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Title: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Posting Date: April 18, 2011 [EBook #1661]

First Posted: November 29, 2002

Language: English

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THE ADVENTURES OF
SHERLOCK HOLMES
BY

SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

CONTENTS

I. A Scandal in Bohemia
II. The Red-Headed League
III. A Case of Identity
IV. The Boscombe Valley Mystery

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V. The Five Orange Pips

VI. The Man with the Twisted Lip
VII. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
VIII. The Adventure of the Speckled Band
IX. The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
X. The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
XI. The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
XII. The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

ADVENTURE I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

I.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under
any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that
he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were
abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect
reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed
himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer.
They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s
motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate
and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a
doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own
high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his.
And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious
and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My
own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who
first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,
while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in
our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week
between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own
keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his
immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and
clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From
time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case
of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at
Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and
successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however,
which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend
and companion.
One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a journey to a
patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street.
As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my
wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to

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see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His
rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a
dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk
upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit,
his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his
drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was
shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With
hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his
case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before
the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a
half pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven!” I answered.
“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in
practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.”
“Then, how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately,
and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had
you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home
in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to
Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see
how you work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just
where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they
have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in
order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been
out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the
London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform,
with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of
his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not
pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”
I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction.
“When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the thing always appears to me to be so
ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your
reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as
good as yours.”
“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an
armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have
frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”
“Frequently.”
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I
know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since
you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or
two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick,

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pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came by the last
post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman
who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to
one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we
have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss
if your visitor wear a mask.”
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one
begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What
do you deduce from it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate
my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is
peculiarly strong and stiff.”
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it
up to the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t”
woven into the texture of the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for
‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now
for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume
from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—
in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of
Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do
you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his
cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar
construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A
Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to
his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes
upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I
am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels against the
curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the window. “A nice
little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in
this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”
“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises
to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”
“But your client—”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that
armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused
immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap.

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“Come in!” said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the
chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be
looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and
fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his
shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which
consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which
were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence
which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand,
while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black
vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised
to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character,
with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length
of obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German
accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain
which to address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is
occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that
this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter
of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is
both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to
me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you
both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no
importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an
influence upon European history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who
employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by
which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench
what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning
families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein,
hereditary kings of Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and
closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man
who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent
in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better
able to advise you.”
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable
agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it
upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal
it?”
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware

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that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of
Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing
his hand over his high white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing
such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an
agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose
of consulting you.”
“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.
“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I
made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt
familiar to you.”
“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes.
For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and
things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once
furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a
Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea
fishes.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—
hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic
stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with
this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those
letters back.”
“Precisely so. But how—”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for
blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”
“My private note-paper.”
“Stolen.”
“My own seal.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.”
“I was mad—insane.”
“You have compromised yourself seriously.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Stolen, then.”
“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we
diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no
result.”
“No sign of it?”

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“Absolutely none.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.
“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully.
“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”
“To ruin me.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“So I have heard.”
“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia.
You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A
shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it.
You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of
women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman,
there are no lengths to which she would not go—none.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I am sure.”
“And why?”
“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly
proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”
“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I
have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of
course, stay in London for the present?”
“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”
“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”
“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”
“Then, as to money?”
“You have carte blanche.”
“Absolutely?”
“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that
photograph.”
“And for present expenses?”
The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it to him.
“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.
“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the photograph a cabinet?”
“It was.”
“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for
you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the
street. “If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to
chat this little matter over with you.”

II.

At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady
informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down
beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was
already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and

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strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already
recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of
its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there
was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which
made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods
by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his
invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head.
It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt
and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room.
Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three
times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom,
whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands
into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some
minutes.
“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie
back, limp and helpless, in the chair.
“What is it?”
“It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or
what I ended by doing.”
“I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the
house, of Miss Irene Adler.”
“Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a
little after eight o’clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a
wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know
all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the
back, but built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large
sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those
preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing
remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I
walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything
else of interest.
“I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane
which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their
horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco,
and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen
other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose
biographies I was compelled to listen to.”
“And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.
“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under
a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at
concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at
other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is
dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr.
Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had
driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had
listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and
to think over my plan of campaign.
“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer.
That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his
repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably
transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this

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question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my

attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the
field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little
difficulties, if you are to understand the situation.”
“I am following you closely,” I answered.
“I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony
Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and
moustached—evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry,
shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a
man who was thoroughly at home.
“He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the
windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of
her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he
stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, ‘Drive
like the devil,’ he shouted, ‘first to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church
of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!’
“Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them
when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and
his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t
pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the
moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.
“ ‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in
twenty minutes.’
“This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it,
or whether I should perch behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver
looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St.
Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five
minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind.
“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before
us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived.
I paid the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had
followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all
three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who
has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me,
and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me.
“ ‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’
“ ‘What then?’ I asked.
“ ‘Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’
“I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I found myself
mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I
knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to
Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking
me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It
was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the
thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality
about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of
some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into
the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my
watch chain in memory of the occasion.”
“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “and what then?”
“Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an

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immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures on my part.
At the church door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her
own house. ‘I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no
more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements.”
“Which are?”
“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the bell. “I have been too busy
to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want
your co-operation.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?”
“Not in the least.”
“Nor running a chance of arrest?”
“Not in a good cause.”
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
“Then I am your man.”
“I was sure that I might rely on you.”
“But what is it you wish?”
“When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you. Now,” he said as
he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, “I must discuss it while I
eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of
action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony
Lodge to meet her.”
“And what then?”
“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one
point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?”
“I am to be neutral?”
“To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join
in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the
sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window.”
“Yes.”
“You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.”
“Yes.”
“And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw into the room what I give you to throw,
and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?”
“Entirely.”
“It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket.
“It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-
lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by
quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in
ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?”
“I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at the signal to throw
in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street.”
“Precisely.”
“Then you may entirely rely on me.”
“That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare for the new role I have
to play.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an
amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy
trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent
curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes
changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every

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fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute
reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.
It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the
hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were
just being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming
of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’ succinct
description, but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a
small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of
shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two
guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were
lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths.
“You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house, “this marriage
rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances
are that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its
coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?”
“Where, indeed?”
“It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy
concealment about a woman’s dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid
and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she
does not carry it about with her.”
“Where, then?”
“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think
neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should
she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell
what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a business man. Besides,
remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her
hands upon it. It must be in her own house.”
“But it has twice been burgled.”
“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”
“But how will you look?”
“I will not look.”
“What then?”
“I will get her to show me.”
“But she will refuse.”
“She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out
my orders to the letter.”
As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue.
It was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one
of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a
copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention.
A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with
one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A
blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre
of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists
and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her, he
gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall
the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a
number of better dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it,
crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her,
had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the
lights of the hall, looking back into the street.

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“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked.

“He is dead,” cried several voices.
“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be gone before you can get him
to hospital.”
“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady’s purse and watch if
it hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.”
“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?”
“Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!”
Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room,
while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but
the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not
know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but
I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the
beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she
waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw
back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the
smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but
preventing her from injuring another.
Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air.
A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand
and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no
sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen,
ostlers, and servant maids—joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled
through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a
moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping
through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was
rejoiced to find my friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked
swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets
which lead towards the Edgeware Road.
“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been better. It is all
right.”
“You have the photograph?”
“I know where it is.”
“And how did you find out?”
“She showed me, as I told you she would.”
“I am still in the dark.”
“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple.
You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for
the evening.”
“I guessed as much.”
“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I
rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is
an old trick.”
“That also I could fathom.”
“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And
into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected. It lay between that and her
bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they
were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance.”
“How did that help you?”
“It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at
once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I

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have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution
Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman
grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our
lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She
would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were
enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess
behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a
glimpse of it as she half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it,
glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making
my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at
once; but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to
wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King to-morrow, and with you, if
you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is
probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a
satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own hands.”
“And when will you call?”
“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides,
we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I
must wire to the King without delay.”
We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets
for the key when someone passing said:
“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”
There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come
from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.
“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now, I
wonder who the deuce that could have been.”

III.

I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the
morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.
“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and
looking eagerly into his face.
“Not yet.”
“But you have hopes?”
“I have hopes.”
“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”
“We must have a cab.”
“No, my brougham is waiting.”
“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once more for Briony
Lodge.
“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.
“Married! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“To an English lawyer named Norton.”
“But she could not love him.”
“I am in hopes that she does.”
“And why in hopes?”

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“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her
husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason
why she should interfere with your Majesty’s plan.”
“It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a queen she
would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up
in Serpentine Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She
watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.
“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and
rather startled gaze.
“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her
husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.”
“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you
mean that she has left England?”
“Never to return.”
“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”
“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed
by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled
shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight.
Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand,
pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening
dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My
friend tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding
night and ran in this way:

“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very well. You took me in
completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I
had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been
told that, if the King employed an agent, it would certainly be you. And your address had been
given me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I
became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you
know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often
take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran
upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed.
“Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of
interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-
night, and started for the Temple to see my husband.
“We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an
antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph,
your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do
what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to
safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which
he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain,
dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

“Very truly yours,

“IRENE NORTON, née ADLER.”

“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three
read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made

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an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”

“From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to
your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your
Majesty’s business to a more successful conclusion.”
“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more successful. I know
that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”
“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”
“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring—
” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.
“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said Holmes.
“You have but to name it.”
“This photograph!”
The King stared at him in amazement.
“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”
“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour
to wish you a very good morning.” He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand
which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how
the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry
over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of
Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the
woman.

ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and
found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery
red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me
abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my
most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours
also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little
questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips
together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share
my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday
life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle,
and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little
adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very
simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary

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combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of
the imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I
shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and
acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon
me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which
I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique
things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been
committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an
instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I
have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence
your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening
part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible
detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of
events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my
memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief,
unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a
dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I
took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of
being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather
baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the
front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal
dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled
velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing
remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as
he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done
manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that
he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes
upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How
did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a
ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have
worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather
against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left
one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been

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done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the
literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite
peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the
matter becomes even more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought at first that you
had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. ‘Omne
ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer
shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the
column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah
Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open which
entitles a member of the League to a salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-
headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are
eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the
League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read over the extraordinary
announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. “It is a
little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and
tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon
your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.”
“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson,
mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City.
It’s not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I
used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay
him but that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business.”
“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s hard to say his age.
I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better
himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I
put ideas in his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employé who comes under the full
market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don’t know that
your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow for photography.
Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down
into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on
the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place
clean—that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live
very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do
nothing more.
“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the
office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:
“ ‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’

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“ ‘Why that?’ I asks.

“ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s
worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more
vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the
money. If my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all ready for me to step
into.’
“ ‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man,
and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end
without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going
on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.
“ ‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes
open.
“ ‘Never.’
“ ‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’
“ ‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.
“ ‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere
very much with one’s other occupations.’
“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not
been over good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.
“ ‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.
“ ‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for yourself that the League
has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can
make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was
very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-
headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands
of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose
hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.’
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’
“ ‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really confined to
Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young,
and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your
applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red.
Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly
be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full
and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I
stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so
much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters
for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut
the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and
west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the
advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a
coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as
were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were—straw,
lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who
had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have
given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine,
but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the
steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope,
and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found

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ourselves in the office.”

“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as his client
paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very
interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind
which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to
each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which
would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all.
However, when our turn came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of
the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.
“ ‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the
League.’
“ ‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every requirement. I
cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked his head on
one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward,
wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.
“ ‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for
taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I
yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released me. ‘I perceive that
all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and
once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human
nature.’ He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the
vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped
away in different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that
of the manager.
“ ‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon
the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a
family?’
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“ ‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that.
The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their
maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy
after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all right.
“ ‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a
point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter
upon your new duties?’
“ ‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to
look after that for you.’
“ ‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.
“ ‘Ten to two.’
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially
Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to
earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he
would see to anything that turned up.
“ ‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’
“ ‘Is £4 a week.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is purely nominal.’

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“ ‘What do you call purely nominal?’

“ ‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you
leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don’t
comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’
“ ‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said I.
“ ‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business nor
anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it in that
press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and
chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’
“ ‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“ ‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the
important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of the
room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased
at my own good fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I
had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though
what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could
make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying
out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by
bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined
to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven
sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope’s Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was set
out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me
off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all
was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount
that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and
planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the same next week, and the
same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By
degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he
did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was
not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I
would not risk the loss of it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and
Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B’s
before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with
my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but
the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of
the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in
this fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

IS

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DISSOLVED.

October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it,
until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we
both burst out into a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, flushing up to the roots
of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. “I
really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if
you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you
take when you found the card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but
none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an
accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him
who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’
“ ‘What, the red-headed man?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room
as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’
“ ‘Where could I find him?’
“ ‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St.
Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial
knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could
not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was
not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so,
as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I
came right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one,
and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that
graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have
any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand,
richer by some £30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every
subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in
playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it
cost them two and thirty pounds.”
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr.
Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement—how long
had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”

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“How did he come?”

“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”
“At half wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not short of
thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he.
“Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the
course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a
conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be.
It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace
face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t
speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up
to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting
out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep,
and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a
man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think,
Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some
lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme,
which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to
introspect. Come along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-
Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was
a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked
out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded
laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt
balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house,
announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes
stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining
brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to
the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and,
having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to

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the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young
fellow, who asked him to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the
Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the
fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third.
I have known something of him before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the
Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see
him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s
country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie
behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired
Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back.
It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west.
The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide
inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It
was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that
they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just
quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, “I should
like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact
knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the
Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s
carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve
done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to
violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed
clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer
but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most
perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently
smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound,
Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to
conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme
exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic
and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature
took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly
formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his
improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would
suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of
intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as
on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so
enwrapped in the music at St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those

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whom he had set himself to hunt down.

“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg
Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be
in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army
revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant
among the crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a
sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had
heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly
not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business
was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it
all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia down to the
visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What
was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what
were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was
a formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up
in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park,
and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I
entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found
Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the
official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and
oppressively respectable frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his
heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard?
Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s
adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential way.
“Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him
to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr.
Merryweather gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily.
“He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too
theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say
that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been
more nearly correct than the official force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference. “Still, I
confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I
have not had my rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake to-
night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr.

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Merryweather, the stake will be some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon
whom you wish to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr.
Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on
him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His
grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as
cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to
find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build
an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on
him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or two little
turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is
past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson
and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the
cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless
labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank
director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also.
He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive
virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon
anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the
morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we
passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there
was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led
down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr.
Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling
passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all
round with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern
and gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined
the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have already
imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness
to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured
expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern
and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few
seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take any steps
until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner
they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor—
as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London
banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are
reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this
cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that an
attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”

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“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for
that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have
never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon
which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion
is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have
had misgivings upon the subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged
our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr.
Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were
a partie carrée, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations
have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose
our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they
may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal
yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire,
Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched.
Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness—such an
absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to
assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my
nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in
the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into
Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter,
yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us.
My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked
up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the
gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the
bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look
over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it
became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a
hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area
of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor.
Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid
spark which marked a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the
broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which
streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which
looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself
shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood
at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself,
with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump,
Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived
down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light

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flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s
wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right,
though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes
than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as the
handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my
veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ ”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir, march
upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and
walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do
not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected
and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank
robbery that have ever come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes.
“I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund,
but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique,
and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”

“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass
of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only
possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the
copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way
for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be
difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by
the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what
was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has
the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage
to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant
having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing
the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue.
That, however, was out of the question. The man’s business was a small one, and there was
nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an
expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I
thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar.
The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious
assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in
London. He was doing something in the cellar—something which took many hours a day for
months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running
a tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating
upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or

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behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it.
We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly
looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how
worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only
remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City
and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem.
When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of
the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer
about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But
it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be
removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days
for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. “It is so long a
chain, and yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in upon
me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These
little problems help me to do so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he remarked.
“ ‘L’homme c’est rien—l’oeuvre c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”

ADVENTURE III. A CASE OF IDENTITY

“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at
Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We
would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we
could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs,
and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the
cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to
the most outré results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen
conclusions most stale and unprofitable.”
“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come to light in the
papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism
pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor
artistic.”
“A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect,” remarked
Holmes. “This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the
platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital
essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the
commonplace.”
I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so,” I said. “Of course,
in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled,
throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But
here”—I picked up the morning paper from the ground—“let us put it to a practical test. Here
is the first heading upon which I come. ‘A husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a
column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of

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course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister
or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude.”
“Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,” said Holmes, taking the
paper and glancing his eye down it. “This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I
was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a
teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted
into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his
wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average
story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in
your example.”
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its
splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help
commenting upon it.
“Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from
the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers.”
“And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger.
“It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I served them
was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good enough to
chronicle one or two of my little problems.”
“And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with interest.
“Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important,
you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant
matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect
which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the
bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather
intricate matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents
any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very
many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.”
He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into
the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement
opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling
red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire
fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating
fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers
fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the
bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell.
“I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire.
“Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but
is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may
discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates,
and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter,
but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in
person to resolve our doubts.”
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss
Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed
merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy
for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he
looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.
“Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much
typewriting?”
“I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the letters are without looking.”

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Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked
up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve heard about me,
Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how could you know all that?”
“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have
trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?”
“I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found
so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you
would do as much for me. I’m not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right,
besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become
of Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked Sherlock Holmes, with
his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland.
“Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said, “for it made me angry to see the easy way in
which Mr. Windibank—that is, my father—took it all. He would not go to the police, and he
would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was
no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you.”
“Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since the name is different.”
“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for he is only five
years and two months older than myself.”
“And your mother is alive?”
“Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married
again so soon after father’s death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than
herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind
him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he
made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got £4700
for the goodwill and interest, which wasn’t near as much as father could have got if he had
been alive.”
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential
narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.
“Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come out of the business?”
“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in
New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount,
but I can only touch the interest.”
“You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And since you draw so large a sum as a
hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge
yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of
about £60.”
“I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as long as I
live at home I don’t wish to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just
while I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws
my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with
what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to
twenty sheets in a day.”
“You have made your position very clear to me,” said Holmes. “This is my friend, Dr.
Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about
your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of her
jacket. “I met him first at the gasfitters’ ball,” she said. “They used to send father tickets when
he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr.
Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite

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mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on
going, and I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to
know, when all father’s friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear,
when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when
nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,
mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer
Angel.”
“I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr. Windibank came back from France he was very
annoyed at your having gone to the ball.”
“Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his
shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her
way.”
“I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr.
Hosmer Angel.”
“Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe,
and after that we met him—that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that
father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more.”
“No?”
“Well, you know father didn’t like anything of the sort. He wouldn’t have any visitors if
he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle.
But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not
got mine yet.”
“But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?”
“Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it
would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the
meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no
need for father to know.”
“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we took. Hosmer—Mr.
Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street—and—”
“What office?”
“That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.”
“Where did he live, then?”
“He slept on the premises.”
“And you don’t know his address?”
“No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.”
“Where did you address your letters, then?”
“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He said that if they were
sent to the office he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady,
so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said that when
I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that
the machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr.
Holmes, and the little things that he would think of.”
“It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long been an axiom of mine that the little
things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr.
Hosmer Angel?”
“He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than
in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he
was. Even his voice was gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young,
he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of
speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine

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are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare.”

“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned to France?”
“Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should marry before
father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me swear, with my hands on the
Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite
right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from
the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the
week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell
him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn’t quite like that,
Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than
me; but I didn’t want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the
company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the very morning of the
wedding.”
“It missed him, then?”
“Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived.”
“Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be
in church?”
“Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, near King’s Cross, and we were to
have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as
there were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which
happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-
wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got
down from the box and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not
imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last
Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light
upon what became of him.”
“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said Holmes.
“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was
saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if something quite
unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and
that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning,
but what has happened since gives a meaning to it.”
“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has
occurred to him?”
“Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And
then I think that what he foresaw happened.”
“But you have no notion as to what it could have been?”
“None.”
“One more question. How did your mother take the matter?”
“She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again.”
“And your father? Did you tell him?”
“Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and that I should
hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors
of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married
me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very
independent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could
have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I
can’t sleep a wink at night.” She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob
heavily into it.
“I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and I have no doubt that we
shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let

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your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your
memory, as he has done from your life.”
“Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”
“I fear not.”
“Then what has happened to him?”
“You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him
and any letters of his which you can spare.”
“I advertised for him in last Saturday’s Chronicle,” said she. “Here is the slip and here are
four letters from him.”
“Thank you. And your address?”
“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”
“Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand. Where is your father’s place of
business?”
“He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of Fenchurch Street.”
“Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here,
and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and
do not allow it to affect your life.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall
find me ready when he comes back.”
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple
faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the
table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his
legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took
down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having
lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and
a look of infinite languor in his face.
“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found her more interesting than
her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you
consult my index, in Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last
year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the
maiden herself was most instructive.”
“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me,” I remarked.
“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you
missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the
suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what
did you gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.”
“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red.
Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments.
Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and
sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I
didn’t observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly
well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.”
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.
“ ’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very
well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the
method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but
concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is
perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon
her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above
the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-

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machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side
of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then
glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured
a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.”
“It surprised me.”
“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down
to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were
really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was
buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth.
Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home
with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry.”
“And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend’s incisive
reasoning.
“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully
dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not
apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a
hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not
remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back
to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer
Angel?”
I held the little printed slip to the light.
“Missing,” it said, “on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel.
About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in
the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech.
Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert
chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to
have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing—”
“That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued, glancing over them, “they
are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac
once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.”
“They are typewritten,” I remarked.
“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at
the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is
rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it
conclusive.”
“Of what?”
“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case?”
“I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature if an
action for breach of promise were instituted.”
“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the
matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank,
asking him whether he could meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well
that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until
the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the
interim.”
I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s subtle powers of reasoning and
extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must have some solid grounds for the assured
and easy demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon
to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the
Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the Sign of Four, and
the extraordinary circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a

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strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that when I came
again on the next evening I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead
up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time, and the
whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six
o’clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker
Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the dénouement of the little mystery. I
found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the
recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly
smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was
so dear to him.
“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.
“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”
“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.
“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any
mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only
drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.”
“Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?”
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to
reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap at the door.
“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has written to me
to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-
shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp
and penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat
upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.
“Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this typewritten letter
is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o’clock?”
“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I
am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better
not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is
a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when
she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not
connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this
noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer
Angel?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe that I will succeed
in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he
said.
“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really quite as much
individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly
alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you
remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring
over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the ‘r.’ There are fourteen other characteristics,
but those are the more obvious.”
“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it is a little
worn,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.
“And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank,”
Holmes continued. “I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the

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typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little
attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all
typewritten. In each case, not only are the ‘e’s’ slurred and the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will
observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which
I have alluded are there as well.”
Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I cannot waste time over
this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If you can catch the man, catch him, and let
me know when you have done it.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. “I let you know,
then, that I have caught him!”
“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him
like a rat in a trap.
“Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes suavely. “There is no possible getting out
of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you
said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That’s right! Sit down and let
us talk it over.”
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his
brow. “It—it’s not actionable,” he stammered.
“I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel
and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run
over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.”
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is
utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back
with his hands in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.
“The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,” said he, “and
he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a
considerable sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious
difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable
disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her
fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain single long.
Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her
stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding
her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not
answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her
positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He
conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and
assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses,
masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an
insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr.
Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself.”
“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought that she would have
been so carried away.”
“Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away,
and, having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of
treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother.
Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it
would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an engagement, which
would finally secure the girl’s affections from turning towards anyone else. But the deception
could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would

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leave a permanent impression upon the young lady’s mind and prevent her from looking
upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a
Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very
morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer
Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not
listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as he could go no
farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-
wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!”
Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and
he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face.
“It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but if you are so very sharp you
ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I
have done nothing actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay
yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint.”
“The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the
door, “yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a
brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued,
flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man’s face, “it is not part of my duties to
my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to—” He took
two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon
the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James
Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.
“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down
into his chair once more. “That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something
very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of
interest.”
“I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,” I remarked.
“Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some
strong object for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really
profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two
men were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was
suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a
disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in
typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her
that she would recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts,
together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction.”
“And how did you verify them?”
“Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which
this man worked. Having taken the printed description. I eliminated everything from it which
could be the result of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to the firm,
with a request that they would inform me whether it answered to the description of any of their
travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man
himself at his business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was
typewritten and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me
a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description tallied in
every respect with that of their employé, James Windibank. Voilà tout!”
“And Miss Sutherland?”
“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying, ‘There is
danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a
woman.’ There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.”

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ADVENTURE IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a
telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:
“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England
in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and
scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15.”
“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will you go?”
“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present.”
“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I
think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock
Holmes’ cases.”
“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of them,” I
answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour.”
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a
prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated
I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was
pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his
long grey travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.
“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes a considerable
difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always
either worthless or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”
We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had
brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of
meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball
and tossed them up onto the rack.
“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.
“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”
“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the
recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those
simple cases which are so extremely difficult.”
“That sounds a little paradoxical.”
“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless
and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however,
they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man.”
“It is a murder, then?”
“Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the
opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I
have been able to understand it, in a very few words.
“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in Herefordshire. The
largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia
and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of
Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had
known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle
down they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man,
so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as
they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an
only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have
avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though
both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the

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neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man and a girl. Turner had a
considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to
gather about the families. Now for the facts.
“On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley about three in
the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the
spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an
appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive.
“From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people
saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned,
and the other was William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these
witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a
few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going
the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in
sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he
heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.
“The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the game-keeper,
lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and
of reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-
keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that
while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy
and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the
elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to
strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother
when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool,
and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when
young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in
the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his
gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On
following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head
had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such
as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son’s gun, which was found lying
on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was
instantly arrested, and a verdict of ‘wilful murder’ having been returned at the inquest on
Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the
case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the
coroner and the police-court.”
“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever circumstantial
evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.”
“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes thoughtfully. “It may
seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you
may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It
must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and
it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood,
however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who
believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in
connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather
puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying
westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be
gained out of this case.”

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“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered, laughing. “Besides,
we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been by no means
obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I
shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing,
or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your
bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade
would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that.”
“How on earth—”
“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterises you.
You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving
is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively
slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less
illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an
equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of
observation and inference. Therein lies my métier, and it is just possible that it may be of some
service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were
brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering.”
“What are they?”
“It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Hatherley
Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that
he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of his
had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds
of the coroner’s jury.”
“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.
“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”
“Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious
remark.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the
clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see
that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own
arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because
such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to
be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either
an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark
about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body
of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty
as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so
important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are
displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty
one.”
I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,” I remarked.
“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”
“What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”
“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one or two
points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it for yourself.”
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper, and having turned
down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his
own statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and
read it very carefully. It ran in this way:
“Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave evidence as
follows: ‘I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon

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the morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my
arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the
groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of
my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in
which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the
Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which is upon the other side.
On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he
is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me.
When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of “Cooee!” which was a usual signal
between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He
appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing
there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a
man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him
and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I
heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father
expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my
arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my
way to Mr. Turner’s lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no
one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was
not a popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I
know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.’
“The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died?
“Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a rat.
“The Coroner: What did you understand by that?
“Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious.
“The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel?
“Witness: I should prefer not to answer.
“The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.
“Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to
do with the sad tragedy which followed.
“The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal
to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.
“Witness: I must still refuse.
“The Coroner: I understand that the cry of ‘Cooee’ was a common signal between you
and your father?
“Witness: It was.
“The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even
knew that you had returned from Bristol?
“Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.
“A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you returned on
hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?
“Witness: Nothing definite.
“The Coroner: What do you mean?
“Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open, that I could think
of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something
lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of
some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was
gone.
“ ‘Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?’
“ ‘Yes, it was gone.’
“ ‘You cannot say what it was?’

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“ ‘No, I had a feeling something was there.’

“ ‘How far from the body?’
“ ‘A dozen yards or so.’
“ ‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’
“ ‘About the same.’
“ ‘Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of it?’
“ ‘Yes, but with my back towards it.’
“This concluded the examination of the witness.”
“I see,” said I as I glanced down the column, “that the coroner in his concluding remarks
was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, and with reason, to the
discrepancy about his father having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to
give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father’s dying
words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the son.”
Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat.
“Both you and the coroner have been at some pains,” said he, “to single out the very strongest
points in the young man’s favour. Don’t you see that you alternately give him credit for having
too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which
would give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner
consciousness anything so outré as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing
cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says
is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket
Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We
lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes.”
It was nearly four o’clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud
Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country-town
of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform.
In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his
rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we
drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us.
“I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea. “I knew your
energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the
crime.”
“It was very nice and complimentary of you,” Holmes answered. “It is entirely a question
of barometric pressure.”
Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said.
“How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a
caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual
country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-
night.”
Lestrade laughed indulgently. “You have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions
from the newspapers,” he said. “The case is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into
it the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can’t refuse a lady, and such a very positive one,
too. She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there
was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her
carriage at the door.”
He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young
women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush
upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and
concern.
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally,
with a woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, “I am so glad that you have

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come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn’t do it. I know it, and I
want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We
have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does;
but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows
him.”
“I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You may rely upon my
doing all that I can.”
“But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not see
some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?”
“I think that it is very probable.”
“There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. “You
hear! He gives me hopes.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in
forming his conclusions,” he said.
“But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And about his quarrel
with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was
because I was concerned in it.”
“In what way?” asked Holmes.
“It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about
me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I
have always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very
little of life yet, and—and—well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So
there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them.”
“And your father?” asked Holmes. “Was he in favour of such a union?”
“No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of it.” A quick
blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at
her.
“Thank you for this information,” said he. “May I see your father if I call to-morrow?”
“I am afraid the doctor won’t allow it.”
“The doctor?”
“Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has
broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck
and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had
known dad in the old days in Victoria.”
“Ha! In Victoria! That is important.”
“Yes, at the mines.”
“Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me.”
“You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go to the prison to
see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent.”
“I will, Miss Turner.”
“I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him. Good-bye,
and God help you in your undertaking.” She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had
entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.
“I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade with dignity after a few minutes’ silence.
“Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of
heart, but I call it cruel.”
“I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said Holmes. “Have you an order
to see him in prison?”
“Yes, but only for you and me.”

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“Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train
to Hereford and see him to-night?”
“Ample.”
“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away
a couple of hours.”
I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little
town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a
yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the
deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually
from the action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to
a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man’s story were
absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity
could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,
drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and deadly.
What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical
instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim
account of the inquest. In the surgeon’s deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the
left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow
from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have
been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen
quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older
man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call
Holmes’ attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that
mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become
delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what
could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the
incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have
dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the
hardihood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back
turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing
was! I did not wonder at Lestrade’s opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes’
insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his
conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence.
It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade was
staying in lodgings in the town.
“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down. “It is of importance that it
should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at
his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by
a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy.”
“And what did you learn from him?”
“Nothing.”
“Could he throw no light?”
“None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was
screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not
a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart.”
“I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a
marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner.”
“Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her,
but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had
been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a
barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but

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you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he
would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer
frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last
interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means
of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have
thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent
the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of
importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that
he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to
him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no
tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has
suffered.”
“But if he is innocent, who has done it?”
“Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the
murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not
have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The
second is that the murdered man was heard to cry ‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had
returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about
George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow.”
There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless.
At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and
the Boscombe Pool.
“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It is said that Mr. Turner, of
the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of.”
“An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.
“About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in
failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old
friend of McCarthy’s, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave
him Hatherley Farm rent free.”
“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.
“Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his
kindness to him.”
“Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have
had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of
marrying his son to Turner’s daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in
such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would
follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The
daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?”
“We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade, winking at me. “I find
it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies.”
“You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very hard to tackle the facts.”
“Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of,”
replied Lestrade with some warmth.
“And that is—”
“That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all theories to the
contrary are the merest moonshine.”
“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing. “But I am very
much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left.”
“Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-
roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the
smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still

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lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes’ request, showed us
the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son’s, though
not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed the
winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.
Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who
had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise
him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his
shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long,
sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind
was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell
unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply.
Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so
by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district,
and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which
bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once
he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective
indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from
the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.
The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across, is
situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr.
Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner’s dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the
pool the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces
across between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the
exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground, that I
could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I
could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the
trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my
companion.
“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.
“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how
on earth—”
“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the
place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would
all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it.
Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or
eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet.” He drew out a
lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to
himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran
swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his
story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet as he paced
up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And
this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They
come, they go, they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they come
from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well
within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the
neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon
his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the
leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and

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examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he
could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined
and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the highroad,
where all traces were lost.
“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked, returning to his natural manner.
“I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a
word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our
luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.”
It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes
still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood.
“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out. “The murder was done
with it.”
“I see no marks.”
“There are none.”
“How do you know, then?”
“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a
place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other
weapon.”
“And the murderer?”
“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and
a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his
pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search.”
Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he said. “Theories are all very
well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury.”
“Nous verrons,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your own method, and I shall work
mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train.”
“And leave your case unfinished?”
“No, finished.”
“But the mystery?”
“It is solved.”
“Who was the criminal, then?”
“The gentleman I describe.”
“But who is he?”
“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighbourhood.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said, “and I really cannot
undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I
should become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”
“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings.
Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.”
Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the
table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one
who finds himself in a perplexing position.
“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared “just sit down in this chair and
let me preach to you for a little. I don’t know quite what to do, and I should value your advice.
Light a cigar and let me expound.”
“Pray do so.”
“Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy’s
narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you
against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry ‘Cooee!’
before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several
words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son’s ear. Now from this double point

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our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is
absolutely true.”
“What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”
“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew,
was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to
attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But ‘Cooee’ is a
distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong
presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was
someone who had been in Australia.”
“What of the rat, then?”
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table.
“This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said. “I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put
his hand over part of the map. “What do you read?”
“ARAT,” I read.
“And now?” He raised his hand.
“BALLARAT.”
“Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last
two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.”
“It is wonderful!” I exclaimed.
“It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The
possession of a grey garment was a third point which, granting the son’s statement to be
correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception
of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”
“Certainly.”
“And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be approached by the
farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly wander.”
“Quite so.”
“Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I gained the
trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal.”
“But how did you gain them?”
“You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.”
“His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride. His boots,
too, might be told from their traces.”
“Yes, they were peculiar boots.”
“But his lameness?”
“The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left. He put less weight
upon it. Why? Because he limped—he was lame.”
“But his left-handedness.”
“You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at the
inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now,
how can that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the
interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar,
which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I
have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes
of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then
looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an
Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam.”
“And the cigar-holder?”
“I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used a holder. The tip
had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-
knife.”

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“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot escape,
and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the cord which was
hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is—”
“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and
ushering in a visitor.
The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and
bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy
features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body
and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows
combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen
white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was
clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.
“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my note?”
“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid
scandal.”
“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”
“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with despair in
his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.
“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is so. I know all about
McCarthy.”
The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I would not have
let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went
against him at the Assizes.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.
“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart—it
will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested.”
“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.
“What?”
“I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence
here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however.”
“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a
question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a
gaol.”
Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper
before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and
Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save
young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”
“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it
matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing
clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.
“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God
keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty
years, and he has blasted my life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.
“It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and
reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had
no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here
a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station
from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat
was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat
Gang.
“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it

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and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we
emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before
we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man
McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his
wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with
the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected.
There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I
bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with
my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my
wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand
seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over
a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his
grip upon me.
“I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a
coat to his back or a boot to his foot.
“ ‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the arm; ‘we’ll be as good as a family to
you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don’t—it’s
a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there’s always a policeman within hail.’
“Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them off, and there they
have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no
forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew
worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the
police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question,
land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.
“His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be in weak
health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there
I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to the
lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I
braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it
over.
“When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a cigar and
waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk all that was black and
bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as
little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad
to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could
I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and
fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both
could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again.
Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should
be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him
down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry
brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to
fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that
occurred.”
“Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes as the old man signed the statement
which had been drawn out. “I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation.”
“I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”
“In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to
answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if
McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye;
and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us.”

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“Farewell, then,” said the old man solemnly. “Your own deathbeds, when they come, will
be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine.” Tottering and
shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.
“God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence. “Why does fate play such tricks with
poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter’s words,
and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’ ”
James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number of objections
which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner
lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that
the son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which
rests upon their past.

ADVENTURE V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS

When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years ’82
and ’90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy
matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained
publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities
which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to
illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings
without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations
founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so
dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so
startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there
are points in connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely
cleared up.
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 an account of the
adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious
club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the
British barque Sophy Anderson, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island
of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered,
Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s watch, to prove that it had been
wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time—
a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may
sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such singular features as the strange
train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.
It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with
exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the
windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise
our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great
elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed
beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and
sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace
cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine
sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash
of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her
mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.

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“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell. Who could come
to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”
“Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage visitors.”
“A client, then?”
“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such
an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady’s.”
Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the
passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from
himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.
“Come in!” said he.
The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and
trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella
which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through
which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see
that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some
great anxiety.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his eyes. “I trust that I am
not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug
chamber.”
“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on the hook and
will be dry presently. You have come up from the south-west, I see.”
“Yes, from Horsham.”
“That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive.”
“I have come for advice.”
“That is easily got.”
“And help.”
“That is not always so easy.”
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in
the Tankerville Club scandal.”
“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”
“He said that you could solve anything.”
“He said too much.”
“That you are never beaten.”
“I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a woman.”
“But what is that compared with the number of your successes?”
“It is true that I have been generally successful.”
“Then you may be so with me.”
“I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as to
your case.”
“It is no ordinary one.”
“None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.”
“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more
mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my own
family.”
“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential facts from the
commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be
most important.”
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze.
“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I can
understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give
you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair.

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“You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my uncle Elias and my father
Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the
invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business
met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence.
“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in
Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in
Jackson’s army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid
down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years.
About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham.
He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his
aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to
them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was
angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt
if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and
there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his
room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society
and did not want any friends, not even his own brother.
“He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I
was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or
nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me
in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with
me, and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople,
so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and
could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy.
There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up
among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or
anyone else to enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never
able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such
a room.
“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in
front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills
were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he
took it up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped
five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but
the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were
protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his
trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken
me!’
“ ‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.
“ ‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating
with horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above
the gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips.
What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I
ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to
the attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.
“ ‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he with an oath. ‘Tell
Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham
lawyer.’
“I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The
fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned
paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed,

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with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had read in the morning
upon the envelope.
“ ‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its
advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt,
descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my
advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged
thing, but I can’t say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr.
Fordham shows you.’
“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular
incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and
turned it every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not
shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen
as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see
a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort
of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside,
but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house
and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no
man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these
hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it
behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots
of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as
though it were new raised from a basin.
“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there
came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We
found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool,
which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but
two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of
‘suicide.’ But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to
persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and
my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some £14,000, which lay to his credit at
the bank.”
“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of the most
remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle
of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.”
“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of
May 2nd.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful
examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there,
although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the
initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’ written
beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by
Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great
many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of them
were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a
brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were
mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-
bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.
“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went
as well as possible with us until the January of ’85. On the fourth day after the new year I
heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he

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was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the
outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull
story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had
come upon himself.
“ ‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.
“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.
“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters. But what is
this written above them?’
“ ‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.
“ ‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.
“ ‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must be those that
are destroyed.’
“ ‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised land here, and we
can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come from?’
“ ‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.
“ ‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with sundials and
papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’
“ ‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.
“ ‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’
“ ‘Then let me do so?’
“ ‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’
“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however,
with a heart which was full of forebodings.
“On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an old
friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I
was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was
away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I
received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over
one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a
shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his
consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the
country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing
in a verdict of ‘death from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected
with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There
were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen
upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was
well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.
“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of
it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon
an incident in my uncle’s life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in
another.
“It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months
have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to
hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last
generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in
the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he
shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.
“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern division. Within
are the very words which were upon my father’s last message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the
papers on the sundial.’ ”

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“What have you done?” asked Holmes.

“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have felt helpless. I
have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in
the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard
against.”
“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but
energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”
“I have seen the police.”
“Ah!”
“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed
the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were
really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.”
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he cried.
“They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me.”
“Has he come with you to-night?”
“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”
Again Holmes raved in the air.
“Why did you come to me,” he cried, “and, above all, why did you not come at once?”
“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles
and was advised by him to come to you.”
“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have
no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us—no suggestive
detail which might help us?”
“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing
out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table. “I have some
remembrance,” said he, “that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the
small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this
single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the
papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped
destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think myself that
it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by its
ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed, “March, 1869,” and
beneath were the following enigmatical notices:
“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and
John Swain, of St. Augustine.
“9th. McCauley cleared.
“10th. John Swain cleared.
“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. “And now
you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you
have told me. You must get home instantly and act.”
“What shall I do?”
“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper
which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a
note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one
which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having
done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”

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“Entirely.”
“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think that we may gain that
by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first
consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up
the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”
“I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. “You have given
me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.”
“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do
not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger.
How do you go back?”
“By train from Waterloo.”
“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety. And
yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”
“I am armed.”
“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.”
“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”
“No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.”
“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to the box and the
papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.” He shook hands with us and took his
leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows.
This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements—blown in
upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now to have been reabsorbed by them once
more.
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward and his eyes
bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he
watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.
“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have had none more
fantastic than this.”
“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”
“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking
amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”
“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?”
“There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.
“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this unhappy
family?”
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with
his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he remarked, “would, when he had once been
shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led
up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe
a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly
understood one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones,
both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to.
Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution
by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the
reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in
itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these days
of free education and encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so
impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to
him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on
one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion.”
“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and

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politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards
the mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy
unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman,
lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my
analysis.”
Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said then, that a man
should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the
rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it. Now,
for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster
all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American Encyclopaedia which
stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what
may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel
Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not
change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely
life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea
that he was in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it
was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he
feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by
himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?”
“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London.”
“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”
“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”
“Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability—the
strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another
point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment, in
Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything?”
“A greater distance to travel.”
“But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”
“Then I do not see the point.”
“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-
ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting
upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from
Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as
soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven
weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the sailing
vessel which brought the writer.”
“It is possible.”
“More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and
why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time
which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and
therefore we cannot count upon delay.”
“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?”
“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or
persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of
them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a
coroner’s jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource
and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this
way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a
society.”
“But of what society?”
“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice—

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“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”

“I never have.”
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,” said he presently:
“ ‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced
by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in
the Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts
of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power
was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the
murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages
were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally
recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others.
On receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the
country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in
some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so
systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in
braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators.
For some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the United States
government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year
1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of
the same sort since that date.’
“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the sudden breaking up
of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with their
papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have
some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and
diary may implicate some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will
not sleep easy at night until it is recovered.”
“Then the page we have seen—”
“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the pips to A, B, and C’—
that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B
cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C.
Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe that the
only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is
nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to
forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow
men.”

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through
the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I
came down.
“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a very busy day
before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.”
“What steps will you take?” I asked.
“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to
Horsham, after all.”
“You will not go there first?”
“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your
coffee.”
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It
rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.
“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”
“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke

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calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo
Bridge.’ Here is the account:
“ ‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near
Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was
extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite
impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-
police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose
name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and
whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to
catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he
missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river
steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the
deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of
calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’ ”
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever
seen him.
“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts
my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set
my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away
to his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable
agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his
long thin hands.
“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they have decoyed him
down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was
too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win
in the long run. I am going out now!”
“To the police?”
“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not
before.”
All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I
returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock
before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece
from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.
“You are hungry,” I remarked.
“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”
“And how have you succeeded?”
“Well.”
“You have a clue?”
“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain
unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well
thought of!”
“What do you mean?”
He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips
upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap
he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun,
Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia.”
“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may give him a
sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him.”

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“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”

“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”
“How did you trace it, then?”
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names.
“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and files of the old papers,
following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and
February in ’83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during
those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it
was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the
states of the Union.”
“Texas, I think.”
“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American
origin.”
“What then?”
“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone Star was there in
January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at
present in the port of London.”
“Yes?”
“The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that
she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to
Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the
wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the
Isle of Wight.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born
Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three
away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By
the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and
the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly
wanted here upon a charge of murder.”
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of John
Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that another, as
cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were
the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but
none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered
stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved
upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.

ADVENTURE VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of
St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from
some foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his
dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce
the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than
to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled
horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face,
drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

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One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man
gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-
work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.
“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum.
Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil,
entered the room.
“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-
control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried; “I do so want a little help.”
“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate!
I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”
“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always the way. Folk who
were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.
“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit
here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?”
“Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa. He has not been home
for two days. I am so frightened about him!”
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s trouble, to me as a
doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by
such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we
could bring him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on
him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always
been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But
now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the
dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be
found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to
do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her
husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her
to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s
medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone.
I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were
indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair
and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange
errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to
be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane
is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east
of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps
leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.
Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless
tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch
and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and
terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic
poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here
and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there
glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or

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waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to
themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation
coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own
thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small
brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin
old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the
fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of
the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa
Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the
gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.
“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in
a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“Of what day?”
“Of Friday, June 19th.”
“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you want to
frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.
“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You
should be ashamed of yourself!”
“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three
pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—
poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?”
“Yes, I have one waiting.”
“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off
colour. I can do nothing for myself.”
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath
to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I
passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my
ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat
now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling
down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I
took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from
breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but
I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and
there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He
made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to
the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.
“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”
“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would have the great
kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little
talk with you.”
“I have a cab outside.”
“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp
to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your
wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with
you in five minutes.”
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they were always so

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exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however,
that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished;
and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of
those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I
had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through
the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was
walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and
burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to
cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with
your medical views.”
“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”
“But not more so than I to find you.”
“I came to find a friend.”
“And I to find an enemy.”
“An enemy?”
“Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in
the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent
ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life
would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now for my own
purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a
trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”
“What! You do not mean bodies?”
“Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every poor devil who
has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear
that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.” He put
his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a signal which was answered by a
similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of
horses’ hoofs.
“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing
out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t
you?”
“If I can be of use.”
“Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The
Cedars is a double-bedded one.”
“The Cedars?”
“Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.”
“But I am all in the dark.”
“Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we
shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her
her head. So long, then!”
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of
sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad
balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another
dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of
the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was
drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts

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of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a
man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might
be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his
thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of
suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air
of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.
“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you quite invaluable as a
companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own
thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-
night when she meets me at the door.”
“You forget that I know nothing about it.”
“I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems
absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no
doubt, but I can’t get the end of it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely
to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.”
“Proceed, then.”
“Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville
St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the
grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the
neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has
two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into
town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St.
Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very
affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole
debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £88 10s.,
while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason,
therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.
“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking
before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring
his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram
upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of
considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the
Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the
office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where
you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping,
proceeded to the company’s office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking
through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?”
“It is very clear.”
“If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked
slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in
which she found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she
suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at
her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window was
open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved
his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to
her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point
which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had
started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.
“Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps—for the
house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night—and running
through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the

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foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who
thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street.
Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-
fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their
beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued
resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last
been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one
to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both
he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the
afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost
come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small
deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children’s
bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home.
“This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector
realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed
to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a
small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and
the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with
at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from
below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and several
scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a
curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his
coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no signs of
violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair.
Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the
ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming,
for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.
“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter. The
Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he
was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s
appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His
defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the
doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of
the missing gentleman’s clothes.
“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second
floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon
Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to
every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid
the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down
Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle
in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of
matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the
greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more
than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been
surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so
remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale
face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his
upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular
contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of
mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff
which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to have

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been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of
whom we are in quest.”
“But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handed against a man in the
prime of life?”
“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other respects he appears to
be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson,
that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.”
“Pray continue your narrative.”
“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was
escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their
investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination
of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One
mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes
during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon
remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could
incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he
pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding
came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains
which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously
having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room
was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that she had
actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or
dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector
remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.
“And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find. It
was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded.
And what do you think they found in the pockets?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-
pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder that it had not been swept away
by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf
and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped
body had been sucked away into the river.”
“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be
dressed in a coat alone?”
“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had
thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the
deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of
the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when
it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the
scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard
from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to
be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary,
and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the
coat’s sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had
not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the
police appeared.”
“It certainly sounds feasible.”
“Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told
you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before
been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life

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appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present,
and the questions which have to be solved—what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den,
what happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his
disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case
within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such
difficulties.”
While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been
whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left
behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished,
however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the
windows.
“We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We have touched on three English
counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending
in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman
whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse’s feet.”
“But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” I asked.
“Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most
kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a
welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her
husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable-
boy had run out to the horse’s head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small,
winding gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a
little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a
touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against
the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly
bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.
“Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of
hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his
shoulders.
“No good news?”
“None.”
“No bad?”
“No.”
“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a long day.”
“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my
cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with
this investigation.”
“I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly. “You will, I am sure,
forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which
has come so suddenly upon us.”
“My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see
that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I
shall be indeed happy.”
“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon
the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, “I should very much like to ask you one or
two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.”
“Certainly, madam.”
“Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply
wish to hear your real, real opinion.”
“Upon what point?”

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“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly, now!” she
repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-
chair.
“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”
“You think that he is dead?”
“I do.”
“Murdered?”
“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”
“And on what day did he meet his death?”
“On Monday.”
“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have
received a letter from him to-day.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.
“What!” he roared.
“Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air.
“May I see it?”
“Certainly.”
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table he drew over
the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder.
The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with
the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.
“Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your husband’s writing,
madam.”
“No, but the enclosure is.”
“I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the
address.”
“How can you tell that?”
“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the
greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight
off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and
there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not
familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now
see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!”
“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”
“And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”
“One of his hands.”
“One?”
“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it
well.”
“ ‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may
take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-
leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a
dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person
who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand,
madam?”
“None. Neville wrote those words.”
“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten,
though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.”
“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”
“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves

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nothing. It may have been taken from him.”

“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”
“Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day.”
“That is possible.”
“If so, much may have happened between.”
“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is
so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that
I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs
instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would
respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?”
“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable
than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong
piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
letters, why should he remain away from you?”
“I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.”
“And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?”
“No.”
“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”
“Very much so.”
“Was the window open?”
“Yes.”
“Then he might have called to you?”
“He might.”
“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”
“Yes.”
“A call for help, you thought?”
“Yes. He waved his hands.”
“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected sight of you
might cause him to throw up his hands?”
“It is possible.”
“And you thought he was pulled back?”
“He disappeared so suddenly.”
“He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”
“No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the Lascar was at the foot
of the stairs.”
“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?”
“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”
“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”
“Never.”
“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”
“Never.”
“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be
absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very
busy day to-morrow.”
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was
quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was
a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days,
and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every
point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were
insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered about

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the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With
these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with
an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the
lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon
the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light
shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat
when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the
apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was
full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon
the previous night.
“Awake, Watson?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Game for a morning drive?”
“Certainly.”
“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall
soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed
a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was
twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that
the boy was putting in the horse.
“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his boots. “I think, Watson, that
you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to
be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”
“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.
“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look
of incredulity. “I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this
Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning
sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the
head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts
were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were
as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.
“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a
gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than
never to learn it at all.”
In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we
drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we
crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and
found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two
constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.
“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.
“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”
“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged
passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to have a quiet word with you,
Bradstreet.” “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.” It was a small, office-like
room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The
inspector sat down at his desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with being concerned
in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”
“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”

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“So I heard. You have him here?”

“In the cells.”
“Is he quiet?”
“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”
“Dirty?”
“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s.
Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if
you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it.”
“I should like to see him very much.”
“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag.”
“No, I think that I’ll take it.”
“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage, opened a barred
door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of
doors on each side.
“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly shot back a
panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.
“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very
deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became
his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the
inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its
repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by
its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a
perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.
“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.
“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he might, and I took
the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took
out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.
“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.
“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon
make him cut a much more respectable figure.”
“Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a credit to the Bow
Street cells, does he?” He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell.
The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped
to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down
the prisoner’s face.
“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of
Kent.”
Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off under the sponge like
the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had
seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch
brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced,
refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him
with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and
threw himself down with his face to the pillow.
“Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the
photograph.”
The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny.
“Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?”
“With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged with that
unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the inspector with a grin. “Well, I have

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been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake.”
“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed, and
that, therefore, I am illegally detained.”
“No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes. “You would have
done better to have trusted your wife.”
“It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God help me, I would not
have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure! What can I do?”
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the
shoulder.
“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course you can hardly
avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no
possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find
their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything
which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go
into court at all.”
“God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured imprisonment,
ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.
“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in
Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the
stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished
to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them.
There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an
amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of
course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for my
skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as
pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a
small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I
took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a
beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening I found to
my surprise that I had received no less than 26s. 4d.
“I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later, I backed a
bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for £25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the
money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked for
a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In
ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.
“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at £2 a week
when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying
my cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money,
but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I
had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only
one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam
Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform
myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his
rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.
“Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean
that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £700 a year—which is less than my
average takings—but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a
facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in
the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very
bad day in which I failed to take £2.
“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually

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married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew
that I had business in the City. She little knew what.
“Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium
den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife
was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up
my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent
anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not
ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments
and wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me
that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the
window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the
bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had
just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the
window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at
that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather,
I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as
his murderer.
“I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve
my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my
wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment
when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no
cause to fear.”
“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.
“Good God! What a week she must have spent!”
“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can quite
understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to
some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days.”
“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of it. But have you
never been prosecuted for begging?”
“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”
“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this thing up, there
must be no more of Hugh Boone.”
“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”
“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are
found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to
you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.”
“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an
ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for
breakfast.”

VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

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

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suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.
“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”
“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a
perfectly trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat—“but there are
points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp
frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked,
“that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is the clue
which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.”
“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little
incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other
within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of
humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a
little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We
have already had experience of such.”
“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes,
three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”
“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular
case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I
have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know
Peterson, the commissionaire?”
“Yes.”
“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”
“It is his hat.”
“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a
battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived
upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,
roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on
Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from
some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In
front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a
white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke
out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s
hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the
shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his
assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking
person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished
amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs
had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of
battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most
unimpeachable Christmas goose.”
“Which surely he restored to their owner?”
“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed
upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’
are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some
hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one
of them.”
“What, then, did Peterson do?”
“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even
the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when
there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without

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unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a
goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas
dinner.”
“Did he not advertise?”
“No.”
“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”
“Only as much as we can deduce.”
“From his hat?”
“Precisely.”
“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”
“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the
individuality of the man who has worn this article?”
I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very
ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had
been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes
had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a
hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and
spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.
“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.
“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from
what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”
“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was
characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,” he remarked,
“and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at
least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious
upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although
he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to
a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate
some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious
fact that his wife has ceased to love him.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued, disregarding my
remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training
entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and
which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced
from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his
house.”
“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”
“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are
unable to see how they are attained?”
“I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you.
For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?”
For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and
settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so
large a brain must have something in it.”
“The decline of his fortunes, then?”
“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of
the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could
afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has

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assuredly gone down in the world.”

“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral
retrogression?”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his finger upon the little
disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a
sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution
against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace
it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon
the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.”
“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”
“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been
recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the
lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the
scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-
cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown
dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks
of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could
therefore, hardly be in the best of training.”
“But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.”
“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a
week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a
state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”
“But he might be a bachelor.”
“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card
upon the bird’s leg.”
“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not
laid on in his house?”
“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I
think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact
with burning tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering
candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”
“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said just now, there has
been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be
rather a waste of energy.”
Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson,
the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who
is dazed with astonishment.
“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.
“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen
window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man’s
excited face.
“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his hand and displayed
upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in
size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of
his hand.
Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he, “this is treasure
trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”
“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty.”
“It’s more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone.”
“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.

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“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement
about it in The Times every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be
conjectured, but the reward offered of £1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of the
market price.”
“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped down into a
chair and stared from one to the other of us.
“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in
the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but
recover the gem.”
“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I remarked.
“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was
accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so
strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I
believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed
one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:
“Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the
charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar
the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave
his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess of
Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate,
which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called
away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced
open, and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave
the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either
upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having
heard Ryder’s cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,
where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave
evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in
the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against
the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the
Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted
away at the conclusion and was carried out of court.”
“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper.
“The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at
one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our
little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here
is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So
now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part
he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these
lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse
to other methods.”
“What will you say?”
“Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the corner of Goodge
Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30
this evening at 221B, Baker Street.’ That is clear and concise.”
“Very. But will he see it?”
“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy
one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of
Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the

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impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will
cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are,
Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.”
“In which, sir?”
“Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any
others that occur to you.”
“Very well, sir. And this stone?”
“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your
way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of
the one which your family is now devouring.”
When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the
light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a
nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger
and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years
old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in
having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In
spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-
throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight
of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the
gallows and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to
say that we have it.”
“Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the
matter?”
“It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had
no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were
made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
to our advertisement.”
“And you can do nothing until then?”
“Nothing.”
“In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening
at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business.”
“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in
view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop.”
I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six when I found myself in
Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a
coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was
thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up
together to Holmes’ room.
“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor
with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the
fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr.
Baker?”
“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”
He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face,
sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a
slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black
frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists
protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion,

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choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and
letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.
“We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we expected to see
an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not
advertise.”
Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so plentiful with me
as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me
had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless
attempt at recovering them.”
“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it.”
“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.
“Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this
other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will
answer your purpose equally well?”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.
“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you
wish—”
The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics of my
adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late
acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine
my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”
Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way, would it bore you to
tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom
seen a better grown goose.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his
arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found
in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by
name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we
were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to
you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my
gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off
upon his way.
“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him.
“It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry,
Watson?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is
still hot.”
“By all means.”
It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats.
Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew
out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung
through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street
into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a
small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes
pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced,
white-aproned landlord.
“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said he.
“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.
“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of

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your goose club.”

“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our geese.”
“Indeed! Whose, then?”
“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”
“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”
“Breckinridge is his name.”
“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and prosperity to your
house. Good-night.”
“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the
frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of
this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude
unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt;
but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and
which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to
the south, then, and quick march!”
We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to
Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the
proprietor a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to
put up the shutters.
“Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.
“Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble.
“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”
“That’s no good.”
“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”
“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”
“Who by?”
“The landlord of the Alpha.”
“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”
“Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.
“Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you
driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”
“It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to
the Alpha.”
“Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”
“Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should be so warm over
such a trifle.”
“Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good
money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’
and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think
they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.”
“Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries,” said
Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back
my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred.”
“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the salesman.
“It’s nothing of the kind.”
“I say it is.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was
a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred.”

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

“Will you bet, then?”
“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on
with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”
The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.
The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying
them out together beneath the hanging lamp.
“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of geese, but
before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?”
“Well?”
“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then, here on this page are
the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big
ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers.
Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”
“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.
“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”
Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road,
egg and poultry supplier.’ ”
“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”
“ ‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’ ”
“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”
“ ‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.’ ”
“What have you to say now?”
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and
threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for
words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless
fashion which was peculiar to him.
“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’ protruding out of his
pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I daresay that if I had put £100 down in
front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from
him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the
end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go
on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear
from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about
the matter, and I should—”
His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall
which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of
the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.
“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil
together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You
bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the
geese off you?”
“No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.
“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”
“She told me to ask you.”
“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of
this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.
“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and
we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding through the scattered knots of people
who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and

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touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that
every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.
“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice.
“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help overhearing the
questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you.”
“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”
“But you can know nothing of this?”
“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which
were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in
turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a
member.”
“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the little fellow with
outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in
this matter.”
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case we had better
discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept market-place,” said he. “But pray tell
me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”
The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered with a
sidelong glance.
“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward doing business with
an alias.”
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said he, “my real name is
James Ryder.”
“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I
shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know.”
The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-
hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a
catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room
at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new
companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension
within him.
“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The fire looks very
seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put
on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
became of those geese?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which you were
interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.”
Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it went to?”
“It came here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should take an
interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever
was seen. I have it here in my museum.”
Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes
unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a
cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain
whether to claim or to disown it.
“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll be into the fire!
Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood enough to go in for felony

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with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a
shrimp it is, to be sure!”
For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour
into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser.
“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so
there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the
case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”
“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling voice.
“I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily
acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very
scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some
such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do,
then? You made some small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—and
you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-
case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then—”
Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion’s knees.
“For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my father! Of my mother! It would
break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a
Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”
“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to cringe and crawl now,
but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew
nothing.”
“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will
break down.”
“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How
came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth,
for there lies your only hope of safety.”
Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,”
said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get
away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it
into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would
be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had
married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the
market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and,
for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the
Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her
that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and
smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.
“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his
time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and
how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one
or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and
take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to
get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I
might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat
pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were
waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me
how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.
“My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a
Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose

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now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and
behind this I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and
prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird
gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature
flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to
speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others.
“ ‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was
the fattest.’
“ ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white
one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and
two dozen for the market.’
“ ‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d rather have that one I
was handling just now.’
“ ‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for
you.’
“ ‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want, then?’
“ ‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.’
“ ‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’
“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I
told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He
laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water,
for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the
bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen
there.
“ ‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.
“ ‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’
“ ‘Which dealer’s?’
“ ‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’
“ ‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’
“ ‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.’
“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this
man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to
where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me
like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And
now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which
I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his
face buried in his hands.
There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the measured
tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and
threw open the door.
“Get out!” said he.
“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”
“No more words. Get out!”
And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a
door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.
“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not
retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another
thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I
am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go

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wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you make him a
gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most
singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the
goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird
will be the chief feature.”

VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years
studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large
number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of
his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any
investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied
cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was
associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in
question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing
rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record
before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed
during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is
perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there
are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter
even more terrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes
standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on
the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some
surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this morning.
Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you.”
“What is it, then—a fire?”
“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement,
who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies
wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of
their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate.
Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the
outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.”
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and
in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical
basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on
my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room.
A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we
entered.
“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is
my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before
myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray
draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat
as requested.

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“What, then?”
“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see
that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless
frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a
woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and
haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.
“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We
shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see.”
“You know me, then?”
“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You
must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before
you reached the station.”
The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.
“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm of your jacket is
spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no
vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the
left-hand side of the driver.”
“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I started from home
before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I
can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,
save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you,
Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her
sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help
me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At
present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I
shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me
ungrateful.”
Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he
consulted.
“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think
it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the
same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which
suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in
forming an opinion upon the matter.”
“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears
are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem
trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice
looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so,
but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes,
that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me
how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”
“I am all attention, madam.”
“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of
one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western
border of Surrey.”
Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.
“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over
the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century,
however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin
was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a

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few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a
heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an
aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the
new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical
degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he
established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had
been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital
sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to
England a morose and disappointed man.
“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of
Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were
only two years old at the time of my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of
money—not less than £1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we
resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in
the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died—she was killed
eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to
establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house
at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there
seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.
“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends
and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of
Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out
save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper
approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case
it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful
brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of
the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and
absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.
“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by
paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public
exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these
vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the
family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with
them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent
over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which
wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.
“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in
our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house.
She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even
as mine has.”
“Your sister is dead, then?”
“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can
understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of
our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss Honoria
Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this
lady’s house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of
marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my
sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which
had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only
companion.”
Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head

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sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor.
“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.
“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory.
The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The
bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of
the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second my sister’s, and the third
my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same
corridor. Do I make myself plain?”
“Perfectly so.”
“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott
had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was
troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her
room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her
approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and
looked back.
“ ‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the
night?’
“ ‘Never,’ said I.
“ ‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?’
“ ‘Certainly not. But why?’
“ ‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a
low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came
from—perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
whether you had heard it.’
“ ‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’
“ ‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.’
“ ‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’
“ ‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at me, closed my
door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?”
“Always.”
“And why?”
“I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no
feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”
“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”
“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My
sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind
two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and
the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the
gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister’s
voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I
opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few
moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage,
my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-
stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw
my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her
whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round
her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed
as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that
she had not recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I
shall never forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There was

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something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the
air in the direction of the doctor’s room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her
words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in
his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious, and though he
poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in
vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the
dreadful end of my beloved sister.”
“One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could
you swear to it?”
“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression
that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may
possibly have been deceived.”
“Was your sister dressed?”
“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a
match, and in her left a match-box.”
“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place.
That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?”
“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct had long been
notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence
showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were
carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also
thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides,
there were no marks of any violence upon her.”
“How about poison?”
“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”
“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”
“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though w

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