. Only this afternoon I persuaded her. Lady Mayo requests that we three take the 10:25, which is the last train. She will meet us at Grox­ton station with the carriage." Miss Forsythe bit her lip. "Lady Mayo, despite her kindness, is—imperious. We must not miss that last train!"

And yet we very nearly missed it. Having forgotten streets of frozen mud, and the crush of vehicles under blue, sputtering arc-lamps, we arrived at Waterloo only just in time.

Presently, as the train emerged into open country, our dim-lit compartment took on a greater quality of eeriness with each click of the wheels. Holmes sat silent, bending slightly forward. I could see his hawk-like profile, under the fore and aft cap, clear-cut against the cold radiance of a full moon. It was nearly half-past eleven when we alighted at a wayside station whose village had long been lightless and asleep.

Nothing stirred there. No dog barked. Near the station stood an open landau, without a clink of harness from the horses. Bolt upright sat the coachman, as motionless as the squat elderly lady who sat in the back of the landau, watching us stonily as we approached.

Miss Forsythe eagerly began to speak, but the elderly lady, who was wrapped in grey furs and had a good deal of nose, raised a hand to forestall her.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she said, in a singularly deep and musical voice, "and this other gentleman, I take it, is Dr. Watson. I am Lady Mayo."

She scrutinized us for a moment with a pair of sin­gularly sharp and penetrating eyes.

"Pray enter the landau," she continued. "You will find quite a number of carriage-rugs. Though I deplore the necessity of offering an open conveyance on so cold a night, my coachman's fondness for fast driving," and she indicated the driver, who hunched up his shoulders, "has contrived to break the axle of the closed carriage. To the Hall, Billings! Make haste!"

The whip cracked. With an uneasy swing of the rear wheels, our landau was off at a smart pace along a narrow road bordered with spiky hedgerows and skeleton trees.

"But I did not mind," said Lady Mayo. "Lackaday, Mr. Holmes! I am a very old woman. My youth was a time of fast driving; ay, and of fast living too."

"Was it also a time of fast dying?" asked my friend. "Such a death, for instance, as may overtake our young friend tonight?"

The hoof-beats rang on the icy road.

"I think, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said she quietly, "that you and I understand each other."

"I am sure of it, Lady Mayo. But you have not an­swered my question,"

"Have no fear, Mr. Holmes. He is safe now."

"You are certain?"

"I tell you, he is quite safe! The park at Groxton Low Hall is patrolled, and the house is guarded. They cannot attack him."

Whether my own outburst was caused by the smart clip of the landau, the rushing wind past our ears, or the maddening nature of the problem itself, to this day I cannot say.

"Forgive the bluntness of an old campaigner," cried I, "who has no answer for anything. But at least take pity on the poor young lady beside you! Who is Mr. Charles Hendon? Why does he smash clocks? For what reason should his life be in danger?"

"Tut, Watson," said Holmes, with a touch of tartness. "You yourself staggered me by enumerating the points in which Mr. Charles Hendon, as you put it, is confoundedly un-English."

"Well? And why does that assist us?"

"Because the so-called 'Charles Hendon' is assuredly not English."

"Not English?" said Celia Forsythe, stretching out her hand. "But he speaks English perfectly!" The breath died in her throat. "Too perfectly!" she whispered.

"This young man," I exclaimed, "is not, then, of exalted station?"

"On the contrary, my dear fellow. Your shrewdness never fails. He is of very exalted station indeed. Now name for me the one Imperial Court in Europe—ay, Watson, Imperial Court!—at which the speaking of English has all but superseded its own native language."

"I cannot think. I don't know."

"Then endeavour to remember what you do know. Shortly before Miss Forsythe first called upon us, I read aloud certain items from the daily press which at the time seemed tediously unimportant. One item stated that the Nihilists, that dangerous band of anarchists who would crush Imperial Russia to nothingness, were suspected of plotting against the life of the Grand Duke Alexei at Odessa. The Grand Duke Alexei, you perceive. Now Lady Mayo's nickname for 'Mr. Charles Hendon' was—"

"Alec!" cried I.

"It might have been the merest coincidence," observed Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "However, when we reflect upon recent history, we recall that in an earlier attempt on the life of the late Tsar of all the Russias— who was blown to pieces in '81, by the explosion of a dynamite bomb—the ticking of the bomb was drowned beneath the playing of a piano. Dynamite bombs, Watson, are of two kinds. One, iron-sheathed and fairly light, may be ignited on a short fuse and thrown. The other, also of iron, is exploded by means of a clockwork mechanism whose loud ticking alone betrays its presence."

Crack went the coachman's whip, and the hedgerows seemed to unreel as in a dream. Holmes and I sat with our backs to the driver, vis-а-vis the moon-whitened faces of Lady Mayo and Celia Forsythe.

"Holmes, all this is becoming as clear as crystal! That is why the young man cannot bear the sight of a clock!"

"No, Watson. No! The sound of a clock!"

"The sound?"

"Precisely. When I attempted to tell you as much, your native impatience cut me short at the first letter. On the two occasions when he destroyed a clock in public, bear in mind that in neither case could he actually see the clock. In one instance, as Miss Forsythe informed us, it was hidden inside a screen of greenery; in the other, it was behind a curtain. Hearing only that significant ticking, he struck before he had time to take thought. His purpose, of course, was to smash the clockwork and draw the fangs of what he believed to be a bomb."

"But surely," I protested, "those blows of a stick might well have ignited and exploded a bomb?"

Again Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"Had it been a real bomb, who can tell? Yet, against an iron casing, I think the matter doubtful. In either event, we deal with a very courageous gentleman, haunted and hounded, who rushed and struck blindly. It is not unnatural that the memory of his father's death and the knowledge that the same organization was on his own trail should tend toward hasty action."

"And then?"

Yet Sherlock Holmes remained uneasy. I noticed that he glanced round more than once at the lonely sweep of the grey rolling country-side.

"Well," said he, "having determined so much in my first interview with Miss Forsythe, it seemed clear that the forged letter was bait to draw the Grand Duke to Odessa, urging on him the pluck to face these implacable men. But, as I have told you, he must have suspected. Therefore he would go—where?" .

"To England," said I. "Nay, more! To Groxton Low Hall, with the added inducement of an attractive young lady whom I urge to leave off weeping and dry her tears."

Holmes looked exasperated.

"At least I could say," replied he, "that the balance of probability lay in that direction. Surely it was obvious from the beginning that one in the position of Lady Mayo would never have entered so casually into railway-carriage conversation with a young man unless they had been, in Miss Forsythe's unwitting but illuminating phrase, 'old friends.' "

"I underestimated your powers, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Lady Mayo, who had been patting Celia's hand, spoke harshly. "Yes, I knew Alexei when he was a little boy in a sailor-suit at St. Petersburg."

"Where your husband, I discovered, was First Secretary at the British Embassy. In Odessa I learned another fact of great interest."

"Eh? What was that?"

"The name of the Nihilists' chief agent, a daring, mad, and fanatical spirit who has been very close to the Grand Duke for some time."

"Impossible!"

"Yet true."

For a moment Lady Mayo sat looking at him, her countenance far less stony, while the carriage bumped over a rut and veered.

"Attend to me, Mr. Holmes. My own dear Alec has already written to the police, in the person of Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner."

"Thank you; I have seen the letter. I have also seen the Imperial Russian Arms on the seal."

"Meanwhile," she continued, "I repeat that the park is patrolled, the house guarded—"

"Yet a fox may escape the hounds none the less."

"It is not only a question of guards! At this minute, Mr. Holmes, poor Alec sits in an old, thick-walled room, with its door double-locked on the inside. The windows are so closely barred that none could so much as stretch a hand inside. The chimney-piece is ancient and hooded, yet with so narrow an aperture that no man could climb down; and a fire burns there. How could an enemy attack him?"

"How?" muttered Holmes, biting his lip and tapping his fingers on his knee. "It is true he may be safe for one night, since—"

Lady Mayo made a slight gesture of triumph.

"No precaution has been neglected," said she. "Even the roof is safeguarded. Alec's manservant, Trepley, after delivering the letter in London with commendable quick­ness, returned by an earlier train than yours, and bor­rowed a horse at the village. At this moment he is on the roof of the Hall, faithfully guarding his master."

The effect of this speech was extraordinary. Sherlock Holmes leaped to his feet in the carriage, his cape rising in grotesque black silhouette as he clutched at the box-rail for balance.

"On the roof?" he echoed. "On the roof?"

Then he turned round, seizing the shoulders of the coachman.

"Whip up the horses!" he shouted. "For God's sake, whip up the horses! We have not a second to lose!"

Crack! Crack! went the whip over the ears of the leader. The horses, snorting, settled down to a gallop and plunged away. In the confusion, as we were all thrown together, rose Lady Mayo's angry voice.

"Mr. Holmes, have you taken leave of your senses?"

"You shall see whether I have. Miss Forsythe! Did you ever actually hear the Grand Duke address his man as Trepley?"

"I—no!" faltered Celia Forsythe, shocked to alertness. "As I informed you, Char—oh, heaven help me!—the Grand Duke called him 'Trep.' I assumed—"

"Exactly! You assumed. But his true name is Trepoff. From your first description I knew him to be a liar and a traitor."

The hedgerows flashed past; bit and harness jingled; we flew with the wind.

"You may recall," pursued Holmes, "the man's con­summate hypocrisy when his master smashed the first clock? It was a heavy look of embarrassment and shame, was it not? He would have you think Mr. Charles Hendon insane. How came you to know of the other five clocks, which were purely imaginary? Because Trepoff told you. To hide a clock or a live bomb in a cupboard would really have been madness, if in fact the Grand Duke Alexei had ever done so."

"But, Holmes," I protested. "Since Trepoff is his per­sonal servant—"

"Faster, coachman! Faster! Yes, Watson!"

"Surely Trepoff must have had a hundred opportunities to kill his master, by knife or poison perhaps, without this spectacular addition of a bomb?"

"This spectacular addition, as you call it, is the revolu­tionaries' stock-in-trade. They will not act without it. Their victim must be blown up in one fiery crash of ruin, else the world may not notice them or their power."

"But the letter to Sir Charles Warren?" cried Lady Mayo.

"Doubtless it was dropped down the nearest street drain. Ha! I think that must be Groxton Low Hall just ahead."

The ensuing events of that night are somewhat con­fused in my mind. I recall a long, low-built Jacobean house, of mellow red brick with mullioned windows and a flat roof, which seemed to rush at us up a gravel drive. Carriage-rugs flew wide. Lady Mayo, thoroughly roused, called sharp instructions to a group of nervous servants.

Then Holmes and I were hurrying after Miss Forsythe up a series of staircases, from a broad and carpeted oak stairway in the hall to a set of narrow steps which were little more than a ladder to the roof. At the foot of these, Holmes paused for a moment to lay his fingers on Miss Forsythe's arm.

"You will stay here," he said quietly.

There was a metallic click as he put his hand into his pocket, and for the first time I knew that Holmes was armed too.

"Come, Watson," said he.

I followed him up the narrow steps while he softly lifted the trap-door to the roof.

"Not a sound, on your life!" he whispered. "Fire if you catch sight of him."

"But how are we to find him?"

The cold air again blew in our faces. We crept cau­tiously forward across the flat roof. All about us were chimneys, tall ghostly stacks and clusters of squat smoke-blackened pots, surrounding a great leaden cupola shining like silver under the moon. At the far end, where the roof-tree of an old gable rose against the sky, a dark shape seemed to crouch above a single moon-washed chimney.

A sulphur-match flared blue, then burned with a cedar yellow glow and, an instant later, came the hissing of an ignited fuse followed by a clattering sound in the chimney. Holmes ran forward, twisting and turning through the maze of stacks and parapets, toward the hunched figure now hastily clawing away.

"Fire, Watson! Fire!"

Our pistols rang out together. I saw Trepoff's pale face jerk round toward us, and then in the same instant the whole chimney-stack rose straight up into the air in a solid pillar of white fire. The roof heaved beneath my feet, and I was dimly conscious of rolling over and over along the leads, while shards and splinters of broken brickwork whizzed overhead or clanged against the metal dome of the cupola.

Holmes rose unsteadily to his feet. "Are you hurt, Watson?" he gasped.

"Only a trifle winded," I replied. "But it was fortunate we were thrown on our faces. Otherwise—" I gestured toward the slashed and scarred stacks that rose about us.

We had advanced only a few yards through a mist of gritty dust when we came upon the man whom we were seeking.

"He must now answer to a greater tribunal," said Holmes, looking down at the dreadful object sprawled on the leads. "Our shots made him hesitate for that fatal second, and he took the full blast of the bomb up the chimney." My friend turned away. "Come," he added, and his voice was bitter with self-reproach. "We have been both too slow to save our client, and too late to avenge him through the machinery of human justice."

Suddenly his expression altered, and he clutched my arm.

"By Jove, Watson! A single chimney-stack saved our lives!" he cried. "What was the word the woman used! Hooded! That was it, hooded! Quickly; there's not a moment to lose!"

We raced through the trap-door, and down the stair­way to the main landing. At the far end, through a haze of acrid smoke, we could discern the ruins of a splintered door. An instant later we had rushed into the bedroom of the Grand Duke. Holmes groaned aloud at the scene which met our eyes.

What was once a stately fireplace now yawned in a great jagged hole beneath the remnants of a heavy stone hood. The fire from the grate had been blasted into the room, and the air was foul with the stench of the carpet smouldering under its powder of red-hot ashes. Holmes darted forward through the smoke, and a moment later I saw him stoop behind the wreckage of a piano.

"Quick, Watson!" he cried. "There is life in him yet! This is where I can do nothing, and you can do everything."

But it was touch and go. For the remainder of the night the young Duke hovered between life and death in the old wainscotted bedroom to which we had carried him. Yet, as the sun rose above the trees in the park, I noted with satisfaction that the coma induced by shock was already passing into a natural sleep.

"His wounds are superficial," I said. "But the shock alone could have proved fatal. Now that he is asleep, he will live, and I have no doubt that the presence of Miss Celia Forsythe will speed his recovery."

"Should you record the facts of this little case," re­marked Holmes a few minutes later, as we strolled across the dew-laden grass of the deer-park, all glittering and sparkling in the fresh beauty of the dawn, "then you must have the honesty to lay the credit where it is due."

"But does not the credit lie with you?"

"No, Watson. That the outcome was successful is owing entirely to the fact that our ancestors understood the art of building. The strength of a fireplace-hood two hundred years old saved that young man's head from being blown off his shoulders. It is fortunate for the Grand Duke Alexei of Russia, and for the reputation of Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, that in the days of the good King James the householder never failed to allow for the violent predilections of his neighbour."

----:----

From time to time I heard some vague ac­count of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder.

FROM "A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA."

2

The Adventure of the Gold Hunter

"Mr. Holmes, it was death by the visitation of God!"

We have heard many singular statements in our rooms at Baker Street, but few more startling than this pronouncement of the Rev. Mr. James Appley.

I need no reference to my note-book to recall that it was a fine summer day in the year 1887. A telegram had arrived at the breakfast-table. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, with an exclamation of impatience, threw it across to me. The telegram stated merely that the Rev. James Appley re­quested the favour of waiting upon him that morning, to consult him in a matter of church affairs.

"Really, Watson," Holmes had commented with some asperity, as he lighted his after-breakfast pipe, "matters have indeed come to a pretty pass when clergymen seek my advice as to the length of their sermons or the conduct of the Harvest Festival. I am flattered but out of my depth. What does Crockford say of this strange client?"

Endeavouring to anticipate my friend's methods, I had already taken down the clerical directory. I could find only that the gentleman in question was the vicar of a small parish in Somerset, and had written a monograph on Byzantine medicine.

"An unusual pursuit for a country clergyman," Holmes remarked. "But here, unless I am much mistaken, is the man himself."

As he spoke, there had arisen from below an excited pealing of the door-bell, and, before Mrs. Hudson could announce him, our visitor had burst into the room. He was a tall, thin, high-shouldered man in rustic clerical dress with a benevolent, scholarly face framed in anti­quated side-whiskers of the sort once known as Dun­dreary weepers.

"My dear sirs," he cried, peering at us myopically from behind oval spectacles, "pray accept my assurance that it is only the pressure of events that prompts my invasion of your privacy."

"Come, come," said Sherlock Holmes good-humoured­ly, waving him to the basket-chair before the empty fireplace. "I am a consulting detective, and therefore my privacy is of no more consequence than that of a doctor."

The clergyman had hardly seated himself when he blurted out the extraordinary words with which I have begun this narrative.

"Death by the visitation of God," repeated Sherlock Holmes. Though his voice was subdued, yet it seemed to me that there was a roll and thrill in the words. "Then surely, my dear sir, the matter lies rather within your province than within mine?"

"I ask your pardon," said the vicar, hastily. "My words were perhaps over-emphatic and even irreverent. But you will understand that this horrible event, this—" his voice sank almost to a whisper as he leaned forward in his chair. "Mr. Holmes, it is villainy: cold-blooded, deliberate villainy!"

"Believe me, sir, I am all attention."

"Mr. John Trelawney—Squire Trelawney, we called him—was the richest landowner for miles about. Four nights ago, when only three months short of his seventieth birthday, he died in his bed."

"Hum! That is not so uncommon."

"No, sir. But hear me!" cried the vicar, raising a long forefinger curiously smudged on the very tip. "John Trelawney was a hale and hearty man, suffering from no organic disease, and good for at least a dozen more years in this mundane sphere. Dr. Paul Griffin, our local medi­cal practitioner and incidentally my nephew, flatly refused to issue a death-certificate. There was a most dreadful business called a post-mortem."

Holmes, who had not yet doffed his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, had been leaning back languidly in his arm-chair. Now he half opened his eyes.

"A post-mortem!" said he. "Performed by your nephew?"

Mr. Appley hesitated. "No, Mr. Holmes. It was per­formed by Sir Leopold Harper, our foremost living au­thority on medical jurisprudence. I may tell you, here and now, that poor Trelawney did not die a natural death. Not only the police but Scotland Yard have been called in."

"Ah!"

"On the other hand," continued Mr. Appley agitated­ly, "Trelawney was not murdered, and he could not possibly have been murdered. The greatest medical skill has been used to pronounce that he could not have died from any cause whatsoever."

For a moment there was a silence in our sitting-room, where the blinds had been half drawn against the summer sun.

"My dear Watson," said Holmes cordially, "will you be good enough to fetch me a clay pipe from the rack over the sofa? Thank you. I find, Mr. Appley, that a clay is most conducive to meditation. Come, where is the coal­scuttle? May I venture to offer you a cigar?"

"Cras ingens iterabimus aequor," said the vicar, run­ning his curiously mottled fingers over his side-whiskers. "At the moment, thank you, no. I cannot smoke. I dare not smoke! It would choke me. I am aware that I must tell you the facts in precise detail. But it is difficult. You may have remarked that I am considered somewhat absent-minded?"

"Indeed."

"Yes, sir. In youth, before my call to the Church, I once desired to study medicine. But my late father forbade it, due to this absent-mindedness. Were I to become a doctor, said my father, I should instantly chloroform the patient and remove his gall-stones when he had merely come to enquire about a slight cough."

"Well, well," said Holmes, with a touch of impatience. "But you were disturbed in your mind this morning," he continued, regarding our client with his keen glance. "That, no doubt, was why you consulted several books in your study before catching the train to London this morn­ing?"

"Yes, sir. They were medical works."

"Do you not find it inconvenient to have the book­shelves in your study built so high?"

"Dear me, no. Can any room be too high or too large for one's books?"

Abruptly the vicar paused. His long face, framed in the Dundreary weepers, grew even longer as his mouth fell open.

"Now I am positive, I am quite positive," said he, "that I mentioned neither my books nor the height of the shelves in my study! How could you have known these things?"

"Tut, a trifle! How do I know, for instance, that you are either a bachelor or a widower, and that you have a most slovenly housekeeper?"

"Really, Holmes," cried I, "there is another besides Mr. Appley who would like to know how you deduced it!"

"The dust, Watson! The dust!"

"What dust?"

"Kindly observe the index finger of Mr. Appley's right hand. You will note, on its tip, smudges of that dark-grey dust which accumulates on the top of books. The smudges, somewhat faded, were made no later than this morning. Since Mr. Appley is a tall man with long arms, surely it is obvious that he plucked down books from a high shelf. When to this accumulation of dust we add an unbrushed top hat, it requires small shrewdness to determine that he has no wife, but an appalling house­keeper."

"Remarkable!" said I.

"Meretricious," said he. "And I apologize to our guest for interrupting his narrative."

"This death was incomprehensible beyond all measure! But you have not yet heard the worst," continued our visitor. "I must tell you that Trelawney has one surviving relative: a niece, aged twenty-one. Her name is Miss Dolores Dale, the daughter of the late Mrs. Copley Dale, of Glastonbury. For several years the young lady has kept house for Trelawney in his great whitewashed home, called Goodman's Rest. It has always been understood that Dolores, who is engaged to be married to a fine young man named Jeffrey Ainsworth, would inherit her uncle's fortune. When I tell you that a sweeter, or kinder spirit never existed, that her hair is darker than Homer's wine-dark sea and that upon occasion she can be all flash and fire suggestive of Southern blood—"

"Yes, yes," said Holmes, closing his eyes. "But you stated that I had not heard the worst?"

"True. Here are the facts. Shortly before his death, Trelawney changed his will. Disinheriting his niece, whom the stern-minded old man considered to be too frivolous, he left his entire fortune to my nephew, Dr. Paul Griffin. Sir, it was the scandal of the country-side! Two weeks later, Trelawney was dead in his bed and my unhappy nephew is now under suspicion of murder."

"Pray be particular in your details," said Holmes.

"In the first place," continued the vicar, "I should describe the late Squire Trelawney as a man of stern and implacable habit. I seem always to see him, tall and big-boned, with his great head and his grizzled silver beard, against the brown of a ploughed field or a line of heavy green trees.

"Each evening, in his bedroom, he would read a chapter of the Bible. Afterwards he would wind up his watch, which had almost run down at that hour. Then he would retire to bed at ten o'clock precisely, and rise at five each morning."

"One moment!" interposed Holmes. "Did these habits of his ever vary?"

"Well, should he become absorbed in the Bible, he might read until very late. But this happened so seldom, Mr. Holmes, that I think you may disregard it."

"Thank you; that is quite clear."

"In the second place, I am sorry to say that he was never on the best of terms with his niece. He was stern to a point of brutality. On one occasion, two years ago, he thrashed poor Dolores with a razor-strop, and confined her to her room on bread and water, because she had gone to Bristol to witness a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's comic opera, Patience. I can still see her, with the tears running down her warm-blooded cheeks. You must forgive the intemperance of her language. 'Old devil,' she sobbed.'Old devil!' "

"Am I to understand," interposed Holmes, "that the young lady's future welfare depends on the inheritance of this money?"

"Far from it. Her fiance, Mr. Ainsworth, is a rising young solicitor who is already making his way in the world. Trelawney himself was among his clients."

"I seemed to detect a certain apprehension when you mentioned your nephew," said Holmes. "Since Dr. Griffin inherits this fortune, he was presumably on friendly terms with Trelawney?"

The vicar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "On the friendliest possible terms," he replied with some haste. "Indeed, on one occasion he saved the squire's life. At the same time, I must confess that he has always been a wild, hot-headed man. His intemperate behaviour has gone a long way towards creating the strong local prejudice which has now risen against him. If the police could show how Trelawney died, my nephew might be under arrest at this moment."

The vicar paused and looked round. There had come an authoritative rap at the door. An instant later, as it was flung open, we had a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson over the shoulder of a short, thin, rat-faced man, clad in a check suit and bowler hat. As his hard blue eyes fell on Mr. Appley, he paused on the threshold with a growl of surprise.

"You have a certain gift, Lestrade, for timing your appearances with a pleasant touch of the dramatic," ob­served Holmes languidly.

"And very awkward for some folk," remarked the de­tective, depositing his hat beside the gasogene. "Well, from the presence of this reverend gentleman I take it that you are up to date with this cosy little murder in Somerset. The facts are pretty obvious and all point one way as clear as signposts, eh, Mr. Holmes!"

"Unfortunately, signposts are so easily turned in the opposite direction," said Holmes; "a truism of which I have given you one or two small demonstrations in the past, Lestrade."

The Scotland Yard man flushed angrily. "Well, well, Mr. Holmes, that's as may be. But there is no doubt this time. There are both the motive and the opportunity. We know the man and it only remains to find the means."

"I tell you that my unfortunate nephew—!" broke in the clergyman distractedly.

"I have named no names."

"But you have made it obvious from the moment you heard he was Trelawney's doctor! Admittedly he stands to benefit under that deplorable will."

"You have forgotten to mention his personal reputation, Mr. Appley," said Lestrade grimly.

"Wild, yes; romantic, hot-headed if you like! But a cold-blooded murderer—never! I have known him from his cradle."

"Well, we shall see. Mr. Holmes, I would value a word with you."

During this interchange between our unhappy client and Lestrade, Holmes had been staring at the ceiling with that far-away, dreamy look upon his face which I had noted only on those occasions when his mind whispered that some subtle thread of evidence was already there to hand, but buried as yet in the maze of obvious facts and no less obvious suspicions. He rose abruptly and turned to the vicar.

"I take it that you return to Somerset this afternoon?"

"By the 2:30 from Paddington." There was a tinge of colour in his face as he leapt to his feet. "Am I then to understand, my dear Mr. Holmes—?"

"Dr. Watson and I will accompany you. If you will have the kindness to ask Mrs. Hudson to whistle a cab, Mr. Appley?"

Our client clattered down the stairs.

"This is a somewhat curious affair," said Holmes, filling his travelling-pouch with shag from the Persian slipper.

"I am glad that at last you see it in that light, my dear fellow," I remarked, "for it did seem to me that you were a little impatient from the first with the worthy vicar, especially when he strayed into his early medical ambi­tions and the probability that he would absent-mindedly have removed a patient's gall-stones."

The effect of this casual remark was extraordinary. After looking fixedly into space, Holmes sprang to his feet.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "By Jove!"

There was a touch of colour in his high cheekbones and that sudden gleam in his eyes that I knew of old.

"As usual, Watson, your help has been invaluable," he went on warmly. "Though not yourself luminous, you are a conductor of light."

"I have helped you? By mentioning the vicar's gall­stones?"

"Precisely."

"Really, Holmes!"

"At the moment, I must find a certain surname. Yes, unquestionably I must find a certain surname. Will you hand me the commonplace book under the letter 'B'?".

I had given him the bulky volume, one of many in which he pasted press-cuttings of any incidents arresting his attention, before I had time to reflect.

"But, Holmes, there is no one in this affair whose surname begins with a 'B'!"

"Quite so. I was aware of it. B-a, Ba-r, Bartlett! H'm! Ha! Good old index."

After a short perusal, turning over the pages eagerly, Holmes closed the book with a bang and sat tapping its cover with his long, nervous fingers. Behind him, the tubes and beakers and retorts of the chemical table glittered in the sunlight.

"I had not all the data, of course," he added musingly. "Even now they are not complete."

Lestrade caught my eye and winked.

"They are complete enough for me!" he said with a grin. "They can't deceive me. That red-bearded doctor is a murdering devil. We know the man, and we know the motive."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because there is one thing lacking. We know he did it, right enough! But how did he do it?"

No less than a dozen times did Lestrade ask the same question during the course of our journey, until it seemed to throb and echo in my head with the very click of the train wheels.

It was a long, hot day and the afterglow of sunset lay on the crests of the softly rounded Somersetshire hills when we alighted at last at the little wayside station. On the hillside beyond the half-timbered gables of the village and set amid noble elm trees from whence, even at that distance, the clear evening air carried the cawing of the homing rooks, there shone a great white house.

"We have a mile before us," said Lestrade sourly.

"I should prefer not to go to the house at first," said Holmes. "Does this village run to an inn?"

"There is the Camberwell Arms."

"Then let us go there. I prefer to commence on neutral ground."

"Really, Holmes!" cried Lestrade. "I cannot imagine—"

"Precisely," remarked Holmes, and not another word would he utter until we were all ensconced in the private parlour of the ancient hostelry. Holmes scribbled a few lines in his note-book and tore out two leaves.

"Now, Mr. Appley, if I might take the liberty of send­ing your groom with this note to Goodman's Rest and the other to Mr. Ainsworth?"

"By all means."

"Excellent. Then we have time for a pipe before Miss Dolores and her fiance join us."

For some time we sat in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. As for myself, I had too much confidence in my friend to accept the obvious at its face value so long as he appeared to be perplexed in his own mind.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade sternly, at last. "You have been sufficiently mysterious to satisfy even Dr. Watson here. Let us have your theory."

"I have no theory. I am merely sounding my facts."

"Your facts have overlooked the criminal."

"That remains to be seen. By the way, Vicar, what are the relations between Miss Dolores and your nephew?"

"It is strange that you should mention this," replied Mr. Appley. "Their relationship has been a source of pain to me for some time past. But in justice I must add that the fault lies with the young lady. For no reason, she is gratuitously offensive to him. Worst of all, she shows her dislike in public."

"Ah! And Mr. Ainsworth?"

"Ainsworth is too good a fellow not to deplore his fiancйe's behaviour to my nephew. He takes it almost as a personal affront."

"Indeed. Most praiseworthy. But here, unless I am much mistaken, are our visitors."

The old door creaked open and a tall, graceful girl swept into the room. Her dark eyes, glowing with an unnatural brilliance, turned from one to the other of us with a long, searching glance that had in it a glint of animosity and something more of despair. A slim, fair-haired young man with a fresh complexion and a pair of singularly clear, shrewd blue eyes followed behind her and greeted Appley with a friendly word.

"Which of you is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" cried the young lady. "Ah, yes. You have uncovered fresh evidence, I imagine?"

"I have come to hear it, Miss Dale. Indeed, I have heard everything except what actually happened on the night your uncle—died."

"You stress the word 'died,' Mr. Holmes."

"But hang it all, my dear, what else could he say?" asked young Ainsworth, with an attempt at a laugh. "You have probably got a lot of superstitious nonsense in your head because the thunder-storm on Tuesday night upset your uncle. But it was over before he was dead."

"How do you know that?"

"Dr. Griffin said that he didn't die until about three o'clock in the morning. Anyway, he was all right in the early hours!"

"You seem very sure."

The young man looked at Holmes in obvious perplex­ity. "Of course I am. As Mr. Lestrade can tell you, I was in that room three times during the night. The squire asked me to go there."

"Then be good enough to let me have the facts from the beginning. Perhaps, Miss Dale—?"

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. On Tuesday night, my uncle asked my fiancй and Dr. Griffin to dine with us at Goodman's Rest. From the first, he was uneasy. I put it down to the far-off muttering of thunder; he loathed and feared storms. But now I am wondering whether his uneasiness lay in his mind or his conscience. Be that as it may, our nerves grew more and more tense as the evening went on, nor did Dr. Griffin's sense of humor improve matters when lightning struck a tree in the copse. 'I've got to drive home tonight,' he said, 'and I hope nothing happens to me in this storm.' Dr. Griffin is positively insufferable!

" 'Well, I'm glad that I'm staying,' laughed Jeffrey; 'we are snug enough with the good old lightning-conductors.'

"My uncle leaped from his chair.

" 'You young fool!' he cried. 'Don't you know that there are none on this house?' And my uncle stood there shivering like a man out of his wits."

"I couldn't imagine what I'd said," interrupted Ains­worth naively. "Then, when he flew off about his nightmares—"

"Nightmares?" said Holmes.

"Yes. He screeched out that he suffered from night­mares, and that this was no night for the human soul to be alone."

"He grew calmer," continued Miss Dale, "when Jeffrey offered to look in once or twice during the night. It was really rather pitiful. My fiance went in—when was it, Jeffrey?"

"Once at ten-thirty; once at midnight and finally at one in the morning."

"Did you speak with him?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"No, he was asleep."

"Then, how do you know that he was alive?"

"Well, like many elderly people, the squire kept a night-light. It was a kind of rushlight burning blue in a bowl on the hearth. I couldn't see much, but I could hear his heavy breathing under the howl of the storm."

"It was just after five on the following morning—" said Miss Dale, "when—I can't go on!" she burst out. "I can't!"

"Gently, my dear," said Ainsworth, who was looking at her steadily. "Mr. Holmes, this has been a great strain on my fiancйe."

"Perhaps I may be permitted to continue," suggested the vicar. "Dawn was just breaking when I was roused by a heavy pounding on the vicarage door. A stableboy had been dispatched post-haste from Goodman's Rest with horrible news. It appears that the housemaid carried up the squire's morning tea as usual. On drawing the curtains, she screamed out in horror at beholding her master dead in the bed. Huddling in my clothes, I rushed to Goodman's Rest. When I entered the bedroom, fol­lowed by Dolores and Jeffrey, Dr. Griffin—who had been summoned first—had concluded his examination.

" 'He has been dead for about two hours,' said the doctor. 'But for the life of me I can't understand how he died.'

"I had moved round to the other side of the bed, com­posing myself to pray, when I caught sight of Trelawney's gold watch, gleaming in a ray of morning sunlight. The watch was a stem-winder, without a key. It lay on a small marble-topped table, amid a litter of patent-medicine bottles and liniment-bottles which diffused a strong odour in the stuffy room.

"We are told that in times of crisis our minds will occupy themselves with trifles. This is so, else I cannot account for my own behaviour.

"Fancying that the watch was not ticking, I lifted it to my ear. But it was ticking. I gave the stem two full turns until it was stopped by the spring; but, in any case, I should not have proceeded. The winding caused a harsh noise, cr-r-ack, which drew from Dolores an unnerving scream. I recall her exact words.

" 'Vicar! Put it down! It is like—like a death-rattle.' "

For a moment we sat in silence. Miss Dale turned away her head.

"Mr. Holmes," said Ainsworth earnestly, "these wounds are too recent. May I beg that you will excuse Miss Dale from any further questions tonight?"

Holmes rose to his feet.

"Fears are groundless things without proof, Miss Dale," he observed. Taking out his watch, he looked at it thoughtfully.

"The hour grows late, eh, Mr. Holmes," remarked Lestrade.

"That did not occur to me. But you are right. And now, to Goodman's Rest."

A short journey in the vicar's carriage brought us to a pair of lodge gates opening into a narrow drive. The moon had risen and the long, glimmering avenue stretched away before us, all mottled and barred with the shadows of the great elm trees. As we swung round the final curve, the golden cones of light from the carriage-lamps gleamed faintly on the face of a gaunt, ugly mansion. All the drab-painted window-shutters were closed against the casements, and the front door was shrouded in black crepe.

"It's a house of gloom, all right," said Lestrade in a subdued voice as he tugged at the bell-pull. "Hullo! How's this! What are you doing here, Dr. Griffin?"

The door had swung open and a tall, red-bearded man, clad in a loose-fitting Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, stood in the entrance. As he glared fiercely from one to the other of us, I noted the clenched hands and heaving chest that told of some fearsome inner tension.

"Must I get your permission to walk a mile, Mr. Lestrade?" he cried. "Isn't it enough that your cursed suspicions have roused the whole country-side against me?" His great hand shot out and siezed my friend by the shoulder. "You're Holmes!" he said passionately. "I got your note, and here I am. Please God that you live up to your repute. So far as I can see, you are all that stands between me and the hangman. There, now, what a brute I am! I've frightened her."

With a low moan, Miss Dale had buried her face in her hands.

"It's the strain, it's—it's everything!" she sobbed. "Oh, horror unthinkable!"

I was really very annoyed with Holmes; for, while we gathered round the weeping girl with words of comfort, he merely observed to Lestrade that presumably the dead man's body was inside. Turning his back on us, he strode into the house, whipping out a pocket lens as he did so.

After a decent interval, I hurried after him with Les­trade on my heels. Through a door on the left of a great dark hall, we caught a glimpse of a candle-lit room piled high with half-withered flowers and of Holmes's long, thin figure stooping over a white-shrouded form in the open coffin. The candlelight twinkled on his lens as he bent down until his face was only a few inches above that of the dead man. There was a period of absolute stillness while he scrutinized the placid features beneath him. Then gently he pulled up the sheet and turned away.

I would have spoken, but he hurried past us swiftly and silently with no more than a curt gesture towards the stairs. On the upper landing, Lestrade led the way into a bedroom with massive dark furniture that loomed up gloomily in the light of a shaded lamp burning on a table beside a great open Bible. The sickly stuffiness of funeral flowers, as well as the dampness of the house, followed me everywhere.

Holmes, his brows drawn into two hard black lines, was crawling on all fours under the windows, examining every inch of the floor with his lens. At my stern word of injunction he rose to his feet.

"No, Watson! These windows were not opened three nights ago. Had they been opened during so heavy a storm, I must have found traces." He sniffed the air. "But it was not necessary to open the windows."

"Listen!" said I. "What is that strange noise?"

I looked over towards the bed, with its curtains and high dark canopy. At the head of the bed my gaze fastened on a marble-topped table littered with dusty medicine-bottles.

"Holmes, it is the dead man's gold watch! It lies upon that little table there, and it is still ticking."

"Does that astonish you?"

"Surely, after three days, they would have allowed it to run down?"

"So they did. But I wound it up. I came up here before I examined the dead man downstairs. In fact, I made this whole journey from the village to wind up Squire Tre­lawney's watch at precisely ten o'clock."

"Upon my word, Holmes—!"

"And see," he continued, hastening to the small table in question, "what a treasure-trove we have here! Look at this, Lestrade! Look at it!"

"But, Holmes, it is only a small pot of vaseline such as you may buy at any chemist's!"

"On the contrary, it is a hangman's rope. And yet," he finished thoughtfully, "there remains that one point which continues to puzzle me. How was it that you were able to avail yourself of Sir Leopold Harper?" he asked sud­denly, turning to Lestrade. "Does he live here?"

"No, he is staying with some friends in the neighbour­hood. When the post-mortem was decided on, the local police looked upon it as a bit of luck that the best-known expert in England on medical jurisprudence should be within reach, so they sent for him. And a fine time they had to get him to do it," he added with a sly grin.

"Why?"

"Because he was in bed with a hot-water bottle, a glass of hot toddy, and a cold in his head."

Holmes threw his arms in the air.

"My case is complete," he cried.

Lestrade and I looked at each other in amazement. "I have only one more instruction to give," said Holmes. "Lestrade, nobody must leave this house to­night. The diplomacy of detaining everyone here I leave to you. Watson and I will compose ourselves in this room until five o'clock tomorrow morning."

It was in vain, considering his masterful nature, to ask why we must do this. While he settled into the only rocking-chair, it was in vain to protest that I could not even sit down on the dead man's bed, much less take a brief nap there. I objected for some time. I objected until— "Watson!"

Cleaving through my dreams, that voice roused me from slumber. I sat bolt upright on the quilt, feeling much dishevelled, with the morning sun in my eyes and the dead man's watch still ticking near my ear.

Sherlock Holmes, with his customary catlike neatness of appearance, stood watching me.

"It is ten minutes past five," said he, "and I felt I had best awaken you. Ah, Lestrade," he continued, as there came a knock at the door. "I trust that the others are with you. Pray come in."

I bounded off the bed as Miss Dale entered the room followed by Dr. Griffin, young Ainsworth and, to my astonishment, the vicar.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," cried Dolores Dale, her eyes sparkling with anger. "It is intolerable that a mere whim should keep us here all night—even poor Mr. Appley."

"It was no whim, believe me. I wish to explain how the late Mr. Trelawney was cold-bloodedly murdered."

"Murdered, eh!" blurted out Dr. Griffin. "Then In­spector Lestrade wants to hear you. But the method—?"

"Was diabolical in its simplicity. Dr. Watson here was shrewd enough to call my attention to it. No, Watson, not a word! Mr. Appley gave us the clue when he said that if he had practiced medicine he might absent-mindedly have removed a patient's gall-stones. But that was not all he said. He stated that first he would have chloroformed the patient. The suggestive word was chloroform."

"Chloroform!" echoed Dr. Griffin, rather wildly.

"Exactly. It might well suggest itself to a murderer, since only last year, in a famous murder-trial at the Old Bailey, Mrs. Adelaide Bartlett was acquitted from a charge of poisoning her husband by pouring liquid chloroform down his throat as he lay asleep."

"But, deuce take it! Trelawney swallowed no chloro­form!"

"Of course not. But suppose, Dr. Griffin, I were to take a large pad of cotton-wool saturated in chloroform, and press it over the mouth and nostrils of an old man —a heavily sleeping man—for some twenty minutes. What would happen?"

"He would die. Yet you could not do that without leaving traces!"

"Ah, excellent! What traces?"

"Chloroform tends to burn or blister the skin. There would be burns, at least very small burns."

Holmes shot out a long arm towards the marble-topped table.

"Now suppose, Dr. Griffin," said he, holding up the tiny pot of vaseline, "I were first softly to spread on the face of the victim a thin film of such ointment as this. Would there be burns afterwards?"

"No, there wouldn't!"

"I perceive that your medical knowledge leaps ahead and anticipates me. Chloroform is volatile; it evaporates and quickly vanishes from the blood. Delay a post­mortem examination for nearly two days, as this was delayed, and no trace will be left."

"Not so fast, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! There is—"

"There is a slight, a very slight possibility, that an odour of chloroform may be detected either in the room of death or at the post-mortem. But here it would have been hidden by the thick pungency of medicine and liniment. At the post-mortem it would have been hidden by that bad cold in the head from which Sir Leopold Harper suffered."

Dr. Griffin's face seemed to stand out white against his red beard.

"By God, that's true!"

"Now we ask ourselves, as the vicar might, cui bono? Who profits from this dastardly crime?"

I noticed that Lestrade moved a step closer to the doctor.

"Take care, curse you!" snarled Griffin.

Holmes put down the ointment and took up the dead man's heavy gold watch, which seemed to tick even more loudly.

"I would draw your attention to this watch, of the sort known as a gold hunter. Last night I wound it up fully at ten o'clock. It is now, as you see, twenty minutes past five."

"And what of that?" cried Miss Dale.

"It is the exact time, if you recall, when the vicar wound up this same watch on the morning you found your uncle dead. Though the performance may distress you now, I beg of you to listen."

Cr-r—r-ack went the harsh, rasping noise as Holmes began slowly to wind it up. On and on it seemed to go, while the stem still turned.

"Hold hard!" said Dr. Griffin. "There's something wrong!"

"Again excellent! And what is wrong?"

"Deuce take it, the vicar made only two full turns of that stem, and it was fully wound up! You've made seven or eight turns, but it still is not wound!"

"Precisely so," returned Holmes, "but I do not em­phasize this particular watch. Any watch, if it be wound up at ten o'clock in the evening, cannot possibly be fully wound on the following morning with only two turns."

"My God!" muttered the doctor, staring at Holmes.

"Hence the late Mr. Trelawney did not go to bed at ten o'clock. Surely, considering his badly disturbed nerves and the continued thunder-storm, it is far more likely that he sat up reading his Bible until an unearthly hour, as the vicar said he sometimes did. Though he wound up his watch as usual, he did not retire until three o'clock. The murderer caught him in a heavy sleep."

"And therefore?" almost screamed Dolores.

"Therefore—since one person tells us he saw Trelawney asleep at ten-thirty, at midnight, and again at one o'clock—that person has told us a provable and damning falsehood."

"Holmes," cried I, "at last I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is—"

Jeffrey Ainsworth sprang for the door.

"Ah, would you!" shouted Lestrade. He hurled himself on the young man, and there was a snap of closing handcuffs.

Miss Dolores Dale ran sobbing forward. She did not run towards Ainsworth. Instead she rushed into the outstretched arms of Dr. Paul Griffin.

"You see, Watson," concluded Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as that night we sat once more in Baker Street, refresh­ing ourselves with whisky and soda, "the probable guilt of young Ainsworth, who fervently desired to marry the young lady for her money, was at least indicated without even the evidence of the watch."

"Surely not!" I objected.

"My dear fellow, consider Trelawney's will."

"Then, after all, Trelawney did not make that unjust will?"

"Indeed, he did. He let it be known that such was his intention and he carried out that intention. But there was only one person who was aware of the final outcome; namely, that he never actually signed it."

"You mean Trelawney himself?"

"I mean Ainsworth, the solicitor who drew the will. He has admitted as much in his confession."

Holmes leaned back in his chair and placed his finger­tips together.

"Chloroform is easily obtainable, as the British public knows from the Bartlett case. In such a small community, a friend of the family, like Ainsworth, would have easy access to the medical works in the vicar's library. He evolved rather a clever plan at his leisure. In my little analysis last night, I should have been less confident had not examination of the dead man's face with a lens revealed jury-proof evidence in the form of minute burns and traces of vaseline in the skin-pores."

"But Miss Dale and Dr. Griffin!"

"Their conduct puzzled you?"

"Well, women are strange."

"My dear Watson, when I hear of a young woman, all fire and temperament, who is thrown into the company of a man of exactly similar characteristics—in sharp con­trast to a cold-minded solicitor who watches her carefully —my suspicions are aroused, especially when she ex­presses unprovoked dislike on all public occasions."

"Then why did she not simply break her engagement!"

"You overlook the fact that her uncle always upbraided her for fickleness. Had she revoked her pledge, she would have lost dignity in her own eyes. But why on earth, Watson, are you chuckling now?"

"Merely a sense of incongruity. I was thinking of the singular name of that village in Somerset."

"The village of Camberwell?" said Holmes, smiling. "Yes, it is indeed different from our London district of Camberwell. You must give the chronicle a different title, Watson, lest readers be confused as to the true locale of the Camberwell poisoning case."

----:----

The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find . . . the Camberwell poisoning case.

FROM "THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS."

3

The Adventure of the Wax Gamblers

When my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes sprained his ankle, irony followed upon irony. Within a matter of hours he was presented with a problem whose singular nature seemed to make imperative a visit to that sinister, underground room so well known to the public.

My friend's accident had been an unlucky one. Purely for the sport of it, he had consented to an impromptu glove-match with Bully Boy Rasher, the well-known pro­fessional middle-weight, at the old Cribb Sporting Club in Panton Street. To the amazement of the spectators, Holmes knocked out the Bully Boy before the latter could settle down to a long, hard mill.

Having broken Rasher's hanging guard and survived his right hand, my friend was leaving the sparring-saloon when he tripped on those ill-lighted, rickety stairs which I trust the Honorary Secretary of the club has since caused to be mended.

The intelligence of this mishap reached me as my wife and I finished our midday meal one cold season of rain and screaming winds. Though I have not my note-book at hand, I believe it was the first week in March, 1890. Uttering an exclamation as I read the telegram from Mrs. Hudson, I handed the message to my wife.

"You must go at once and see to the comfort of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for a day or two," said she. "Anstruther will always do your work for you."

Since at that time my house was in the Paddington area, it took me no great time to be in Baker Street.

Holmes was, as I expected, seated upon the sofa with his back to the wall, wearing a purple dressing-gown and with his bandaged right ankle upon a heap of cushions. A low-power microscope stood on a small table at his left hand, while on the sofa at his right lay a perfect drift of discarded newspapers.

Despite the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, I could see that the misfortune had not sweetened his temper. Since Mrs. Hudson's telegram had mentioned only a fall on some stairs, I asked for an explanation and received that with which I have prefaced this chronicle.

"I was proud of myself, Watson," he added bitterly, "and careless of my step. The more fool I!"

"Yet surely some modest degree of pride was per­missible! The Bully Boy is no mean opponent."

"On the contrary, I found him much overrated and half drunk. But I see, Watson, that you yourself are troubled about your health."

"Good heavens, Holmes! It is true that I suspect the advent of a cold. But, since there is as yet no sign in my appearance or voice, it is astonishing that you can have known it!"

"Astonishing? It is elementary. You have been taking your own pulse. A minute trace of the silver nitrate upon your right forefinger has been transferred to a significant spot on your left wrist. But what on earth are you doing now?"

Heedless of his protests, I examined and re-bandaged his ankle.

"And yet, my dear fellow," I went on, endeavouring to raise his spirits as I might cheer any patient, "in one sense it gives me great pleasure to see you thus in­capacitated."

Holmes looked at me fixedly, but did not speak.

"Yes," said I, continuing to cheer him, "we must curb our impatience while we are confined to our sofa for a fortnight or perhaps more. But do not misunderstand me. When last summer I had the privilege of meeting your brother, Mycroft, you stated that he was your superior in observation and deduction."

"I spoke the truth. If the art of detection began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived."

"A proposition which I take the liberty of doubting. Now behold! Here are you enforced to the seated position. It will delight me to see you demonstrate your superiority when you are presented with some case—"

"Case? I have no case!"

"Be of good cheer. A case will come."

"The agony column of The Times," said he, nodding towards the drift of newspapers, "is quite featureless. And even the joys of studying a new disease germ are not inexhaustible. As between you and another comforter, Watson, I really prefer Job's."

The entrance of Mrs. Hudson, bearing a letter which had been delivered by hand, momentarily cut him short. Though I had not actually expected my prophecy to be fulfilled with such promptness, I could not but remark that the note-paper bore a crest and must have cost fully half a crown a packet. Nevertheless, I was doomed to disappointment. After tearing open the letter eagerly, Holmes uttered a snort of vexation.

"So much for your soothsaying!" said he, scribbling a reply for our landlady to give to a district messenger. "It is merely an ill-spelt note from Sir Gervase Darling­ton, asking for an appointment at eleven tomorrow morning, and requesting that it be confirmed by hand to the Hercules Club."

"Darlington!" remarked I. "Surely you have mentioned that name before?"

"Yes, so I have. But upon that occasion I referred to Darlington the art-dealer, whose substitution of a false Leonardo painting for a real one caused such a scandal at the Grosvenor Galleries. Sir Gervase is a different and more exalted Darlington, though no less associated with scandal."

"Who is he?"

"Sir Gervase Darlington, Watson, is the bold, bad baronet of fiction, addicted to pugilism and profligate ladies. But he is by no means a swaggering figure of the imagination; too many such men lived in our grandfathers' time." My friend looked thoughtful. "At the moment, he had best mind his step."

"You interest me. Why so?"

"Well, I am no racing man. Yet I recall that Sir Ger­vase won a fortune during last year's Derby. Ill-disposed persons whispered that he did so by bribery and secret information. Be good enough, Watson, to remove this microscope."

I did so. There remained upon the little table only the sheet of crested note-paper which Holmes had flung down there. From the pocket of his dressing-gown he took out the snuff box of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid, which had been a present from the King of Bohemia.

"However," he added, "every move made by Sir Gervase Darlington is now carefully watched. Should he so much as attempt to communicate with any suspicious person, he will be warned off the turf even if he does not land in gaol. I cannot recall the name of the horse on which he wagered—"

"Lord Hove's Bengal Lady," cried I. "By Indian Rajah out of Countess. She finished three furlongs ahead of the field. Though, of course," I added, "I know little more of racing matters than yourself."

"Indeed, Watson?"

"Holmes, such suspicions as you appear to entertain are base and unworthy! I am a married man with a depleted bank balance. Besides, what race is run in such wild weather as this?"

"Well, the Grand National cannot be too far off."

"By Jove, yes! Lord Hove has two entries for the Grand National. Many fancy Thunder Lad, though not much is expected of Sheerness. But to me," I added, "a scandal attached to the sport of kings is incredible. Lord Hove is an honourable man."

"Precisely. Being an honourable man, he is no friend to Sir Gervase Darlington."

"But why are you sure Sir Gervase can bring you nothing of interest?"

"If you were acquainted with the gentleman, Watson, you would acquit him of being concerned in anything whatever of interest, save that he is a really formidable heavy-weight boxer—" Holmes whistled. "Come! Sir Gervase was among those who witnessed my own trifling encounter with the Bully Boy this morning."

"Then what can he want of you?"

"Even if the question were of any moment, I have no data. A pinch of snuff, Watson? Well, well, I am not enamoured of it myself, though it represents an oc­casional variation from too much self-poisoning by nico­tine."

I could not help laughing.

"My dear Holmes, your case is typical. Every medical man knows that a patient with an injury like yours, though the injury is slight and even of a humorous char­acter, becomes as unreasonable as a child."

Holmes snapped shut the snuff-box and put it into his pocket.

"Watson," said he, "grateful though I am for your presence, I shall be obliged if you do not utter one word more for at least the next six hours, lest I say something which I may regret."

Thus, remaining silent even at supper, we sat very late in the snug room. Holmes moodily cross-indexed his records of crime, and I was deep in the pages of the British Medical Journal. Save for the tick of the clock and the crackle of the fire, there was no sound but the shrieking of the March gale, which drove the rain against the windows like handfuls of small shot, and growled and whooped in the chimney.

"No, no," my friend said querulously, at long last. "Optimism is stupidity. Certainly no case will come to my—Hark! Was that not the bell?"

"Yes. I heard it clearly in spite of the wind. But who can it be?"

"If a client," said Holmes, craning his long neck for a glimpse of the clock, "it must be a matter of deep seriousness to bring someone out at two in the morning and in such a gale."

After some delay, during which it took Mrs. Hudson an interminable time to rise from her bed and open the street door, no less than two clients were ushered into our room. Both of them had been speaking at once, but their conversation became distinct as they approached the door-way.

"Grandfather, you mustn't!" came a young woman's voice. "For the last time, please! You don't want Mr. Holmes to think you are," here she lowered her voice to a whisper, "simple."

"I'm not simple!" cried her companion. "Drat it, Nellie, I see what I see! I should have come to tell the gentleman yesterday morning, only you wouldn't hear of it."

"But, Grandfather, that Room of Horrors is a fear­fully frightening place. You imagined it, dear."

"I'm seventy-six years old. But I've got no more imagination," said the old man, proudly, "than one of them wax figures. Me imagine it? Me, that's been night-watchman since long before the museum was took where it is now, and was still here in Baker Street?"

The newcomers paused. The ancient visitor, squat and stubborn-looking in his rain-sodden brown greatcoat and shepherd's check trousers, was a solid man of the people with fine white hair. The girl was different. Graceful and lissom, with fair hair and grey eyes encircled by black lashes, she wore a simple costume of blue with narrow white frills at the wrists and throat. There was grace as well as timidity in her gestures.

Yet her delicate hands trembled. Very prettily she identified Holmes and myself, apologizing for this late call.

"My—my name is Eleanor Baxter," she added; "and, as you may have gathered, my poor grandfather is the night attendant at Madame Taupin's exhibition of wax figures in the Marylebone Road." She broke off. "Oh! Your poor ankle!"

"My injury is nothing, Miss Baxter," said Holmes. "You are both very welcome. Watson, our guests' coats, the umbrella; so. Now, you may be seated here in front of me. Though I have a crutch of sorts here, I am sure you will forgive me if I remain where I am. You were saying?"

Miss Baxter, who had been looking fixedly at the little table in evident distress at her grandfather's words, now gave a start and changed colour as she found Holmes's keen eye upon her.

"Sir, are you acquainted with Madame Taupin's wax­works?"

"It is justly famous."

"Do forgive me!" Eleanor Baxter blushed. "My mean­ing was, have you ever visited it?"

"Hum! I fear I am too much like our countrymen. Let some place be remote or inaccessible, and the Englishman will lose his life to find it. But he will not even look at it when it lies within a few hundred yards of his own front door. Have you visited Madame Taupin's, Watson?"

"No, I am afraid not," I replied. "Though I have heard much of the underground Room of Horrors. It is said that the management offers a large sum of money to anyone who will spend a night there."

The stubborn-looking old man, who to a medical eye showed symptoms of strong physical pain, nevertheless chuckled hoarsely as he sat down.

"Lord bless you, sir, don't you believe a word of that nonsense."

"It is not true, then?"

"Not a bit, sir. They wouldn't even let you do it. 'Cos a sporting gentleman might light a cigar or what not, and they're feared to death of fire."

"Then I take it," said Holmes, "that you are not un­duly troubled by the Room of Horrors?"

"No, sir; never in general. The' even got old Charlie Peace there. He's with Marwood, too, the hangman what turned Charlie off not eleven years ago—but they're friendly like." His voice went higher. "But fair's fair, sir; and I don't like it a bit when those blessed wax figures begin to play a hand of cards!"

A drive of rain rattled against the windows. Holmes leaned forward.

"The wax figures, you say, have been playing at cards?"

"Yes, sir. Word of Sam Baxter!"

"Are all the wax figures engaged in this card game, or only some of them?"

"Only two, sir."

"How do you know this, Mr. Baxter? Did you see them?"

"Lord, sir, I should hope not! But what am I to think, when one of 'em has discarded from his hand, or taken a trick, and the cards are all mucked up on the table? Maybe I ought to explain, sir?"

"Pray do," invited Holmes, with some satisfaction.

"You see, sir, in the course of a night I make only one or two rounds down in the Room of Horrors. It's one big room, with dim lights. The reason I don't make more rounds is 'cos of my rheumatics. Folks don't know how cruel you can suffer from rheumatics! Double you up, they do."

"Dear me!" murmured Holmes sympathetically, push­ing the tin of shag toward the old man.

"Anyway, sir! My Nellie there is a good girl, in spite of her eddication and the fine work she does. Whenever my rheumatics are bad, and they've been bad all this week, she gets up every blessed morning and comes to fetch me at seven o'clock—that's when I go off duty—so she can help me to a omnibus.

"Now tonight, being worried about me—which she oughtn't to be—well, Nellie turned up only an hour ago, with young Bob Parsnip. Bob took over my duty from me, so I said, 'I've read all about this Mr. Holmes, only a step away; let's go and tell him.' And that's why we're here."

Holmes inclined his head.

"I see, Mr. Baxter. But you were speaking of last night?"

"Ah! Well, about the Room of Horrors. On one side there's a series of tabloos. Which I mean: there's separate compartments, each of 'em behind an iron railing so nobody can step in, and wax figures in each compartment. The tabloos tell a story that's called 'The History of a Crime.'

"This history of a crime is about a young gentleman—and a pleasant young gentleman he is, too, only weak—who falls into bad company. He gambles and loses his money; then he kills the wicked older man; and at last he's hanged as fast as Charlie Peace. It's meant to be a—a—"

"A moral lesson, yes. Take warning, Watson. Well, Mr. Baxter?"

"Well, sir! It's that wretched gambling tabloo. There's only two of 'em in it, the young gentleman and the wicked wrong 'un. They're sitting in a lovely room, at a table with gold coins on it; only not real gold, of course. It's not a-happening today, you see, but in old times when they had stockings and britches."

"Eighteenth-century costume, perhaps?"

"That's it, sir. The young gentleman is sitting on the other side of the table, so he faces towards you straight. But the old wrong 'un is sitting with his back turned, hold­ing up his cards as if he was laughing, and you can see the cards in his hand.

"Now last night! When I say last night, sir, course I mean two nights ago, because it's towards morning now. I walked straight past that blessed tabloo without seeing nothing. Then, about a hour later, all of a sudden I thinks, 'What's wrong with that tabloo?' There wasn't much wrong, and I'm so used to it that I'm the only one who'd have noticed. 'What's wrong?' I thinks. So I goes down and has another look.

"Sir, so help me! The wicked older man—the one whose hand you can see—was holding less cards than he ought. He'd discarded, or played a trick maybe, and they'd been messing up the cards on the table.

"I've got no 'magination, I tell you. Don't want none. But when Nellie here came to fetch me at seven in the morning, I felt cruel, what with rheumatics and this too. I wouldn't tell her what was wrong—well, just in case I might-a seen things. Today I thought perhaps I dreamed it. But I didn't! It was there again tonight.

"Now, sir, I'm not daft. I see what I see! You might say, maybe, somebody did that for fun—changed the cards, and messed 'em up, and all. But nobody couldn't do it in the daytime, or they'd be seen. It might be done at night, 'cos there's one side door that won't lock properly. But it's not like one of the public's practical jokes, where they stick a false beard on Queen Anne or maybe a sun-bonnet on Napoleon's head. This is so little that nobody'd notice it. But if somebody's been playing a hand of cards for those two blessed dummies, then who did it and why?"

For some moments, Sherlock Holmes remained silent.

"Mr. Baxter," he said gravely, and glanced at his own bandaged ankle, "your patience shames me in my foolish petulance: I shall be happy to look into this matter."

"But, Mr. Holmes," cried Eleanor Baxter, in stark bewilderment, "surely you cannot take the affair seri­ously?"

"Forgive me, madam. Mr. Baxter, what particular game of cards are the two wax figures playing?"

"Dunno, sir. Used to wonder that myself, long ago when I was new to the place. Nap or whist, maybe? But I dunno."

"You say that the figure with his back turned is hold­ing fewer cards than he should. How many cards have been played from his hand?"

"Sir?"

"You did not observe? Tcha, that is most unfortunate! Then I beg of you carefully to consider a vital question. Have these figures been gambling?"

"My dear Holmes—" I began, but my friend's look gave me a pause.

"You tell me, Mr. Baxter, that the cards upon the table have been moved or at least disturbed. Have the gold coins been moved as well?"

"Come to think of it," replied Mr. Samuel Baxter, after a pause, "no, sir, they haven't! Funny, too."

Holmes's eyes were glittering, and he rubbed his hands together.

"I fancied as much," said he. "Well, fortunately I may devote my energies to the problem, since I have nothing on hand at the moment save a future dull matter which seems to concern Sir Gervase Darlington and possibly Lord Hove as well. Lord Hove—Dear me, Miss Baxter, is anything wrong?"

Eleanor Baxter, who had risen to her feet, now con­templated Holmes with startled eyes.

"Did you say Lord Hove?" asked she.

"Yes. How should the name be familiar to you, may I ask?"

"Merely that he is my employer."

"Indeed?" said Holmes, raising his eyebrows. "Ah, yes. You do type-writing, I perceive. The double line in the plush costume a little above your wrist, where the type­writist presses against the table, proclaims as much. You are acquainted with Lord Hove, then?"

"No, I have never so much as seen him, though I do much type-writing at his town house in Park Lane. So humble a person as I—!"

"Tcha, this is even more unfortunate! However, we must do what we can. Watson, have you any objection to going out into such a tempestuous night?"

"Not in the least," said I, much astonished. "But why?"

"This confounded sofa, my boy! Since I am confined to it as to a sick-bed, you must be my eyes. It troubles me to trespass upon your pain, Mr. Baxter, but would it be possible for you to escort Dr. Watson for a brief visit to the Room of Horrors? Thank you; excellent."

"But what am I to do?" asked I.

"In the upper drawer of my desk, Watson, you will find some envelopes."

"Well, Holmes?"

"Oblige me by counting the number of cards in the hand of each wax figure. Then, carefully keeping them in their present order from left to right, place each set in a separate envelope which you will mark accordingly. Do the same with the cards upon the table, and bring them back to me as quickly as you may accomplish it."

"Sir—" began the ancient man in excitement.

"No, no, Mr. Baxter, I should prefer not to speak now. I have only a working hypothesis, and there seems one almost insuperable difficulty to it." Holmes frowned. "But it is of the first importance to discover, in all senses of the word, what game is being played at that wax ex­hibition."

Together with Samuel Baxter and his grand-daughter, I ventured forth into the rain-whipped blackness. Despite Miss Baxter's protests, within ten minutes we were all three standing before the gambling tableau in the Room of Horrors.

A not ill-looking young man named Robert Parsnip, clearly much smitten with the charms of Eleanor Baxter, turned up the blue sparks of gas in dusty globes. But even so the gloomy room remained in a semi-darkness in which the ranks of grim wax figures seemed imbued with a horrible spider-like repose, as though waiting only until a visitor turned away, before reaching out to touch him.

Madame Taupin's exhibition is too well known to need any general description. But I was unpleasantly impressed by the tableau called "The History of a Crime." The scenes were most lifelike in both effect and colour, with the wigs and small-swords of the eighteenth century. Had I in fact been guilty of those mythical gambling lapses charged upon me by Holmes's ill-timed sense of humour, the display might well have harassed my conscience.

This was especially so when we lowered our heads under the iron railing, and approached the two gamblers in the mimic room.

"Drat it, Nellie, don't touch them cards!" cried Mr. Baxter, much more testy and irascible in his own domain. But his tone changed as he spoke to me. "Look there, sir! There's," he counted slowly, "there's nine cards in the wicked wrong 'un's hand. And sixteen in the young gentleman's."

"Listen!" whispered the young lady. "Isn't someone walking about upstairs?"

"Drat it, Nellie, it's only Bob Parsnip. Who else would it be?"

"As you said, the cards on the table are not much disarranged," I remarked. "Indeed, the small pile in front of your 'young gentleman' is not disarranged at all. Twelve cards lie at his elbow—"

"Ah, and nineteen by the wrong 'un. Funny card game, sir!"

I agreed and, curiously repulsed by the touch of waxen fingers against my own, I put the various sets of playing-cards into four marked envelopes, and hastened up from the stuffy den. Miss Baxter and her grandfather, despite the latter's horrified protest, I insisted on sending home in a stray cab whose driver had just deposited some hopelessly intoxicated gentleman against his own door.

I was not sorry to return to the snug warmth of my friend's sitting-room. To my dismay, however, Holmes had risen from the couch. He was standing by his desk with the green-shaded lamp, eagerly studying an open atlas and supported by a crutch under his right arm.

"Enough, Watson!" he silenced my protests. "You have the envelopes? Good, good! Give them to me. Thank you. In the hand of the older gambler, the wax figure with his back turned, were there not nine cards?"

"Holmes, this is amazing! How could you have known that?"

"Logic, my dear fellow. Now let us see."

"One moment," I said firmly. "You spoke earlier of a crutch, but where could you have obtained one at such short notice? That is an extraordinary crutch. It seems to be constructed of some light-weight metal, and shines where the rays of the lamp—"

"Yes, yes, I already had it in my possession."

"Already had it?"

"It is made of aluminum, and is the relic of a case before my biographer came to glorify me. I have already mentioned it to you, but you have forgotten. Now be good enough to forget the crutch while you examine these cards. Oh, beautiful, beautiful!"

Were all the jewels of Golconda spread out before him, he could not have been more ecstatic. He even rejoiced when I told him what I had seen and heard.

"What, you are still in the dark? Then do you take these nine cards, Watson. Put them upon the desk in their order, and announce the name of each as you do so."

"Knave of diamonds," said I, placing the cards under the lamp, "seven of hearts, ace of clubs—Good heavens, Holmes!"

"Do you see anything, then?"

"Yes. There are two aces of clubs, one following the other!"

"Did I not call it beautiful? But you have counted only four cards. Proceed with the remaining five."

"Deuce of spades," said I, "ten of hearts—merciful powers, here is a third ace of clubs, and two more knaves of diamonds!"

"And what do you deduce from that?"

"Holmes, I think I see light. Madame Taupin's is famous for its real-life effects. The older wax figure is a brazen gambler, who is depicted as cheating the young man. By a subtle effect, they have shown him as holding false cards for his winning hand."

"Hardly subtle, I fancy. Even so brazen a gambler as yourself, Watson, would surely feel some embarrassment at putting down a winning hand which contained no less than three knaves of diamonds and three aces of clubs?"

"Yes, there are difficulties."

"Further. If you count all the cards, both those in the hands and upon the table, you will observe that their total number is fifty-six: which is four more than I, at least, am accustomed to use in one pack."

"But what can it mean? What is the answer to our problem?"

The atlas lay upon the desk where Holmes had thrown it down when I gave him the envelopes. Snatching up the book, groaning as he staggered and all but fell on that curious crutch, he eagerly opened the book again.

" 'At the mouth of the Thames,' " he read, " 'on the island of—'"

"Holmes, my question concerned the answer to our problem!"

"This is the answer to our problem."

Though I am the most long-suffering of men, I pro­tested strongly when he packed me off upstairs to my old room. I believed that I should get no sleep upon the rack of this mystery, yet I slept heavily, and it was nearly eleven o'clock when I descended to breakfast.

Sherlock Holmes, who had already breakfasted, again sat upon the sofa. I was glad of my clean, fresh shave when I found him deep in conversation with Miss Eleanor, whose timidity was lessened by his easy manner.

Yet something in the gravity of his face arrested my hand as I rang the bell for rashers and eggs.

"Miss Baxter," said he, "though there still remains an objection to my hypothesis, the time has come to tell you something of great importance. But what the devil—!"

Our door had been suddenly dashed open. To be pre­cise, it was kicked open with a crash. But this had been done only as a jest by the man who kicked it, for his loud, overfed burst of laughter rang like a brazen trumpet.

In the aperture stood a burly, red-faced gentleman with a shining hat, a costly frock-coat open over a white waistcoat to show the diamonds on his watch-guard, and the single flaming ruby in his cravat.

Though not so tall as Holmes, he was far broader and heavier; indeed, with a figure not unlike my own. His loud laugh rang out again, and his cunning little eyes flashed, as he held up a leather bag and shook it.

"Here you are, cully!" cried he. "You're the Scotland Yard man, ain't you? A thousand gold sovereigns, and all yours for the askin'!"

Sherlock Holmes, though astonished, regarded him with the utmost composure.

"Sir Gervase Darlington, I think?"

Without paying the slightest notice of either Miss Baxter or myself, the newcomer strode across and rattled the bag of coins under Holmes's nose.

"That's me, Mister Detective!" said he. "Saw you fight yesterday. You could be better, but you'll do. One day, my man, they may make prize-fightin' legal. Till they do, a gentleman's got to arrange a neat little mill in secret. Stop a bit, though!"

Suddenly, cat-footed despite his weight, he went to the window and peered down into the street.

"Curse old Phileas Belch! He's had a man following me for months. Ay, and two blasted manservants in succession to steam open my letters. Broke the back for one of 'em, though." Sir Gervase's shattering laugh rang again. "Nevermind!"

Holmes's face seemed to change; but an instant later he was his cool, imperturbable self as Sir Gervase Darling­ton turned back, flinging the bag of money on the sofa.

"Keep the dibs, Scotland Yarder. I don't need 'em. Now, then. In three months we'll match you with Jem Garlick, the Bristol Smasher. Fight a cross, and I'll skin you; do me proud, and I can be a good patron. With an unknown feller like you, I can get eight to one odds."

"Do I understand, Sir Gervase," said Holmes, "that you wish me to box professionally in the ring?"

"You're the Scotland Yarder, ain't you? You comprey English, don't you?"

"When I hear it spoken, yes."

"That's a joke, hey? Well, so is this!"

Playfully, deliberately, his heavy left fist whipped out a round-arm which passed—as it was meant to pass— just an inch in front of my friend's nose. Holmes did not even blink. Again Sir Gervase roared with laughter.

"Mind your manners, Mister Detective, when you speak to a gentleman. I could break you in two even if you didn't have a bad ankle, by God!"

Miss Eleanor Baxter, white-faced, uttered a little moaning cry and seemed to be trying to efface herself against the wall.

"Sir Gervase," cried I, "you will kindly refrain from using offensive language in the presence of a lady."

Instantly our guest turned round, and looked me up and down in a most insolent manner.

"Who's this? Watson? Sawbones feller? Oh." Suddenly he thrust his beefy red face into mine. "Know anything about boxin'?"

"No," said I. "That is—not much."

"Then see you don't get a lesson," retorted Sir Ger­vase playfully, and roared with mirth again. "Lady? What lady?" Seeing Miss Baxter, he looked a little disconcerted, but directed a killing ogle. "No lady, Sawbones. But a fetchin' little piece, by God!"

"Sir Gervase," said I, "you are now warned, for the last time."

"One moment, Watson," interposed the calm voice of Sherlock Holmes. "You must forgive Sir Gervase Darlington. No doubt Sir Gervase has not yet recovered from the visit he paid three days ago to the wax exhibition of Madame Taupin."

In the brief silence that followed, we could hear a coal rattle in the grate and the eternal rain on the windows. But our guest could not be dismayed.

"The Scotland Yarder, eh?" he sneered. "Who told you I was at Madame Taupin's three days ago?"

"No one. But, from certain facts in my possession, the inference was obvious. Such a visit looked innocent, did it not? It would arouse no suspicion on the part of anyone who might be following—some follower, for instance, employed by the eminent sportsman Sir Phileas Belch, who wished to make certain you did not win another fortune by secret information as you did on last year's Derby."

"You don't interest me, my man!"

"Indeed? And yet, with your sporting proclivities, I feel sure you must be interested in cards."

"Cards?"

"Playing-cards," said Holmes blandly, taking some from his dressing-gown pocket and holding them up fan-wise. "In fact, these nine cards."

"What the devil's all this?"

"It is a singular fact, Sir Gervase, that a casual visitor to the Room of Horrors—on passing the gambling tableau —can see the cards in the hand of a certain wax figure without even giving them more than an innocent-appear­ing glance.

"Now some strange tampering was done one night with these cards. The cards in the hand of the other player, the 'young gentleman,' had not even been touched, as was shown by their dusty and gritty condition. But some person, a certain person, had removed a number of cards from the hand of the so-called 'wrong 'un,' throwing them down on the table, and, further, had added four cards from no less than two extra packs.

"Why was this done? It was not because someone wished to play a practical joke, in creating the illusion that wax dummies were occupied in reckless gambling. Had that been the culprit's motive, he would have moved the imitation gold coins as well as the cards. But the coins were not moved.

"The true answer is simple and indeed obvious. There are twenty-six letters in our alphabet; and twenty-six, twice multiplied, gives us fifty-two; the number of cards in a pack. Supposing that we were arbitrarily to choose one card for each letter, we could easily make a childish, elementary form of substitution-cipher—"

Sir Gervase Darlington's metal laugh blared shrilly. "Substitution-cipher," jeered he, with his red hand at the ruby in his cravat. "What's that, hey? What's the fool talkin' about?"

"—which would be betrayed, however," said Holmes, "should a message of only nine letters contain a double 'e' or a double 's.' Let us imagine, therefore, that the knave of diamonds stands for the letter 's' and the ace of clubs for the letter 'e.' "

"Holmes," interposed I, "this may be inspiration. But it is not logic! Why should you think a message must con­tain those letters?"

"Because already I knew the message itself. You told it to me."

"I told you?"

"Tut, Watson. If these cards represent the letters indicated, we have a double 'e' towards the beginning of the word and a double 's' at the end of it. The first letter of the word, we perceive, must be 'S,' and there is an 'e' before the double 's' at the end. No cunning is required to give us the word 'Sheerness.' "

"But what in the world has Sheerness—" I began.

"Geographically, you will find it towards the mouth of the Thames," interrupted Holmes. "But it is also, you informed me, the name of a horse owned by Lord Hove. Though this horse has been entered for the Grand Nation­al, you told me that little is expected of it. But if the horse has been trained with the utmost secrecy as another smashing winner like Bengal Lady—"

"There would be a tremendous killing," said I, "for any gambler who could learn that well-guarded secret and back the horse!"

Sherlock Holmes held up the fan of cards in his left hand.

"My dear Miss Eleanor Baxter," cried he, with a sor­rowful sternness, "why did you let Sir Gervase Darling­ton persuade you? Your grandfather would not like to hear that you used the wax exhibition to leave this mes­sage—telling Sir Gervase what he wished to know without even speaking to him, writing to him, or approaching within a mile of him."

If previously Miss Baxter had turned pale and uttered a moan at seeing Sir Gervase, it was as nothing to the piteous look now in her stricken grey eyes. Swaying on her feet, she began to falter out a denial.

"No, no!" said Holmes, gently. "It really will not do. Within a few moments of the time you entered this room last night, I was aware of your—your acquaintanceship with Sir Gervase here."

"Mr. Holmes, you cannot have known it!"

"I fear so. Kindly observe the small table at my left as I sit upon the sofa. When you approached me, there was nothing upon the table, save a sheet of note-paper em­blazoned with the somewhat conspicuous crest of Sir Gervase Darlington."

"Oh, heaven help me!" cried the wretched young lady.

"Yet you were strangely affected. You looked fixedly at the table, as though in recognition. When you saw my eye upon you, you gave a start and changed colour. By apparently casual remarks, I elicited the fact that your employer is Lord Hove, the owner of Sheerness—"

"No! No! No!"

"It would have been easy for you to have substituted the new cards for those already in the wax figure's hand. As your grandfather said, there is a side door at Madame Taupin's which cannot properly be locked. You could have made the substitution secretly at night, before you called formally to escort your grandfather home in the morning.

"You might have destroyed the evidence before too late, if on the first night your grandfather had told you what was amiss in the museum. But he did not tell you until the following night, when both he and Robert Parsnip were there, and you could not be alone. How­ever, I do not wonder you protested when he wished to see me. Later, as Dr. Watson quite unconsciously told me, you tried to seize and scatter the cards, in the wax figure's hand."

"Holmes," cried I, "enough of such torture! The true culprit is not Miss Baxter, but this ruffian who stands and laughs at us!"

"Believe me, Miss Baxter, I would not distress you," said Holmes. "I have no doubt you learned by accident of Sheerness' powers. Sporting peers will speak quite carelessly when they hear only the harmless clicking of a type-writer from an adjoining room. But Sir Gervase, long before he was so carefully watched, must have urged you to keep your ears open and communicate with him in this ingenious way should you acquire information of value.

"At first the method seemed almost too ingenious. Indeed, I could not understand why you did not merely write to him, until when he arrived here I learned that even his letters are steamed open. The cards were the only possible way. But we have the evidence now—"

"No, by God!" said Sir Gervase Darlington. "You've got no evidence at all!"

His left hand, quick as a striking snake, snatched the cards from Holmes's grasp. As my friend instinctively stood up, the pain in his swollen ankle making him bite back a cry, Sir Gervase's open right hand drove into Holmes's neck and sent him sprawling back on the sofa. Again the triumphant laugh rang out. "Gervase!" pleaded Miss Baxter, wringing her hands. "Please! Don't look at me so! I meant no harm!"

"Oh, no!" said he, with a sneer on his brutal face. "N-no-o-o! Come here and betray me, would you? Make me jump when I see you, hey? You're no better than you should be, and I'll tell that to anybody who asks. Now stand aside, damn you!"

"Sir Gervase," said I, "already I have warned you for the last time."

"Sawbones interfering, eh? I'll—" Now, I am the first to admit that it was luck rather than judgment, though perhaps I may add that I am quicker on my feet than my friends suppose. Suffice to say Miss Baxter screamed.

Despite the pain of his ankle, Sherlock Holmes again leaped from the sofa.

"By Jove, Watson! A finer left on the mark and right to the head I never witnessed! You've grassed him so hard he will be unconscious for ten minutes!"

"Yet I trust," said I, blowing upon cracked knuckles, "that poor Miss Baxter has not been unduly distressed by the crash with which he struck the floor? It would also grieve me to alarm Mrs. Hudson, whom I hear approaching with bacon and eggs."

"Good old Watson!"

"Why do you smile, Holmes? Have I said something of a humorous character?"

"No, no. Heaven forbid! Yet sometimes I suspect that I may be much shallower, and you far more deep, than customarily I am wont to believe."

"Your satire is beyond me. However, there is the evidence. But you must not publicly betray even Sir Gervase Darlington, lest you betray Miss Baxter as well!"

"Humph! I have a score to settle with that gentleman, Watson. His offer to open for me a career as a professional boxer I could not in honesty resent. In its way, it is a great compliment. But to confuse me with a Scotland Yard detective! That was an insult, I fear, which I can neither forget nor forgive."

"Holmes, how many favours have I ever asked of you?"

"Well, well, have it as you please. We shall keep the cards only as a last resort, should that sleeping beauty again misbehave. As for Miss Baxter—"

"I loved him!" cried the poor young lady passionately. "Or—well, at least, I thought I did."

"In any event, Miss Baxter, Watson shall remain silent as long as you like. He must not speak until some long, long distant date when you, perhaps as an ancient great-grandam, shall smile and give your leave. Half a century ere that, you will have forgotten all about Sir Gervase Darlington."

"Never! Never! Never!"

"Oh, I fancy so," smiled Sherlock Holmes. "On s' enlace; puis, un jour, on se lasse; c'est l'amour. There is more wisdom in that French epigram than in the whole works of Henrik Ibsen."

----:----

4

The Adventure of the Highgate Miracle

Though we were accustomed to receiving strange tele­grams at our rooms in Baker Street, there was one which served to introduce an affair unique even in the annals of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

I had met Holmes for a stroll in the Regent's Park one dark, drizzling, but not too cold afternoon in December, during which we discussed certain personal affairs of mine with which I need not burden the reader. When we returned to the snug sitting-room at four o'clock, Mrs. Hudson brought up the telegram along with a substantial tea-tray. It was addressed to Holmes, and ran thus:

"Can you imagine man worshipping umbrella? Hus­bands are irrational. Suspect chicanery with diamonds. Will call upon you tea-time.—Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure."

I rejoiced to see a gleam of interest flash in Sherlock Holmes's deep-set eyes.

"What's this, what's this?" said he, as with unusual appetite he attacked the hot buttered scones and jam.

"Highgate postmark, hardly a fashionable area, and dispatched at three-seventeen. Study it, Watson!"

At this time—to be more precise, it was late December of the year 1896—I was not living in Baker Street, but I had come for a few days to visit old haunts. Under the heading for this year, my note-book records few cases. Of these only one, the affair of Mrs. Ronder, the veiled lodger, have I seen fit so far to set down; and Mrs. Ronder's problem afforded little scope for my friend's great powers.

Thus Holmes entered a brief period of stagnation and desperation. As I saw his gaunt countenance in the shaded light of the table-lamp, I could not but rebuke myself. Of what moment were my trivial affairs against the thirst for abstruse problems raging in that extraordinary intellect?

"It is possible," continued Holmes, snatching back the telegram to read it again, "that there may be in London two women with the singular and even striking name of Gloria Cabpleasure. But I doubt it."

"You are acquainted with the lady, then?"

"No, no, I have never even seen her. Still, I fancy she must be a certain beauty-specialist who—in any event, what do you make of this?"

"Well, it presents that feature of the bizarre which is so dear to you. 'Can you imagine man worshipping umbrella?' But it is a little difficult."

"True, Watson. A woman, however extravagant she may be in large matters, is usually economical in small. Mrs. Cabpleasure has been so thrifty of her 'an's' and 'the's' that I am not at all sure of her meaning."

"Nor I."

"Does it mean that a certain man worships a certain umbrella? Or is man in the abstract, Englishmen perhaps, desired to bow down to the umbrella as his tribal deity and shield against the climate? At least, what can we deduce from it?"

"Deduce? From the telegram?"

"Of course."

I was glad to laugh, since for that same brief time I had been feeling rheumatic and less than young.

"Holmes, we cannot possibly deduce. We can only guess."

"Tut, how often must I tell you that I never guess? It is a shocking habit, destructive of the logical faculty."

"And yet, were I to adopt your own somewhat didactic manner, I should say that nothing affords less opportunity to the reasoner than a telegram, because it is so brief and impersonal."

"Then I fear you would be wrong."

"Confound it, Holmes—"

"Yet, consider. When a man writes me a letter of a dozen pages, he may conceal his true nature in a cloud of words. When he is obliged to be terse, however, I know him at once. You may have remarked a similar thing in public speakers."

"But this is a woman."

"Yes, Watson, no doubt the fact makes a difference. But let me have your views. Come! Apply to a study of this telegram your own natural shrewdness."

Thus challenged, and flattering myself that in the past I had not been altogether unhelpful to him, I did as I was requested.

"Well," said I, "Mrs. Cabpleasure is surely very in­considerate, since she makes an appointment without confirming it, and seems to think your time is her own."

"Capital, Watson. You improve with the years. What else?"

Inspiration rushed upon me.

"Holmes, the word, 'Mrs.,' in so compressed a message, is totally unnecessary! I think I see it all!"

"Better still, my dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes, throwing down his napkin and clapping his hands together without noise. "I shall be happy to hear your analysis."

"Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure, Holmes, is a young bride. Being still in the proud flush of her newly wedded name, she is so insistent upon it that she uses it even in this message. What could be more natural? Especially when we think of a happy, perhaps beautiful young woman—"

"Yes, yes. But be good enough, Watson, to omit the descriptive passages and come to the point."

"By Jove, I am sure of it!" said I. "It supports my first modest deduction too. The poor girl is inconsiderate, let us say, merely because she is pampered by an affectionate young husband."

But my friend shook his head.

"I think not, Watson. If she were in the first strong pride of so-called wedded bliss, she would have signed herself 'Mrs. Henry Cabpleasure,' or 'Mrs. George Cabpleasure,' or whatever the name of her husband chanced to be. But in one respect, at least, you are correct. There is something odd—even disturbing—about that word 'Mrs.' She insists upon it too much."

"My dear fellow!"

Abruptly Holmes rose to his feet and wandered towards his arm-chair. Our gas was lit, and there was a cheery fire against the dark, bleak drizzle which we could hear dripping outside the window.

But he did not sit down. Deep in concentration, his brows knitted, he slowly stretched out his hand towards the right side angle of the chimney-piece. A genuine thrill of emotion shot through my being as he picked up his violin, the old and beloved Stradivarius which, in his moodiness and black humor, he told me he had not touched for weeks.

The light ran along satiny wood as he tucked the violin under his chin and whisked up the bow. None the less, my friend hesitated. He lowered both violin and bow with something like a snarl.

"No, I have not yet enough data," said he, "and it is a cardinal error to theorize without data."

"Then at least," said I, "it is a pleasure to think that I have deduced from the telegram as much as you have deduced yourself."

"Oh, the telegram?" said Holmes, as though he had never heard of it.

"Yes. Is there any point which I have overlooked?"

"Well, Watson, I fear you were wrong in almost every particular. The woman who dispatched that telegram has been married for some years, and is no longer in her first youth. She is of either Scottish or American origin, well educated and well-to-do, but unhappily married and of a domineering disposition. On the other hand, it is probable that she is quite handsome. Though these are only trifling and obvious deductions, perhaps they may do."

A few moments ago I had hoped to see Sherlock Holmes in such a mood, vigorous and alert, with the old mocking light in his eyes. Yet the bright-patterned china rattled upon the snowy napery as I smote the table a blow with my fist.

"Holmes, this time you have carried a jest too far!"

"My dear Watson, I do really beg your pardon. I had no idea you would take the matter so seri—"

"For shame! In popular esteem, at least, only the vulgar live at Hampstead and Highgate, which are usually pronounced without the aspirate. You may be making sport of some wretched, ill-educated female who is on the point of starving!"

"Hardly, Watson. Though an ill-educated woman might attempt such words as 'irrational' and 'chicanery,' she would be unlikely to spell them correctly. Similarly, since Mrs. Cabpleasure tells us that she suspects false dealing in a matter of diamonds, we may assume she does not scavenge her bread from dustbins."

"She has been married for some years? And unhappily?"

"We live in an age of propriety, Watson; and I confess I prefer it so."

"What on earth has that to do with the matter?"

"Only a woman who has been married for years, and hence past her first youth, will so candidly write in a telegram—under the eye of a post-office clerk—her belief that all husbands are irrational. You must perceive some sign of unhappiness, together with a domineering nature? Secondary inference: since the charge of chicanery appears to relate to her husband, this marriage must be even more unhappy than are most."

"But her origin?"

"Pray re-peruse the last sentence of the telegram. Only a Scot or an American says, 'Will call upon you,' when he, or in this case she, means the 'shall' of simple futurity, which would be used as a matter of course by any Englishwoman educated or uneducated. Are you an­swered?"

"I—I—stay a moment! You stated, not as fancy but as fact, that she must be handsome!"

"Ah, I can say only that it is probable. And the hypothesis comes not from the telegram."

"Then from where?"

"Come, did I not tell you I believe her to have been a beauty-specialist? Such ladies are seldom actually hideous-looking, else they are no strong advertisement for their own wares. But this, if I mistake not, is our client now."

While he had been speaking, we heard a loud and decisive ring of the bell from below. There was some delay, during which the caller presumably expected our landlady to escort her formally to our sitting-room. Sher­lock Holmes, putting away the violin and its bow, waited expectantly until Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure entered the room.

She was certainly handsome—tall, stately, of almost queenly bearing, though perhaps too haughty, with an abundance of rather brassy fair hair and cold, blue eyes. Clad in sables over a costly gown of dark-blue velvet, she wore a beige hat ornamented with a large white bird.

Disdaining my offer to remove her outer coat, while Holmes performed introductions with easy courtesy, Mrs. Cabpleasure cast round one glance which seemed to sum up unfavourably our humble room, with its worn bearskin hearth-rug and acid-stained chemical table. Yet she consented to be seated in my arm-chair, clasping her white-gloved hands in her lap.

"One moment, Mr. Holmes!" said she, politely, but in a hard, brisk voice. "Before I commit myself to anything, I must ask you to state the fee for your pro­fessional services."

There was a slight pause before my friend answered.

"My fees never vary, save when I remit them alto­gether."

"Come, Mr. Holmes, I fear you think to take advantage of a poor weak woman! But in this case it will not do."

"Indeed, madam?"

"No, sir. Before I employ what you will forgive me for terming a professional spy, and risk being overcharged, I must again ask you to state your exact fee."

Sherlock Holmes rose from his chair.

"I am afraid, Mrs. Cabpleasure," said he, smiling, "that such small talents as I possess might be unavailing to assist you in your problem, and I regret exceedingly that you have been troubled by this call. Good-day, madam. Watson, will you kindly escort our guest downstairs?"

"Stop!" cried Mrs. Cabpleasure, biting hard at her handsome lip.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders and sank back again into the easy-chair.

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Holmes. But it would be worth ten shillings or even a guinea to know why on earth my husband cherishes, worships, idolizes that pesti­lent shabby umbrella, and will never allow it away from his presence even at night!"

Whatever Holmes might have felt, it was gone in his sense of starvation for a fresh problem.

"Ah! Then your husband worships the umbrella in a literal sense?"

"Did I not say so?"

"No doubt the umbrella has some great financial or sentimental value?"

"Stuff and nonsense! I was with him when he bought it two and a half years ago. He paid seven-and-six-pence for it at a shop in the Tottenham Court Road."

"Yet perhaps some idiosyncrasy—?"

Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure looked shrewdly calculating.

"No, Mr. Holmes. My husband is selfish, inhuman, and soulless. It is true, since my maternal great-grand­father was The McRea of McRea, in Aberdeenshire, I take good care to keep the man in his place. But Mr. Cabpleasure, aside from his vicious nature, has never done anything without very good reasons."

Holmes looked grave.

" 'Inhuman?' 'Vicious nature?' These are very serious terms indeed. Does he use you cruelly, then?" Our visitor raised even haughtier eyebrows. "No, but I have no doubt he would wish to do so. James is an abnormally strong brute, though he is only of middle height and has no more of what is called figure than a hop-pole. Pah, the vanity of men! His features are quite nondescript, but he is inordinately proud of a very heavy, very glossy brown moustache, which curves round his mouth like a horseshoe. He has worn it for years; and, indeed, next to that umbrella—"

"Umbrella!" muttered Holmes. "Umbrella! Forgive the interruption, madam, but I should desire more details of your husband's nature."

"It makes him look only like a police-constable."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The moustache, I mean."

"But does your husband drink? Interest himself in other women? Gamble? Keep you short of money? What, none of these things?"

"I presume, sir," retorted Mrs. Cabpleasure loftily, "that you are desirous of hearing merely the relevant facts? It is for you to provide an explanation. I wish to hear this elucidation. I will tell you whether it satisfies me. Would it not demonstrate better breeding on your part were you to permit me to state the facts?"

Holmes's thin lips closed tightly. "Pray do so."

"My husband is the senior partner of the firm of Cabpleasure & Brown, the well-known diamond-brokers of Hatton Garden. Throughout the fifteen years of our wed­lock—ugh!—we have seldom been separated for more than a fortnight's time, save on the latest and most sin­ister occasion."

"The latest occasion?"

"Yes, sir. Only yesterday afternoon James returned home from a protracted six months' business journey to Amsterdam and Paris, as idolatrous of that umbrella as ever. Never has he been more idolatrous, throughout the full year during which he has worshipped it."

Sherlock Holmes, who had been sitting with his finger­tips pressed together and his long legs stretched out, gave a slight start.

"The full year, madam?" demanded he. "Yet a mo­ment ago you remarked that Mr. Cabpleasure had bought the umbrella two and a half years ago. Am I to under­stand that his—his worship dates from just a year ago?"

"You may certainly so understand it, yes."

"That is suggestive! That is most suggestive!" My friend looked thoughtful. "But of what? We—yes, yes, Watson? What is it? You appear to have become impatient."

Though it was not often that I ventured to vouchsafe my own suggestion before Holmes had asked for one, upon this occasion I could not forbear.

"Holmes," cried I, "surely this problem is not too diffi­cult? It is an umbrella: it has a curved handle, which is probably thick. In a hollow handle, or perhaps some other part of the umbrella, it would be easy to hide diamonds or other valuable objects."

Our guest did not even deign to look at me. "Do you imagine that I would have stooped to visit you, Mr. Holmes, if the answer were as simple as all that?"

"You are sure it is not the true explanation?" Holmes asked quickly.

"Quite sure. I am sharp, Mr. Holmes," said the lady, whose handsome profile did in truth appear to have a knife-edge; "I am very sharp. Let me illustrate. For years after my marriage I consented to preside over the Madame Dubarry Salon de Beautй in Bond Street. Why do you think that a McRea of McRea would condescend to use such a cognomen as Cabpleasure, open as it is to comment from a primitive sense of humour?"

"Well, madam?"

"Clients or prospective clients might stare at such a name. But they would remember it."

"Yes, yes, I confess to having seen the name upon the window. But you spoke of the umbrella?"

"One night some eight months ago, while my husband lay in slumber, I went privily into his sleeping-chamber from my own, removed the umbrella from beside his bed, and took it downstairs to an artisan."

"An artisan?"

"A rough person, employed in the manufacture of umbrellas, whom I had summoned to Happiness Villa, The Arbour, Highgate, for that purpose. This person took the umbrella to pieces and restored it so ingeniously that my husband was never aware it had been examined. Nothing was concealed inside; nothing is concealed inside; nothing could be concealed inside. It is a shabby umbrella, and no more."

"None the less, madam, he may set great store by the umbrella only as some men cherish a good-luck charm."

"On the contrary, Mr. Holmes, he hates it. 'Mrs. Cabpleasure,' he has said to me on more than one occasion, 'that umbrella will be the death of me; yet I must not relinquish it!' "

"H'm! He made no further explanation?"

"None. And even suppose he keeps the umbrella as a good-luck charm, which he does not! When in a moment of abstraction he leaves it behind for only a few seconds, in house or office, why does he utter a cry of dread and hasten back for it? If you are not stupid, Mr. Holmes, you must have some notion. But I see the matter is beyond you."

Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

"It is a very pretty little problem," said he. "At the same time, I fail to see what action I can take. So far I have heard no facts to indicate that your husband is a criminal or even in the least vicious."

"Then it was not a crime, I dare say, when yesterday he stole a large number of diamonds from a safe be­longing jointly to himself and to his business partner, Mr. Mortimer Brown?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

"H'm. This becomes more interesting."

"Oh, yes," said our fair visitor, coolly. "Yesterday, before returning home, my husband paid a visit to his office. Subsequently there arrived at our home a telegram sent to him by Mr. Mortimer Brown. It read as follows:

"Did you remove from our safe twenty-six diamonds belonging to the Cowles-Derningham lot?"

"H'm. Your husband showed you the telegram, then?"

"No. I merely exercised a perfect right to open it."

"But you questioned him as to its contents?"

"Naturally not, since I preferred to bide my time. Late last night, though little he suspects I followed him, my husband crept downstairs in his night-g—crept downstairs, and held a whispered conversation in the mist with some unseen person just outside a ground-floor window. I could overhear only two sentences. 'Be outside the gate before eight-thirty on Thursday morning,' said my husband. 'Don't fail me!'"

"And what did you take to be the meaning of it?"

"Outside the gate of our house, of course! My husband always leaves for his office punctually at eight-thirty. And Thursday, Mr. Holmes: that is tomorrow morning! What­ever criminal scheme the wretch has prepared, it will reach fruition tomorrow. But you must be there to intervene."

Holmes's long, thin fingers crept out towards the man­telshelf as though in search of a pipe, but he drew his hand back.

"At eight-thirty tomorrow morning, Mrs. Cabpleasure, there will be scarcely a gleam of daylight."

"Surely that is no concern of yours! You are paid to spy in all weathers. I must insist that you be there promptly and in a sober condition."

"Now by heaven, madam—!"

"And that, I fear, is all the time I can afford to spare you now. Should your fee be more than nominal or what I consider reasonable, it will not be paid. Good day, sir. Good day!"

The door closed behind her.

"Do you know, Watson," remarked Holmes, with a bitter flush in his thin cheeks, "that if I did not crave such a problem as this, actually crave it—"

Though he did not complete the sentence, I echoed the sentiments he must have felt.

"Holmes, that lady is no true Scotswoman! What is more, though it grieves me to say so, I would wager a year's half-pay she is no relation whatever to The McRea of McRea."

"You seem a little warm, Watson, upon the subject of your own forebears' ancestral homeland. Still, I can­not blame you. Such airs as Mrs. Cabpleasure's become a trifle ridiculous when worn at second-hand. But how to fathom the secret of the umbrella?"

Going to the window, I was just in time to see the white bird on the hat of our late visitor disappearing inside a four-wheeler. A chocolate-coloured omnibus of the Baker Street and Waterloo line rattled past through deepening dusk. The outside passengers of the omnibus, all twelve of them, had their umbrellas raised against a rawer, colder fall of rain. Seeing only a forest of umbrellas, I turned from the window in despair.

"Holmes, what will you do?"

"Well, the hour is a little late to pursue an obvious line of enquiry in Hatton Garden. Mr. James Cabpleasure, with his glossy moustache and his much-prized umbrella, must wait until tomorrow."

Accordingly, with no premonition of the thunderbolt in store, I accompanied my friend to Happiness Villa, The Arbour, Highgate, at twenty minutes past eight on the following morning.

It was pitch dark when we took breakfast by gaslight. But the rain had ceased, and the sky cleared into quiet, shivering cold. By the time a hansom set us down before Mr. and Mrs. Cabpleasure's house, there was enough grey light so that we could see the outlines of our surroundings.

The house was a large one. Set some thirty yards back from the road, behind a waist-high stone wall, it was built of stucco in the Gothic style, with sham battlements and also a sham turret. Even the front door was set inside a panelled entry beyond an open Gothic arch. Though the entry lay in darkness, two windows glowed yellow on the floor above.

Sherlock Holmes, in his Inverness cape and ear-flapped travelling-cap, looked eagerly around him.

"Ha!" said he, placing his hand on the waist-high wall along the road. "Semi-circle of carriage-drive, I see, entering the ground through a gate in the wall there," and he nodded towards a point some distance ahead of us on the pavement. "The carriage-drive passes the front door, with one narrow branch towards a tradesmen's entrance, and returns to the road through a second gate in the wall —here beside us. Hullo, look there!"

"Is anything wrong?"

"Look ahead, Watson! There, by the far gate in the wall! That can't be Inspector Lestrade? By Jove, it is Lestrade!"

A wiry little bulldog of a man, in a hard hat and a plaid greatcoat, was already hurrying towards us along the pavement. Behind him I could see the helmets of at least two police-constables, like twins with their blue bulk and heavy moustaches.

"Don't tell me, Lestrade," cried Holmes, "that Mrs. Cabpleasure also paid a visit to Scotland Yard?"

"If she did, Mr. Holmes, she went to the right shop," said Lestrade, with much complacence. "Hallo, Dr. Watson! It must be fifteen years and a bit since I first met you, but Mr. Holmes here is still the theorist and I'm still the practical man."

"Quick, Lestrade!" said Holmes. "The lady must have told you much the same story as she told us. When did she call upon you?"

"Yesterday morning. We're quick movers at Scotland Yard. We spent the rest of the day investigating this Mr. James Cabpleasure."

"Indeed? What did you discover?"

"Well, everybody thinks highly of the gentleman, and seems to like him. Outside office hours he is a hard read­er, almost a bookworm, and his wife don't like that. But he's a great mimic, they say, and got quite a sense of humour."

"Yes, I fancied he must have a sense of humor."

"You've met him, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, but I have met his wife."

"Anyway, I met him last night. Paid a visit to take his measure. Oh, only on a pretext! Nothing to put him on his guard, of course."

"No, of course not," said Holmes, with a groan. "Tell me, Lestrade: have you not discovered that this gentleman has a reputation for complete honesty?"

"Yes, that's what makes it so suspicious," said Lestrade, with a cunning look. "By George, Mr. Holmes! I'm bound to admit I don't much like his lady, but she's got a very clear head. By George! I'll clap the darbies on that gentle­man before you can say Jack Robinson!"

"My dear Lestrade! You will clap the handcuffs on him for what offence?"

"Why, because—stop!" cried Lestrade. "Hallo! You, there! Stand where you are!"

We had advanced to meet Lestrade until we were all half-way between the two gates in the low boundary wall. Now Lestrade had dashed past us towards the gate near which we had been standing at the beginning. There, as though conjured from the raw morning murk, was a portly and florid-faced gentleman, rather nervous-looking, in a grey top hat and a handsome grey greatcoat.

"I must ask you, sir," cried Lestrade, with more dignity as he noted the newcomer's costly dress, "to state your name, and give some account of yourself."

The portly newcomer, even more nervous, cleared his throat.

"Certainly," said he. "My name is Harold Mortimer Brown, and I am Mr. Cabpleasure's partner in the firm of Cabpleasure & Brown. I dismissed my hansom a short way down the road. I—er—live in South London."

"You live in South London," said Lestrade, "yet you have come all the way to the heights of North London? Why?"

"My dear Mr. Mortimer Brown," interposed Holmes, with a suavity which clearly brought relief to the florid-faced man, "you must forgive a certain impulsiveness on the part of my old friend Inspector Lestrade, who is from Scotland Yard. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will be good enough to answer only one question. Did your partner really steal—"

"Stop!" Lestrade exclaimed again.

This time he whipped round to look at the far gate. A milk-wagon, its large and laden cans of milk clanking to the clop of the horse's hoofs, went jolting through that gate and up the curve of the gravelled drive towards the house in stucco Gothic.

Lestrade quivered like the little bulldog he was.

"That milk-wagon will bear watching," cried he. "Any­way, let's hope it won't obstruct our view of the front door."

Fortunately, it did not obstruct our view. The milk­man, whistling merrily, jumped down from the wagon and went into the entry to fill the small milk-jug which we later found was waiting for him outside the front door. But, no sooner had he disappeared under the Gothic arch of the entry, than all thought of the milk-wagon was driven from my mind.

"Mr. Holmes!" whispered Lestrade in a tense voice.

"There he is!"

Clearly we heard the slam of the front door. Distin­guished-looking in glossy hat and heavy greatcoat, there emerged into the drive a conspicuously moustached gen­tleman whom I deduced, correctly enough, to be Mr. James Cabpleasure on the way to his office.

"Mr. Holmes!" repeated Lestrade. "He hasn't got his umbrella!"

It was as though Lestrade's very thought winged through the grey bleakness into Mr. Cabpleasure's brain. Abruptly the diamond-broker halted in the drive. As though galvanized, he looked up at the sky. Uttering a wordless cry which I confess struck a chill into my heart, he rushed back into the house.

Again the front door slammed. A clearly astonished milkman, turning round to glance back, said something inaudible before he climbed to the seat of the wagon.

"I see it all," declared Lestrade, snapping his fingers. "They think they can deceive me, but they can't. Mr. Holmes, I must stop that milkman!"

"In heaven's name, why should you stop the milkman?"

"He and Mr. Cabpleasure were close to each other in that entry. I saw them! Mr. Cabpleasure could have passed the stolen diamonds to his confederate, the milk­man."

"But, my dear Lestrade—"

The man from Scotland Yard would not listen. As the milk-wagon rumbled towards the gate by which we stood, he hurried forward and held up his hand in its path so that the driver, with a curse, was obliged to rein in even that slow-moving horse.

"I've seen you before," said Lestrade, in his bullying voice. "Look sharp, now; I'm a police-officer. Is your name not Hannibal Throgmorton, alias Felix Porteus?"

The milkman's long, clean-shaven face gaped in amaze­ment.

"Me name's Alf Peters," he returned warmly, "and here's me roundsman card with me photograph on it and the blinking manager's signature to prove it! Who do you think I am, Governor—Cecil Rhodes?"

"You pull up your socks, my lad, or you'll find your­self in Queer Street. Get down from the wagon! Yes, that's it; get down!" Here Lestrade turned to the two police-constables who accompanied him. "Burton! Mur­dock! Search that milkman!"

Alf. Peters' howl of protest was strangled as the con­stables seized him. Though lanky and only of middle height, Peters put up such a sporting fight that it was minutes before the constables could complete their search. They found nothing.

"Then the diamonds must be in one of those five-gallon milk-cans! We've no time for kid-glove methods. Pour out the milk on the ground!"

The language of the infuriated milkman, as this was done, cannot be called anything save improper.

"What, nothing there either?" demanded Lestrade. "Well, he may have swallowed the diamonds. Shall we take him to the nearest police-station?"

"Oh, crickey," screamed Alf Peters, "he ain't fit to be loose. He's off his blooming chump! Why don't he take a blooming axe and smash the blooming wagon?"

It was Holmes's strident, authoritative voice which restored order.

"Lestrade! Have the kindness to let Peters go. In the first place, he is unlikely to have swallowed twenty-six diamonds. In the second place, if Mr. Cabpleasure wished to give the diamonds to a fellow-conspirator, why did he not do so late on Tuesday night, when he held a secret conversation with someone at a ground-floor window? His whole behaviour, as described by his wife, becomes as irrational as his conduct with the umbrella. Unless—"

Sherlock Holmes had been standing in moody doubt, his head forward and his arms folded inside his cape. Now, glancing first towards the tradesmen's entrance and then towards the front of the house, he raised his head. Even his cold, emotionless nature could not repress the exclamation which rose to his lips. For a moment he remained motionless, his tall, lean figure outlined against a lightening sky.

"By Jove, Lestrade!" said he. "Mr. James Cabpleasure is rather a long time in returning with his umbrella."

"What's that, Mr. Holmes?"

"I might venture to utter a trifling prophecy. I might venture to say Mr. Cabpleasure has gone; that he has already vanished from the house."

"But he can't possibly have vanished from the house!" cried Lestrade.

"May I ask why not?"

"Because I stationed police-constables all round the house, in case he tried to give us the slip. Every door and window is watched! Not so much as a rat could have got out of that house without being seen, and can't get out now."

"Nevertheless, Lestrade, I must repeat my little proph­ecy. If you search the house, I think you will find that Mr. Cabpleasure has disappeared like a soapbubble."

Pausing only to put a police-whistle to his lips, Lestrade plunged towards the house. Alf Peters, the milkman, improved this opportunity to whip up his horse and clatter frantically away as though from the presence of a dangerous lunatic. Even Mr. Mortimer Brown, despite his ven­erable portliness and florid face, ran down the road with his hat clutched to his head, and without having answered whatever query my friend had wished to ask him.

"Hold your peace, Watson," said Holmes, in his im­perious fashion. "No, no, I am not joking in what I say. You will find the matter extremely simple when you per­ceive the significance of one point."

"And what point is that?"

"The true reason why Mr. Cabpleasure cherishes his umbrella," said Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly the sky strengthened to such wintry brightness that the two gas-lit windows, which I have mentioned as glowing from an upper floor, were paled by the sun.

Ceaselessly the search went on, with far more police-con­stables than seemed necessary.

At the end of a full hour, during which Holmes had not moved, Lestrade rushed out of the house. His face wore a look of horror which I know was reflected in my own.

"It's true, Mr. Holmes! His hat, his greatcoat and his umbrella are lying just inside the front door. But—"

"Yes?"

"I'll take my oath that the villain's not hidden in the house, and yet they all swear he never left it either!"

"Who is in the house now?"

"Only his wife. Last night, after I spoke with him, it seems he gave the servants a night off. Almost drove 'em out of the house, his wife says, without a word of warn­ing. They didn't much like it, some of 'em wondering where they should go, but they had no choice."

Holmes whistled.

"The wife!" said he. "By the way, how is it that through all this tumult we have neither seen nor heard Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure? Is it possible that last night she was drugged? That she found herself growing irresistibly drowsy, and has only recently awakened?"

Lestrade fell back a step as though from the eye of a sorcerer.

"Mr. Holmes, why do you think it was that?"

"Because it could have been nothing else."

"Well, it's gospel truth. The lady is accustomed to drink a cup of hot meat-juice an hour before going to bed. That meat-juice last night was so doused with powdered opium that there are still traces in the cup." Lestrade's face darkened. "But the less I see of that lady, by George, the better I shall like it."

"At least she has made a good recovery, for I perceive her now at the window."

"Never mind her," said Lestrade. "Just tell me how that thieving diamond-broker vanished slap under our eyes!"

"Holmes," said I, "surely there is only one explanation.

Mr. Cabpleasure departed by some secret way or pass­age."

"There's no such thing," shouted Lestrade.

"I quite agree," said Holmes. "That is a modern house, Watson, or at least one built within the last twenty-odd years. Present-day builders, unlike their ancestors, seldom include a secret passage. But I cannot see, Lestrade, that there is any more I can do here."

"You can't leave now!"

"Not leave?"

"No! You may be a theorist and not practical, but I can't deny you've given me a bit of help once or twice in the past. If you can guess how a man vanished by a miracle, it's your duty as a citizen to tell me." Holmes hesitated.

"Very well," said he. "There are reasons why I should prefer to be silent for the time being. But perhaps I may give you a hint. Had you thought of disguise?"

For a time Lestrade gripped his hat with both hands. Abruptly he turned round and looked up at the window where Mrs. Cabpleasure contemplated nothingness with a haughty superiority which it seemed nothing could shake.

"By George," Whispered Lestrade. "When I was here last night, I never saw Mr. and Mrs. Cabpleasure together. That may account for the false moustache I found hidden in the hall. Only one person was in that house this morn­ing, and one person is still there. That means—" Now it was Holmes's turn to be taken aback. "Lestrade, what has got into your head at this late date?"

"They can't deceive me. If Mr. Cabpleasure is the same person as Mrs. Cabpleasure, if he or she simply walked out of the house in man's clothes and then walked back in again—I see it all now!"

"Lestrade! Stop! Wait! "

"We have female searchers in these days," said Les­trade, dashing towards the house. "They'll soon prove whether it's a lady or a gentleman."

"Holmes," cried I, "can this monstrous theory possibly be true?"

"Nonsense, Watson."

"Then you must restrain Lestrade. My dear fellow," I expostulated presently, as Mrs. Cabpleasure disappeared from the window and a piercing female shriek indicated that Lestrade had imparted the intelligence of what he proposed to do, "this is unworthy of you. Whatever we may think of the lady's manners, especially in commanding you to be here in a sober condition, you must spare her the indignity of an enforced visit to the police-station!"

"Yet I am not at all sure," said he, thoughtfully, "that the lady would be greatly harmed by such an enforced visit. Indeed, it may serve to teach her a salutary lesson. Don't argue, Watson! I have an errand for you."

"But—"

"I must pursue certain lines of enquiry which may take all day. Meanwhile, since my address is readily accessible to anyone, I feel sure that the conscientious Mr. Mortimer Brown will send me a certain telegram. Therefore I would be grateful, Watson, if you would wait at our rooms and open the telegram should it arrive before my return."

Lestrade's mood must have been contagious. Otherwise I know not why I should have rushed back in such a hurry to Baker Street, shouting to the cab-driver that I would give him a guinea if he took me there in an hour.

But the anticipated telegram from Mr. Mortimer Brown found me discussing midday dinner, and added a fresh shock. It read:

"Regret my too-expeditious departure this morning. Must state openly I am, and have always been, only a nominal partner of Cabpleasure and Brown, whose assets belong entirely to Mr. James B. Cabpleasure. My telegraphed enquiry as to the twenty-six diamonds in the Cowles-Derningham purchase was caused by caution in making certain be had brought these diamonds safely home. If he took the diamonds, he had a perfect right to take them.—Harold Mortimer Brown."

Then James Cabpleasure was not a thief! But, if he had not meant to fly the law, I was at a loss to account for his behaviour. It was seven o'clock that night, and I heard Holmes's familiar tread on the stairs, when in­spiration came to me.

"Pray enter," cried I, as the knob turned, "for I have found the only possible explanation at last!"

Flinging open the door, Holmes glanced quickly round, and his face fell.

"What, is there no visitor? Yet, perhaps I am pre­mature; yes, premature. My dear Watson, I apologize. What were you saying?"

"If Mr. Cabpleasure had in fact vanished," said I, as he scanned the telegram, "it would have been the miracle Lestrade called it. But miracles do not happen in the nineteenth century. Holmes, our diamond-broker only seemed to vanish. He was there all the time, but we did not observe him."

"How so?"

"Because he had disguised himself as a police-con­stable."

Holmes, who was in the act of hanging up his cape and cloth cap on the hook behind the door, turned round with his dark brows drawn together. "Continue!" said he.

"In this very room, Holmes, Mrs. Cabpleasure said that her husband's moustache made him resemble a constable. We know him to be a fine mimic, with a repre­hensible sense of humour. To procure a fancy-dress policeman's uniform would have been easy. After the misdirection with which he walked from the house and walked back again, he then put on the uniform. In the half-light, with so many constables about, he went unobserved until he could escape.

"Excellent, Watson! It is only when I have been with Lestrade that I learn to value you. Very good indeed."

"I have found the solution?"

"It is not, I fear, quite good enough. Mrs. Cabpleasure also said, if you recall, that her husband was of medium height and had no more figure than a hop-pole, by which she meant he was thin or lanky. That this was a fact I proved today by many photographs of him in the drawing room at Happiness Villa. He could not have simulated the height or the beef of a metropolitan policeman."

"But mine is the last possible explanation!"

"I think not. There is only one person who meets our requirements of height and figure, and that person—"

There was a loud clamour and jangle of the bell from below.

"Hark!" said Holmes. "It is the visitor, the step upon the stair, the touch of drama which I cannot resist! Who will open that door, Watson? Who will open the door?"

The door opened. Clad in evening clothes, with cape and collapsible hat, our visitor stood upon the threshold. I found myself looking incredulously at a long, clean­shaven, familiar face.

"Good evening, Mr. Alf Peters," said Holmes. "Or should I say—Mr. James Cabpleasure?"

Realization smote me like a blow, and I all but stag­gered.

"I must congratulate you," continued Holmes, with sternness. "Your impersonation of the persecuted milk­man was admirably done. I recall a similar case at Riga in 1876, and it is faintly reminiscent of an impersonation by a Mr. James Windibank in '88; but certain features here are unique. The subject of removing a heavy mous­tache for changing a man's appearance, especially in making him look younger, is one to which I may devote a monograph. Instead of assuming a moustache for disguise, you took yours off."

When he was dressed in evening clothes, our visitor's face showed as mobile and highly intellectual, with dancing brown eyes which crinkled at the corners as though he might smile. But, far from smiling, he was desperately worried.

"Thank you," said he, in a pleasant and well-modulated voice. "You gave me a very bad moment, Mr. Holmes, when I sat on that milk-wagon outside my own house and I observed that suddenly you saw through my whole plan. Why did you refrain from unmasking me then?"

"I wished first to hear what you had to say for yourself, unembarrassed by the presence of Lestrade."

James Cabpleasure bit his lip.

"Afterwards," said Holmes, "it was not difficult to trace you through the Purity Milk Company, or to send you the judiciously worded telegram which has brought you here. A photograph of James Cabpleasure with moustache eliminated, shown to your employer, disclosed the fact that he was the same man as one Alfred Peters, who six months ago applied for a post with the milk company, and obtained two days' leave of absence for Tuesday and Wednesday.

"Yesterday, in this room, your wife informed us that on Tuesday you 'returned' from an unheard-of six months' absence in Amsterdam and Paris. That was suggestive. Taken together with your curious conduct as regards the umbrella—which you did not prize when you purchased it, but only when you had decided on your plan—and your incredible statement that the umbrella would be the death of you, it already suggested a hoax or imposture designed to deceive your wife."

"Sir, let me tell you—!"

"One moment. Shaving off your moustache, for six months you drove that milk-round; and I have no doubt you enjoyed it. On Tuesday you 'returned' as James Cabpleasure. I find that Messrs. Clarkfather, the wigmakers, supplied you with a real-hair duplicate of your lost mous­tache. In dark winter weather or by gas-light it would deceive your wife, since the lady takes small interest in you and we know you occupy separate rooms.

"Quite deliberately you acted in a violently suspicious manner. On Tuesday night you staged that sinister scene with a non-existent 'fellow-conspirator' outside a win­dow, hoping to drive your wife into those vigorous measures which you believed she was certain to take.

"On Wednesday night the visit of Inspector Lestrade, who is perhaps not the most subtle of men, told you that you would have witnesses for your projected disappear­ance and that it was safe to go ahead. Dismissing the servants and drugging your wife, you left the house.

"This morning, hatless and without a greatcoat, you had the effrontery—don't smile, sir!—to drive the milk-wagon straight up to your house, where in the pitchdark entry you played the part of two men.

"Descending from the wagon, you disappeared into the entry as the milkman. Inside, already prepared, lay Mr. Cabpleasure's greatcoat, hat, and moustache. It required only eight seconds to put on hat and coat, and hastily to affix a moustache which on that occasion need be seen only briefly from a distance and in halflight.

"Out you walked as the elegant diamond-broker, seemed to remember your missing umbrella, and rushed back in again. It took but a moment to throw the trappings inside the front door, together with an umbrella already left there, and slam the front door from the outside. Again you reappeared as the milkman, completing the illusion that two men had passed each other.

"Though Inspector Lestrade honestly believes he saw two men, we all observed that the entry was far too dark for this to have been possible. But we must not too much blame Lestrade. When he stopped the milk-wagon and swore he had seen you before, it was no mere bullying. He really had seen you once before, though he could not remember where.

"I have said you had no fellow-conspirator; strictly speaking, this is true. Yet surely you must have shared the secret with your nominal partner, Mr. Mortimer Brown, who appeared this morning for the purpose of drawing away attention and preventing close scrutiny of the milkman. Unfortunately, his caution and apprehension rendered him useless. You made a bad mistake when you hid that false moustache in the hall. Still, the police might have found it when they searched you. This so-called miracle was possible because you very deliberately had accustomed your wife and her acquaintances to your worship of that umbrella. In reality, you cherished the umbrella because your plans could not have succeeded without it."

Sherlock Holmes, though he had been speaking curtly and without heat, seemed to rise up like a lean avenger.

"Now, Mr. James Cabpleasure!" said he. "I can per­haps understand why you were unhappy with your wife, and wished to leave her. But why could you not leave her openly, with a legal separation, and not this mummery of a disappearance into nowhere?"

Our guest's fair-complexioned face went red.

"So I should have," he burst out, "if Gloria had not been already married when she married me."

"I beg your pardon?"

Mr. Cabpleasure made a grimace, with a sudden vivid flash of personality, which showed what he might have accomplished as a comic actor.

"Oh, you can prove it easily enough! Since she longs to go back to her real husband—never mind who he is; it's an august name—I'm afraid Gloria wants to be rid of me, preferably by seeing me in gaol. But I can earn money, whereas the august personage is too lazy to try, and Gloria's prudence has become notorious."

"By Jove, Watson!" muttered Holmes. "This is not too surprising. It supplies the last link. Did I not say the lady insisted too much on her married name of Cabpleasure?"

"I am tired of her chilliness; I am tired of her superior­ity; and now, at forty-odd, I wish only to sit in peace and read. However, sir, let me acknowledge that it was a cad's trick if you insist."

"Come!" said Holmes. "I am not the official police, Mr. Cabpleasure—"

"My name is not even Cabpleasure. That was forced upon me by my uncle, who founded the business. My real name is Phillimore, James Phillimore. Well! I have put all my possessions into Gloria's name, except twenty-six costly and negotiable diamonds. I had hoped to found a new life as James Phillimore, free of a blasted silly name. But I have been defeated by a master strategist, so do what you like."

"No, no," said Holmes blandly. "Already you have made one bad blunder, though I was deplorably late in seeing it. When a milk-wagon is driven to the front door instead of to the tradesmen's entrance, the foundations of our social world are rocked. If I am to help you in forming this new life—"

"If you are to help me?" cried our visitor.

"Then you must not be betrayed by a real name of which someone is sure to be aware. From diplomatic necessity, until the day you die, Watson shall call the problem of your disappearance unsolved. Assume what other name you choose. But Mr. James Phillimore must never more be seen in this world!"

----:----

Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world.

FROM "THOR BRIDGE"

5

The Adventure of the Black Baronet

"Yes, Holmes, the autumn is a melancholy time. But you are in need of this holiday. After all, you should be interested in such a country type as that man we see from the window."

My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, closing the book in his hands, glanced languidly out of the window of our private sitting-room at the inn near East Grinstead.

"Pray be explicit, Watson," said he. "Do you refer to the cobbler or to the farmer?"

In the country road past the inn, I could see a man on the driver's seat of a market-cart, clearly a farmer. But otherwise there was only an elderly workman in corduroy trousers, plodding towards the cart with his head down.

"Surely a cobbler," observed Holmes, answering my thought rather than my words. "He is left-handed, I perceive."

"Holmes, you would have been accused of wizardry in another age from ours! Why the man should be a cobbler I cannot conceive, but a left-handed cobbler? You cannot have deduced it."

"My dear fellow, observe the marks across the corduroy trousers where the cobbler rests his lap stone. The left hand side, you will remark, is far more worn than the right. He used his left hand for hammering the leather. Would that all our problems were so simple!"

That year of 1889 had brought some significant suc­cesses to Sherlock Holmes, which had added further laurels to his already formidable reputation. But the strain of almost unremitting work had left its mark upon him, and I was sincerely relieved when he had fallen in with my proposal that we should exchange the October fogs of Baker Street for the rich autumnal beauty of the Sussex country-side.

My friend possessed a marked resilience, and the few days of relaxation had already put back the old nervous spring in his step and a touch of colour in his cheeks. Indeed, I welcomed even his occasional outbursts of impatience as a sign that his vigorous nature had shaken off the lassitude which had followed upon his last case.

Holmes had lit his pipe, and I had picked up my book when there came a knock on the door and the landlord entered.

"There be a gentleman to see you, Mr. Holmes, sir," he said in his soft Sussex burr, "and so hurried-like that up I must come without even taking off me apron. Ah! Here he is now."

A tall, fair-haired man, wearing a heavy ulster and a Scotch plaid swathed round his throat, rushed into the room, threw his Gladstone bag into the nearest corner, and, curtly dismissing the landlord, closed the door behind him. Then he nodded to us both.

"Ah, Gregson," said Holmes, "there must be something unusual in the wind to bring you so far afield!"

"What a case!" cried Inspector Tobias Gregson, sink­ing into the chair which I had pushed towards him. "Whew! What a case! As soon as we had the telegram at the Yard, I thought it would do no harm to have a word with you in Baker Street—unofficial, of course, Mr. Holmes. Then, when Mrs. Hudson gave me your address, I decided to come on down. It's less than thirty miles from here to the place in Kent where the murder was committed." He mopped at his forehead. "One of the oldest families in the county, they tell me. By heaven, just wait till the papers get hold of it!"

"My dear Holmes," I interposed, "you are here on a rest."

"Yes, yes, Watson," said my friend hurriedly, "but it will do no harm to hear the details. Well, Gregson?"

"I know no more than the bare facts given in this tele­gram from the county police. Colonel Jocelyn Daley, who was a guest of Sir Reginald Lavington at Lavington Court, has been stabbed to death in the banqueting-hall. The butler found him there at about ten-thirty this morning. He'd just died; blood still flowing."

Holmes put down his book on the table. "Suicide? Murder? What?" he asked.

"It couldn't be suicide; no weapon was discovered. But I've had a second telegram, and there's new evidence. It appears to implicate Sir Reginald Lavington himself. Colonel Daley was well known in sporting circles, but with none too good a reputation. This is crime in high life, Mr. Holmes, and there is no room for mistakes."

"Lavington—Lavington?". mused Holmes. "Surely, Watson, when we drove last week to visit the Bodiam Ruins, did we not pass through a village of that name? I seem to recall a house lying in a hollow."

I nodded. In my mind rose the memory of a moated manor-house, almost stifled amid yew trees, from which a sense of oppressiveness had seemed to weigh upon me.

"That's right, Mr. Holmes," agreed Gregson. "A house in a hollow. My guide-book says that at Lavington the past is more real than the present. Will you come with me?"

My friend leapt from his chair. "By all means," he cried. "No, Watson, not a word!"

The excellent establishment of Mr. John Hoath again supplied us with a carriage in which for two hours we were driven through the narrow, deep-rutted Sussex lanes. By the time that we had crossed the Kent border, the chill in the air made us glad of our rugs. We had turned off the main road, and were descending a steep lane when the coachman pointed with his whip at a moat-girdled house spread out below us in the grey dusk.

"Lavington Court," said he.

A few minutes later we had alighted from our carriage. As we crossed the causeway to the front door, I had a sombre impression of dead leaves on dark, sullen water and a great battlemented tower looming through the twilight. Holmes struck a match and stooped over the gravelled surface of the causeway.

"H'm, ha! Four sets of footprints. Hullo, what's this? The hoof-marks of a horse, and furiously ridden, to judge by their depth. Probably the first summons to the police. Well, Gregson, there's not much to be gained here. Let us hope that the scene of the crime may yield more inter­esting results."

As Holmes finished speaking, the door was opened. I must confess to reassurance at the sight of the stolid, and red-faced butler who ushered us into a stone-flagged hall, mellow and beautiful in the light of old-fashioned, many-branched candlesticks. At the far end a stairway led up to an oaken gallery on the floor above.

A thin, ginger-haired man, who had been warming his coat-tails before the fire, hurried towards us.

"Inspector Gregson?" he asked. "Thank the Lord you've come, sir!"

"I take it that you are Sergeant Bassett of the Kent County Constabulary?"

The ginger-haired man nodded. "That will do, Gillings. We'll ring when we need you. This is a dreadful business, sir, dreadful!" he went on, as the butler departed. "And now it's worse than ever. Here's a famous gambler stabbed when he was drinking a toast to his best racehorse, and Sir Reginald claims to have been absent at the time, and yet the knife—" The local detective broke off and looked at us. "Who are these gentlemen?"

"They are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. You may speak freely."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I've heard of your clever reputa­tion," remarked Sergeant Bassett doubtfully. "But there's not much mystery about this affair, and I hope the police will receive the credit."

"Gregson can tell you that I play the game for the game's sake," my friend replied. "Officially, I prefer not to appear in this case."

"Very fair, I'm sure, Mr. Holmes. Then, gentlemen, please to come this way."

He picked up a four-branched candlestick, and we were following him across the hall when there came a most unexpected interruption.

I have had considerable experience of women in many parts of the world, but never have I beheld a more queen­ly presence than the woman now descending the stairs. As she paused with her hand on the banister, the candle­light falling warmly on her soft copper-coloured hair and her heavy-lidded green eyes, I gained an impression of a beauty once radiant but now pale under the stress of some dreadful event which she could not understand.

"I heard your name in the hall, Mr. Holmes," she cried. "I know very little, but of one thing I am certain. My husband is innocent! I beg that you will think of that first."

For a moment Holmes looked at her intently, as though that melodious voice had struck some chord in his memory.

"I will bear your suggestion in mind, Lady Lavington. But surely your marriage has deprived the stage of—"

"Then you recognize Margaret Montpensier?" For the first time a touch of colour came into her face. "Yes, that was when I first met Colonel Daley. But my husband had no reason for jealousy—!" She paused in conster­nation.

"How's this, my lady?" exclaimed Gregson. "Jealousy?"

The two detectives exchanged glances.

"We hadn't got a motive before," muttered Bassett.

Lady Lavington, formerly that great actress Margaret Montpensier, had said what she had never intended to say. Holmes bowed gravely, and we followed the sergeant towards an arched door.

Though the room we entered was in complete darkness, I had a sense of height and size.

"There are no lights here except from this candlestick, gentlemen," came Bassett's voice. "Stand in the door for a moment, please."

As he moved forward, the reflection of four candle-flames followed him along the surface of a great refectory table, with its narrow side towards the door. At the far end the light flashed back from a tall silver goblet with a human hand lying motionless on either side. Bassett thrust forward the candelabrum.

"Look at this, Inspector Gregson!" he cried.

Seated at the head of the table, his cheek resting upon the surface, a man lay sprawled forward with his arms outflung on either side of the cup. Against a welter of blood and wine his fair hair shone under the candle-flames.

"His throat's been cut," snapped Bassett. "And here," he cried, darting to the wall, "was the dagger that did it!"

We hastened forward to where he was holding up his light against the old wainscotting. Amid a trophy of arms, two small metal hooks showed where some weapon had hung.

"How do you know that it was a dagger?" asked Gregson.

Bassett pointed to a slight scratch on the woodwork some six inches below. Holmes nodded approvingly.

"Good, Sergeant!" said he. "But you have other proof besides the scratch on the panelling?"

"Yes! Ask that butler, Gillings! It's an old hunting-dagger: hung there for years. Now look at the wound in Colonel Daley's throat."

Inured though I was to scenes of violence, I stepped back. Bassett, laying hold of that yellow hair which was tinged with grey at the temples, raised the dead man's head. Even in death it was an eagle face, with a great curving nose above a remorseless mouth.

"The dagger, yes," said Holmes. "But surely an odd direction for the blow? It appears to strike upwards from beneath."

The local detective smiled grimly. "Not so odd, Mr. Holmes, if the murderer struck when his victim raised that heavy cup to drink. Colonel Daley would have had to use both hands. We know already that he and Sir Reginald were drinking in here to the success of the colonel's horse at Leopardstown next week."

We all looked at the great wine-vessel, fully twelve inches high. It was of ancient silver, richly embossed and chased, girded below the lip with a circlet of garnets.

As it stood there amid the crimson stains and the scratches of finger-nails on that dreadful table-top, I noticed the twin silver figures carved like owls that decorated the tops of the handles on either side.

"The Luck of Lavington," said Bassett with a short laugh. "You can see those owls in the family arms. Well, it brought no luck to Colonel Daley. Somebody stabbed him when he raised it to drink."

"Somebody?" said a voice in the background.

Holmes had lifted the cup and, after examining it closely, was looking at the scratches and wine-stains which had seeped beneath it, when the shock of this interruption made us all turn towards the far end of the banqueting-hall.

A man was standing near the door. The light of a single taper which he had raised above his head illumined a pair of dark, brooding eyes that glowered at us from a face as black-browed and swarthy as that of some Andalusian gipsy. There was an impression of formidable strength in the spread of his shoulders, and in his bull neck above an old-fashioned black satin stock.

"How's this?" he challenged in a rumbling voice, ad­vancing on us with silent steps. "Who are ye? A pretty state of affairs, Bassett, when ye drag a set of strangers into the house of your own landlord!"

"I would remind you, Sir Reginald, that a serious crime has been committed," replied the local detective sternly. "This is Inspector Gregson from London; and these gentlemen are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

A shade of uneasiness seemed to flit across the dark face of the baronet as he looked at Holmes.

"I've heard of ye," he growled. His gaze moved towards the dead man. "Yes, Buck Daley's dead, and probably damned. I know his reputation now. Wine, horses, women —well, there have been Lavingtons like that. Mayhap, Mr. Holmes, ye have the wit to recognize a mischance when others talk of murder."

To my amazement Holmes seemed seriously to con­sider this monstrous statement. "Were it not for one circumstance, Sir Reginald," he said at length, "I should probably agree with you."

Gregson smiled sourly. "We're all aware of that circum­stance. The missing knife—"

"I did not say that it was the knife."

"There was no need for you to say so, Mr. Holmes. Can a man cut his own throat by accident and afterwards conceal the weapon?"

Seizing the candelabrum from the sergeant, Gregson held it up to the trophy of arms which glittered against the dark panelling. His stern eyes met those of the baronet.

"Where is the dagger that hung here?" he demanded.

"I took it," said Sir Reginald.

"Oh, you did, did you? Why?"

"I've told Sergeant Bassett there. I was fishing this morning. I used that old blade to gut the pike; ay, as my fathers did before me."

"Then you have it?"