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A
STUDY
IN
SCARLET
by
Sir
Arthur
Conan
Doyle,
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/244/244-h/244-h.htm
IN
the
year
1878
I
took
my
degree
of
Doctor
of
Medicine
of
the
University
of
London,
and
proceeded
to
Netley
to
go
through
the
course
prescribed
for
surgeons
in
the
army.
Having
completed
my
studies
there,
I
was
duly
attached
to
the
Fifth
Northumberland
Fusiliers
as
Assistant
Surgeon.
The
regiment
was
stationed
in
India
at
the
time,
and
before
I
could
join
it,
the
second
Afghan
war
had
broken
out.
On
landing
at
Bombay,
I
learned
that
my
corps
had
advanced
through
the
passes,
and
was
already
deep
in
the
enemy's
country.
I
followed,
however,
with
many
other
officers
who
were
in
the
same
situation
as
myself,
and
succeeded
in
reaching
Candahar
in
safety,
where
I
found
my
regiment,
and
at
once
entered
upon
my
new
duties.
The
campaign
brought
honours
and
promotion
to
many,
but
for
me
it
had
nothing
but
misfortune
and
disaster.
I
was
removed
from
my
brigade
and
attached
to
the
Berkshires,
with
whom
I
served
at
the
fatal
battle
of
Maiwand.
There
I
was
struck
on
the
shoulder
by
a
Jezail
bullet,
which
shattered
the
bone
and
grazed
the
subclavian
artery.
I
should
have
fallen
into
the
hands
of
the
murderous
Ghazis
had
it
not
been
for
the
devotion
and
courage
shown
by
Murray,
my
orderly,
who
threw
me
across
a
pack-horse,
and
succeeded
in
bringing
me
safely
to
the
British
lines.
Worn
with
pain,
and
weak
from
the
prolonged
hardships
which
I
had
undergone,
I
was
removed,
with
a
great
train
of
wounded
sufferers,
to
the
base
hospital
at
Peshawar.
Here
I
rallied,
and
had
already
improved
so
far
as
to
be
able
to
walk
about
the
wards,
and
even
to
bask
a
little
upon
the
verandah,
when
I
was
struck
down
by
enteric
fever,
that
curse
of
our
Indian
possessions.
For
months
my
life
was
despaired
of,
and
when
at
last
I
came
to
myself
and
became
convalescent,
I
was
so
weak
and
emaciated
that
a
medical
board
determined
that
not
a
day
should
be
lost
in
sending
me
back
to
England.
I
was
dispatched,
accordingly,
in
the
troopship
"Orontes,"
and
landed
a
month
later
on
Portsmouth
jetty,
with
my
health
irretrievably
ruined,
but
with
permission
from
a
paternal
government
to
spend
the
next
nine
months
in
attempting
to
improve
it.
I
had
neither
kith
nor
kin
in
England,
and
was
therefore
as
free
as
air—or
as
free
as
an
income
of
eleven
shillings
and
sixpence
a
day
will
permit
a
man
to
be.
Under
such
circumstances,
I
naturally
gravitated
to
London,
that
great
cesspool
into
which
all
the
loungers
and
idlers
of
the
Empire
are
irresistibly
drained.
There
I
stayed
for
some
time
at
a
private
hotel
in
the
Strand,
leading
a
comfortless,
meaningless
existence,
and
spending
such
money
as
I
had,
considerably
more
freely
than
I
ought.
So
alarming
did
the
state
of
my
finances
become,
that
I
soon
realized
that
I
must
either
leave
the
metropolis
and
rusticate
somewhere
in
the
country,
or
that
I
must
make
a
complete
alteration
in
my
style
of
living.
Choosing
the
latter
alternative,
I
began
by
making
up
my
mind
to
leave
the
hotel,
and
to
take
up
my
quarters
in
some
less
pretentious
and
less
expensive
domicile.
On
the
very
day
that
I
had
come
to
this
conclusion,
I
was
standing
at
the
Criterion
Bar,
when
some
one
tapped
me
on
the
shoulder,
and
turning
round
I
recognized
young
Stamford,
who
had
been
a
dresser
under
me
at
Barts.
The
sight
of
a
friendly
face
in
the
great
wilderness
of
London
is
a
pleasant
thing
indeed
to
a
lonely
man.
In
old
days
Stamford
had
never
been
a
particular
crony
of
mine,
but
now
I
hailed
him
with
enthusiasm,
and
he,
in
his
turn,
appeared
to
be
delighted
to
see
me.
In
the
exuberance
of
my
joy,
I
asked
him
to
lunch
with
me
at
the
Holborn,
and
we
started
off
together
in
a
hansom.
"Whatever
have
you
been
doing
with
yourself,
Watson?"
he
asked
in
undisguised
wonder,
as
we
rattled
through
the
crowded
London
streets.
"You
are
as
thin
as
a
lath
and
as
brown
as
a
nut."
I
gave
him
a
short
sketch
of
my
adventures,
and
had
hardly
concluded
it
by
the
time
that
we
reached
our
destination.
"Poor
devil!"
he
said,
commiseratingly,
after
he
had
listened
to
my
misfortunes.
"What
are
you
up
to
now?"
"Looking
for
lodgings."
3
I
answered.
"Trying
to
solve
the
problem
as
to
whether
it
is
possible
to
get
comfortable
rooms
at
a
reasonable
price."
"That's
a
strange
thing,"
remarked
my
companion;
"you
are
the
second
man
to-day
that
has
used
that
expression
to
me."
"And
who
was
the
first?"
I
asked.
"A
fellow
who
is
working
at
the
chemical
laboratory
up
at
the
hospital.
He
was
bemoaning
himself
this
morning
because
he
could
not
get
someone
to
go
halves
with
him
in
some
nice
rooms
which
he
had
found,
and
which
were
too
much
for
his
purse."
"By
Jove!"
I
cried,
"if
he
really
wants
someone
to
share
the
rooms
and
the
expense,
I
am
the
very
man
for
him.
I
should
prefer
having
a
partner
to
being
alone."
Young
Stamford
looked
rather
strangely
at
me
over
his
wine-glass.
"You
don't
know
Sherlock
Holmes
yet,"
he
said;
"perhaps
you
would
not
care
for
him
as
a
constant
companion."
"Why,
what
is
there
against
him?"
"Oh,
I
didn't
say
there
was
anything
against
him.
He
is
a
little
queer
in
his
ideas—an
enthusiast
in
some
branches
of
science.
As
far
as
I
know
he
is
a
decent
fellow
enough."
"A
medical
student,
I
suppose?"
said
I.
"No—I
have
no
idea
what
he
intends
to
go
in
for.
I
believe
he
is
well
up
in
anatomy,
and
he
is
a
first-class
chemist;
but,
as
far
as
I
know,
he
has
never
taken
out
any
systematic
medical
classes.
His
studies
are
very
desultory
and
eccentric,
but
he
has
amassed
a
lot
of
out-of-the
way
knowledge
which
would
astonish
his
professors."
"Did
you
never
ask
him
what
he
was
going
in
for?"
I
asked.
"No;
he
is
not
a
man
that
it
is
easy
to
draw
out,
though
he
can
be
communicative
enough
when
the
fancy
seizes
him."
"I
should
like
to
meet
him,"
I
said.
"If
I
am
to
lodge
with
anyone,
I
should
prefer
a
man
of
studious
and
quiet
habits.
I
am
not
strong
enough
yet
to
stand
much
noise
or
excitement.
I
had
enough
of
both
in
Afghanistan
to
last
me
for
the
remainder
of
my
natural
existence.
How
could
I
meet
this
friend
of
yours?"
"He
is
sure
to
be
at
the
laboratory,"
returned
my
companion.
"He
either
avoids
the
place
for
weeks,
or
else
he
works
there
from
morning
to
night.
If
you
like,
we
shall
drive
round
together
after
luncheon."
"Certainly,"
I
answered,
and
the
conversation
drifted
away
into
other
channels.
As
we
made
our
way
to
the
hospital
after
leaving
the
Holborn,
Stamford
gave
me
a
few
more
particulars
about
the
gentleman
whom
I
proposed
to
take
as
a
fellow-lodger.
"You
mustn't
blame
me
if
you
don't
get
on
with
him,"
he
said;
"I
know
nothing
more
of
him
than
I
have
learned
from
meeting
him
occasionally
in
the
laboratory.
You
proposed
this
arrangement,
so
you
must
not
hold
me
responsible."
"If
we
don't
get
on
it
will
be
easy
to
part
company,"
I
answered.
"It
seems
to
me,
Stamford,"
I
added,
looking
hard
at
my
companion,
"that
you
have
some
reason
for
washing
your
hands
of
the
matter.
Is
this
fellow's
temper
so
formidable,
or
what
is
it?
Don't
be
mealy-mouthed
about
it."
"It
is
not
easy
to
express
the
inexpressible,"
he
answered
with
a
laugh.
"Holmes
is
a
little
too
scientific
for
my
tastes—it
approaches
to
cold-bloodedness.
I
could
imagine
his
giving
a
friend
a
little
pinch
of
the
latest
vegetable
alkaloid,
not
out
of
malevolence,
you
understand,
but
simply
out
of
a
spirit
of
inquiry
in
order
to
have
an
accurate
idea
of
the
effects.
To
do
him
justice,
I
think
that
he
would
take
it
himself
with
the
same
readiness.
He
appears
to
have
a
passion
for
definite
and
exact
knowledge."
"Very
right
too."
"Yes,
but
it
may
be
pushed
to
excess.
When
it
comes
to
beating
the
subjects
in
the
dissecting-rooms
with
a
stick,
it
is
certainly
taking
rather
a
bizarre
shape."
"Beating
the
subjects!"
"Yes,
to
verify
how
far
bruises
may
be
produced
after
death.
I
saw
him
at
it
with
my
own
eyes."
"And
yet
you
say
he
is
not
a
medical
student?"
"No.
Heaven
knows
what
the
objects
of
his
studies
are.
But
here
we
are,
and
you
must
form
your
own
impressions
about
him."
As
he
spoke,
we
turned
down
a
narrow
lane
and
passed
through
a
small
side-door,
which
opened
into
a
wing
of
the
great
hospital.
It
was
familiar
ground
to
me,
and
I
needed
no
guiding
as
we
ascended
the
bleak
stone
staircase
and
made
our
way
down
the
long
corridor
with
its
vista
of
whitewashed
wall
and
dun-coloured
doors.
Near
the
further
end
a
low
arched
passage
branched
away
from
it
and
led
to
the
chemical
laboratory.
This
was
a
lofty
chamber,
lined
and
littered
with
countless
bottles.
Broad,
low
tables
were
scattered
about,
which
bristled
with
retorts,
test-tubes,
and
little
Bunsen
lamps,
with
their
blue
flickering
flames.
There
was
only
one
student
in
the
room,
who
was
bending
over
a
distant
table
absorbed
in
his
work.
At
the
sound
of
our
steps
he
glanced
round
and
sprang
to
his
feet
with
a
cry
of
pleasure.
"I've
found
it!
I've
found
it,"
he
shouted
to
my
companion,
running
towards
us
with
a
test-tube
in
his
hand.
"I
have
found
a
re-agent
which
is
precipitated
by
hoemoglobin,
4
and
by
nothing
else."
Had
he
discovered
a
gold
mine,
greater
delight
could
not
have
shone
upon
his
features.
"Dr.
Watson,
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,"
said
Stamford,
introducing
us.
"How
are
you?"
he
said
cordially,
gripping
my
hand
with
a
strength
for
which
I
should
hardly
have
given
him
credit.
"You
have
been
in
Afghanistan,
I
perceive."
"How
on
earth
did
you
know
that?"
I
asked
in
astonishment.
"Never
mind,"
said
he,
chuckling
to
himself.
"The
question
now
is
about
hoemoglobin.
No
doubt
you
see
the
significance
of
this
discovery
of
mine?"
"It
is
interesting,
chemically,
no
doubt,"
I
answered,
"but
practically——"
"Why,
man,
it
is
the
most
practical
medico-legal
discovery
for
years.
Don't
you
see
that
it
gives
us
an
infallible
test
for
blood
stains.
Come
over
here
now!"
He
seized
me
by
the
coat-sleeve
in
his
eagerness,
and
drew
me
over
to
the
table
at
which
he
had
been
working.
"Let
us
have
some
fresh
blood,"
he
said,
digging
a
long
bodkin
into
his
finger,
and
drawing
off
the
resulting
drop
of
blood
in
a
chemical
pipette.
"Now,
I
add
this
small
quantity
of
blood
to
a
litre
of
water.
You
perceive
that
the
resulting
mixture
has
the
appearance
of
pure
water.
The
proportion
of
blood
cannot
be
more
than
one
in
a
million.
I
have
no
doubt,
however,
that
we
shall
be
able
to
obtain
the
characteristic
reaction."
As
he
spoke,
he
threw
into
the
vessel
a
few
white
crystals,
and
then
added
some
drops
of
a
transparent
fluid.
In
an
instant
the
contents
assumed
a
dull
mahogany
colour,
and
a
brownish
dust
was
precipitated
to
the
bottom
of
the
glass
jar.
"Ha!
ha!"
he
cried,
clapping
his
hands,
and
looking
as
delighted
as
a
child
with
a
new
toy.
"What
do
you
think
of
that?"
"It
seems
to
be
a
very
delicate
test,"
I
remarked.
"Beautiful!
beautiful!
The
old
Guiacum
test
was
very
clumsy
and
uncertain.
So
is
the
microscopic
examination
for
blood
corpuscles.
The
latter
is
valueless
if
the
stains
are
a
few
hours
old.
Now,
this
appears
to
act
as
well
whether
the
blood
is
old
or
new.
Had
this
test
been
invented,
there
are
hundreds
of
men
now
walking
the
earth
who
would
long
ago
have
paid
the
penalty
of
their
crimes."
"Indeed!"
I
murmured.
"Criminal
cases
are
continually
hinging
upon
that
one
point.
A
man
is
suspected
of
a
crime
months
perhaps
after
it
has
been
committed.
His
linen
or
clothes
are
examined,
and
brownish
stains
discovered
upon
them.
Are
they
blood
stains,
or
mud
stains,
or
rust
stains,
or
fruit
stains,
or
what
are
they?
That
is
a
question
which
has
puzzled
many
an
expert,
and
why?
Because
there
was
no
reliable
test.
Now
we
have
the
Sherlock
Holmes'
test,
and
there
will
no
longer
be
any
difficulty."
His
eyes
fairly
glittered
as
he
spoke,
and
he
put
his
hand
over
his
heart
and
bowed
as
if
to
some
applauding
crowd
conjured
up
by
his
imagination.
"You
are
to
be
congratulated,"
I
remarked,
considerably
surprised
at
his
enthusiasm.
"There
was
the
case
of
Von
Bischoff
at
Frankfort
last
year.
He
would
certainly
have
been
hung
had
this
test
been
in
existence.
Then
there
was
Mason
of
Bradford,
and
the
notorious
Muller,
and
Lefevre
of
Montpellier,
and
Samson
of
New
Orleans.
I
could
name
a
score
of
cases
in
which
it
would
have
been
decisive."
"You
seem
to
be
a
walking
calendar
of
crime,"
said
Stamford
with
a
laugh.
"You
might
start
a
paper
on
those
lines.
Call
it
the
'Police
News
of
the
Past.'"
"Very
interesting
reading
it
might
be
made,
too,"
remarked
Sherlock
Holmes,
sticking
a
small
piece
of
plaster
over
the
prick
on
his
finger.
"I
have
to
be
careful,"
he
continued,
turning
to
me
with
a
smile,
"for
I
dabble
with
poisons
a
good
deal."
He
held
out
his
hand
as
he
spoke,
and
I
noticed
that
it
was
all
mottled
over
with
similar
pieces
of
plaster,
and
discoloured
with
strong
acids.
"We
came
here
on
business,"
said
Stamford,
sitting
down
on
a
high
three-legged
stool,
and
pushing
another
one
in
my
direction
with
his
foot.
"My
friend
here
wants
to
take
diggings,
and
as
you
were
complaining
that
you
could
get
no
one
to
go
halves
with
you,
I
thought
that
I
had
better
bring
you
together."
Sherlock
Holmes
seemed
delighted
at
the
idea
of
sharing
his
rooms
with
me.
"I
have
my
eye
on
a
suite
in
Baker
Street,"
he
said,
"which
would
suit
us
down
to
the
ground.
You
don't
mind
the
smell
of
strong
tobacco,
I
hope?"
"I
always
smoke
'ship's'
myself,"
I
answered.
"That's
good
enough.
I
generally
have
chemicals
about,
and
occasionally
do
experiments.
Would
that
annoy
you?"
"By
no
means."
"Let
me
see—what
are
my
other
shortcomings.
I
get
in
the
dumps
at
times,
and
don't
open
my
mouth
for
days
on
end.
You
must
not
think
I
am
sulky
when
I
do
that.
Just
let
me
alone,
and
I'll
soon
be
right.
What
have
you
to
confess
now?
It's
just
as
well
for
two
fellows
to
know
the
worst
of
one
another
before
they
begin
to
live
together."
I
laughed
at
this
cross-examination.
"I
keep
a
bull
pup,"
I
said,
"and
I
object
to
rows
because
my
nerves
are
shaken,
and
I
get
up
at
all
sorts
of
ungodly
hours,
and
I
am
extremely
lazy.
I
have
another
set
of
vices
when
I'm
well,
but
those
are
the
principal
ones
at
present."
"Do
you
include
violin-playing
in
your
category
of
rows?"
he
asked,
anxiously.
"It
depends
on
the
player,"
I
answered.
"A
well-played
violin
is
a
treat
for
the
gods—a
badly-played
one——"
"Oh,
that's
all
right,"
he
cried,
with
a
merry
laugh.
"I
think
we
may
consider
the
thing
as
settled—that
is,
if
the
rooms
are
agreeable
to
you."
"When
shall
we
see
them?"
"Call
for
me
here
at
noon
to-morrow,
and
we'll
go
together
and
settle
everything,"
he
answered.
"All
right—noon
exactly,"
said
I,
shaking
his
hand.
We
left
him
working
among
his
chemicals,
and
we
walked
together
towards
my
hotel.
"By
the
way,"
I
asked
suddenly,
stopping
and
turning
upon
Stamford,
"how
the
deuce
did
he
know
that
I
had
come
from
Afghanistan?"
My
companion
smiled
an
enigmatical
smile.
"That's
just
his
little
peculiarity,"
he
said.
"A
good
many
people
have
wanted
to
know
how
he
finds
things
out."
"Oh!
a
mystery
is
it?"
I
cried,
rubbing
my
hands.
"This
is
very
piquant.
I
am
much
obliged
to
you
for
bringing
us
together.
'The
proper
study
of
mankind
is
man,'
you
know."
"You
must
study
him,
then,"
Stamford
said,
as
he
bade
me
good-bye.
"You'll
find
him
a
knotty
problem,
though.
I'll
wager
he
learns
more
about
you
than
you
about
him.
Good-bye."
"Good-bye,"
I
answered,
and
strolled
on
to
my
hotel,
considerably
interested
in
my
new
acquaintance.
CHAPTER
II.
THE
SCIENCE
OF
DEDUCTION.
WE
met
next
day
as
he
had
arranged,
and
inspected
the
rooms
at
No.
221B,
5
Baker
Street,
of
which
he
had
spoken
at
our
meeting.
They
consisted
of
a
couple
of
comfortable
bed-rooms
and
a
single
large
airy
sitting-room,
cheerfully
furnished,
and
illuminated
by
two
broad
windows.
So
desirable
in
every
way
were
the
apartments,
and
so
moderate
did
the
terms
seem
when
divided
between
us,
that
the
bargain
was
concluded
upon
the
spot,
and
we
at
once
entered
into
possession.
That
very
evening
I
moved
my
things
round
from
the
hotel,
and
on
the
following
morning
Sherlock
Holmes
followed
me
with
several
boxes
and
portmanteaus.
For
a
day
or
two
we
were
busily
employed
in
unpacking
and
laying
out
our
property
to
the
best
advantage.
That
done,
we
gradually
began
to
settle
down
and
to
accommodate
ourselves
to
our
new
surroundings.
Holmes
was
certainly
not
a
difficult
man
to
live
with.
He
was
quiet
in
his
ways,
and
his
habits
were
regular.
It
was
rare
for
him
to
be
up
after
ten
at
night,
and
he
had
invariably
breakfasted
and
gone
out
before
I
rose
in
the
morning.
Sometimes
he
spent
his
day
at
the
chemical
laboratory,
sometimes
in
the
dissecting-rooms,
and
occasionally
in
long
walks,
which
appeared
to
take
him
into
the
lowest
portions
of
the
City.
Nothing
could
exceed
his
energy
when
the
working
fit
was
upon
him;
but
now
and
again
a
reaction
would
seize
him,
and
for
days
on
end
he
would
lie
upon
the
sofa
in
the
sitting-room,
hardly
uttering
a
word
or
moving
a
muscle
from
morning
to
night.
On
these
occasions
I
have
noticed
such
a
dreamy,
vacant
expression
in
his
eyes,
that
I
might
have
suspected
him
of
being
addicted
to
the
use
of
some
narcotic,
had
not
the
temperance
and
cleanliness
of
his
whole
life
forbidden
such
a
notion.
As
the
weeks
went
by,
my
interest
in
him
and
my
curiosity
as
to
his
aims
in
life,
gradually
deepened
and
increased.
His
very
person
and
appearance
were
such
as
to
strike
the
attention
of
the
most
casual
observer.
In
height
he
was
rather
over
six
feet,
and
so
excessively
lean
that
he
seemed
to
be
considerably
taller.
His
eyes
were
sharp
and
piercing,
save
during
those
intervals
of
torpor
to
which
I
have
alluded;
and
his
thin,
hawk-like
nose
gave
his
whole
expression
an
air
of
alertness
and
decision.
His
chin,
too,
had
the
prominence
and
squareness
which
mark
the
man
of
determination.
His
hands
were
invariably
blotted
with
ink
and
stained
with
chemicals,
yet
he
was
possessed
of
extraordinary
delicacy
of
touch,
as
I
frequently
had
occasion
to
observe
when
I
watched
him
manipulating
his
fragile
philosophical
instruments.
The
reader
may
set
me
down
as
a
hopeless
busybody,
when
I
confess
how
much
this
man
stimulated
my
curiosity,
and
how
often
I
endeavoured
to
break
through
the
reticence
which
he
showed
on
all
that
concerned
himself.
Before
pronouncing
judgment,
however,
be
it
remembered,
how
objectless
was
my
life,
and
how
little
there
was
to
engage
my
attention.
My
health
forbade
me
from
venturing
out
unless
the
weather
was
exceptionally
genial,
and
I
had
no
friends
who
would
call
upon
me
and
break
the
monotony
of
my
daily
existence.
Under
these
circumstances,
I
eagerly
hailed
the
little
mystery
which
hung
around
my
companion,
and
spent
much
of
my
time
in
endeavouring
to
unravel
it.
He
was
not
studying
medicine.
He
had
himself,
in
reply
to
a
question,
confirmed
Stamford's
opinion
upon
that
point.
Neither
did
he
appear
to
have
pursued
any
course
of
reading
which
might
fit
him
for
a
degree
in
science
or
any
other
recognized
portal
which
would
give
him
an
entrance
into
the
learned
world.
Yet
his
zeal
for
certain
studies
was
remarkable,
and
within
eccentric
limits
his
knowledge
was
so
extraordinarily
ample
and
minute
that
his
observations
have
fairly
astounded
me.
Surely
no
man
would
work
so
hard
or
attain
such
precise
information
unless
he
had
some
definite
end
in
view.
Desultory
readers
are
seldom
remarkable
for
the
exactness
of
their
learning.
No
man
burdens
his
mind
with
small
matters
unless
he
has
some
very
good
reason
for
doing
so.
His
ignorance
was
as
remarkable
as
his
knowledge.
Of
contemporary
literature,
philosophy
and
politics
he
appeared
to
know
next
to
nothing.
Upon
my
quoting
Thomas
Carlyle,
he
inquired
in
the
naivest
way
who
he
might
be
and
what
he
had
done.
My
surprise
reached
a
climax,
however,
when
I
found
incidentally
that
he
was
ignorant
of
the
Copernican
Theory
and
of
the
composition
of
the
Solar
System.
That
any
civilized
human
being
in
this
nineteenth
century
should
not
be
aware
that
the
earth
travelled
round
the
sun
appeared
to
be
to
me
such
an
extraordinary
fact
that
I
could
hardly
realize
it.
"You
appear
to
be
astonished,"
he
said,
smiling
at
my
expression
of
surprise.
"Now
that
I
do
know
it
I
shall
do
my
best
to
forget
it."
"To
forget
it!"
"You
see,"
he
explained,
"I
consider
that
a
man's
brain
originally
is
like
a
little
empty
attic,
and
you
have
to
stock
it
with
such
furniture
as
you
choose.
A
fool
takes
in
all
the
lumber
of
every
sort
that
he
comes
across,
so
that
the
knowledge
which
might
be
useful
to
him
gets
crowded
out,
or
at
best
is
jumbled
up
with
a
lot
of
other
things
so
that
he
has
a
difficulty
in
laying
his
hands
upon
it.
Now
the
skilful
workman
is
very
careful
indeed
as
to
what
he
takes
into
his
brain-attic.
He
will
have
nothing
but
the
tools
which
may
help
him
in
doing
his
work,
but
of
these
he
has
a
large
assortment,
and
all
in
the
most
perfect
order.
It
is
a
mistake
to
think
that
that
little
room
has
elastic
walls
and
can
distend
to
any
extent.
Depend
upon
it
there
comes
a
time
when
for
every
addition
of
knowledge
you
forget
something
that
you
knew
before.
It
is
of
the
highest
importance,
therefore,
not
to
have
useless
facts
elbowing
out
the
useful
ones."
"But
the
Solar
System!"
I
protested.
"What
the
deuce
is
it
to
me?"
he
interrupted
impatiently;
"you
say
that
we
go
round
the
sun.
If
we
went
round
the
moon
it
would
not
make
a
pennyworth
of
difference
to
me
or
to
my
work."
I
was
on
the
point
of
asking
him
what
that
work
might
be,
but
something
in
his
manner
showed
me
that
the
question
would
be
an
unwelcome
one.
I
pondered
over
our
short
conversation,
however,
and
endeavoured
to
draw
my
deductions
from
it.
He
said
that
he
would
acquire
no
knowledge
which
did
not
bear
upon
his
object.
Therefore
all
the
knowledge
which
he
possessed
was
such
as
would
be
useful
to
him.
I
enumerated
in
my
own
mind
all
the
various
points
upon
which
he
had
shown
me
that
he
was
exceptionally
well-informed.
I
even
took
a
pencil
and
jotted
them
down.
I
could
not
help
smiling
at
the
document
when
I
had
completed
it.
It
ran
in
this
way—
SHERLOCK
HOLMES—his
limits.
1.
Knowledge
of
Literature.—Nil.
2.
Philosophy.—Nil.
3.
Astronomy.—Nil.
4.
Politics.—Feeble.
5.
Botany.—Variable.
Well
up
in
belladonna,
opium,
and
poisons
generally.
Knows
nothing
of
practical
gardening.
6.
Geology.—Practical,
but
limited.
Tells
at
a
glance
different
soils
from
each
other.
After
walks
has
shown
me
splashes
upon
his
trousers,
and
told
me
by
their
colour
and
consistence
in
what
part
of
London
he
had
received
them.
7.
Chemistry.—Profound.
8.
Anatomy.—Accurate,
but
unsystematic.
9.
Sensational
Literature.—Immense.
He
appears
to
know
every
detail
of
every
horror
perpetrated
in
the
century.
10.
Plays
the
violin
well.
11.
Is
an
expert
singlestick
player,
boxer,
and
swordsman.
12.
Has
a
good
practical
knowledge
of
British
law.
When
I
had
got
so
far
in
my
list
I
threw
it
into
the
fire
in
despair.
"If
I
can
only
find
what
the
fellow
is
driving
at
by
reconciling
all
these
accomplishments,
and
discovering
a
calling
which
needs
them
all,"
I
said
to
myself,
"I
may
as
well
give
up
the
attempt
at
once."
I
see
that
I
have
alluded
above
to
his
powers
upon
the
violin.
These
were
very
remarkable,
but
as
eccentric
as
all
his
other
accomplishments.
That
he
could
play
pieces,
and
difficult
pieces,
I
knew
well,
because
at
my
request
he
has
played
me
some
of
Mendelssohn's
Lieder,
and
other
favourites.
When
left
to
himself,
however,
he
would
seldom
produce
any
music
or
attempt
any
recognized
air.
Leaning
back
in
his
arm-chair
of
an
evening,
he
would
close
his
eyes
and
scrape
carelessly
at
the
fiddle
which
was
thrown
across
his
knee.
Sometimes
the
chords
were
sonorous
and
melancholy.
Occasionally
they
were
fantastic
and
cheerful.
Clearly
they
reflected
the
thoughts
which
possessed
him,
but
whether
the
music
aided
those
thoughts,
or
whether
the
playing
was
simply
the
result
of
a
whim
or
fancy
was
more
than
I
could
determine.
I
might
have
rebelled
against
these
exasperating
solos
had
it
not
been
that
he
usually
terminated
them
by
playing
in
quick
succession
a
whole
series
of
my
favourite
airs
as
a
slight
compensation
for
the
trial
upon
my
patience.
During
the
first
week
or
so
we
had
no
callers,
and
I
had
begun
to
think
that
my
companion
was
as
friendless
a
man
as
I
was
myself.
Presently,
however,
I
found
that
he
had
many
acquaintances,
and
those
in
the
most
different
classes
of
society.
There
was
one
little
sallow
rat-faced,
dark-eyed
fellow
who
was
introduced
to
me
as
Mr.
Lestrade,
and
who
came
three
or
four
times
in
a
single
week.
One
morning
a
young
girl
called,
fashionably
dressed,
and
stayed
for
half
an
hour
or
more.
The
same
afternoon
brought
a
grey-headed,
seedy
visitor,
looking
like
a
Jew
pedlar,
who
appeared
to
me
to
be
much
excited,
and
who
was
closely
followed
by
a
slip-shod
elderly
woman.
On
another
occasion
an
old
white-haired
gentleman
had
an
interview
with
my
companion;
and
on
another
a
railway
porter
in
his
velveteen
uniform.
When
any
of
these
nondescript
individuals
put
in
an
appearance,
Sherlock
Holmes
used
to
beg
for
the
use
of
the
sitting-room,
and
I
would
retire
to
my
bed-room.
He
always
apologized
to
me
for
putting
me
to
this
inconvenience.
"I
have
to
use
this
room
as
a
place
of
business,"
he
said,
"and
these
people
are
my
clients."
Again
I
had
an
opportunity
of
asking
him
a
point
blank
question,
and
again
my
delicacy
prevented
me
from
forcing
another
man
to
confide
in
me.
I
imagined
at
the
time
that
he
had
some
strong
reason
for
not
alluding
to
it,
but
he
soon
dispelled
the
idea
by
coming
round
to
the
subject
of
his
own
accord.
It
was
upon
the
4th
of
March,
as
I
have
good
reason
to
remember,
that
I
rose
somewhat
earlier
than
usual,
and
found
that
Sherlock
Holmes
had
not
yet
finished
his
breakfast.
The
landlady
had
become
so
accustomed
to
my
late
habits
that
my
place
had
not
been
laid
nor
my
coffee
prepared.
With
the
unreasonable
petulance
of
mankind
I
rang
the
bell
and
gave
a
curt
intimation
that
I
was
ready.
Then
I
picked
up
a
magazine
from
the
table
and
attempted
to
while
away
the
time
with
it,
while
my
companion
munched
silently
at
his
toast.
One
of
the
articles
had
a
pencil
mark
at
the
heading,
and
I
naturally
began
to
run
my
eye
through
it.
Its
somewhat
ambitious
title
was
"The
Book
of
Life,"
and
it
attempted
to
show
how
much
an
observant
man
might
learn
by
an
accurate
and
systematic
examination
of
all
that
came
in
his
way.
It
struck
me
as
being
a
remarkable
mixture
of
shrewdness
and
of
absurdity.
The
reasoning
was
close
and
intense,
but
the
deductions
appeared
to
me
to
be
far-fetched
and
exaggerated.
The
writer
claimed
by
a
momentary
expression,
a
twitch
of
a
muscle
or
a
glance
of
an
eye,
to
fathom
a
man's
inmost
thoughts.
Deceit,
according
to
him,
was
an
impossibility
in
the
case
of
one
trained
to
observation
and
analysis.
His
conclusions
were
as
infallible
as
so
many
propositions
of
Euclid.
So
startling
would
his
results
appear
to
the
uninitiated
that
until
they
learned
the
processes
by
which
he
had
arrived
at
them
they
might
well
consider
him
as
a
necromancer.
"From
a
drop
of
water,"
said
the
writer,
"a
logician
could
infer
the
possibility
of
an
Atlantic
or
a
Niagara
without
having
seen
or
heard
of
one
or
the
other.
So
all
life
is
a
great
chain,
the
nature
of
which
is
known
whenever
we
are
shown
a
single
link
of
it.
Like
all
other
arts,
the
Science
of
Deduction
and
Analysis
is
one
which
can
only
be
acquired
by
long
and
patient
study
nor
is
life
long
enough
to
allow
any
mortal
to
attain
the
highest
possible
perfection
in
it.
Before
turning
to
those
moral
and
mental
aspects
of
the
matter
which
present
the
greatest
difficulties,
let
the
enquirer
begin
by
mastering
more
elementary
problems.
Let
him,
on
meeting
a
fellow-mortal,
learn
at
a
glance
to
distinguish
the
history
of
the
man,
and
the
trade
or
profession
to
which
he
belongs.
Puerile
as
such
an
exercise
may
seem,
it
sharpens
the
faculties
of
observation,
and
teaches
one
where
to
look
and
what
to
look
for.
By
a
man's
finger
nails,
by
his
coat-sleeve,
by
his
boot,
by
his
trouser
knees,
by
the
callosities
of
his
forefinger
and
thumb,
by
his
expression,
by
his
shirt
cuffs—by
each
of
these
things
a
man's
calling
is
plainly
revealed.
That
all
united
should
fail
to
enlighten
the
competent
enquirer
in
any
case
is
almost
inconceivable."
"What
ineffable
twaddle!"
I
cried,
slapping
the
magazine
down
on
the
table,
"I
never
read
such
rubbish
in
my
life."
"What
is
it?"
asked
Sherlock
Holmes.
"Why,
this
article,"
I
said,
pointing
at
it
with
my
egg
spoon
as
I
sat
down
to
my
breakfast.
"I
see
that
you
have
read
it
since
you
have
marked
it.
I
don't
deny
that
it
is
smartly
written.
It
irritates
me
though.
It
is
evidently
the
theory
of
some
arm-chair
lounger
who
evolves
all
these
neat
little
paradoxes
in
the
seclusion
of
his
own
study.
It
is
not
practical.
I
should
like
to
see
him
clapped
down
in
a
third
class
carriage
on
the
Underground,
and
asked
to
give
the
trades
of
all
his
fellow-travellers.
I
would
lay
a
thousand
to
one
against
him."
"You
would
lose
your
money,"
Sherlock
Holmes
remarked
calmly.
"As
for
the
article
I
wrote
it
myself."
"You!"
"Yes,
I
have
a
turn
both
for
observation
and
for
deduction.
The
theories
which
I
have
expressed
there,
and
which
appear
to
you
to
be
so
chimerical
are
really
extremely
practical—so
practical
that
I
depend
upon
them
for
my
bread
and
cheese."
"And
how?"
I
asked
involuntarily.
"Well,
I
have
a
trade
of
my
own.
I
suppose
I
am
the
only
one
in
the
world.
I'm
a
consulting
detective,
if
you
can
understand
what
that
is.
Here
in
London
we
have
lots
of
Government
detectives
and
lots
of
private
ones.
When
these
fellows
are
at
fault
they
come
to
me,
and
I
manage
to
put
them
on
the
right
scent.
They
lay
all
the
evidence
before
me,
and
I
am
generally
able,
by
the
help
of
my
knowledge
of
the
history
of
crime,
to
set
them
straight.
There
is
a
strong
family
resemblance
about
misdeeds,
and
if
you
have
all
the
details
of
a
thousand
at
your
finger
ends,
it
is
odd
if
you
can't
unravel
the
thousand
and
first.
Lestrade
is
a
well-known
detective.
He
got
himself
into
a
fog
recently
over
a
forgery
case,
and
that
was
what
brought
him
here."
"And
these
other
people?"
"They
are
mostly
sent
on
by
private
inquiry
agencies.
They
are
all
people
who
are
in
trouble
about
something,
and
want
a
little
enlightening.
I
listen
to
their
story,
they
listen
to
my
comments,
and
then
I
pocket
my
fee."
"But
do
you
mean
to
say,"
I
said,
"that
without
leaving
your
room
you
can
unravel
some
knot
which
other
men
can
make
nothing
of,
although
they
have
seen
every
detail
for
themselves?"
"Quite
so.
I
have
a
kind
of
intuition
that
way.
Now
and
again
a
case
turns
up
which
is
a
little
more
complex.
Then
I
have
to
bustle
about
and
see
things
with
my
own
eyes.
You
see
I
have
a
lot
of
special
knowledge
which
I
apply
to
the
problem,
and
which
facilitates
matters
wonderfully.
Those
rules
of
deduction
laid
down
in
that
article
which
aroused
your
scorn,
are
invaluable
to
me
in
practical
work.
Observation
with
me
is
second
nature.
You
appeared
to
be
surprised
when
I
told
you,
on
our
first
meeting,
that
you
had
come
from
Afghanistan."
"You
were
told,
no
doubt."
"Nothing
of
the
sort.
I
knew
you
came
from
Afghanistan.
From
long
habit
the
train
of
thoughts
ran
so
swiftly
through
my
mind,
that
I
arrived
at
the
conclusion
without
being
conscious
of
intermediate
steps.
There
were
such
steps,
however.
The
train
of
reasoning
ran,
'Here
is
a
gentleman
of
a
medical
type,
but
with
the
air
of
a
military
man.
Clearly
an
army
doctor,
then.
He
has
just
come
from
the
tropics,
for
his
face
is
dark,
and
that
is
not
the
natural
tint
of
his
skin,
for
his
wrists
are
fair.
He
has
undergone
hardship
and
sickness,
as
his
haggard
face
says
clearly.
His
left
arm
has
been
injured.
He
holds
it
in
a
stiff
and
unnatural
manner.
Where
in
the
tropics
could
an
English
army
doctor
have
seen
much
hardship
and
got
his
arm
wounded?
Clearly
in
Afghanistan.'
The
whole
train
of
thought
did
not
occupy
a
second.
I
then
remarked
that
you
came
from
Afghanistan,
and
you
were
astonished."
"It
is
simple
enough
as
you
explain
it,"
I
said,
smiling.
"You
remind
me
of
Edgar
Allen
Poe's
Dupin.
I
had
no
idea
that
such
individuals
did
exist
outside
of
stories."
Sherlock
Holmes
rose
and
lit
his
pipe.
"No
doubt
you
think
that
you
are
complimenting
me
in
comparing
me
to
Dupin,"
he
observed.
"Now,
in
my
opinion,
Dupin
was
a
very
inferior
fellow.
That
trick
of
his
of
breaking
in
on
his
friends'
thoughts
with
an
apropos
remark
after
a
quarter
of
an
hour's
silence
is
really
very
showy
and
superficial.
He
had
some
analytical
genius,
no
doubt;
but
he
was
by
no
means
such
a
phenomenon
as
Poe
appeared
to
imagine."
"Have
you
read
Gaboriau's
works?"
I
asked.
"Does
Lecoq
come
up
to
your
idea
of
a
detective?"
Sherlock
Holmes
sniffed
sardonically.
"Lecoq
was
a
miserable
bungler,"
he
said,
in
an
angry
voice;
"he
had
only
one
thing
to
recommend
him,
and
that
was
his
energy.
That
book
made
me
positively
ill.
The
question
was
how
to
identify
an
unknown
prisoner.
I
could
have
done
it
in
twenty-four
hours.
Lecoq
took
six
months
or
so.
It
might
be
made
a
text-book
for
detectives
to
teach
them
what
to
avoid."
I
felt
rather
indignant
at
having
two
characters
whom
I
had
admired
treated
in
this
cavalier
style.
I
walked
over
to
the
window,
and
stood
looking
out
into
the
busy
street.
"This
fellow
may
be
very
clever,"
I
said
to
myself,
"but
he
is
certainly
very
conceited."
"There
are
no
crimes
and
no
criminals
in
these
days,"
he
said,
querulously.
"What
is
the
use
of
having
brains
in
our
profession.
I
know
well
that
I
have
it
in
me
to
make
my
name
famous.
No
man
lives
or
has
ever
lived
who
has
brought
the
same
amount
of
study
and
of
natural
talent
to
the
detection
of
crime
which
I
have
done.
And
what
is
the
result?
There
is
no
crime
to
detect,
or,
at
most,
some
bungling
villainy
with
a
motive
so
transparent
that
even
a
Scotland
Yard
official
can
see
through
it."
I
was
still
annoyed
at
his
bumptious
style
of
conversation.
I
thought
it
best
to
change
the
topic.
"I
wonder
what
that
fellow
is
looking
for?"
I
asked,
pointing
to
a
stalwart,
plainly-dressed
individual
who
was
walking
slowly
down
the
other
side
of
the
street,
looking
anxiously
at
the
numbers.
He
had
a
large
blue
envelope
in
his
hand,
and
was
evidently
the
bearer
of
a
message.
"You
mean
the
retired
sergeant
of
Marines,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"Brag
and
bounce!"
thought
I
to
myself.
"He
knows
that
I
cannot
verify
his
guess."
The
thought
had
hardly
passed
through
my
mind
when
the
man
whom
we
were
watching
caught
sight
of
the
number
on
our
door,
and
ran
rapidly
across
the
roadway.
We
heard
a
loud
knock,
a
deep
voice
below,
and
heavy
steps
ascending
the
stair.
"For
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,"
he
said,
stepping
into
the
room
and
handing
my
friend
the
letter.
Here
was
an
opportunity
of
taking
the
conceit
out
of
him.
He
little
thought
of
this
when
he
made
that
random
shot.
"May
I
ask,
my
lad,"
I
said,
in
the
blandest
voice,
"what
your
trade
may
be?"
"Commissionaire,
sir,"
he
said,
gruffly.
"Uniform
away
for
repairs."
"And
you
were?"
I
asked,
with
a
slightly
malicious
glance
at
my
companion.
"A
sergeant,
sir,
Royal
Marine
Light
Infantry,
sir.
No
answer?
Right,
sir."
He
clicked
his
heels
together,
raised
his
hand
in
a
salute,
and
was
gone.
CHAPTER
III.
THE
LAURISTON
GARDEN
MYSTERY
6
I
CONFESS
that
I
was
considerably
startled
by
this
fresh
proof
of
the
practical
nature
of
my
companion's
theories.
My
respect
for
his
powers
of
analysis
increased
wondrously.
There
still
remained
some
lurking
suspicion
in
my
mind,
however,
that
the
whole
thing
was
a
pre-arranged
episode,
intended
to
dazzle
me,
though
what
earthly
object
he
could
have
in
taking
me
in
was
past
my
comprehension.
When
I
looked
at
him
he
had
finished
reading
the
note,
and
his
eyes
had
assumed
the
vacant,
lack-lustre
expression
which
showed
mental
abstraction.
"How
in
the
world
did
you
deduce
that?"
I
asked.
"Deduce
what?"
said
he,
petulantly.
"Why,
that
he
was
a
retired
sergeant
of
Marines."
"I
have
no
time
for
trifles,"
he
answered,
brusquely;
then
with
a
smile,
"Excuse
my
rudeness.
You
broke
the
thread
of
my
thoughts;
but
perhaps
it
is
as
well.
So
you
actually
were
not
able
to
see
that
that
man
was
a
sergeant
of
Marines?"
"No,
indeed."
"It
was
easier
to
know
it
than
to
explain
why
I
knew
it.
If
you
were
asked
to
prove
that
two
and
two
made
four,
you
might
find
some
difficulty,
and
yet
you
are
quite
sure
of
the
fact.
Even
across
the
street
I
could
see
a
great
blue
anchor
tattooed
on
the
back
of
the
fellow's
hand.
That
smacked
of
the
sea.
He
had
a
military
carriage,
however,
and
regulation
side
whiskers.
There
we
have
the
marine.
He
was
a
man
with
some
amount
of
self-importance
and
a
certain
air
of
command.
You
must
have
observed
the
way
in
which
he
held
his
head
and
swung
his
cane.
A
steady,
respectable,
middle-aged
man,
too,
on
the
face
of
him—all
facts
which
led
me
to
believe
that
he
had
been
a
sergeant."
"Wonderful!"
I
ejaculated.
"Commonplace,"
said
Holmes,
though
I
thought
from
his
expression
that
he
was
pleased
at
my
evident
surprise
and
admiration.
"I
said
just
now
that
there
were
no
criminals.
It
appears
that
I
am
wrong—look
at
this!"
He
threw
me
over
the
note
which
the
commissionaire
had
brought.
7
"Why,"
I
cried,
as
I
cast
my
eye
over
it,
"this
is
terrible!"
"It
does
seem
to
be
a
little
out
of
the
common,"
he
remarked,
calmly.
"Would
you
mind
reading
it
to
me
aloud?"
This
is
the
letter
which
I
read
to
him——
"MY
DEAR
MR.
SHERLOCK
HOLMES,—
"There
has
been
a
bad
business
during
the
night
at
3,
Lauriston
Gardens,
off
the
Brixton
Road.
Our
man
on
the
beat
saw
a
light
there
about
two
in
the
morning,
and
as
the
house
was
an
empty
one,
suspected
that
something
was
amiss.
He
found
the
door
open,
and
in
the
front
room,
which
is
bare
of
furniture,
discovered
the
body
of
a
gentleman,
well
dressed,
and
having
cards
in
his
pocket
bearing
the
name
of
'Enoch
J.
Drebber,
Cleveland,
Ohio,
U.S.A.'
There
had
been
no
robbery,
nor
is
there
any
evidence
as
to
how
the
man
met
his
death.
There
are
marks
of
blood
in
the
room,
but
there
is
no
wound
upon
his
person.
We
are
at
a
loss
as
to
how
he
came
into
the
empty
house;
indeed,
the
whole
affair
is
a
puzzler.
If
you
can
come
round
to
the
house
any
time
before
twelve,
you
will
find
me
there.
I
have
left
everything
in
statu
quo
until
I
hear
from
you.
If
you
are
unable
to
come
I
shall
give
you
fuller
details,
and
would
esteem
it
a
great
kindness
if
you
would
favour
me
with
your
opinion.
Yours
faithfully,
"TOBIAS
GREGSON."
"Gregson
is
the
smartest
of
the
Scotland
Yarders,"
my
friend
remarked;
"he
and
Lestrade
are
the
pick
of
a
bad
lot.
They
are
both
quick
and
energetic,
but
conventional—shockingly
so.
They
have
their
knives
into
one
another,
too.
They
are
as
jealous
as
a
pair
of
professional
beauties.
There
will
be
some
fun
over
this
case
if
they
are
both
put
upon
the
scent."
I
was
amazed
at
the
calm
way
in
which
he
rippled
on.
"Surely
there
is
not
a
moment
to
be
lost,"
I
cried,
"shall
I
go
and
order
you
a
cab?"
"I'm
not
sure
about
whether
I
shall
go.
I
am
the
most
incurably
lazy
devil
that
ever
stood
in
shoe
leather—that
is,
when
the
fit
is
on
me,
for
I
can
be
spry
enough
at
times."
"Why,
it
is
just
such
a
chance
as
you
have
been
longing
for."
"My
dear
fellow,
what
does
it
matter
to
me.
Supposing
I
unravel
the
whole
matter,
you
may
be
sure
that
Gregson,
Lestrade,
and
Co.
will
pocket
all
the
credit.
That
comes
of
being
an
unofficial
personage."
"But
he
begs
you
to
help
him."
"Yes.
He
knows
that
I
am
his
superior,
and
acknowledges
it
to
me;
but
he
would
cut
his
tongue
out
before
he
would
own
it
to
any
third
person.
However,
we
may
as
well
go
and
have
a
look.
I
shall
work
it
out
on
my
own
hook.
I
may
have
a
laugh
at
them
if
I
have
nothing
else.
Come
on!"
He
hustled
on
his
overcoat,
and
bustled
about
in
a
way
that
showed
that
an
energetic
fit
had
superseded
the
apathetic
one.
"Get
your
hat,"
he
said.
"You
wish
me
to
come?"
"Yes,
if
you
have
nothing
better
to
do."
A
minute
later
we
were
both
in
a
hansom,
driving
furiously
for
the
Brixton
Road.
It
was
a
foggy,
cloudy
morning,
and
a
dun-coloured
veil
hung
over
the
house-tops,
looking
like
the
reflection
of
the
mud-coloured
streets
beneath.
My
companion
was
in
the
best
of
spirits,
and
prattled
away
about
Cremona
fiddles,
and
the
difference
between
a
Stradivarius
and
an
Amati.
As
for
myself,
I
was
silent,
for
the
dull
weather
and
the
melancholy
business
upon
which
we
were
engaged,
depressed
my
spirits.
"You
don't
seem
to
give
much
thought
to
the
matter
in
hand,"
I
said
at
last,
interrupting
Holmes'
musical
disquisition.
"No
data
yet,"
he
answered.
"It
is
a
capital
mistake
to
theorize
before
you
have
all
the
evidence.
It
biases
the
judgment."
"You
will
have
your
data
soon,"
I
remarked,
pointing
with
my
finger;
"this
is
the
Brixton
Road,
and
that
is
the
house,
if
I
am
not
very
much
mistaken."
"So
it
is.
Stop,
driver,
stop!"
We
were
still
a
hundred
yards
or
so
from
it,
but
he
insisted
upon
our
alighting,
and
we
finished
our
journey
upon
foot.
Number
3,
Lauriston
Gardens
wore
an
ill-omened
and
minatory
look.
It
was
one
of
four
which
stood
back
some
little
way
from
the
street,
two
being
occupied
and
two
empty.
The
latter
looked
out
with
three
tiers
of
vacant
melancholy
windows,
which
were
blank
and
dreary,
save
that
here
and
there
a
"To
Let"
card
had
developed
like
a
cataract
upon
the
bleared
panes.
A
small
garden
sprinkled
over
with
a
scattered
eruption
of
sickly
plants
separated
each
of
these
houses
from
the
street,
and
was
traversed
by
a
narrow
pathway,
yellowish
in
colour,
and
consisting
apparently
of
a
mixture
of
clay
and
of
gravel.
The
whole
place
was
very
sloppy
from
the
rain
which
had
fallen
through
the
night.
The
garden
was
bounded
by
a
three-foot
brick
wall
with
a
fringe
of
wood
rails
upon
the
top,
and
against
this
wall
was
leaning
a
stalwart
police
constable,
surrounded
by
a
small
knot
of
loafers,
who
craned
their
necks
and
strained
their
eyes
in
the
vain
hope
of
catching
some
glimpse
of
the
proceedings
within.
I
had
imagined
that
Sherlock
Holmes
would
at
once
have
hurried
into
the
house
and
plunged
into
a
study
of
the
mystery.
Nothing
appeared
to
be
further
from
his
intention.
With
an
air
of
nonchalance
which,
under
the
circumstances,
seemed
to
me
to
border
upon
affectation,
he
lounged
up
and
down
the
pavement,
and
gazed
vacantly
at
the
ground,
the
sky,
the
opposite
houses
and
the
line
of
railings.
Having
finished
his
scrutiny,
he
proceeded
slowly
down
the
path,
or
rather
down
the
fringe
of
grass
which
flanked
the
path,
keeping
his
eyes
riveted
upon
the
ground.
Twice
he
stopped,
and
once
I
saw
him
smile,
and
heard
him
utter
an
exclamation
of
satisfaction.
There
were
many
marks
of
footsteps
upon
the
wet
clayey
soil,
but
since
the
police
had
been
coming
and
going
over
it,
I
was
unable
to
see
how
my
companion
could
hope
to
learn
anything
from
it.
Still
I
had
had
such
extraordinary
evidence
of
the
quickness
of
his
perceptive
faculties,
that
I
had
no
doubt
that
he
could
see
a
great
deal
which
was
hidden
from
me.
At
the
door
of
the
house
we
were
met
by
a
tall,
white-faced,
flaxen-haired
man,
with
a
notebook
in
his
hand,
who
rushed
forward
and
wrung
my
companion's
hand
with
effusion.
"It
is
indeed
kind
of
you
to
come,"
he
said,
"I
have
had
everything
left
untouched."
"Except
that!"
my
friend
answered,
pointing
at
the
pathway.
"If
a
herd
of
buffaloes
had
passed
along
there
could
not
be
a
greater
mess.
No
doubt,
however,
you
had
drawn
your
own
conclusions,
Gregson,
before
you
permitted
this."
"I
have
had
so
much
to
do
inside
the
house,"
the
detective
said
evasively.
"My
colleague,
Mr.
Lestrade,
is
here.
I
had
relied
upon
him
to
look
after
this."
Holmes
glanced
at
me
and
raised
his
eyebrows
sardonically.
"With
two
such
men
as
yourself
and
Lestrade
upon
the
ground,
there
will
not
be
much
for
a
third
party
to
find
out,"
he
said.
Gregson
rubbed
his
hands
in
a
self-satisfied
way.
"I
think
we
have
done
all
that
can
be
done,"
he
answered;
"it's
a
queer
case
though,
and
I
knew
your
taste
for
such
things."
"You
did
not
come
here
in
a
cab?"
asked
Sherlock
Holmes.
"No,
sir."
"Nor
Lestrade?"
"No,
sir."
"Then
let
us
go
and
look
at
the
room."
With
which
inconsequent
remark
he
strode
on
into
the
house,
followed
by
Gregson,
whose
features
expressed
his
astonishment.
A
short
passage,
bare
planked
and
dusty,
led
to
the
kitchen
and
offices.
Two
doors
opened
out
of
it
to
the
left
and
to
the
right.
One
of
these
had
obviously
been
closed
for
many
weeks.
The
other
belonged
to
the
dining-room,
which
was
the
apartment
in
which
the
mysterious
affair
had
occurred.
Holmes
walked
in,
and
I
followed
him
with
that
subdued
feeling
at
my
heart
which
the
presence
of
death
inspires.
It
was
a
large
square
room,
looking
all
the
larger
from
the
absence
of
all
furniture.
A
vulgar
flaring
paper
adorned
the
walls,
but
it
was
blotched
in
places
with
mildew,
and
here
and
there
great
strips
had
become
detached
and
hung
down,
exposing
the
yellow
plaster
beneath.
Opposite
the
door
was
a
showy
fireplace,
surmounted
by
a
mantelpiece
of
imitation
white
marble.
On
one
corner
of
this
was
stuck
the
stump
of
a
red
wax
candle.
The
solitary
window
was
so
dirty
that
the
light
was
hazy
and
uncertain,
giving
a
dull
grey
tinge
to
everything,
which
was
intensified
by
the
thick
layer
of
dust
which
coated
the
whole
apartment.
All
these
details
I
observed
afterwards.
At
present
my
attention
was
centred
upon
the
single
grim
motionless
figure
which
lay
stretched
upon
the
boards,
with
vacant
sightless
eyes
staring
up
at
the
discoloured
ceiling.
It
was
that
of
a
man
about
forty-three
or
forty-four
years
of
age,
middle-sized,
broad
shouldered,
with
crisp
curling
black
hair,
and
a
short
stubbly
beard.
He
was
dressed
in
a
heavy
broadcloth
frock
coat
and
waistcoat,
with
light-coloured
trousers,
and
immaculate
collar
and
cuffs.
A
top
hat,
well
brushed
and
trim,
was
placed
upon
the
floor
beside
him.
His
hands
were
clenched
and
his
arms
thrown
abroad,
while
his
lower
limbs
were
interlocked
as
though
his
death
struggle
had
been
a
grievous
one.
On
his
rigid
face
there
stood
an
expression
of
horror,
and
as
it
seemed
to
me,
of
hatred,
such
as
I
have
never
seen
upon
human
features.
This
malignant
and
terrible
contortion,
combined
with
the
low
forehead,
blunt
nose,
and
prognathous
jaw
gave
the
dead
man
a
singularly
simious
and
ape-like
appearance,
which
was
increased
by
his
writhing,
unnatural
posture.
I
have
seen
death
in
many
forms,
but
never
has
it
appeared
to
me
in
a
more
fearsome
aspect
than
in
that
dark
grimy
apartment,
which
looked
out
upon
one
of
the
main
arteries
of
suburban
London.
Lestrade,
lean
and
ferret-like
as
ever,
was
standing
by
the
doorway,
and
greeted
my
companion
and
myself.
"This
case
will
make
a
stir,
sir,"
he
remarked.
"It
beats
anything
I
have
seen,
and
I
am
no
chicken."
"There
is
no
clue?"
said
Gregson.
"None
at
all,"
chimed
in
Lestrade.
Sherlock
Holmes
approached
the
body,
and,
kneeling
down,
examined
it
intently.
"You
are
sure
that
there
is
no
wound?"
he
asked,
pointing
to
numerous
gouts
and
splashes
of
blood
which
lay
all
round.
"Positive!"
cried
both
detectives.
"Then,
of
course,
this
blood
belongs
to
a
second
individual—8
presumably
the
murderer,
if
murder
has
been
committed.
It
reminds
me
of
the
circumstances
attendant
on
the
death
of
Van
Jansen,
in
Utrecht,
in
the
year
'34.
Do
you
remember
the
case,
Gregson?"
"No,
sir."
"Read
it
up—you
really
should.
There
is
nothing
new
under
the
sun.
It
has
all
been
done
before."
As
he
spoke,
his
nimble
fingers
were
flying
here,
there,
and
everywhere,
feeling,
pressing,
unbuttoning,
examining,
while
his
eyes
wore
the
same
far-away
expression
which
I
have
already
remarked
upon.
So
swiftly
was
the
examination
made,
that
one
would
hardly
have
guessed
the
minuteness
with
which
it
was
conducted.
Finally,
he
sniffed
the
dead
man's
lips,
and
then
glanced
at
the
soles
of
his
patent
leather
boots.
"He
has
not
been
moved
at
all?"
he
asked.
"No
more
than
was
necessary
for
the
purposes
of
our
examination."
"You
can
take
him
to
the
mortuary
now,"
he
said.
"There
is
nothing
more
to
be
learned."
Gregson
had
a
stretcher
and
four
men
at
hand.
At
his
call
they
entered
the
room,
and
the
stranger
was
lifted
and
carried
out.
As
they
raised
him,
a
ring
tinkled
down
and
rolled
across
the
floor.
Lestrade
grabbed
it
up
and
stared
at
it
with
mystified
eyes.
"There's
been
a
woman
here,"
he
cried.
"It's
a
woman's
wedding-ring."
He
held
it
out,
as
he
spoke,
upon
the
palm
of
his
hand.
We
all
gathered
round
him
and
gazed
at
it.
There
could
be
no
doubt
that
that
circlet
of
plain
gold
had
once
adorned
the
finger
of
a
bride.
"This
complicates
matters,"
said
Gregson.
"Heaven
knows,
they
were
complicated
enough
before."
"You're
sure
it
doesn't
simplify
them?"
observed
Holmes.
"There's
nothing
to
be
learned
by
staring
at
it.
What
did
you
find
in
his
pockets?"
"We
have
it
all
here,"
said
Gregson,
pointing
to
a
litter
of
objects
upon
one
of
the
bottom
steps
of
the
stairs.
"A
gold
watch,
No.
97163,
by
Barraud,
of
London.
Gold
Albert
chain,
very
heavy
and
solid.
Gold
ring,
with
masonic
device.
Gold
pin—bull-dog's
head,
with
rubies
as
eyes.
Russian
leather
card-case,
with
cards
of
Enoch
J.
Drebber
of
Cleveland,
corresponding
with
the
E.
J.
D.
upon
the
linen.
No
purse,
but
loose
money
to
the
extent
of
seven
pounds
thirteen.
Pocket
edition
of
Boccaccio's
'Decameron,'
with
name
of
Joseph
Stangerson
upon
the
fly-leaf.
Two
letters—one
addressed
to
E.
J.
Drebber
and
one
to
Joseph
Stangerson."
"At
what
address?"
"American
Exchange,
Strand—to
be
left
till
called
for.
They
are
both
from
the
Guion
Steamship
Company,
and
refer
to
the
sailing
of
their
boats
from
Liverpool.
It
is
clear
that
this
unfortunate
man
was
about
to
return
to
New
York."
"Have
you
made
any
inquiries
as
to
this
man,
Stangerson?"
"I
did
it
at
once,
sir,"
said
Gregson.
"I
have
had
advertisements
sent
to
all
the
newspapers,
and
one
of
my
men
has
gone
to
the
American
Exchange,
but
he
has
not
returned
yet."
"Have
you
sent
to
Cleveland?"
"We
telegraphed
this
morning."
"How
did
you
word
your
inquiries?"
"We
simply
detailed
the
circumstances,
and
said
that
we
should
be
glad
of
any
information
which
could
help
us."
"You
did
not
ask
for
particulars
on
any
point
which
appeared
to
you
to
be
crucial?"
"I
asked
about
Stangerson."
"Nothing
else?
Is
there
no
circumstance
on
which
this
whole
case
appears
to
hinge?
Will
you
not
telegraph
again?"
"I
have
said
all
I
have
to
say,"
said
Gregson,
in
an
offended
voice.
Sherlock
Holmes
chuckled
to
himself,
and
appeared
to
be
about
to
make
some
remark,
when
Lestrade,
who
had
been
in
the
front
room
while
we
were
holding
this
conversation
in
the
hall,
reappeared
upon
the
scene,
rubbing
his
hands
in
a
pompous
and
self-satisfied
manner.
"Mr.
Gregson,"
he
said,
"I
have
just
made
a
discovery
of
the
highest
importance,
and
one
which
would
have
been
overlooked
had
I
not
made
a
careful
examination
of
the
walls."
The
little
man's
eyes
sparkled
as
he
spoke,
and
he
was
evidently
in
a
state
of
suppressed
exultation
at
having
scored
a
point
against
his
colleague.
"Come
here,"
he
said,
bustling
back
into
the
room,
the
atmosphere
of
which
felt
clearer
since
the
removal
of
its
ghastly
inmate.
"Now,
stand
there!"
He
struck
a
match
on
his
boot
and
held
it
up
against
the
wall.
"Look
at
that!"
he
said,
triumphantly.
I
have
remarked
that
the
paper
had
fallen
away
in
parts.
In
this
particular
corner
of
the
room
a
large
piece
had
peeled
off,
leaving
a
yellow
square
of
coarse
plastering.
Across
this
bare
space
there
was
scrawled
in
blood-red
letters
a
single
word—
RACHE.
"What
do
you
think
of
that?"
cried
the
detective,
with
the
air
of
a
showman
exhibiting
his
show.
"This
was
overlooked
because
it
was
in
the
darkest
corner
of
the
room,
and
no
one
thought
of
looking
there.
The
murderer
has
written
it
with
his
or
her
own
blood.
See
this
smear
where
it
has
trickled
down
the
wall!
That
disposes
of
the
idea
of
suicide
anyhow.
Why
was
that
corner
chosen
to
write
it
on?
I
will
tell
you.
See
that
candle
on
the
mantelpiece.
It
was
lit
at
the
time,
and
if
it
was
lit
this
corner
would
be
the
brightest
instead
of
the
darkest
portion
of
the
wall."
"And
what
does
it
mean
now
that
you
have
found
it?"
asked
Gregson
in
a
depreciatory
voice.
"Mean?
Why,
it
means
that
the
writer
was
going
to
put
the
female
name
Rachel,
but
was
disturbed
before
he
or
she
had
time
to
finish.
You
mark
my
words,
when
this
case
comes
to
be
cleared
up
you
will
find
that
a
woman
named
Rachel
has
something
to
do
with
it.
It's
all
very
well
for
you
to
laugh,
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes.
You
may
be
very
smart
and
clever,
but
the
old
hound
is
the
best,
when
all
is
said
and
done."
"I
really
beg
your
pardon!"
said
my
companion,
who
had
ruffled
the
little
man's
temper
by
bursting
into
an
explosion
of
laughter.
"You
certainly
have
the
credit
of
being
the
first
of
us
to
find
this
out,
and,
as
you
say,
it
bears
every
mark
of
having
been
written
by
the
other
participant
in
last
night's
mystery.
I
have
not
had
time
to
examine
this
room
yet,
but
with
your
permission
I
shall
do
so
now."
As
he
spoke,
he
whipped
a
tape
measure
and
a
large
round
magnifying
glass
from
his
pocket.
With
these
two
implements
he
trotted
noiselessly
about
the
room,
sometimes
stopping,
occasionally
kneeling,
and
once
lying
flat
upon
his
face.
So
engrossed
was
he
with
his
occupation
that
he
appeared
to
have
forgotten
our
presence,
for
he
chattered
away
to
himself
under
his
breath
the
whole
time,
keeping
up
a
running
fire
of
exclamations,
groans,
whistles,
and
little
cries
suggestive
of
encouragement
and
of
hope.
As
I
watched
him
I
was
irresistibly
reminded
of
a
pure-blooded
well-trained
foxhound
as
it
dashes
backwards
and
forwards
through
the
covert,
whining
in
its
eagerness,
until
it
comes
across
the
lost
scent.
For
twenty
minutes
or
more
he
continued
his
researches,
measuring
with
the
most
exact
care
the
distance
between
marks
which
were
entirely
invisible
to
me,
and
occasionally
applying
his
tape
to
the
walls
in
an
equally
incomprehensible
manner.
In
one
place
he
gathered
up
very
carefully
a
little
pile
of
grey
dust
from
the
floor,
and
packed
it
away
in
an
envelope.
Finally,
he
examined
with
his
glass
the
word
upon
the
wall,
going
over
every
letter
of
it
with
the
most
minute
exactness.
This
done,
he
appeared
to
be
satisfied,
for
he
replaced
his
tape
and
his
glass
in
his
pocket.
"They
say
that
genius
is
an
infinite
capacity
for
taking
pains,"
he
remarked
with
a
smile.
"It's
a
very
bad
definition,
but
it
does
apply
to
detective
work."
Gregson
and
Lestrade
had
watched
the
manoeuvres
9
of
their
amateur
companion
with
considerable
curiosity
and
some
contempt.
They
evidently
failed
to
appreciate
the
fact,
which
I
had
begun
to
realize,
that
Sherlock
Holmes'
smallest
actions
were
all
directed
towards
some
definite
and
practical
end.
"What
do
you
think
of
it,
sir?"
they
both
asked.
"It
would
be
robbing
you
of
the
credit
of
the
case
if
I
was
to
presume
to
help
you,"
remarked
my
friend.
"You
are
doing
so
well
now
that
it
would
be
a
pity
for
anyone
to
interfere."
There
was
a
world
of
sarcasm
in
his
voice
as
he
spoke.
"If
you
will
let
me
know
how
your
investigations
go,"
he
continued,
"I
shall
be
happy
to
give
you
any
help
I
can.
In
the
meantime
I
should
like
to
speak
to
the
constable
who
found
the
body.
Can
you
give
me
his
name
and
address?"
Lestrade
glanced
at
his
note-book.
"John
Rance,"
he
said.
"He
is
off
duty
now.
You
will
find
him
at
46,
Audley
Court,
Kennington
Park
Gate."
Holmes
took
a
note
of
the
address.
"Come
along,
Doctor,"
he
said;
"we
shall
go
and
look
him
up.
I'll
tell
you
one
thing
which
may
help
you
in
the
case,"
he
continued,
turning
to
the
two
detectives.
"There
has
been
murder
done,
and
the
murderer
was
a
man.
He
was
more
than
six
feet
high,
was
in
the
prime
of
life,
had
small
feet
for
his
height,
wore
coarse,
square-toed
boots
and
smoked
a
Trichinopoly
cigar.
He
came
here
with
his
victim
in
a
four-wheeled
cab,
which
was
drawn
by
a
horse
with
three
old
shoes
and
one
new
one
on
his
off
fore
leg.
In
all
probability
the
murderer
had
a
florid
face,
and
the
finger-nails
of
his
right
hand
were
remarkably
long.
These
are
only
a
few
indications,
but
they
may
assist
you."
Lestrade
and
Gregson
glanced
at
each
other
with
an
incredulous
smile.
"If
this
man
was
murdered,
how
was
it
done?"
asked
the
former.
"Poison,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes
curtly,
and
strode
off.
"One
other
thing,
Lestrade,"
he
added,
turning
round
at
the
door:
"'Rache,'
is
the
German
for
'revenge;'
so
don't
lose
your
time
looking
for
Miss
Rachel."
With
which
Parthian
shot
he
walked
away,
leaving
the
two
rivals
open-mouthed
behind
him.
CHAPTER
IV.
WHAT
JOHN
RANCE
HAD
TO
TELL.
IT
was
one
o'clock
when
we
left
No.
3,
Lauriston
Gardens.
Sherlock
Holmes
led
me
to
the
nearest
telegraph
office,
whence
he
dispatched
a
long
telegram.
He
then
hailed
a
cab,
and
ordered
the
driver
to
take
us
to
the
address
given
us
by
Lestrade.
"There
is
nothing
like
first
hand
evidence,"
he
remarked;
"as
a
matter
of
fact,
my
mind
is
entirely
made
up
upon
the
case,
but
still
we
may
as
well
learn
all
that
is
to
be
learned."
"You
amaze
me,
Holmes,"
said
I.
"Surely
you
are
not
as
sure
as
you
pretend
to
be
of
all
those
particulars
which
you
gave."
"There's
no
room
for
a
mistake,"
he
answered.
"The
very
first
thing
which
I
observed
on
arriving
there
was
that
a
cab
had
made
two
ruts
with
its
wheels
close
to
the
curb.
Now,
up
to
last
night,
we
have
had
no
rain
for
a
week,
so
that
those
wheels
which
left
such
a
deep
impression
must
have
been
there
during
the
night.
There
were
the
marks
of
the
horse's
hoofs,
too,
the
outline
of
one
of
which
was
far
more
clearly
cut
than
that
of
the
other
three,
showing
that
that
was
a
new
shoe.
Since
the
cab
was
there
after
the
rain
began,
and
was
not
there
at
any
time
during
the
morning—I
have
Gregson's
word
for
that—it
follows
that
it
must
have
been
there
during
the
night,
and,
therefore,
that
it
brought
those
two
individuals
to
the
house."
"That
seems
simple
enough,"
said
I;
"but
how
about
the
other
man's
height?"
"Why,
the
height
of
a
man,
in
nine
cases
out
of
ten,
can
be
told
from
the
length
of
his
stride.
It
is
a
simple
calculation
enough,
though
there
is
no
use
my
boring
you
with
figures.
I
had
this
fellow's
stride
both
on
the
clay
outside
and
on
the
dust
within.
Then
I
had
a
way
of
checking
my
calculation.
When
a
man
writes
on
a
wall,
his
instinct
leads
him
to
write
about
the
level
of
his
own
eyes.
Now
that
writing
was
just
over
six
feet
from
the
ground.
It
was
child's
play."
"And
his
age?"
I
asked.
"Well,
if
a
man
can
stride
four
and
a-half
feet
without
the
smallest
effort,
he
can't
be
quite
in
the
sere
and
yellow.
That
was
the
breadth
of
a
puddle
on
the
garden
walk
which
he
had
evidently
walked
across.
Patent-leather
boots
had
gone
round,
and
Square-toes
had
hopped
over.
There
is
no
mystery
about
it
at
all.
I
am
simply
applying
to
ordinary
life
a
few
of
those
precepts
of
observation
and
deduction
which
I
advocated
in
that
article.
Is
there
anything
else
that
puzzles
you?"
"The
finger
nails
and
the
Trichinopoly,"
I
suggested.
"The
writing
on
the
wall
was
done
with
a
man's
forefinger
dipped
in
blood.
My
glass
allowed
me
to
observe
that
the
plaster
was
slightly
scratched
in
doing
it,
which
would
not
have
been
the
case
if
the
man's
nail
had
been
trimmed.
I
gathered
up
some
scattered
ash
from
the
floor.
It
was
dark
in
colour
and
flakey—such
an
ash
as
is
only
made
by
a
Trichinopoly.
I
have
made
a
special
study
of
cigar
ashes—in
fact,
I
have
written
a
monograph
upon
the
subject.
I
flatter
myself
that
I
can
distinguish
at
a
glance
the
ash
of
any
known
brand,
either
of
cigar
or
of
tobacco.
It
is
just
in
such
details
that
the
skilled
detective
differs
from
the
Gregson
and
Lestrade
type."
"And
the
florid
face?"
I
asked.
"Ah,
that
was
a
more
daring
shot,
though
I
have
no
doubt
that
I
was
right.
You
must
not
ask
me
that
at
the
present
state
of
the
affair."
I
passed
my
hand
over
my
brow.
"My
head
is
in
a
whirl,"
I
remarked;
"the
more
one
thinks
of
it
the
more
mysterious
it
grows.
How
came
these
two
men—if
there
were
two
men—into
an
empty
house?
What
has
become
of
the
cabman
who
drove
them?
How
could
one
man
compel
another
to
take
poison?
Where
did
the
blood
come
from?
What
was
the
object
of
the
murderer,
since
robbery
had
no
part
in
it?
How
came
the
woman's
ring
there?
Above
all,
why
should
the
second
man
write
up
the
German
word
RACHE
before
decamping?
I
confess
that
I
cannot
see
any
possible
way
of
reconciling
all
these
facts."
My
companion
smiled
approvingly.
"You
sum
up
the
difficulties
of
the
situation
succinctly
and
well,"
he
said.
"There
is
much
that
is
still
obscure,
though
I
have
quite
made
up
my
mind
on
the
main
facts.
As
to
poor
Lestrade's
discovery
it
was
simply
a
blind
intended
to
put
the
police
upon
a
wrong
track,
by
suggesting
Socialism
and
secret
societies.
It
was
not
done
by
a
German.
The
A,
if
you
noticed,
was
printed
somewhat
after
the
German
fashion.
Now,
a
real
German
invariably
prints
in
the
Latin
character,
so
that
we
may
safely
say
that
this
was
not
written
by
one,
but
by
a
clumsy
imitator
who
overdid
his
part.
It
was
simply
a
ruse
to
divert
inquiry
into
a
wrong
channel.
I'm
not
going
to
tell
you
much
more
of
the
case,
Doctor.
You
know
a
conjuror
gets
no
credit
when
once
he
has
explained
his
trick,
and
if
I
show
you
too
much
of
my
method
of
working,
you
will
come
to
the
conclusion
that
I
am
a
very
ordinary
individual
after
all."
"I
shall
never
do
that,"
I
answered;
"you
have
brought
detection
as
near
an
exact
science
as
it
ever
will
be
brought
in
this
world."
My
companion
flushed
up
with
pleasure
at
my
words,
and
the
earnest
way
in
which
I
uttered
them.
I
had
already
observed
that
he
was
as
sensitive
to
flattery
on
the
score
of
his
art
as
any
girl
could
be
of
her
beauty.
"I'll
tell
you
one
other
thing,"
he
said.
"Patent
leathers
10
and
Square-toes
came
in
the
same
cab,
and
they
walked
down
the
pathway
together
as
friendly
as
possible—arm-in-arm,
in
all
probability.
When
they
got
inside
they
walked
up
and
down
the
room—or
rather,
Patent-leathers
stood
still
while
Square-toes
walked
up
and
down.
I
could
read
all
that
in
the
dust;
and
I
could
read
that
as
he
walked
he
grew
more
and
more
excited.
That
is
shown
by
the
increased
length
of
his
strides.
He
was
talking
all
the
while,
and
working
himself
up,
no
doubt,
into
a
fury.
Then
the
tragedy
occurred.
I've
told
you
all
I
know
myself
now,
for
the
rest
is
mere
surmise
and
conjecture.
We
have
a
good
working
basis,
however,
on
which
to
start.
We
must
hurry
up,
for
I
want
to
go
to
Halle's
concert
to
hear
Norman
Neruda
this
afternoon."
This
conversation
had
occurred
while
our
cab
had
been
threading
its
way
through
a
long
succession
of
dingy
streets
and
dreary
by-ways.
In
the
dingiest
and
dreariest
of
them
our
driver
suddenly
came
to
a
stand.
"That's
Audley
Court
in
there,"
he
said,
pointing
to
a
narrow
slit
in
the
line
of
dead-coloured
brick.
"You'll
find
me
here
when
you
come
back."
Audley
Court
was
not
an
attractive
locality.
The
narrow
passage
led
us
into
a
quadrangle
paved
with
flags
and
lined
by
sordid
dwellings.
We
picked
our
way
among
groups
of
dirty
children,
and
through
lines
of
discoloured
linen,
until
we
came
to
Number
46,
the
door
of
which
was
decorated
with
a
small
slip
of
brass
on
which
the
name
Rance
was
engraved.
On
enquiry
we
found
that
the
constable
was
in
bed,
and
we
were
shown
into
a
little
front
parlour
to
await
his
coming.
He
appeared
presently,
looking
a
little
irritable
at
being
disturbed
in
his
slumbers.
"I
made
my
report
at
the
office,"
he
said.
Holmes
took
a
half-sovereign
from
his
pocket
and
played
with
it
pensively.
"We
thought
that
we
should
like
to
hear
it
all
from
your
own
lips,"
he
said.
"I
shall
be
most
happy
to
tell
you
anything
I
can,"
the
constable
answered
with
his
eyes
upon
the
little
golden
disk.
"Just
let
us
hear
it
all
in
your
own
way
as
it
occurred."
Rance
sat
down
on
the
horsehair
sofa,
and
knitted
his
brows
as
though
determined
not
to
omit
anything
in
his
narrative.
"I'll
tell
it
ye
from
the
beginning,"
he
said.
"My
time
is
from
ten
at
night
to
six
in
the
morning.
At
eleven
there
was
a
fight
at
the
'White
Hart';
but
bar
that
all
was
quiet
enough
on
the
beat.
At
one
o'clock
it
began
to
rain,
and
I
met
Harry
Murcher—him
who
has
the
Holland
Grove
beat—and
we
stood
together
at
the
corner
of
Henrietta
Street
a-talkin'.
Presently—maybe
about
two
or
a
little
after—I
thought
I
would
take
a
look
round
and
see
that
all
was
right
down
the
Brixton
Road.
It
was
precious
dirty
and
lonely.
Not
a
soul
did
I
meet
all
the
way
down,
though
a
cab
or
two
went
past
me.
I
was
a
strollin'
down,
thinkin'
between
ourselves
how
uncommon
handy
a
four
of
gin
hot
would
be,
when
suddenly
the
glint
of
a
light
caught
my
eye
in
the
window
of
that
same
house.
Now,
I
knew
that
them
two
houses
in
Lauriston
Gardens
was
empty
on
account
of
him
that
owns
them
who
won't
have
the
drains
seen
to,
though
the
very
last
tenant
what
lived
in
one
of
them
died
o'
typhoid
fever.
I
was
knocked
all
in
a
heap
therefore
at
seeing
a
light
in
the
window,
and
I
suspected
as
something
was
wrong.
When
I
got
to
the
door——"
"You
stopped,
and
then
walked
back
to
the
garden
gate,"
my
companion
interrupted.
"What
did
you
do
that
for?"
Rance
gave
a
violent
jump,
and
stared
at
Sherlock
Holmes
with
the
utmost
amazement
upon
his
features.
"Why,
that's
true,
sir,"
he
said;
"though
how
you
come
to
know
it,
Heaven
only
knows.
Ye
see,
when
I
got
up
to
the
door
it
was
so
still
and
so
lonesome,
that
I
thought
I'd
be
none
the
worse
for
some
one
with
me.
I
ain't
afeared
of
anything
on
this
side
o'
the
grave;
but
I
thought
that
maybe
it
was
him
that
died
o'
the
typhoid
inspecting
the
drains
what
killed
him.
The
thought
gave
me
a
kind
o'
turn,
and
I
walked
back
to
the
gate
to
see
if
I
could
see
Murcher's
lantern,
but
there
wasn't
no
sign
of
him
nor
of
anyone
else."
"There
was
no
one
in
the
street?"
"Not
a
livin'
soul,
sir,
nor
as
much
as
a
dog.
Then
I
pulled
myself
together
and
went
back
and
pushed
the
door
open.
All
was
quiet
inside,
so
I
went
into
the
room
where
the
light
was
a-burnin'.
There
was
a
candle
flickerin'
on
the
mantelpiece—a
red
wax
one—and
by
its
light
I
saw——"
"Yes,
I
know
all
that
you
saw.
You
walked
round
the
room
several
times,
and
you
knelt
down
by
the
body,
and
then
you
walked
through
and
tried
the
kitchen
door,
and
then——"
John
Rance
sprang
to
his
feet
with
a
frightened
face
and
suspicion
in
his
eyes.
"Where
was
you
hid
to
see
all
that?"
he
cried.
"It
seems
to
me
that
you
knows
a
deal
more
than
you
should."
Holmes
laughed
and
threw
his
card
across
the
table
to
the
constable.
"Don't
get
arresting
me
for
the
murder,"
he
said.
"I
am
one
of
the
hounds
and
not
the
wolf;
Mr.
Gregson
or
Mr.
Lestrade
will
answer
for
that.
Go
on,
though.
What
did
you
do
next?"
Rance
resumed
his
seat,
without
however
losing
his
mystified
expression.
"I
went
back
to
the
gate
and
sounded
my
whistle.
That
brought
Murcher
and
two
more
to
the
spot."
"Was
the
street
empty
then?"
"Well,
it
was,
as
far
as
anybody
that
could
be
of
any
good
goes."
"What
do
you
mean?"
The
constable's
features
broadened
into
a
grin.
"I've
seen
many
a
drunk
chap
in
my
time,"
he
said,
"but
never
anyone
so
cryin'
drunk
as
that
cove.
He
was
at
the
gate
when
I
came
out,
a-leanin'
up
agin
the
railings,
and
a-singin'
at
the
pitch
o'
his
lungs
about
Columbine's
New-fangled
Banner,
or
some
such
stuff.
He
couldn't
stand,
far
less
help."
"What
sort
of
a
man
was
he?"
asked
Sherlock
Holmes.
John
Rance
appeared
to
be
somewhat
irritated
at
this
digression.
"He
was
an
uncommon
drunk
sort
o'
man,"
he
said.
"He'd
ha'
found
hisself
in
the
station
if
we
hadn't
been
so
took
up."
"His
face—his
dress—didn't
you
notice
them?"
Holmes
broke
in
impatiently.
"I
should
think
I
did
notice
them,
seeing
that
I
had
to
prop
him
up—me
and
Murcher
between
us.
He
was
a
long
chap,
with
a
red
face,
the
lower
part
muffled
round——"
"That
will
do,"
cried
Holmes.
"What
became
of
him?"
"We'd
enough
to
do
without
lookin'
after
him,"
the
policeman
said,
in
an
aggrieved
voice.
"I'll
wager
he
found
his
way
home
all
right."
"How
was
he
dressed?"
"A
brown
overcoat."
"Had
he
a
whip
in
his
hand?"
"A
whip—no."
"He
must
have
left
it
behind,"
muttered
my
companion.
"You
didn't
happen
to
see
or
hear
a
cab
after
that?"
"No."
"There's
a
half-sovereign
for
you,"
my
companion
said,
standing
up
and
taking
his
hat.
"I
am
afraid,
Rance,
that
you
will
never
rise
in
the
force.
That
head
of
yours
should
be
for
use
as
well
as
ornament.
You
might
have
gained
your
sergeant's
stripes
last
night.
The
man
whom
you
held
in
your
hands
is
the
man
who
holds
the
clue
of
this
mystery,
and
whom
we
are
seeking.
There
is
no
use
of
arguing
about
it
now;
I
tell
you
that
it
is
so.
Come
along,
Doctor."
We
started
off
for
the
cab
together,
leaving
our
informant
incredulous,
but
obviously
uncomfortable.
"The
blundering
fool,"
Holmes
said,
bitterly,
as
we
drove
back
to
our
lodgings.
"Just
to
think
of
his
having
such
an
incomparable
bit
of
good
luck,
and
not
taking
advantage
of
it."
"I
am
rather
in
the
dark
still.
It
is
true
that
the
description
of
this
man
tallies
with
your
idea
of
the
second
party
in
this
mystery.
But
why
should
he
come
back
to
the
house
after
leaving
it?
That
is
not
the
way
of
criminals."
"The
ring,
man,
the
ring:
that
was
what
he
came
back
for.
If
we
have
no
other
way
of
catching
him,
we
can
always
bait
our
line
with
the
ring.
I
shall
have
him,
Doctor—I'll
lay
you
two
to
one
that
I
have
him.
I
must
thank
you
for
it
all.
I
might
not
have
gone
but
for
you,
and
so
have
missed
the
finest
study
I
ever
came
across:
a
study
in
scarlet,
eh?
Why
shouldn't
we
use
a
little
art
jargon.
There's
the
scarlet
thread
of
murder
running
through
the
colourless
skein
of
life,
and
our
duty
is
to
unravel
it,
and
isolate
it,
and
expose
every
inch
of
it.
And
now
for
lunch,
and
then
for
Norman
Neruda.
Her
attack
and
her
bowing
are
splendid.
What's
that
little
thing
of
Chopin's
she
plays
so
magnificently:
Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."
Leaning
back
in
the
cab,
this
amateur
bloodhound
carolled
away
like
a
lark
while
I
meditated
upon
the
many-sidedness
of
the
human
mind.
CHAPTER
V.
OUR
ADVERTISEMENT
BRINGS
A
VISITOR.
OUR
morning's
exertions
had
been
too
much
for
my
weak
health,
and
I
was
tired
out
in
the
afternoon.
After
Holmes'
departure
for
the
concert,
I
lay
down
upon
the
sofa
and
endeavoured
to
get
a
couple
of
hours'
sleep.
It
was
a
useless
attempt.
My
mind
had
been
too
much
excited
by
all
that
had
occurred,
and
the
strangest
fancies
and
surmises
crowded
into
it.
Every
time
that
I
closed
my
eyes
I
saw
before
me
the
distorted
baboon-like
countenance
of
the
murdered
man.
So
sinister
was
the
impression
which
that
face
had
produced
upon
me
that
I
found
it
difficult
to
feel
anything
but
gratitude
for
him
who
had
removed
its
owner
from
the
world.
If
ever
human
features
bespoke
vice
of
the
most
malignant
type,
they
were
certainly
those
of
Enoch
J.
Drebber,
of
Cleveland.
Still
I
recognized
that
justice
must
be
done,
and
that
the
depravity
of
the
victim
was
no
condonment
11
in
the
eyes
of
the
law.
The
more
I
thought
of
it
the
more
extraordinary
did
my
companion's
hypothesis,
that
the
man
had
been
poisoned,
appear.
I
remembered
how
he
had
sniffed
his
lips,
and
had
no
doubt
that
he
had
detected
something
which
had
given
rise
to
the
idea.
Then,
again,
if
not
poison,
what
had
caused
the
man's
death,
since
there
was
neither
wound
nor
marks
of
strangulation?
But,
on
the
other
hand,
whose
blood
was
that
which
lay
so
thickly
upon
the
floor?
There
were
no
signs
of
a
struggle,
nor
had
the
victim
any
weapon
with
which
he
might
have
wounded
an
antagonist.
As
long
as
all
these
questions
were
unsolved,
I
felt
that
sleep
would
be
no
easy
matter,
either
for
Holmes
or
myself.
His
quiet
self-confident
manner
convinced
me
that
he
had
already
formed
a
theory
which
explained
all
the
facts,
though
what
it
was
I
could
not
for
an
instant
conjecture.
He
was
very
late
in
returning—so
late,
that
I
knew
that
the
concert
could
not
have
detained
him
all
the
time.
Dinner
was
on
the
table
before
he
appeared.
"It
was
magnificent,"
he
said,
as
he
took
his
seat.
"Do
you
remember
what
Darwin
says
about
music?
He
claims
that
the
power
of
producing
and
appreciating
it
existed
among
the
human
race
long
before
the
power
of
speech
was
arrived
at.
Perhaps
that
is
why
we
are
so
subtly
influenced
by
it.
There
are
vague
memories
in
our
souls
of
those
misty
centuries
when
the
world
was
in
its
childhood."
"That's
rather
a
broad
idea,"
I
remarked.
"One's
ideas
must
be
as
broad
as
Nature
if
they
are
to
interpret
Nature,"
he
answered.
"What's
the
matter?
You're
not
looking
quite
yourself.
This
Brixton
Road
affair
has
upset
you."
"To
tell
the
truth,
it
has,"
I
said.
"I
ought
to
be
more
case-hardened
after
my
Afghan
experiences.
I
saw
my
own
comrades
hacked
to
pieces
at
Maiwand
without
losing
my
nerve."
"I
can
understand.
There
is
a
mystery
about
this
which
stimulates
the
imagination;
where
there
is
no
imagination
there
is
no
horror.
Have
you
seen
the
evening
paper?"
"No."
"It
gives
a
fairly
good
account
of
the
affair.
It
does
not
mention
the
fact
that
when
the
man
was
raised
up,
a
woman's
wedding
ring
fell
upon
the
floor.
It
is
just
as
well
it
does
not."
"Why?"
"Look
at
this
advertisement,"
he
answered.
"I
had
one
sent
to
every
paper
this
morning
immediately
after
the
affair."
He
threw
the
paper
across
to
me
and
I
glanced
at
the
place
indicated.
It
was
the
first
announcement
in
the
"Found"
column.
"In
Brixton
Road,
this
morning,"
it
ran,
"a
plain
gold
wedding
ring,
found
in
the
roadway
between
the
'White
Hart'
Tavern
and
Holland
Grove.
Apply
Dr.
Watson,
221B,
Baker
Street,
between
eight
and
nine
this
evening."
"Excuse
my
using
your
name,"
he
said.
"If
I
used
my
own
some
of
these
dunderheads
would
recognize
it,
and
want
to
meddle
in
the
affair."
"That
is
all
right,"
I
answered.
"But
supposing
anyone
applies,
I
have
no
ring."
"Oh
yes,
you
have,"
said
he,
handing
me
one.
"This
will
do
very
well.
It
is
almost
a
facsimile."
"And
who
do
you
expect
will
answer
this
advertisement."
"Why,
the
man
in
the
brown
coat—our
florid
friend
with
the
square
toes.
If
he
does
not
come
himself
he
will
send
an
accomplice."
"Would
he
not
consider
it
as
too
dangerous?"
"Not
at
all.
If
my
view
of
the
case
is
correct,
and
I
have
every
reason
to
believe
that
it
is,
this
man
would
rather
risk
anything
than
lose
the
ring.
According
to
my
notion
he
dropped
it
while
stooping
over
Drebber's
body,
and
did
not
miss
it
at
the
time.
After
leaving
the
house
he
discovered
his
loss
and
hurried
back,
but
found
the
police
already
in
possession,
owing
to
his
own
folly
in
leaving
the
candle
burning.
He
had
to
pretend
to
be
drunk
in
order
to
allay
the
suspicions
which
might
have
been
aroused
by
his
appearance
at
the
gate.
Now
put
yourself
in
that
man's
place.
On
thinking
the
matter
over,
it
must
have
occurred
to
him
that
it
was
possible
that
he
had
lost
the
ring
in
the
road
after
leaving
the
house.
What
would
he
do,
then?
He
would
eagerly
look
out
for
the
evening
papers
in
the
hope
of
seeing
it
among
the
articles
found.
His
eye,
of
course,
would
light
upon
this.
He
would
be
overjoyed.
Why
should
he
fear
a
trap?
There
would
be
no
reason
in
his
eyes
why
the
finding
of
the
ring
should
be
connected
with
the
murder.
He
would
come.
He
will
come.
You
shall
see
him
within
an
hour?"
"And
then?"
I
asked.
"Oh,
you
can
leave
me
to
deal
with
him
then.
Have
you
any
arms?"
"I
have
my
old
service
revolver
and
a
few
cartridges."
"You
had
better
clean
it
and
load
it.
He
will
be
a
desperate
man,
and
though
I
shall
take
him
unawares,
it
is
as
well
to
be
ready
for
anything."
I
went
to
my
bedroom
and
followed
his
advice.
When
I
returned
with
the
pistol
the
table
had
been
cleared,
and
Holmes
was
engaged
in
his
favourite
occupation
of
scraping
upon
his
violin.
"The
plot
thickens,"
he
said,
as
I
entered;
"I
have
just
had
an
answer
to
my
American
telegram.
My
view
of
the
case
is
the
correct
one."
"And
that
is?"
I
asked
eagerly.
"My
fiddle
would
be
the
better
for
new
strings,"
he
remarked.
"Put
your
pistol
in
your
pocket.
When
the
fellow
comes
speak
to
him
in
an
ordinary
way.
Leave
the
rest
to
me.
Don't
frighten
him
by
looking
at
him
too
hard."
"It
is
eight
o'clock
now,"
I
said,
glancing
at
my
watch.
"Yes.
He
will
probably
be
here
in
a
few
minutes.
Open
the
door
slightly.
That
will
do.
Now
put
the
key
on
the
inside.
Thank
you!
This
is
a
queer
old
book
I
picked
up
at
a
stall
yesterday—'De
Jure
inter
Gentes'—published
in
Latin
at
Liege
in
the
Lowlands,
in
1642.
Charles'
head
was
still
firm
on
his
shoulders
when
this
little
brown-backed
volume
was
struck
off."
"Who
is
the
printer?"
"Philippe
de
Croy,
whoever
he
may
have
been.
On
the
fly-leaf,
in
very
faded
ink,
is
written
'Ex
libris
Guliolmi
Whyte.'
I
wonder
who
William
Whyte
was.
Some
pragmatical
seventeenth
century
lawyer,
I
suppose.
His
writing
has
a
legal
twist
about
it.
Here
comes
our
man,
I
think."
As
he
spoke
there
was
a
sharp
ring
at
the
bell.
Sherlock
Holmes
rose
softly
and
moved
his
chair
in
the
direction
of
the
door.
We
heard
the
servant
pass
along
the
hall,
and
the
sharp
click
of
the
latch
as
she
opened
it.
"Does
Dr.
Watson
live
here?"
asked
a
clear
but
rather
harsh
voice.
We
could
not
hear
the
servant's
reply,
but
the
door
closed,
and
some
one
began
to
ascend
the
stairs.
The
footfall
was
an
uncertain
and
shuffling
one.
A
look
of
surprise
passed
over
the
face
of
my
companion
as
he
listened
to
it.
It
came
slowly
along
the
passage,
and
there
was
a
feeble
tap
at
the
door.
"Come
in,"
I
cried.
At
my
summons,
instead
of
the
man
of
violence
whom
we
expected,
a
very
old
and
wrinkled
woman
hobbled
into
the
apartment.
She
appeared
to
be
dazzled
by
the
sudden
blaze
of
light,
and
after
dropping
a
curtsey,
she
stood
blinking
at
us
with
her
bleared
eyes
and
fumbling
in
her
pocket
with
nervous,
shaky
fingers.
I
glanced
at
my
companion,
and
his
face
had
assumed
such
a
disconsolate
expression
that
it
was
all
I
could
do
to
keep
my
countenance.
The
old
crone
drew
out
an
evening
paper,
and
pointed
at
our
advertisement.
"It's
this
as
has
brought
me,
good
gentlemen,"
she
said,
dropping
another
curtsey;
"a
gold
wedding
ring
in
the
Brixton
Road.
It
belongs
to
my
girl
Sally,
as
was
married
only
this
time
twelvemonth,
which
her
husband
is
steward
aboard
a
Union
boat,
and
what
he'd
say
if
he
come
'ome
and
found
her
without
her
ring
is
more
than
I
can
think,
he
being
short
enough
at
the
best
o'
times,
but
more
especially
when
he
has
the
drink.
If
it
please
you,
she
went
to
the
circus
last
night
along
with——"
"Is
that
her
ring?"
I
asked.
"The
Lord
be
thanked!"
cried
the
old
woman;
"Sally
will
be
a
glad
woman
this
night.
That's
the
ring."
"And
what
may
your
address
be?"
I
inquired,
taking
up
a
pencil.
"13,
Duncan
Street,
Houndsditch.
A
weary
way
from
here."
"The
Brixton
Road
does
not
lie
between
any
circus
and
Houndsditch,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes
sharply.
The
old
woman
faced
round
and
looked
keenly
at
him
from
her
little
red-rimmed
eyes.
"The
gentleman
asked
me
for
my
address,"
she
said.
"Sally
lives
in
lodgings
at
3,
Mayfield
Place,
Peckham."
"And
your
name
is——?"
"My
name
is
Sawyer—her's
is
Dennis,
which
Tom
Dennis
married
her—and
a
smart,
clean
lad,
too,
as
long
as
he's
at
sea,
and
no
steward
in
the
company
more
thought
of;
but
when
on
shore,
what
with
the
women
and
what
with
liquor
shops——"
"Here
is
your
ring,
Mrs.
Sawyer,"
I
interrupted,
in
obedience
to
a
sign
from
my
companion;
"it
clearly
belongs
to
your
daughter,
and
I
am
glad
to
be
able
to
restore
it
to
the
rightful
owner."
With
many
mumbled
blessings
and
protestations
of
gratitude
the
old
crone
packed
it
away
in
her
pocket,
and
shuffled
off
down
the
stairs.
Sherlock
Holmes
sprang
to
his
feet
the
moment
that
she
was
gone
and
rushed
into
his
room.
He
returned
in
a
few
seconds
enveloped
in
an
ulster
and
a
cravat.
"I'll
follow
her,"
he
said,
hurriedly;
"she
must
be
an
accomplice,
and
will
lead
me
to
him.
Wait
up
for
me."
The
hall
door
had
hardly
slammed
behind
our
visitor
before
Holmes
had
descended
the
stair.
Looking
through
the
window
I
could
see
her
walking
feebly
along
the
other
side,
while
her
pursuer
dogged
her
some
little
distance
behind.
"Either
his
whole
theory
is
incorrect,"
I
thought
to
myself,
"or
else
he
will
be
led
now
to
the
heart
of
the
mystery."
There
was
no
need
for
him
to
ask
me
to
wait
up
for
him,
for
I
felt
that
sleep
was
impossible
until
I
heard
the
result
of
his
adventure.
It
was
close
upon
nine
when
he
set
out.
I
had
no
idea
how
long
he
might
be,
but
I
sat
stolidly
puffing
at
my
pipe
and
skipping
over
the
pages
of
Henri
Murger's
"Vie
de
Boh�me."
Ten
o'clock
passed,
and
I
heard
the
footsteps
of
the
maid
as
they
pattered
off
to
bed.
Eleven,
and
the
more
stately
tread
of
the
landlady
passed
my
door,
bound
for
the
same
destination.
It
was
close
upon
twelve
before
I
heard
the
sharp
sound
of
his
latch-key.
The
instant
he
entered
I
saw
by
his
face
that
he
had
not
been
successful.
Amusement
and
chagrin
seemed
to
be
struggling
for
the
mastery,
until
the
former
suddenly
carried
the
day,
and
he
burst
into
a
hearty
laugh.
"I
wouldn't
have
the
Scotland
Yarders
know
it
for
the
world,"
he
cried,
dropping
into
his
chair;
"I
have
chaffed
them
so
much
that
they
would
never
have
let
me
hear
the
end
of
it.
I
can
afford
to
laugh,
because
I
know
that
I
will
be
even
with
them
in
the
long
run."
"What
is
it
then?"
I
asked.
"Oh,
I
don't
mind
telling
a
story
against
myself.
That
creature
had
gone
a
little
way
when
she
began
to
limp
and
show
every
sign
of
being
foot-sore.
Presently
she
came
to
a
halt,
and
hailed
a
four-wheeler
which
was
passing.
I
managed
to
be
close
to
her
so
as
to
hear
the
address,
but
I
need
not
have
been
so
anxious,
for
she
sang
it
out
loud
enough
to
be
heard
at
the
other
side
of
the
street,
'Drive
to
13,
Duncan
Street,
Houndsditch,'
she
cried.
This
begins
to
look
genuine,
I
thought,
and
having
seen
her
safely
inside,
I
perched
myself
behind.
That's
an
art
which
every
detective
should
be
an
expert
at.
Well,
away
we
rattled,
and
never
drew
rein
until
we
reached
the
street
in
question.
I
hopped
off
before
we
came
to
the
door,
and
strolled
down
the
street
in
an
easy,
lounging
way.
I
saw
the
cab
pull
up.
The
driver
jumped
down,
and
I
saw
him
open
the
door
and
stand
expectantly.
Nothing
came
out
though.
When
I
reached
him
he
was
groping
about
frantically
in
the
empty
cab,
and
giving
vent
to
the
finest
assorted
collection
of
oaths
that
ever
I
listened
to.
There
was
no
sign
or
trace
of
his
passenger,
and
I
fear
it
will
be
some
time
before
he
gets
his
fare.
On
inquiring
at
Number
13
we
found
that
the
house
belonged
to
a
respectable
paperhanger,
named
Keswick,
and
that
no
one
of
the
name
either
of
Sawyer
or
Dennis
had
ever
been
heard
of
there."
"You
don't
mean
to
say,"
I
cried,
in
amazement,
"that
that
tottering,
feeble
old
woman
was
able
to
get
out
of
the
cab
while
it
was
in
motion,
without
either
you
or
the
driver
seeing
her?"
"Old
woman
be
damned!"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
sharply.
"We
were
the
old
women
to
be
so
taken
in.
It
must
have
been
a
young
man,
and
an
active
one,
too,
besides
being
an
incomparable
actor.
The
get-up
was
inimitable.
He
saw
that
he
was
followed,
no
doubt,
and
used
this
means
of
giving
me
the
slip.
It
shows
that
the
man
we
are
after
is
not
as
lonely
as
I
imagined
he
was,
but
has
friends
who
are
ready
to
risk
something
for
him.
Now,
Doctor,
you
are
looking
done-up.
Take
my
advice
and
turn
in."
I
was
certainly
feeling
very
weary,
so
I
obeyed
his
injunction.
I
left
Holmes
seated
in
front
of
the
smouldering
fire,
and
long
into
the
watches
of
the
night
I
heard
the
low,
melancholy
wailings
of
his
violin,
and
knew
that
he
was
still
pondering
over
the
strange
problem
which
he
had
set
himself
to
unravel.
CHAPTER
VI.
TOBIAS
GREGSON
SHOWS
WHAT
HE
CAN
DO.
THE
papers
next
day
were
full
of
the
"Brixton
Mystery,"
as
they
termed
it.
Each
had
a
long
account
of
the
affair,
and
some
had
leaders
upon
it
in
addition.
There
was
some
information
in
them
which
was
new
to
me.
I
still
retain
in
my
scrap-book
numerous
clippings
and
extracts
bearing
upon
the
case.
Here
is
a
condensation
of
a
few
of
them:—
The
Daily
Telegraph
remarked
that
in
the
history
of
crime
there
had
seldom
been
a
tragedy
which
presented
stranger
features.
The
German
name
of
the
victim,
the
absence
of
all
other
motive,
and
the
sinister
inscription
on
the
wall,
all
pointed
to
its
perpetration
by
political
refugees
and
revolutionists.
The
Socialists
had
many
branches
in
America,
and
the
deceased
had,
no
doubt,
infringed
their
unwritten
laws,
and
been
tracked
down
by
them.
After
alluding
airily
to
the
Vehmgericht,
aqua
tofana,
Carbonari,
the
Marchioness
de
Brinvilliers,
the
Darwinian
theory,
the
principles
of
Malthus,
and
the
Ratcliff
Highway
murders,
the
article
concluded
by
admonishing
the
Government
and
advocating
a
closer
watch
over
foreigners
in
England.
The
Standard
commented
upon
the
fact
that
lawless
outrages
of
the
sort
usually
occurred
under
a
Liberal
Administration.
They
arose
from
the
unsettling
of
the
minds
of
the
masses,
and
the
consequent
weakening
of
all
authority.
The
deceased
was
an
American
gentleman
who
had
been
residing
for
some
weeks
in
the
Metropolis.
He
had
stayed
at
the
boarding-house
of
Madame
Charpentier,
in
Torquay
Terrace,
Camberwell.
He
was
accompanied
in
his
travels
by
his
private
secretary,
Mr.
Joseph
Stangerson.
The
two
bade
adieu
to
their
landlady
upon
Tuesday,
the
4th
inst.,
and
departed
to
Euston
Station
with
the
avowed
intention
of
catching
the
Liverpool
express.
They
were
afterwards
seen
together
upon
the
platform.
Nothing
more
is
known
of
them
until
Mr.
Drebber's
body
was,
as
recorded,
discovered
in
an
empty
house
in
the
Brixton
Road,
many
miles
from
Euston.
How
he
came
there,
or
how
he
met
his
fate,
are
questions
which
are
still
involved
in
mystery.
Nothing
is
known
of
the
whereabouts
of
Stangerson.
We
are
glad
to
learn
that
Mr.
Lestrade
and
Mr.
Gregson,
of
Scotland
Yard,
are
both
engaged
upon
the
case,
and
it
is
confidently
anticipated
that
these
well-known
officers
will
speedily
throw
light
upon
the
matter.
The
Daily
News
observed
that
there
was
no
doubt
as
to
the
crime
being
a
political
one.
The
despotism
and
hatred
of
Liberalism
which
animated
the
Continental
Governments
had
had
the
effect
of
driving
to
our
shores
a
number
of
men
who
might
have
made
excellent
citizens
were
they
not
soured
by
the
recollection
of
all
that
they
had
undergone.
Among
these
men
there
was
a
stringent
code
of
honour,
any
infringement
of
which
was
punished
by
death.
Every
effort
should
be
made
to
find
the
secretary,
Stangerson,
and
to
ascertain
some
particulars
of
the
habits
of
the
deceased.
A
great
step
had
been
gained
by
the
discovery
of
the
address
of
the
house
at
which
he
had
boarded—a
result
which
was
entirely
due
to
the
acuteness
and
energy
of
Mr.
Gregson
of
Scotland
Yard.
Sherlock
Holmes
and
I
read
these
notices
over
together
at
breakfast,
and
they
appeared
to
afford
him
considerable
amusement.
"I
told
you
that,
whatever
happened,
Lestrade
and
Gregson
would
be
sure
to
score."
"That
depends
on
how
it
turns
out."
"Oh,
bless
you,
it
doesn't
matter
in
the
least.
If
the
man
is
caught,
it
will
be
on
account
of
their
exertions;
if
he
escapes,
it
will
be
in
spite
of
their
exertions.
It's
heads
I
win
and
tails
you
lose.
Whatever
they
do,
they
will
have
followers.
'Un
sot
trouve
toujours
un
plus
sot
qui
l'admire.'"
"What
on
earth
is
this?"
I
cried,
for
at
this
moment
there
came
the
pattering
of
many
steps
in
the
hall
and
on
the
stairs,
accompanied
by
audible
expressions
of
disgust
upon
the
part
of
our
landlady.
"It's
the
Baker
Street
division
of
the
detective
police
force,"
said
my
companion,
gravely;
and
as
he
spoke
there
rushed
into
the
room
half
a
dozen
of
the
dirtiest
and
most
ragged
street
Arabs
that
ever
I
clapped
eyes
on.
"'Tention!"
cried
Holmes,
in
a
sharp
tone,
and
the
six
dirty
little
scoundrels
stood
in
a
line
like
so
many
disreputable
statuettes.
"In
future
you
shall
send
up
Wiggins
alone
to
report,
and
the
rest
of
you
must
wait
in
the
street.
Have
you
found
it,
Wiggins?"
"No,
sir,
we
hain't,"
said
one
of
the
youths.
"I
hardly
expected
you
would.
You
must
keep
on
until
you
do.
Here
are
your
wages."
13
He
handed
each
of
them
a
shilling.
"Now,
off
you
go,
and
come
back
with
a
better
report
next
time."
He
waved
his
hand,
and
they
scampered
away
downstairs
like
so
many
rats,
and
we
heard
their
shrill
voices
next
moment
in
the
street.
"There's
more
work
to
be
got
out
of
one
of
those
little
beggars
than
out
of
a
dozen
of
the
force,"
Holmes
remarked.
"The
mere
sight
of
an
official-looking
person
seals
men's
lips.
These
youngsters,
however,
go
everywhere
and
hear
everything.
They
are
as
sharp
as
needles,
too;
all
they
want
is
organisation."
"Is
it
on
this
Brixton
case
that
you
are
employing
them?"
I
asked.
"Yes;
there
is
a
point
which
I
wish
to
ascertain.
It
is
merely
a
matter
of
time.
Hullo!
we
are
going
to
hear
some
news
now
with
a
vengeance!
Here
is
Gregson
coming
down
the
road
with
beatitude
written
upon
every
feature
of
his
face.
Bound
for
us,
I
know.
Yes,
he
is
stopping.
There
he
is!"
There
was
a
violent
peal
at
the
bell,
and
in
a
few
seconds
the
fair-haired
detective
came
up
the
stairs,
three
steps
at
a
time,
and
burst
into
our
sitting-room.
"My
dear
fellow,"
he
cried,
wringing
Holmes'
unresponsive
hand,
"congratulate
me!
I
have
made
the
whole
thing
as
clear
as
day."
A
shade
of
anxiety
seemed
to
me
to
cross
my
companion's
expressive
face.
"Do
you
mean
that
you
are
on
the
right
track?"
he
asked.
"The
right
track!
Why,
sir,
we
have
the
man
under
lock
and
key."
"And
his
name
is?"
"Arthur
Charpentier,
sub-lieutenant
in
Her
Majesty's
navy,"
cried
Gregson,
pompously,
rubbing
his
fat
hands
and
inflating
his
chest.
Sherlock
Holmes
gave
a
sigh
of
relief,
and
relaxed
into
a
smile.
"Take
a
seat,
and
try
one
of
these
cigars,"
he
said.
"We
are
anxious
to
know
how
you
managed
it.
Will
you
have
some
whiskey
and
water?"
"I
don't
mind
if
I
do,"
the
detective
answered.
"The
tremendous
exertions
which
I
have
gone
through
during
the
last
day
or
two
have
worn
me
out.
Not
so
much
bodily
exertion,
you
understand,
as
the
strain
upon
the
mind.
You
will
appreciate
that,
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,
for
we
are
both
brain-workers."
"You
do
me
too
much
honour,"
said
Holmes,
gravely.
"Let
us
hear
how
you
arrived
at
this
most
gratifying
result."
The
detective
seated
himself
in
the
arm-chair,
and
puffed
complacently
at
his
cigar.
Then
suddenly
he
slapped
his
thigh
in
a
paroxysm
of
amusement.
"The
fun
of
it
is,"
he
cried,
"that
that
fool
Lestrade,
who
thinks
himself
so
smart,
has
gone
off
upon
the
wrong
track
altogether.
He
is
after
the
secretary
Stangerson,
who
had
no
more
to
do
with
the
crime
than
the
babe
unborn.
I
have
no
doubt
that
he
has
caught
him
by
this
time."
The
idea
tickled
Gregson
so
much
that
he
laughed
until
he
choked.
"And
how
did
you
get
your
clue?"
"Ah,
I'll
tell
you
all
about
it.
Of
course,
Doctor
Watson,
this
is
strictly
between
ourselves.
The
first
difficulty
which
we
had
to
contend
with
was
the
finding
of
this
American's
antecedents.
Some
people
would
have
waited
until
their
advertisements
were
answered,
or
until
parties
came
forward
and
volunteered
information.
That
is
not
Tobias
Gregson's
way
of
going
to
work.
You
remember
the
hat
beside
the
dead
man?"
"Yes,"
said
Holmes;
"by
John
Underwood
and
Sons,
129,
Camberwell
Road."
Gregson
looked
quite
crest-fallen.
"I
had
no
idea
that
you
noticed
that,"
he
said.
"Have
you
been
there?"
"No."
"Ha!"
cried
Gregson,
in
a
relieved
voice;
"you
should
never
neglect
a
chance,
however
small
it
may
seem."
"To
a
great
mind,
nothing
is
little,"
remarked
Holmes,
sententiously.
"Well,
I
went
to
Underwood,
and
asked
him
if
he
had
sold
a
hat
of
that
size
and
description.
He
looked
over
his
books,
and
came
on
it
at
once.
He
had
sent
the
hat
to
a
Mr.
Drebber,
residing
at
Charpentier's
Boarding
Establishment,
Torquay
Terrace.
Thus
I
got
at
his
address."
"Smart—very
smart!"
murmured
Sherlock
Holmes.
"I
next
called
upon
Madame
Charpentier,"
continued
the
detective.
"I
found
her
very
pale
and
distressed.
Her
daughter
was
in
the
room,
too—an
uncommonly
fine
girl
she
is,
too;
she
was
looking
red
about
the
eyes
and
her
lips
trembled
as
I
spoke
to
her.
That
didn't
escape
my
notice.
I
began
to
smell
a
rat.
You
know
the
feeling,
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,
when
you
come
upon
the
right
scent—a
kind
of
thrill
in
your
nerves.
'Have
you
heard
of
the
mysterious
death
of
your
late
boarder
Mr.
Enoch
J.
Drebber,
of
Cleveland?'
I
asked.
"The
mother
nodded.
She
didn't
seem
able
to
get
out
a
word.
The
daughter
burst
into
tears.
I
felt
more
than
ever
that
these
people
knew
something
of
the
matter.
"'At
what
o'clock
did
Mr.
Drebber
leave
your
house
for
the
train?'
I
asked.
"'At
eight
o'clock,'
she
said,
gulping
in
her
throat
to
keep
down
her
agitation.
'His
secretary,
Mr.
Stangerson,
said
that
there
were
two
trains—one
at
9.15
and
one
at
11.
He
was
to
catch
the
first.
14
"'And
was
that
the
last
which
you
saw
of
him?'
"A
terrible
change
came
over
the
woman's
face
as
I
asked
the
question.
Her
features
turned
perfectly
livid.
It
was
some
seconds
before
she
could
get
out
the
single
word
'Yes'—and
when
it
did
come
it
was
in
a
husky
unnatural
tone.
"There
was
silence
for
a
moment,
and
then
the
daughter
spoke
in
a
calm
clear
voice.
"'No
good
can
ever
come
of
falsehood,
mother,'
she
said.
'Let
us
be
frank
with
this
gentleman.
We
did
see
Mr.
Drebber
again.'
"'God
forgive
you!'
cried
Madame
Charpentier,
throwing
up
her
hands
and
sinking
back
in
her
chair.
'You
have
murdered
your
brother.'
"'Arthur
would
rather
that
we
spoke
the
truth,'
the
girl
answered
firmly.
"'You
had
best
tell
me
all
about
it
now,'
I
said.
'Half-confidences
are
worse
than
none.
Besides,
you
do
not
know
how
much
we
know
of
it.'
"'On
your
head
be
it,
Alice!'
cried
her
mother;
and
then,
turning
to
me,
'I
will
tell
you
all,
sir.
Do
not
imagine
that
my
agitation
on
behalf
of
my
son
arises
from
any
fear
lest
he
should
have
had
a
hand
in
this
terrible
affair.
He
is
utterly
innocent
of
it.
My
dread
is,
however,
that
in
your
eyes
and
in
the
eyes
of
others
he
may
appear
to
be
compromised.
That
however
is
surely
impossible.
His
high
character,
his
profession,
his
antecedents
would
all
forbid
it.'
"'Your
best
way
is
to
make
a
clean
breast
of
the
facts,'
I
answered.
'Depend
upon
it,
if
your
son
is
innocent
he
will
be
none
the
worse.'
"'Perhaps,
Alice,
you
had
better
leave
us
together,'
she
said,
and
her
daughter
withdrew.
'Now,
sir,'
she
continued,
'I
had
no
intention
of
telling
you
all
this,
but
since
my
poor
daughter
has
disclosed
it
I
have
no
alternative.
Having
once
decided
to
speak,
I
will
tell
you
all
without
omitting
any
particular.'
"'It
is
your
wisest
course,'
said
I.
"'Mr.
Drebber
has
been
with
us
nearly
three
weeks.
He
and
his
secretary,
Mr.
Stangerson,
had
been
travelling
on
the
Continent.
I
noticed
a
"Copenhagen"
label
upon
each
of
their
trunks,
showing
that
that
had
been
their
last
stopping
place.
Stangerson
was
a
quiet
reserved
man,
but
his
employer,
I
am
sorry
to
say,
was
far
otherwise.
He
was
coarse
in
his
habits
and
brutish
in
his
ways.
The
very
night
of
his
arrival
he
became
very
much
the
worse
for
drink,
and,
indeed,
after
twelve
o'clock
in
the
day
he
could
hardly
ever
be
said
to
be
sober.
His
manners
towards
the
maid-servants
were
disgustingly
free
and
familiar.
Worst
of
all,
he
speedily
assumed
the
same
attitude
towards
my
daughter,
Alice,
and
spoke
to
her
more
than
once
in
a
way
which,
fortunately,
she
is
too
innocent
to
understand.
On
one
occasion
he
actually
seized
her
in
his
arms
and
embraced
her—an
outrage
which
caused
his
own
secretary
to
reproach
him
for
his
unmanly
conduct.'
"'But
why
did
you
stand
all
this,'
I
asked.
'I
suppose
that
you
can
get
rid
of
your
boarders
when
you
wish.'
"Mrs.
Charpentier
blushed
at
my
pertinent
question.
'Would
to
God
that
I
had
given
him
notice
on
the
very
day
that
he
came,'
she
said.
'But
it
was
a
sore
temptation.
They
were
paying
a
pound
a
day
each—fourteen
pounds
a
week,
and
this
is
the
slack
season.
I
am
a
widow,
and
my
boy
in
the
Navy
has
cost
me
much.
I
grudged
to
lose
the
money.
I
acted
for
the
best.
This
last
was
too
much,
however,
and
I
gave
him
notice
to
leave
on
account
of
it.
That
was
the
reason
of
his
going.'
"'Well?'
"'My
heart
grew
light
when
I
saw
him
drive
away.
My
son
is
on
leave
just
now,
but
I
did
not
tell
him
anything
of
all
this,
for
his
temper
is
violent,
and
he
is
passionately
fond
of
his
sister.
When
I
closed
the
door
behind
them
a
load
seemed
to
be
lifted
from
my
mind.
Alas,
in
less
than
an
hour
there
was
a
ring
at
the
bell,
and
I
learned
that
Mr.
Drebber
had
returned.
He
was
much
excited,
and
evidently
the
worse
for
drink.
He
forced
his
way
into
the
room,
where
I
was
sitting
with
my
daughter,
and
made
some
incoherent
remark
about
having
missed
his
train.
He
then
turned
to
Alice,
and
before
my
very
face,
proposed
to
her
that
she
should
fly
with
him.
"You
are
of
age,"
he
said,
"and
there
is
no
law
to
stop
you.
I
have
money
enough
and
to
spare.
Never
mind
the
old
girl
here,
but
come
along
with
me
now
straight
away.
You
shall
live
like
a
princess."
Poor
Alice
was
so
frightened
that
she
shrunk
away
from
him,
but
he
caught
her
by
the
wrist
and
endeavoured
to
draw
her
towards
the
door.
I
screamed,
and
at
that
moment
my
son
Arthur
came
into
the
room.
What
happened
then
I
do
not
know.
I
heard
oaths
and
the
confused
sounds
of
a
scuffle.
I
was
too
terrified
to
raise
my
head.
When
I
did
look
up
I
saw
Arthur
standing
in
the
doorway
laughing,
with
a
stick
in
his
hand.
"I
don't
think
that
fine
fellow
will
trouble
us
again,"
he
said.
"I
will
just
go
after
him
and
see
what
he
does
with
himself."
With
those
words
he
took
his
hat
and
started
off
down
the
street.
The
next
morning
we
heard
of
Mr.
Drebber's
mysterious
death.'
"This
statement
came
from
Mrs.
Charpentier's
lips
with
many
gasps
and
pauses.
At
times
she
spoke
so
low
that
I
could
hardly
catch
the
words.
I
made
shorthand
notes
of
all
that
she
said,
however,
so
that
there
should
be
no
possibility
of
a
mistake."
"It's
quite
exciting,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
with
a
yawn.
"What
happened
next?"
"When
Mrs.
Charpentier
paused,"
the
detective
continued,
"I
saw
that
the
whole
case
hung
upon
one
point.
Fixing
her
with
my
eye
in
a
way
which
I
always
found
effective
with
women,
I
asked
her
at
what
hour
her
son
returned.
"'I
do
not
know,'
she
answered.
"'Not
know?'
"'No;
he
has
a
latch-key,
and
he
let
himself
in.'
"'After
you
went
to
bed?'
"'Yes.'
"'When
did
you
go
to
bed?'
"'About
eleven.'
"'So
your
son
was
gone
at
least
two
hours?'
"'Yes.'
"'Possibly
four
or
five?'
"'Yes.'
"'What
was
he
doing
during
that
time?'
"'I
do
not
know,'
she
answered,
turning
white
to
her
very
lips.
"Of
course
after
that
there
was
nothing
more
to
be
done.
I
found
out
where
Lieutenant
Charpentier
was,
took
two
officers
with
me,
and
arrested
him.
When
I
touched
him
on
the
shoulder
and
warned
him
to
come
quietly
with
us,
he
answered
us
as
bold
as
brass,
'I
suppose
you
are
arresting
me
for
being
concerned
in
the
death
of
that
scoundrel
Drebber,'
he
said.
We
had
said
nothing
to
him
about
it,
so
that
his
alluding
to
it
had
a
most
suspicious
aspect."
"Very,"
said
Holmes.
"He
still
carried
the
heavy
stick
which
the
mother
described
him
as
having
with
him
when
he
followed
Drebber.
It
was
a
stout
oak
cudgel."
"What
is
your
theory,
then?"
"Well,
my
theory
is
that
he
followed
Drebber
as
far
as
the
Brixton
Road.
When
there,
a
fresh
altercation
arose
between
them,
in
the
course
of
which
Drebber
received
a
blow
from
the
stick,
in
the
pit
of
the
stomach,
perhaps,
which
killed
him
without
leaving
any
mark.
The
night
was
so
wet
that
no
one
was
about,
so
Charpentier
dragged
the
body
of
his
victim
into
the
empty
house.
As
to
the
candle,
and
the
blood,
and
the
writing
on
the
wall,
and
the
ring,
they
may
all
be
so
many
tricks
to
throw
the
police
on
to
the
wrong
scent."
"Well
done!"
said
Holmes
in
an
encouraging
voice.
"Really,
Gregson,
you
are
getting
along.
We
shall
make
something
of
you
yet."
"I
flatter
myself
that
I
have
managed
it
rather
neatly,"
the
detective
answered
proudly.
"The
young
man
volunteered
a
statement,
in
which
he
said
that
after
following
Drebber
some
time,
the
latter
perceived
him,
and
took
a
cab
in
order
to
get
away
from
him.
On
his
way
home
he
met
an
old
shipmate,
and
took
a
long
walk
with
him.
On
being
asked
where
this
old
shipmate
lived,
he
was
unable
to
give
any
satisfactory
reply.
I
think
the
whole
case
fits
together
uncommonly
well.
What
amuses
me
is
to
think
of
Lestrade,
who
had
started
off
upon
the
wrong
scent.
I
am
afraid
he
won't
make
much
of
15
Why,
by
Jove,
here's
the
very
man
himself!"
It
was
indeed
Lestrade,
who
had
ascended
the
stairs
while
we
were
talking,
and
who
now
entered
the
room.
The
assurance
and
jauntiness
which
generally
marked
his
demeanour
and
dress
were,
however,
wanting.
His
face
was
disturbed
and
troubled,
while
his
clothes
were
disarranged
and
untidy.
He
had
evidently
come
with
the
intention
of
consulting
with
Sherlock
Holmes,
for
on
perceiving
his
colleague
he
appeared
to
be
embarrassed
and
put
out.
He
stood
in
the
centre
of
the
room,
fumbling
nervously
with
his
hat
and
uncertain
what
to
do.
"This
is
a
most
extraordinary
case,"
he
said
at
last—"a
most
incomprehensible
affair."
"Ah,
you
find
it
so,
Mr.
Lestrade!"
cried
Gregson,
triumphantly.
"I
thought
you
would
come
to
that
conclusion.
Have
you
managed
to
find
the
Secretary,
Mr.
Joseph
Stangerson?"
"The
Secretary,
Mr.
Joseph
Stangerson,"
said
Lestrade
gravely,
"was
murdered
at
Halliday's
Private
Hotel
about
six
o'clock
this
morning."
CHAPTER
VII.
LIGHT
IN
THE
DARKNESS.
THE
intelligence
with
which
Lestrade
greeted
us
was
so
momentous
and
so
unexpected,
that
we
were
all
three
fairly
dumfoundered.
Gregson
sprang
out
of
his
chair
and
upset
the
remainder
of
his
whiskey
and
water.
I
stared
in
silence
at
Sherlock
Holmes,
whose
lips
were
compressed
and
his
brows
drawn
down
over
his
eyes.
"Stangerson
too!"
he
muttered.
"The
plot
thickens."
"It
was
quite
thick
enough
before,"
grumbled
Lestrade,
taking
a
chair.
"I
seem
to
have
dropped
into
a
sort
of
council
of
war."
"Are
you—are
you
sure
of
this
piece
of
intelligence?"
stammered
Gregson.
"I
have
just
come
from
his
room,"
said
Lestrade.
"I
was
the
first
to
discover
what
had
occurred."
"We
have
been
hearing
Gregson's
view
of
the
matter,"
Holmes
observed.
"Would
you
mind
letting
us
know
what
you
have
seen
and
done?"
"I
have
no
objection,"
Lestrade
answered,
seating
himself.
"I
freely
confess
that
I
was
of
the
opinion
that
Stangerson
was
concerned
in
the
death
of
Drebber.
This
fresh
development
has
shown
me
that
I
was
completely
mistaken.
Full
of
the
one
idea,
I
set
myself
to
find
out
what
had
become
of
the
Secretary.
They
had
been
seen
together
at
Euston
Station
about
half-past
eight
on
the
evening
of
the
third.
At
two
in
the
morning
Drebber
had
been
found
in
the
Brixton
Road.
The
question
which
confronted
me
was
to
find
out
how
Stangerson
had
been
employed
between
8.30
and
the
time
of
the
crime,
and
what
had
become
of
him
afterwards.
I
telegraphed
to
Liverpool,
giving
a
description
of
the
man,
and
warning
them
to
keep
a
watch
upon
the
American
boats.
I
then
set
to
work
calling
upon
all
the
hotels
and
lodging-houses
in
the
vicinity
of
Euston.
You
see,
I
argued
that
if
Drebber
and
his
companion
had
become
separated,
the
natural
course
for
the
latter
would
be
to
put
up
somewhere
in
the
vicinity
for
the
night,
and
then
to
hang
about
the
station
again
next
morning."
"They
would
be
likely
to
agree
on
some
meeting-place
beforehand,"
remarked
Holmes.
"So
it
proved.
I
spent
the
whole
of
yesterday
evening
in
making
enquiries
entirely
without
avail.
This
morning
I
began
very
early,
and
at
eight
o'clock
I
reached
Halliday's
Private
Hotel,
in
Little
George
Street.
On
my
enquiry
as
to
whether
a
Mr.
Stangerson
was
living
there,
they
at
once
answered
me
in
the
affirmative.
"'No
doubt
you
are
the
gentleman
whom
he
was
expecting,'
they
said.
'He
has
been
waiting
for
a
gentleman
for
two
days.'
"'Where
is
he
now?'
I
asked.
"'He
is
upstairs
in
bed.
He
wished
to
be
called
at
nine.'
"'I
will
go
up
and
see
him
at
once,'
I
said.
"It
seemed
to
me
that
my
sudden
appearance
might
shake
his
nerves
and
lead
him
to
say
something
unguarded.
The
Boots
volunteered
to
show
me
the
room:
it
was
on
the
second
floor,
and
there
was
a
small
corridor
leading
up
to
it.
The
Boots
pointed
out
the
door
to
me,
and
was
about
to
go
downstairs
again
when
I
saw
something
that
made
me
feel
sickish,
in
spite
of
my
twenty
years'
experience.
From
under
the
door
there
curled
a
little
red
ribbon
of
blood,
which
had
meandered
across
the
passage
and
formed
a
little
pool
along
the
skirting
at
the
other
side.
I
gave
a
cry,
which
brought
the
Boots
back.
He
nearly
fainted
when
he
saw
it.
The
door
was
locked
on
the
inside,
but
we
put
our
shoulders
to
it,
and
knocked
it
in.
The
window
of
the
room
was
open,
and
beside
the
window,
all
huddled
up,
lay
the
body
of
a
man
in
his
nightdress.
He
was
quite
dead,
and
had
been
for
some
time,
for
his
limbs
were
rigid
and
cold.
When
we
turned
him
over,
the
Boots
recognized
him
at
once
as
being
the
same
gentleman
who
had
engaged
the
room
under
the
name
of
Joseph
Stangerson.
The
cause
of
death
was
a
deep
stab
in
the
left
side,
which
must
have
penetrated
the
heart.
And
now
comes
the
strangest
part
of
the
affair.
What
do
you
suppose
was
above
the
murdered
man?"
I
felt
a
creeping
of
the
flesh,
and
a
presentiment
of
coming
horror,
even
before
Sherlock
Holmes
answered.
"The
word
RACHE,
written
in
letters
of
blood,"
he
said.
"That
was
it,"
said
Lestrade,
in
an
awe-struck
voice;
and
we
were
all
silent
for
a
while.
There
was
something
so
methodical
and
so
incomprehensible
about
the
deeds
of
this
unknown
assassin,
that
it
imparted
a
fresh
ghastliness
to
his
crimes.
My
nerves,
which
were
steady
enough
on
the
field
of
battle
tingled
as
I
thought
of
it.
"The
man
was
seen,"
continued
Lestrade.
"A
milk
boy,
passing
on
his
way
to
the
dairy,
happened
to
walk
down
the
lane
which
leads
from
the
mews
at
the
back
of
the
hotel.
He
noticed
that
a
ladder,
which
usually
lay
there,
was
raised
against
one
of
the
windows
of
the
second
floor,
which
was
wide
open.
After
passing,
he
looked
back
and
saw
a
man
descend
the
ladder.
He
came
down
so
quietly
and
openly
that
the
boy
imagined
him
to
be
some
carpenter
or
joiner
at
work
in
the
hotel.
He
took
no
particular
notice
of
him,
beyond
thinking
in
his
own
mind
that
it
was
early
for
him
to
be
at
work.
He
has
an
impression
that
the
man
was
tall,
had
a
reddish
face,
and
was
dressed
in
a
long,
brownish
coat.
He
must
have
stayed
in
the
room
some
little
time
after
the
murder,
for
we
found
blood-stained
water
in
the
basin,
where
he
had
washed
his
hands,
and
marks
on
the
sheets
where
he
had
deliberately
wiped
his
knife."
I
glanced
at
Holmes
on
hearing
the
description
of
the
murderer,
which
tallied
so
exactly
with
his
own.
There
was,
however,
no
trace
of
exultation
or
satisfaction
upon
his
face.
"Did
you
find
nothing
in
the
room
which
could
furnish
a
clue
to
the
murderer?"
he
asked.
"Nothing.
Stangerson
had
Drebber's
purse
in
his
pocket,
but
it
seems
that
this
was
usual,
as
he
did
all
the
paying.
There
was
eighty
odd
pounds
in
it,
but
nothing
had
been
taken.
Whatever
the
motives
of
these
extraordinary
crimes,
robbery
is
certainly
not
one
of
them.
There
were
no
papers
or
memoranda
in
the
murdered
man's
pocket,
except
a
single
telegram,
dated
from
Cleveland
about
a
month
ago,
and
containing
the
words,
'J.
H.
is
in
Europe.'
There
was
no
name
appended
to
this
message."
"And
there
was
nothing
else?"
Holmes
asked.
"Nothing
of
any
importance.
The
man's
novel,
with
which
he
had
read
himself
to
sleep
was
lying
upon
the
bed,
and
his
pipe
was
on
a
chair
beside
him.
There
was
a
glass
of
water
on
the
table,
and
on
the
window-sill
a
small
chip
ointment
box
containing
a
couple
of
pills."
Sherlock
Holmes
sprang
from
his
chair
with
an
exclamation
of
delight.
"The
last
link,"
he
cried,
exultantly.
"My
case
is
complete."
The
two
detectives
stared
at
him
in
amazement.
"I
have
now
in
my
hands,"
my
companion
said,
confidently,
"all
the
threads
which
have
formed
such
a
tangle.
There
are,
of
course,
details
to
be
filled
in,
but
I
am
as
certain
of
all
the
main
facts,
from
the
time
that
Drebber
parted
from
Stangerson
at
the
station,
up
to
the
discovery
of
the
body
of
the
latter,
as
if
I
had
seen
them
with
my
own
eyes.
I
will
give
you
a
proof
of
my
knowledge.
Could
you
lay
your
hand
upon
those
pills?"
"I
have
them,"
said
Lestrade,
producing
a
small
white
box;
"I
took
them
and
the
purse
and
the
telegram,
intending
to
have
them
put
in
a
place
of
safety
at
the
Police
Station.
It
was
the
merest
chance
my
taking
these
pills,
for
I
am
bound
to
say
that
I
do
not
attach
any
importance
to
them."
"Give
them
here,"
said
Holmes.
"Now,
Doctor,"
turning
to
me,
"are
those
ordinary
pills?"
They
certainly
were
not.
They
were
of
a
pearly
grey
colour,
small,
round,
and
almost
transparent
against
the
light.
"From
their
lightness
and
transparency,
I
should
imagine
that
they
are
soluble
in
water,"
I
remarked.
"Precisely
so,"
answered
Holmes.
"Now
would
you
mind
going
down
and
fetching
that
poor
little
devil
of
a
terrier
which
has
been
bad
so
long,
and
which
the
landlady
wanted
you
to
put
out
of
its
pain
yesterday."
I
went
downstairs
and
carried
the
dog
upstair
in
my
arms.
It's
laboured
breathing
and
glazing
eye
showed
that
it
was
not
far
from
its
end.
Indeed,
its
snow-white
muzzle
proclaimed
that
it
had
already
exceeded
the
usual
term
of
canine
existence.
I
placed
it
upon
a
cushion
on
the
rug.
"I
will
now
cut
one
of
these
pills
in
two,"
said
Holmes,
and
drawing
his
penknife
he
suited
the
action
to
the
word.
"One
half
we
return
into
the
box
for
future
purposes.
The
other
half
I
will
place
in
this
wine
glass,
in
which
is
a
teaspoonful
of
water.
You
perceive
that
our
friend,
the
Doctor,
is
right,
and
that
it
readily
dissolves."
"This
may
be
very
interesting,"
said
Lestrade,
in
the
injured
tone
of
one
who
suspects
that
he
is
being
laughed
at,
"I
cannot
see,
however,
what
it
has
to
do
with
the
death
of
Mr.
Joseph
Stangerson."
"Patience,
my
friend,
patience!
You
will
find
in
time
that
it
has
everything
to
do
with
it.
I
shall
now
add
a
little
milk
to
make
the
mixture
palatable,
and
on
presenting
it
to
the
dog
we
find
that
he
laps
it
up
readily
enough."
As
he
spoke
he
turned
the
contents
of
the
wine
glass
into
a
saucer
and
placed
it
in
front
of
the
terrier,
who
speedily
licked
it
dry.
Sherlock
Holmes'
earnest
demeanour
had
so
far
convinced
us
that
we
all
sat
in
silence,
watching
the
animal
intently,
and
expecting
some
startling
effect.
None
such
appeared,
however.
The
dog
continued
to
lie
stretched
upon
tho
16
cushion,
breathing
in
a
laboured
way,
but
apparently
neither
the
better
nor
the
worse
for
its
draught.
Holmes
had
taken
out
his
watch,
and
as
minute
followed
minute
without
result,
an
expression
of
the
utmost
chagrin
and
disappointment
appeared
upon
his
features.
He
gnawed
his
lip,
drummed
his
fingers
upon
the
table,
and
showed
every
other
symptom
of
acute
impatience.
So
great
was
his
emotion,
that
I
felt
sincerely
sorry
for
him,
while
the
two
detectives
smiled
derisively,
by
no
means
displeased
at
this
check
which
he
had
met.
"It
can't
be
a
coincidence,"
he
cried,
at
last
springing
from
his
chair
and
pacing
wildly
up
and
down
the
room;
"it
is
impossible
that
it
should
be
a
mere
coincidence.
The
very
pills
which
I
suspected
in
the
case
of
Drebber
are
actually
found
after
the
death
of
Stangerson.
And
yet
they
are
inert.
What
can
it
mean?
Surely
my
whole
chain
of
reasoning
cannot
have
been
false.
It
is
impossible!
And
yet
this
wretched
dog
is
none
the
worse.
Ah,
I
have
it!
I
have
it!"
With
a
perfect
shriek
of
delight
he
rushed
to
the
box,
cut
the
other
pill
in
two,
dissolved
it,
added
milk,
and
presented
it
to
the
terrier.
The
unfortunate
creature's
tongue
seemed
hardly
to
have
been
moistened
in
it
before
it
gave
a
convulsive
shiver
in
every
limb,
and
lay
as
rigid
and
lifeless
as
if
it
had
been
struck
by
lightning.
Sherlock
Holmes
drew
a
long
breath,
and
wiped
the
perspiration
from
his
forehead.
"I
should
have
more
faith,"
he
said;
"I
ought
to
know
by
this
time
that
when
a
fact
appears
to
be
opposed
to
a
long
train
of
deductions,
it
invariably
proves
to
be
capable
of
bearing
some
other
interpretation.
Of
the
two
pills
in
that
box
one
was
of
the
most
deadly
poison,
and
the
other
was
entirely
harmless.
I
ought
to
have
known
that
before
ever
I
saw
the
box
at
all."
This
last
statement
appeared
to
me
to
be
so
startling,
that
I
could
hardly
believe
that
he
was
in
his
sober
senses.
There
was
the
dead
dog,
however,
to
prove
that
his
conjecture
had
been
correct.
It
seemed
to
me
that
the
mists
in
my
own
mind
were
gradually
clearing
away,
and
I
began
to
have
a
dim,
vague
perception
of
the
truth.
"All
this
seems
strange
to
you,"
continued
Holmes,
"because
you
failed
at
the
beginning
of
the
inquiry
to
grasp
the
importance
of
the
single
real
clue
which
was
presented
to
you.
I
had
the
good
fortune
to
seize
upon
that,
and
everything
which
has
occurred
since
then
has
served
to
confirm
my
original
supposition,
and,
indeed,
was
the
logical
sequence
of
it.
Hence
things
which
have
perplexed
you
and
made
the
case
more
obscure,
have
served
to
enlighten
me
and
to
strengthen
my
conclusions.
It
is
a
mistake
to
confound
strangeness
with
mystery.
The
most
commonplace
crime
is
often
the
most
mysterious
because
it
presents
no
new
or
special
features
from
which
deductions
may
be
drawn.
This
murder
would
have
been
infinitely
more
difficult
to
unravel
had
the
body
of
the
victim
been
simply
found
lying
in
the
roadway
without
any
of
those
outr�
and
sensational
accompaniments
which
have
rendered
it
remarkable.
These
strange
details,
far
from
making
the
case
more
difficult,
have
really
had
the
effect
of
making
it
less
so."
Mr.
Gregson,
who
had
listened
to
this
address
with
considerable
impatience,
could
contain
himself
no
longer.
"Look
here,
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,"
he
said,
"we
are
all
ready
to
acknowledge
that
you
are
a
smart
man,
and
that
you
have
your
own
methods
of
working.
We
want
something
more
than
mere
theory
and
preaching
now,
though.
It
is
a
case
of
taking
the
man.
I
have
made
my
case
out,
and
it
seems
I
was
wrong.
Young
Charpentier
could
not
have
been
engaged
in
this
second
affair.
Lestrade
went
after
his
man,
Stangerson,
and
it
appears
that
he
was
wrong
too.
You
have
thrown
out
hints
here,
and
hints
there,
and
seem
to
know
more
than
we
do,
but
the
time
has
come
when
we
feel
that
we
have
a
right
to
ask
you
straight
how
much
you
do
know
of
the
business.
Can
you
name
the
man
who
did
it?"
"I
cannot
help
feeling
that
Gregson
is
right,
sir,"
remarked
Lestrade.
"We
have
both
tried,
and
we
have
both
failed.
You
have
remarked
more
than
once
since
I
have
been
in
the
room
that
you
had
all
the
evidence
which
you
require.
Surely
you
will
not
withhold
it
any
longer."
"Any
delay
in
arresting
the
assassin,"
I
observed,
"might
give
him
time
to
perpetrate
some
fresh
atrocity."
Thus
pressed
by
us
all,
Holmes
showed
signs
of
irresolution.
He
continued
to
walk
up
and
down
the
room
with
his
head
sunk
on
his
chest
and
his
brows
drawn
down,
as
was
his
habit
when
lost
in
thought.
"There
will
be
no
more
murders,"
he
said
at
last,
stopping
abruptly
and
facing
us.
"You
can
put
that
consideration
out
of
the
question.
You
have
asked
me
if
I
know
the
name
of
the
assassin.
I
do.
The
mere
knowing
of
his
name
is
a
small
thing,
however,
compared
with
the
power
of
laying
our
hands
upon
him.
This
I
expect
very
shortly
to
do.
I
have
good
hopes
of
managing
it
through
my
own
arrangements;
but
it
is
a
thing
which
needs
delicate
handling,
for
we
have
a
shrewd
and
desperate
man
to
deal
with,
who
is
supported,
as
I
have
had
occasion
to
prove,
by
another
who
is
as
clever
as
himself.
As
long
as
this
man
has
no
idea
that
anyone
can
have
a
clue
there
is
some
chance
of
securing
him;
but
if
he
had
the
slightest
suspicion,
he
would
change
his
name,
and
vanish
in
an
instant
among
the
four
million
inhabitants
of
this
great
city.
Without
meaning
to
hurt
either
of
your
feelings,
I
am
bound
to
say
that
I
consider
these
men
to
be
more
than
a
match
for
the
official
force,
and
that
is
why
I
have
not
asked
your
assistance.
If
I
fail
I
shall,
of
course,
incur
all
the
blame
due
to
this
omission;
but
that
I
am
prepared
for.
At
present
I
am
ready
to
promise
that
the
instant
that
I
can
communicate
with
you
without
endangering
my
own
combinations,
I
shall
do
so."
Gregson
and
Lestrade
seemed
to
be
far
from
satisfied
by
this
assurance,
or
by
the
depreciating
allusion
to
the
detective
police.
The
former
had
flushed
up
to
the
roots
of
his
flaxen
hair,
while
the
other's
beady
eyes
glistened
with
curiosity
and
resentment.
Neither
of
them
had
time
to
speak,
however,
before
there
was
a
tap
at
the
door,
and
the
spokesman
of
the
street
Arabs,
young
Wiggins,
introduced
his
insignificant
and
unsavoury
person.
"Please,
sir,"
he
said,
touching
his
forelock,
"I
have
the
cab
downstairs."
"Good
boy,"
said
Holmes,
blandly.
"Why
don't
you
introduce
this
pattern
at
Scotland
Yard?"
he
continued,
taking
a
pair
of
steel
handcuffs
from
a
drawer.
"See
how
beautifully
the
spring
works.
They
fasten
in
an
instant."
"The
old
pattern
is
good
enough,"
remarked
Lestrade,
"if
we
can
only
find
the
man
to
put
them
on."
"Very
good,
very
good,"
said
Holmes,
smiling.
"The
cabman
may
as
well
help
me
with
my
boxes.
Just
ask
him
to
step
up,
Wiggins."
I
was
surprised
to
find
my
companion
speaking
as
though
he
were
about
to
set
out
on
a
journey,
since
he
had
not
said
anything
to
me
about
it.
There
was
a
small
portmanteau
in
the
room,
and
this
he
pulled
out
and
began
to
strap.
He
was
busily
engaged
at
it
when
the
cabman
entered
the
room.
"Just
give
me
a
help
with
this
buckle,
cabman,"
he
said,
kneeling
over
his
task,
and
never
turning
his
head.
The
fellow
came
forward
with
a
somewhat
sullen,
defiant
air,
and
put
down
his
hands
to
assist.
At
that
instant
there
was
a
sharp
click,
the
jangling
of
metal,
and
Sherlock
Holmes
sprang
to
his
feet
again.
"Gentlemen,"
he
cried,
with
flashing
eyes,
"let
me
introduce
you
to
Mr.
Jefferson
Hope,
the
murderer
of
Enoch
Drebber
and
of
Joseph
Stangerson."
The
whole
thing
occurred
in
a
moment—so
quickly
that
I
had
no
time
to
realize
it.
I
have
a
vivid
recollection
of
that
instant,
of
Holmes'
triumphant
expression
and
the
ring
of
his
voice,
of
the
cabman's
dazed,
savage
face,
as
he
glared
at
the
glittering
handcuffs,
which
had
appeared
as
if
by
magic
upon
his
wrists.
For
a
second
or
two
we
might
have
been
a
group
of
statues.
Then,
with
an
inarticulate
roar
of
fury,
the
prisoner
wrenched
himself
free
from
Holmes's
grasp,
and
hurled
himself
through
the
window.
Woodwork
and
glass
gave
way
before
him;
but
before
he
got
quite
through,
Gregson,
Lestrade,
and
Holmes
sprang
upon
him
like
so
many
staghounds.
He
was
dragged
back
into
the
room,
and
then
commenced
a
terrific
conflict.
So
powerful
and
so
fierce
was
he,
that
the
four
of
us
were
shaken
off
again
and
again.
He
appeared
to
have
the
convulsive
strength
of
a
man
in
an
epileptic
fit.
His
face
and
hands
were
terribly
mangled
by
his
passage
through
the
glass,
but
loss
of
blood
had
no
effect
in
diminishing
his
resistance.
It
was
not
until
Lestrade
succeeded
in
getting
his
hand
inside
his
neckcloth
and
half-strangling
him
that
we
made
him
realize
that
his
struggles
were
of
no
avail;
and
even
then
we
felt
no
security
until
we
had
pinioned
his
feet
as
well
as
his
hands.
That
done,
we
rose
to
our
feet
breathless
and
panting.
"We
have
his
cab,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"It
will
serve
to
take
him
to
Scotland
Yard.
And
now,
gentlemen,"
he
continued,
with
a
pleasant
smile,
"we
have
reached
the
end
of
our
little
mystery.
You
are
very
welcome
to
put
any
questions
that
you
like
to
me
now,
and
there
is
no
danger
that
I
will
refuse
to
answer
them."
PART
II.
The
Country
of
the
Saints.
CHAPTER
I.
ON
THE
GREAT
ALKALI
PLAIN.
IN
the
central
portion
of
the
great
North
American
Continent
there
lies
an
arid
and
repulsive
desert,
which
for
many
a
long
year
served
as
a
barrier
against
the
advance
of
civilisation.
From
the
Sierra
Nevada
to
Nebraska,
and
from
the
Yellowstone
River
in
the
north
to
the
Colorado
upon
the
south,
is
a
region
of
desolation
and
silence.
Nor
is
Nature
always
in
one
mood
throughout
this
grim
district.
It
comprises
snow-capped
and
lofty
mountains,
and
dark
and
gloomy
valleys.
There
are
swift-flowing
rivers
which
dash
through
jagged
ca�ons;
and
there
are
enormous
plains,
which
in
winter
are
white
with
snow,
and
in
summer
are
grey
with
the
saline
alkali
dust.
They
all
preserve,
however,
the
common
characteristics
of
barrenness,
inhospitality,
and
misery.
There
are
no
inhabitants
of
this
land
of
despair.
A
band
of
Pawnees
or
of
Blackfeet
may
occasionally
traverse
it
in
order
to
reach
other
hunting-grounds,
but
the
hardiest
of
the
braves
are
glad
to
lose
sight
of
those
awesome
plains,
and
to
find
themselves
once
more
upon
their
prairies.
The
coyote
skulks
among
the
scrub,
the
buzzard
flaps
heavily
through
the
air,
and
the
clumsy
grizzly
bear
lumbers
through
the
dark
ravines,
and
picks
up
such
sustenance
as
it
can
amongst
the
rocks.
These
are
the
sole
dwellers
in
the
wilderness.
In
the
whole
world
there
can
be
no
more
dreary
view
than
that
from
the
northern
slope
of
the
Sierra
Blanco.
As
far
as
the
eye
can
reach
stretches
the
great
flat
plain-land,
all
dusted
over
with
patches
of
alkali,
and
intersected
by
clumps
of
the
dwarfish
chaparral
bushes.
On
the
extreme
verge
of
the
horizon
lie
a
long
chain
of
mountain
peaks,
with
their
rugged
summits
flecked
with
snow.
In
this
great
stretch
of
country
there
is
no
sign
of
life,
nor
of
anything
appertaining
to
life.
There
is
no
bird
in
the
steel-blue
heaven,
no
movement
upon
the
dull,
grey
earth—above
all,
there
is
absolute
silence.
Listen
as
one
may,
there
is
no
shadow
of
a
sound
in
all
that
mighty
wilderness;
nothing
but
silence—complete
and
heart-subduing
silence.
It
has
been
said
there
is
nothing
appertaining
to
life
upon
the
broad
plain.
That
is
hardly
true.
Looking
down
from
the
Sierra
Blanco,
one
sees
a
pathway
traced
out
across
the
desert,
which
winds
away
and
is
lost
in
the
extreme
distance.
It
is
rutted
with
wheels
and
trodden
down
by
the
feet
of
many
adventurers.
Here
and
there
there
are
scattered
white
objects
which
glisten
in
the
sun,
and
stand
out
against
the
dull
deposit
of
alkali.
Approach,
and
examine
them!
They
are
bones:
some
large
and
coarse,
others
smaller
and
more
delicate.
The
former
have
belonged
to
oxen,
and
the
latter
to
men.
For
fifteen
hundred
miles
one
may
trace
this
ghastly
caravan
route
by
these
scattered
remains
of
those
who
had
fallen
by
the
wayside.
Looking
down
on
this
very
scene,
there
stood
upon
the
fourth
of
May,
eighteen
hundred
and
forty-seven,
a
solitary
traveller.
His
appearance
was
such
that
he
might
have
been
the
very
genius
or
demon
of
the
region.
An
observer
would
have
found
it
difficult
to
say
whether
he
was
nearer
to
forty
or
to
sixty.
His
face
was
lean
and
haggard,
and
the
brown
parchment-like
skin
was
drawn
tightly
over
the
projecting
bones;
his
long,
brown
hair
and
beard
were
all
flecked
and
dashed
with
white;
his
eyes
were
sunken
in
his
head,
and
burned
with
an
unnatural
lustre;
while
the
hand
which
grasped
his
rifle
was
hardly
more
fleshy
than
that
of
a
skeleton.
As
he
stood,
he
leaned
upon
his
weapon
for
support,
and
yet
his
tall
figure
and
the
massive
framework
of
his
bones
suggested
a
wiry
and
vigorous
constitution.
His
gaunt
face,
however,
and
his
clothes,
which
hung
so
baggily
over
his
shrivelled
limbs,
proclaimed
what
it
was
that
gave
him
that
senile
and
decrepit
appearance.
The
man
was
dying—dying
from
hunger
and
from
thirst.
He
had
toiled
painfully
down
the
ravine,
and
on
to
this
little
elevation,
in
the
vain
hope
of
seeing
some
signs
of
water.
Now
the
great
salt
plain
stretched
before
his
eyes,
and
the
distant
belt
of
savage
mountains,
without
a
sign
anywhere
of
plant
or
tree,
which
might
indicate
the
presence
of
moisture.
In
all
that
broad
landscape
there
was
no
gleam
of
hope.
North,
and
east,
and
west
he
looked
with
wild
questioning
eyes,
and
then
he
realised
that
his
wanderings
had
come
to
an
end,
and
that
there,
on
that
barren
crag,
he
was
about
to
die.
"Why
not
here,
as
well
as
in
a
feather
bed,
twenty
years
hence,"
he
muttered,
as
he
seated
himself
in
the
shelter
of
a
boulder.
Before
sitting
down,
he
had
deposited
upon
the
ground
his
useless
rifle,
and
also
a
large
bundle
tied
up
in
a
grey
shawl,
which
he
had
carried
slung
over
his
right
shoulder.
It
appeared
to
be
somewhat
too
heavy
for
his
strength,
for
in
lowering
it,
it
came
down
on
the
ground
with
some
little
violence.
Instantly
there
broke
from
the
grey
parcel
a
little
moaning
cry,
and
from
it
there
protruded
a
small,
scared
face,
with
very
bright
brown
eyes,
and
two
little
speckled,
dimpled
fists.
"You've
hurt
me!"
said
a
childish
voice
reproachfully.
"Have
I
though,"
the
man
answered
penitently,
"I
didn't
go
for
to
do
it."
As
he
spoke
he
unwrapped
the
grey
shawl
and
extricated
a
pretty
little
girl
of
about
five
years
of
age,
whose
dainty
shoes
and
smart
pink
frock
with
its
little
linen
apron
all
bespoke
a
mother's
care.
The
child
was
pale
and
wan,
but
her
healthy
arms
and
legs
showed
that
she
had
suffered
less
than
her
companion.
"How
is
it
now?"
he
answered
anxiously,
for
she
was
still
rubbing
the
towsy
golden
curls
which
covered
the
back
of
her
head.
"Kiss
it
and
make
it
well,"
she
said,
with
perfect
gravity,
shoving
19
the
injured
part
up
to
him.
"That's
what
mother
used
to
do.
Where's
mother?"
"Mother's
gone.
I
guess
you'll
see
her
before
long."
"Gone,
eh!"
said
the
little
girl.
"Funny,
she
didn't
say
good-bye;
she
'most
always
did
if
she
was
just
goin'
over
to
Auntie's
for
tea,
and
now
she's
been
away
three
days.
Say,
it's
awful
dry,
ain't
it?
Ain't
there
no
water,
nor
nothing
to
eat?"
"No,
there
ain't
nothing,
dearie.
You'll
just
need
to
be
patient
awhile,
and
then
you'll
be
all
right.
Put
your
head
up
agin
me
like
that,
and
then
you'll
feel
bullier.
It
ain't
easy
to
talk
when
your
lips
is
like
leather,
but
I
guess
I'd
best
let
you
know
how
the
cards
lie.
What's
that
you've
got?"
"Pretty
things!
fine
things!"
cried
the
little
girl
enthusiastically,
holding
up
two
glittering
fragments
of
mica.
"When
we
goes
back
to
home
I'll
give
them
to
brother
Bob."
"You'll
see
prettier
things
than
them
soon,"
said
the
man
confidently.
"You
just
wait
a
bit.
I
was
going
to
tell
you
though—you
remember
when
we
left
the
river?"
"Oh,
yes."
"Well,
we
reckoned
we'd
strike
another
river
soon,
d'ye
see.
But
there
was
somethin'
wrong;
compasses,
or
map,
or
somethin',
and
it
didn't
turn
up.
Water
ran
out.
Just
except
a
little
drop
for
the
likes
of
you
and—and——"
"And
you
couldn't
wash
yourself,"
interrupted
his
companion
gravely,
staring
up
at
his
grimy
visage.
"No,
nor
drink.
And
Mr.
Bender,
he
was
the
fust
to
go,
and
then
Indian
Pete,
and
then
Mrs.
McGregor,
and
then
Johnny
Hones,
and
then,
dearie,
your
mother."
"Then
mother's
a
deader
too,"
cried
the
little
girl
dropping
her
face
in
her
pinafore
and
sobbing
bitterly.
"Yes,
they
all
went
except
you
and
me.
Then
I
thought
there
was
some
chance
of
water
in
this
direction,
so
I
heaved
you
over
my
shoulder
and
we
tramped
it
together.
It
don't
seem
as
though
we've
improved
matters.
There's
an
almighty
small
chance
for
us
now!"
"Do
you
mean
that
we
are
going
to
die
too?"
asked
the
child,
checking
her
sobs,
and
raising
her
tear-stained
face.
"I
guess
that's
about
the
size
of
it."
"Why
didn't
you
say
so
before?"
she
said,
laughing
gleefully.
"You
gave
me
such
a
fright.
Why,
of
course,
now
as
long
as
we
die
we'll
be
with
mother
again."
"Yes,
you
will,
dearie."
"And
you
too.
I'll
tell
her
how
awful
good
you've
been.
I'll
bet
she
meets
us
at
the
door
of
Heaven
with
a
big
pitcher
of
water,
and
a
lot
of
buckwheat
cakes,
hot,
and
toasted
on
both
sides,
like
Bob
and
me
was
fond
of.
How
long
will
it
be
first?"
"I
don't
know—not
very
long."
The
man's
eyes
were
fixed
upon
the
northern
horizon.
In
the
blue
vault
of
the
heaven
there
had
appeared
three
little
specks
which
increased
in
size
every
moment,
so
rapidly
did
they
approach.
They
speedily
resolved
themselves
into
three
large
brown
birds,
which
circled
over
the
heads
of
the
two
wanderers,
and
then
settled
upon
some
rocks
which
overlooked
them.
They
were
buzzards,
the
vultures
of
the
west,
whose
coming
is
the
forerunner
of
death.
"Cocks
and
hens,"
cried
the
little
girl
gleefully,
pointing
at
their
ill-omened
forms,
and
clapping
her
hands
to
make
them
rise.
"Say,
did
God
make
this
country?"
"In
course
He
did,"
said
her
companion,
rather
startled
by
this
unexpected
question.
"He
made
the
country
down
in
Illinois,
and
He
made
the
Missouri,"
the
little
girl
continued.
"I
guess
somebody
else
made
the
country
in
these
parts.
It's
not
nearly
so
well
done.
They
forgot
the
water
and
the
trees."
"What
would
ye
think
of
offering
up
prayer?"
the
man
asked
diffidently.
"It
ain't
night
yet,"
she
answered.
"It
don't
matter.
It
ain't
quite
regular,
but
He
won't
mind
that,
you
bet.
You
say
over
them
ones
that
you
used
to
say
every
night
in
the
waggon
when
we
was
on
the
Plains."
"Why
don't
you
say
some
yourself?"
the
child
asked,
with
wondering
eyes.
"I
disremember
them,"
he
answered.
"I
hain't
said
none
since
I
was
half
the
height
o'
that
gun.
I
guess
it's
never
too
late.
You
say
them
out,
and
I'll
stand
by
and
come
in
on
the
choruses."
"Then
you'll
need
to
kneel
down,
and
me
too,"
she
said,
laying
the
shawl
out
for
that
purpose.
"You've
got
to
put
your
hands
up
like
this.
It
makes
you
feel
kind
o'
good."
It
was
a
strange
sight
had
there
been
anything
but
the
buzzards
to
see
it.
Side
by
side
on
the
narrow
shawl
knelt
the
two
wanderers,
the
little
prattling
child
and
the
reckless,
hardened
adventurer.
Her
chubby
face,
and
his
haggard,
angular
visage
were
both
turned
up
to
the
cloudless
heaven
in
heartfelt
entreaty
to
that
dread
being
with
whom
they
were
face
to
face,
while
the
two
voices—the
one
thin
and
clear,
the
other
deep
and
harsh—united
in
the
entreaty
for
mercy
and
forgiveness.
The
prayer
finished,
they
resumed
their
seat
in
the
shadow
of
the
boulder
until
the
child
fell
asleep,
nestling
upon
the
broad
breast
of
her
protector.
He
watched
over
her
slumber
for
some
time,
but
Nature
proved
to
be
too
strong
for
him.
For
three
days
and
three
nights
he
had
allowed
himself
neither
rest
nor
repose.
Slowly
the
eyelids
drooped
over
the
tired
eyes,
and
the
head
sunk
lower
and
lower
upon
the
breast,
until
the
man's
grizzled
beard
was
mixed
with
the
gold
tresses
of
his
companion,
and
both
slept
the
same
deep
and
dreamless
slumber.
Had
the
wanderer
remained
awake
for
another
half
hour
a
strange
sight
would
have
met
his
eyes.
Far
away
on
the
extreme
verge
of
the
alkali
plain
there
rose
up
a
little
spray
of
dust,
very
slight
at
first,
and
hardly
to
be
distinguished
from
the
mists
of
the
distance,
but
gradually
growing
higher
and
broader
until
it
formed
a
solid,
well-defined
cloud.
This
cloud
continued
to
increase
in
size
until
it
became
evident
that
it
could
only
be
raised
by
a
great
multitude
of
moving
creatures.
In
more
fertile
spots
the
observer
would
have
come
to
the
conclusion
that
one
of
those
great
herds
of
bisons
which
graze
upon
the
prairie
land
was
approaching
him.
This
was
obviously
impossible
in
these
arid
wilds.
As
the
whirl
of
dust
drew
nearer
to
the
solitary
bluff
upon
which
the
two
castaways
were
reposing,
the
canvas-covered
tilts
of
waggons
and
the
figures
of
armed
horsemen
began
to
show
up
through
the
haze,
and
the
apparition
revealed
itself
as
being
a
great
caravan
upon
its
journey
for
the
West.
But
what
a
caravan!
When
the
head
of
it
had
reached
the
base
of
the
mountains,
the
rear
was
not
yet
visible
on
the
horizon.
Right
across
the
enormous
plain
stretched
the
straggling
array,
waggons
and
carts,
men
on
horseback,
and
men
on
foot.
Innumerable
women
who
staggered
along
under
burdens,
and
children
who
toddled
beside
the
waggons
or
peeped
out
from
under
the
white
coverings.
This
was
evidently
no
ordinary
party
of
immigrants,
but
rather
some
nomad
people
who
had
been
compelled
from
stress
of
circumstances
to
seek
themselves
a
new
country.
There
rose
through
the
clear
air
a
confused
clattering
and
rumbling
from
this
great
mass
of
humanity,
with
the
creaking
of
wheels
and
the
neighing
of
horses.
Loud
as
it
was,
it
was
not
sufficient
to
rouse
the
two
tired
wayfarers
above
them.
At
the
head
of
the
column
there
rode
a
score
or
more
of
grave
ironfaced
men,
clad
in
sombre
homespun
garments
and
armed
with
rifles.
On
reaching
the
base
of
the
bluff
they
halted,
and
held
a
short
council
among
themselves.
"The
wells
are
to
the
right,
my
brothers,"
said
one,
a
hard-lipped,
clean-shaven
man
with
grizzly
hair.
"To
the
right
of
the
Sierra
Blanco—so
we
shall
reach
the
Rio
Grande,"
said
another.
"Fear
not
for
water,"
cried
a
third.
"He
who
could
draw
it
from
the
rocks
will
not
now
abandon
His
own
chosen
people."
"Amen!
Amen!"
responded
the
whole
party.
They
were
about
to
resume
their
journey
when
one
of
the
youngest
and
keenest-eyed
uttered
an
exclamation
and
pointed
up
at
the
rugged
crag
above
them.
From
its
summit
there
fluttered
a
little
wisp
of
pink,
showing
up
hard
and
bright
against
the
grey
rocks
behind.
At
the
sight
there
was
a
general
reining
up
of
horses
and
unslinging
of
guns,
while
fresh
horsemen
came
galloping
up
to
reinforce
the
vanguard.
The
word
'Redskins'
was
on
every
lip.
"There
can't
be
any
number
of
Injuns
here,"
said
the
elderly
man
who
appeared
to
be
in
command.
"We
have
passed
the
Pawnees,
and
there
are
no
other
tribes
until
we
cross
the
great
mountains."
"Shall
I
go
forward
and
see,
Brother
Stangerson,"
asked
one
of
the
band.
"And
I,"
"and
I,"
cried
a
dozen
voices.
"Leave
your
horses
below
and
we
will
await
you
here,"
the
Elder
answered.
In
a
moment
the
young
fellows
had
dismounted,
fastened
their
horses,
and
were
ascending
the
precipitous
slope
which
led
up
to
the
object
which
had
excited
their
curiosity.
They
advanced
rapidly
and
noiselessly,
with
the
confidence
and
dexterity
of
practised
scouts.
The
watchers
from
the
plain
below
could
see
them
flit
from
rock
to
rock
until
their
figures
stood
out
against
the
skyline.
The
young
man
who
had
first
given
the
alarm
was
leading
them.
Suddenly
his
followers
saw
him
throw
up
his
hands,
as
though
overcome
with
astonishment,
and
on
joining
him
they
were
affected
in
the
same
way
by
the
sight
which
met
their
eyes.
On
the
little
plateau
which
crowned
the
barren
hill
there
stood
a
single
giant
boulder,
and
against
this
boulder
there
lay
a
tall
man,
long-bearded
and
hard-featured,
but
of
an
excessive
thinness.
His
placid
face
and
regular
breathing
showed
that
he
was
fast
asleep.
Beside
him
lay
a
little
child,
with
her
round
white
arms
encircling
his
brown
sinewy
neck,
and
her
golden
haired
head
resting
upon
the
breast
of
his
velveteen
tunic.
Her
rosy
lips
were
parted,
showing
the
regular
line
of
snow-white
teeth
within,
and
a
playful
smile
played
over
her
infantile
features.
Her
plump
little
white
legs
terminating
in
white
socks
and
neat
shoes
with
shining
buckles,
offered
a
strange
contrast
to
the
long
shrivelled
members
of
her
companion.
On
the
ledge
of
rock
above
this
strange
couple
there
stood
three
solemn
buzzards,
who,
at
the
sight
of
the
new
comers
uttered
raucous
screams
of
disappointment
and
flapped
sullenly
away.
The
cries
of
the
foul
birds
awoke
the
two
sleepers
who
stared
about
20
them
in
bewilderment.
The
man
staggered
to
his
feet
and
looked
down
upon
the
plain
which
had
been
so
desolate
when
sleep
had
overtaken
him,
and
which
was
now
traversed
by
this
enormous
body
of
men
and
of
beasts.
His
face
assumed
an
expression
of
incredulity
as
he
gazed,
and
he
passed
his
boney
hand
over
his
eyes.
"This
is
what
they
call
delirium,
I
guess,"
he
muttered.
The
child
stood
beside
him,
holding
on
to
the
skirt
of
his
coat,
and
said
nothing
but
looked
all
round
her
with
the
wondering
questioning
gaze
of
childhood.
The
rescuing
party
were
speedily
able
to
convince
the
two
castaways
that
their
appearance
was
no
delusion.
One
of
them
seized
the
little
girl,
and
hoisted
her
upon
his
shoulder,
while
two
others
supported
her
gaunt
companion,
and
assisted
him
towards
the
waggons.
"My
name
is
John
Ferrier,"
the
wanderer
explained;
"me
and
that
little
un
are
all
that's
left
o'
twenty-one
people.
The
rest
is
all
dead
o'
thirst
and
hunger
away
down
in
the
south."
"Is
she
your
child?"
asked
someone.
"I
guess
she
is
now,"
the
other
cried,
defiantly;
"she's
mine
'cause
I
saved
her.
No
man
will
take
her
from
me.
She's
Lucy
Ferrier
from
this
day
on.
Who
are
you,
though?"
he
continued,
glancing
with
curiosity
at
his
stalwart,
sunburned
rescuers;
"there
seems
to
be
a
powerful
lot
of
ye."
"Nigh
upon
ten
thousand,"
said
one
of
the
young
men;
"we
are
the
persecuted
children
of
God—the
chosen
of
the
Angel
Merona."
"I
never
heard
tell
on
him,"
said
the
wanderer.
"He
appears
to
have
chosen
a
fair
crowd
of
ye."
"Do
not
jest
at
that
which
is
sacred,"
said
the
other
sternly.
"We
are
of
those
who
believe
in
those
sacred
writings,
drawn
in
Egyptian
letters
on
plates
of
beaten
gold,
which
were
handed
unto
the
holy
Joseph
Smith
at
Palmyra.
We
have
come
from
Nauvoo,
in
the
State
of
Illinois,
where
we
had
founded
our
temple.
We
have
come
to
seek
a
refuge
from
the
violent
man
and
from
the
godless,
even
though
it
be
the
heart
of
the
desert."
The
name
of
Nauvoo
evidently
recalled
recollections
to
John
Ferrier.
"I
see,"
he
said,
"you
are
the
Mormons."
"We
are
the
Mormons,"
answered
his
companions
with
one
voice.
"And
where
are
you
going?"
"We
do
not
know.
The
hand
of
God
is
leading
us
under
the
person
of
our
Prophet.
You
must
come
before
him.
He
shall
say
what
is
to
be
done
with
you."
They
had
reached
the
base
of
the
hill
by
this
time,
and
were
surrounded
by
crowds
of
the
pilgrims—pale-faced
meek-looking
women,
strong
laughing
children,
and
anxious
earnest-eyed
men.
Many
were
the
cries
of
astonishment
and
of
commiseration
which
arose
from
them
when
they
perceived
the
youth
of
one
of
the
strangers
and
the
destitution
of
the
other.
Their
escort
did
not
halt,
however,
but
pushed
on,
followed
by
a
great
crowd
of
Mormons,
until
they
reached
a
waggon,
which
was
conspicuous
for
its
great
size
and
for
the
gaudiness
and
smartness
of
its
appearance.
Six
horses
were
yoked
to
it,
whereas
the
others
were
furnished
with
two,
or,
at
most,
four
a-piece.
Beside
the
driver
there
sat
a
man
who
could
not
have
been
more
than
thirty
years
of
age,
but
whose
massive
head
and
resolute
expression
marked
him
as
a
leader.
He
was
reading
a
brown-backed
volume,
but
as
the
crowd
approached
he
laid
it
aside,
and
listened
attentively
to
an
account
of
the
episode.
Then
he
turned
to
the
two
castaways.
"If
we
take
you
with
us,"
he
said,
in
solemn
words,
"it
can
only
be
as
believers
in
our
own
creed.
We
shall
have
no
wolves
in
our
fold.
Better
far
that
your
bones
should
bleach
in
this
wilderness
than
that
you
should
prove
to
be
that
little
speck
of
decay
which
in
time
corrupts
the
whole
fruit.
Will
you
come
with
us
on
these
terms?"
"Guess
I'll
come
with
you
on
any
terms,"
said
Ferrier,
with
such
emphasis
that
the
grave
Elders
could
not
restrain
a
smile.
The
leader
alone
retained
his
stern,
impressive
expression.
"Take
him,
Brother
Stangerson,"
he
said,
"give
him
food
and
drink,
and
the
child
likewise.
Let
it
be
your
task
also
to
teach
him
our
holy
creed.
We
have
delayed
long
enough.
Forward!
On,
on
to
Zion!"
"On,
on
to
Zion!"
cried
the
crowd
of
Mormons,
and
the
words
rippled
down
the
long
caravan,
passing
from
mouth
to
mouth
until
they
died
away
in
a
dull
murmur
in
the
far
distance.
With
a
cracking
of
whips
and
a
creaking
of
wheels
the
great
waggons
got
into
motion,
and
soon
the
whole
caravan
was
winding
along
once
more.
The
Elder
to
whose
care
the
two
waifs
had
been
committed,
led
them
to
his
waggon,
where
a
meal
was
already
awaiting
them.
"You
shall
remain
here,"
he
said.
"In
a
few
days
you
will
have
recovered
from
your
fatigues.
In
the
meantime,
remember
that
now
and
for
ever
you
are
of
our
religion.
Brigham
Young
has
said
it,
and
he
has
spoken
with
the
voice
of
Joseph
Smith,
which
is
the
voice
of
God."
CHAPTER
II.
THE
FLOWER
OF
UTAH.
THIS
is
not
the
place
to
commemorate
the
trials
and
privations
endured
by
the
immigrant
Mormons
before
they
came
to
their
final
haven.
From
the
shores
of
the
Mississippi
to
the
western
slopes
of
the
Rocky
Mountains
they
had
struggled
on
with
a
constancy
almost
unparalleled
in
history.
The
savage
man,
and
the
savage
beast,
hunger,
thirst,
fatigue,
and
disease—every
impediment
which
Nature
could
place
in
the
way,
had
all
been
overcome
with
Anglo-Saxon
tenacity.
Yet
the
long
journey
and
the
accumulated
terrors
had
shaken
the
hearts
of
the
stoutest
among
them.
There
was
not
one
who
did
not
sink
upon
his
knees
in
heartfelt
prayer
when
they
saw
the
broad
valley
of
Utah
bathed
in
the
sunlight
beneath
them,
and
learned
from
the
lips
of
their
leader
that
this
was
the
promised
land,
and
that
these
virgin
acres
were
to
be
theirs
for
evermore.
Young
speedily
proved
himself
to
be
a
skilful
administrator
as
well
as
a
resolute
chief.
Maps
were
drawn
and
charts
prepared,
in
which
the
future
city
was
sketched
out.
All
around
farms
were
apportioned
and
allotted
in
proportion
to
the
standing
of
each
individual.
The
tradesman
was
put
to
his
trade
and
the
artisan
to
his
calling.
In
the
town
streets
and
squares
sprang
up,
as
if
by
magic.
In
the
country
there
was
draining
and
hedging,
planting
and
clearing,
until
the
next
summer
saw
the
whole
country
golden
with
the
wheat
crop.
Everything
prospered
in
the
strange
settlement.
Above
all,
the
great
temple
which
they
had
erected
in
the
centre
of
the
city
grew
ever
taller
and
larger.
From
the
first
blush
of
dawn
until
the
closing
of
the
twilight,
the
clatter
of
the
hammer
and
the
rasp
of
the
saw
was
never
absent
from
the
monument
which
the
immigrants
erected
to
Him
who
had
led
them
safe
through
many
dangers.
The
two
castaways,
John
Ferrier
and
the
little
girl
who
had
shared
his
fortunes
and
had
been
adopted
as
his
daughter,
accompanied
the
Mormons
to
the
end
of
their
great
pilgrimage.
Little
Lucy
Ferrier
was
borne
along
pleasantly
enough
in
Elder
Stangerson's
waggon,
a
retreat
which
she
shared
with
the
Mormon's
three
wives
and
with
his
son,
a
headstrong
forward
boy
of
twelve.
Having
rallied,
with
the
elasticity
of
childhood,
from
the
shock
caused
by
her
mother's
death,
she
soon
became
a
pet
with
the
women,
and
reconciled
herself
to
this
new
life
in
her
moving
canvas-covered
home.
In
the
meantime
Ferrier
having
recovered
from
his
privations,
distinguished
himself
as
a
useful
guide
and
an
indefatigable
hunter.
So
rapidly
did
he
gain
the
esteem
of
his
new
companions,
that
when
they
reached
the
end
of
their
wanderings,
it
was
unanimously
agreed
that
he
should
be
provided
with
as
large
and
as
fertile
a
tract
of
land
as
any
of
the
settlers,
with
the
exception
of
Young
himself,
and
of
Stangerson,
Kemball,
Johnston,
and
Drebber,
who
were
the
four
principal
Elders.
On
the
farm
thus
acquired
John
Ferrier
built
himself
a
substantial
log-house,
which
received
so
many
additions
in
succeeding
years
that
it
grew
into
a
roomy
villa.
He
was
a
man
of
a
practical
turn
of
mind,
keen
in
his
dealings
and
skilful
with
his
hands.
His
iron
constitution
enabled
him
to
work
morning
and
evening
at
improving
and
tilling
his
lands.
Hence
it
came
about
that
his
farm
and
all
that
belonged
to
him
prospered
exceedingly.
In
three
years
he
was
better
off
than
his
neighbours,
in
six
he
was
well-to-do,
in
nine
he
was
rich,
and
in
twelve
there
were
not
half
a
dozen
men
in
the
whole
of
Salt
Lake
City
who
could
compare
with
him.
From
the
great
inland
sea
to
the
distant
Wahsatch
Mountains
there
was
no
name
better
known
than
that
of
John
Ferrier.
There
was
one
way
and
only
one
in
which
he
offended
the
susceptibilities
of
his
co-religionists.
No
argument
or
persuasion
could
ever
induce
him
to
set
up
a
female
establishment
after
the
manner
of
his
companions.
He
never
gave
reasons
for
this
persistent
refusal,
but
contented
himself
by
resolutely
and
inflexibly
adhering
to
his
determination.
There
were
some
who
accused
him
of
lukewarmness
in
his
adopted
religion,
and
others
who
put
it
down
to
greed
of
wealth
and
reluctance
to
incur
expense.
Others,
again,
spoke
of
some
early
love
affair,
and
of
a
fair-haired
girl
who
had
pined
away
on
the
shores
of
the
Atlantic.
Whatever
the
reason,
Ferrier
remained
strictly
celibate.
In
every
other
respect
he
conformed
to
the
religion
of
the
young
settlement,
and
gained
the
name
of
being
an
orthodox
and
straight-walking
man.
Lucy
Ferrier
grew
up
within
the
log-house,
and
assisted
her
adopted
father
in
all
his
undertakings.
The
keen
air
of
the
mountains
and
the
balsamic
odour
of
the
pine
trees
took
the
place
of
nurse
and
mother
to
the
young
girl.
As
year
succeeded
to
year
she
grew
taller
and
stronger,
her
cheek
more
rudy,
and
her
step
more
elastic.
Many
a
wayfarer
upon
the
high
road
which
ran
by
Ferrier's
farm
felt
long-forgotten
thoughts
revive
in
their
mind
as
they
watched
her
lithe
girlish
figure
tripping
through
the
wheatfields,
or
met
her
mounted
upon
her
father's
mustang,
and
managing
it
with
all
the
ease
and
grace
of
a
true
child
of
the
West.
So
the
bud
blossomed
into
a
flower,
and
the
year
which
saw
her
father
the
richest
of
the
farmers
left
her
as
fair
a
specimen
of
American
girlhood
as
could
be
found
in
the
whole
Pacific
slope.
It
was
not
the
father,
however,
who
first
discovered
that
the
child
had
developed
into
the
woman.
It
seldom
is
in
such
cases.
That
mysterious
change
is
too
subtle
and
too
gradual
to
be
measured
by
dates.
Least
of
all
does
the
maiden
herself
know
it
until
the
tone
of
a
voice
or
the
touch
of
a
hand
sets
her
heart
thrilling
within
her,
and
she
learns,
with
a
mixture
of
pride
and
of
fear,
that
a
new
and
a
larger
nature
has
awoken
within
her.
There
are
few
who
cannot
recall
that
day
and
remember
the
one
little
incident
which
heralded
the
dawn
of
a
new
life.
In
the
case
of
Lucy
Ferrier
the
occasion
was
serious
enough
in
itself,
apart
from
its
future
influence
on
her
destiny
and
that
of
many
besides.
It
was
a
warm
June
morning,
and
the
Latter
Day
Saints
were
as
busy
as
the
bees
whose
hive
they
have
chosen
for
their
emblem.
In
the
fields
and
in
the
streets
rose
the
same
hum
of
human
industry.
Down
the
dusty
high
roads
defiled
long
streams
of
heavily-laden
mules,
all
heading
to
the
west,
for
the
gold
fever
had
broken
out
in
California,
and
the
Overland
Route
lay
through
the
City
of
the
Elect.
There,
too,
were
droves
of
sheep
and
bullocks
coming
in
from
the
outlying
pasture
lands,
and
trains
of
tired
immigrants,
men
and
horses
equally
weary
of
their
interminable
journey.
Through
all
this
motley
assemblage,
threading
her
way
with
the
skill
of
an
accomplished
rider,
there
galloped
Lucy
Ferrier,
her
fair
face
flushed
with
the
exercise
and
her
long
chestnut
hair
floating
out
behind
her.
She
had
a
commission
from
her
father
in
the
City,
and
was
dashing
in
as
she
had
done
many
a
time
before,
with
all
the
fearlessness
of
youth,
thinking
only
of
her
task
and
how
it
was
to
be
performed.
The
travel-stained
adventurers
gazed
after
her
in
astonishment,
and
even
the
unemotional
Indians,
journeying
in
with
their
pelties,
relaxed
their
accustomed
stoicism
as
they
marvelled
at
the
beauty
of
the
pale-faced
maiden.
She
had
reached
the
outskirts
of
the
city
when
she
found
the
road
blocked
by
a
great
drove
of
cattle,
driven
by
a
half-dozen
wild-looking
herdsmen
from
the
plains.
In
her
impatience
she
endeavoured
to
pass
this
obstacle
by
pushing
her
horse
into
what
appeared
to
be
a
gap.
Scarcely
had
she
got
fairly
into
it,
however,
before
the
beasts
closed
in
behind
her,
and
she
found
herself
completely
imbedded
in
the
moving
stream
of
fierce-eyed,
long-horned
bullocks.
Accustomed
as
she
was
to
deal
with
cattle,
she
was
not
alarmed
at
her
situation,
but
took
advantage
of
every
opportunity
to
urge
her
horse
on
in
the
hopes
of
pushing
her
way
through
the
cavalcade.
Unfortunately
the
horns
of
one
of
the
creatures,
either
by
accident
or
design,
came
in
violent
contact
with
the
flank
of
the
mustang,
and
excited
it
to
madness.
In
an
instant
it
reared
up
upon
its
hind
legs
with
a
snort
of
rage,
and
pranced
and
tossed
in
a
way
that
would
have
unseated
any
but
a
most
skilful
rider.
The
situation
was
full
of
peril.
Every
plunge
of
the
excited
horse
brought
it
against
the
horns
again,
and
goaded
it
to
fresh
madness.
It
was
all
that
the
girl
could
do
to
keep
herself
in
the
saddle,
yet
a
slip
would
mean
a
terrible
death
under
the
hoofs
of
the
unwieldy
and
terrified
animals.
Unaccustomed
to
sudden
emergencies,
her
head
began
to
swim,
and
her
grip
upon
the
bridle
to
relax.
Choked
by
the
rising
cloud
of
dust
and
by
the
steam
from
the
struggling
creatures,
she
might
have
abandoned
her
efforts
in
despair,
but
for
a
kindly
voice
at
her
elbow
which
assured
her
of
assistance.
At
the
same
moment
a
sinewy
brown
hand
caught
the
frightened
horse
by
the
curb,
and
forcing
a
way
through
the
drove,
soon
brought
her
to
the
outskirts.
"You're
not
hurt,
I
hope,
miss,"
said
her
preserver,
respectfully.
She
looked
up
at
his
dark,
fierce
face,
and
laughed
saucily.
"I'm
awful
frightened,"
she
said,
naively;
"whoever
would
have
thought
that
Poncho
would
have
been
so
scared
by
a
lot
of
cows?"
"Thank
God
you
kept
your
seat,"
the
other
said
earnestly.
He
was
a
tall,
savage-looking
young
fellow,
mounted
on
a
powerful
roan
horse,
and
clad
in
the
rough
dress
of
a
hunter,
with
a
long
rifle
slung
over
his
shoulders.
"I
guess
you
are
the
daughter
of
John
Ferrier,"
he
remarked,
"I
saw
you
ride
down
from
his
house.
When
you
see
him,
ask
him
if
he
remembers
the
Jefferson
Hopes
of
St.
Louis.
If
he's
the
same
Ferrier,
my
father
and
he
were
pretty
thick."
"Hadn't
you
better
come
and
ask
yourself?"
she
asked,
demurely.
The
young
fellow
seemed
pleased
at
the
suggestion,
and
his
dark
eyes
sparkled
with
pleasure.
"I'll
do
so,"
he
said,
"we've
been
in
the
mountains
for
two
months,
and
are
not
over
and
above
in
visiting
condition.
He
must
take
us
as
he
finds
us."
"He
has
a
good
deal
to
thank
you
for,
and
so
have
I,"
she
answered,
"he's
awful
fond
of
me.
If
those
cows
had
jumped
on
me
he'd
have
never
got
over
it."
"Neither
would
I,"
said
her
companion.
"You!
Well,
I
don't
see
that
it
would
make
much
matter
to
you,
anyhow.
You
ain't
even
a
friend
of
ours."
The
young
hunter's
dark
face
grew
so
gloomy
over
this
remark
that
Lucy
Ferrier
laughed
aloud.
"There,
I
didn't
mean
that,"
she
said;
"of
course,
you
are
a
friend
now.
You
must
come
and
see
us.
Now
I
must
push
along,
or
father
won't
trust
me
with
his
business
any
more.
Good-bye!"
"Good-bye,"
he
answered,
raising
his
broad
sombrero,
and
bending
over
her
little
hand.
She
wheeled
her
mustang
round,
gave
it
a
cut
with
her
riding-whip,
and
darted
away
down
the
broad
road
in
a
rolling
cloud
of
dust.
Young
Jefferson
Hope
rode
on
with
his
companions,
gloomy
and
taciturn.
He
and
they
had
been
among
the
Nevada
Mountains
prospecting
for
silver,
and
were
returning
to
Salt
Lake
City
in
the
hope
of
raising
capital
enough
to
work
some
lodes
which
they
had
discovered.
He
had
been
as
keen
as
any
of
them
upon
the
business
until
this
sudden
incident
had
drawn
his
thoughts
into
another
channel.
The
sight
of
the
fair
young
girl,
as
frank
and
wholesome
as
the
Sierra
breezes,
had
stirred
his
volcanic,
untamed
heart
to
its
very
depths.
When
she
had
vanished
from
his
sight,
he
realized
that
a
crisis
had
come
in
his
life,
and
that
neither
silver
speculations
nor
any
other
questions
could
ever
be
of
such
importance
to
him
as
this
new
and
all-absorbing
one.
The
love
which
had
sprung
up
in
his
heart
was
not
the
sudden,
changeable
fancy
of
a
boy,
but
rather
the
wild,
fierce
passion
of
a
man
of
strong
will
and
imperious
temper.
He
had
been
accustomed
to
succeed
in
all
that
he
undertook.
He
swore
in
his
heart
that
he
would
not
fail
in
this
if
human
effort
and
human
perseverance
could
render
him
successful.
He
called
on
John
Ferrier
that
night,
and
many
times
again,
until
his
face
was
a
familiar
one
at
the
farm-house.
John,
cooped
up
in
the
valley,
and
absorbed
in
his
work,
had
had
little
chance
of
learning
the
news
of
the
outside
world
during
the
last
twelve
years.
All
this
Jefferson
Hope
was
able
to
tell
him,
and
in
a
style
which
interested
Lucy
as
well
as
her
father.
He
had
been
a
pioneer
in
California,
and
could
narrate
many
a
strange
tale
of
fortunes
made
and
fortunes
lost
in
those
wild,
halcyon
days.
He
had
been
a
scout
too,
and
a
trapper,
a
silver
explorer,
and
a
ranchman.
Wherever
stirring
adventures
were
to
be
had,
Jefferson
Hope
had
been
there
in
search
of
them.
He
soon
became
a
favourite
with
the
old
farmer,
who
spoke
eloquently
of
his
virtues.
On
such
occasions,
Lucy
was
silent,
but
her
blushing
cheek
and
her
bright,
happy
eyes,
showed
only
too
clearly
that
her
young
heart
was
no
longer
her
own.
Her
honest
father
may
not
have
observed
these
symptoms,
but
they
were
assuredly
not
thrown
away
upon
the
man
who
had
won
her
affections.
It
was
a
summer
evening
when
he
came
galloping
down
the
road
and
pulled
up
at
the
gate.
She
was
at
the
doorway,
and
came
down
to
meet
him.
He
threw
the
bridle
over
the
fence
and
strode
up
the
pathway.
"I
am
off,
Lucy,"
he
said,
taking
her
two
hands
in
his,
and
gazing
tenderly
down
into
her
face;
"I
won't
ask
you
to
come
with
me
now,
but
will
you
be
ready
to
come
when
I
am
here
again?"
"And
when
will
that
be?"
she
asked,
blushing
and
laughing.
"A
couple
of
months
at
the
outside.
I
will
come
and
claim
you
then,
my
darling.
There's
no
one
who
can
stand
between
us."
"And
how
about
father?"
she
asked.
"He
has
given
his
consent,
provided
we
get
these
mines
working
all
right.
I
have
no
fear
on
that
head."
"Oh,
well;
of
course,
if
you
and
father
have
arranged
it
all,
there's
no
more
to
be
said,"
she
whispered,
with
her
cheek
against
his
broad
breast.
"Thank
God!"
he
said,
hoarsely,
stooping
and
kissing
her.
"It
is
settled,
then.
The
longer
I
stay,
the
harder
it
will
be
to
go.
They
are
waiting
for
me
at
the
ca�on.
Good-bye,
my
own
darling—good-bye.
In
two
months
you
shall
see
me."
He
tore
himself
from
her
as
he
spoke,
and,
flinging
himself
upon
his
horse,
galloped
furiously
away,
never
even
looking
round,
as
though
afraid
that
his
resolution
might
fail
him
if
he
took
one
glance
at
what
he
was
leaving.
She
stood
at
the
gate,
gazing
after
him
until
he
vanished
from
her
sight.
Then
she
walked
back
into
the
house,
the
happiest
girl
in
all
Utah.
CHAPTER
III.
JOHN
FERRIER
TALKS
WITH
THE
PROPHET.
THREE
weeks
had
passed
since
Jefferson
Hope
and
his
comrades
had
departed
from
Salt
Lake
City.
John
Ferrier's
heart
was
sore
within
him
when
he
thought
of
the
young
man's
return,
and
of
the
impending
loss
of
his
adopted
child.
Yet
her
bright
and
happy
face
reconciled
him
to
the
arrangement
more
than
any
argument
could
have
done.
He
had
always
determined,
deep
down
in
his
resolute
heart,
that
nothing
would
ever
induce
him
to
allow
his
daughter
to
wed
a
Mormon.
Such
a
marriage
he
regarded
as
no
marriage
at
all,
but
as
a
shame
and
a
disgrace.
Whatever
he
might
think
of
the
Mormon
doctrines,
upon
that
one
point
he
was
inflexible.
He
had
to
seal
his
mouth
on
the
subject,
however,
for
to
express
an
unorthodox
opinion
was
a
dangerous
matter
in
those
days
in
the
Land
of
the
Saints.
Yes,
a
dangerous
matter—so
dangerous
that
even
the
most
saintly
dared
only
whisper
their
religious
opinions
with
bated
breath,
lest
something
which
fell
from
their
lips
might
be
misconstrued,
and
bring
down
a
swift
retribution
upon
them.
The
victims
of
persecution
had
now
turned
persecutors
on
their
own
account,
and
persecutors
of
the
most
terrible
description.
Not
the
Inquisition
of
Seville,
nor
the
German
Vehm-gericht,
nor
the
Secret
Societies
of
Italy,
were
ever
able
to
put
a
more
formidable
machinery
in
motion
than
that
which
cast
a
cloud
over
the
State
of
Utah.
Its
invisibility,
and
the
mystery
which
was
attached
to
it,
made
this
organization
doubly
terrible.
It
appeared
to
be
omniscient
and
omnipotent,
and
yet
was
neither
seen
nor
heard.
The
man
who
held
out
against
the
Church
vanished
away,
and
none
knew
whither
he
had
gone
or
what
had
befallen
him.
His
wife
and
his
children
awaited
him
at
home,
but
no
father
ever
returned
to
tell
them
how
he
had
fared
at
the
hands
of
his
secret
judges.
A
rash
word
or
a
hasty
act
was
followed
by
annihilation,
and
yet
none
knew
what
the
nature
might
be
of
this
terrible
power
which
was
suspended
over
them.
No
wonder
that
men
went
about
in
fear
and
trembling,
and
that
even
in
the
heart
of
the
wilderness
they
dared
not
whisper
the
doubts
which
oppressed
them.
At
first
this
vague
and
terrible
power
was
exercised
only
upon
the
recalcitrants
who,
having
embraced
the
Mormon
faith,
wished
afterwards
to
pervert
or
to
abandon
it.
Soon,
however,
it
took
a
wider
range.
The
supply
of
adult
women
was
running
short,
and
polygamy
without
a
female
population
on
which
to
draw
was
a
barren
doctrine
indeed.
Strange
rumours
began
to
be
bandied
about—rumours
of
murdered
immigrants
and
rifled
camps
in
regions
where
Indians
had
never
been
seen.
Fresh
women
appeared
in
the
harems
of
the
Elders—women
who
pined
and
wept,
and
bore
upon
their
faces
the
traces
of
an
unextinguishable
horror.
Belated
wanderers
upon
the
mountains
spoke
of
gangs
of
armed
men,
masked,
stealthy,
and
noiseless,
who
flitted
by
them
in
the
darkness.
These
tales
and
rumours
took
substance
and
shape,
and
were
corroborated
and
re-corroborated,
until
they
resolved
themselves
into
a
definite
name.
To
this
day,
in
the
lonely
ranches
of
the
West,
the
name
of
the
Danite
Band,
or
the
Avenging
Angels,
is
a
sinister
and
an
ill-omened
one.
Fuller
knowledge
of
the
organization
which
produced
such
terrible
results
served
to
increase
rather
than
to
lessen
the
horror
which
it
inspired
in
the
minds
of
men.
None
knew
who
belonged
to
this
ruthless
society.
The
names
of
the
participators
in
the
deeds
of
blood
and
violence
done
under
the
name
of
religion
were
kept
profoundly
secret.
The
very
friend
to
whom
you
communicated
your
misgivings
as
to
the
Prophet
and
his
mission,
might
be
one
of
those
who
would
come
forth
at
night
with
fire
and
sword
to
exact
a
terrible
reparation.
Hence
every
man
feared
his
neighbour,
and
none
spoke
of
the
things
which
were
nearest
his
heart.
One
fine
morning,
John
Ferrier
was
about
to
set
out
to
his
wheatfields,
when
he
heard
the
click
of
the
latch,
and,
looking
through
the
window,
saw
a
stout,
sandy-haired,
middle-aged
man
coming
up
the
pathway.
His
heart
leapt
to
his
mouth,
for
this
was
none
other
than
the
great
Brigham
Young
himself.
Full
of
trepidation—for
he
knew
that
such
a
visit
boded
him
little
good—Ferrier
ran
to
the
door
to
greet
the
Mormon
chief.
The
latter,
however,
received
his
salutations
coldly,
and
followed
him
with
a
stern
face
into
the
sitting-room.
"Brother
Ferrier,"
he
said,
taking
a
seat,
and
eyeing
the
farmer
keenly
from
under
his
light-coloured
eyelashes,
"the
true
believers
have
been
good
friends
to
you.
We
picked
you
up
when
you
were
starving
in
the
desert,
we
shared
our
food
with
you,
led
you
safe
to
the
Chosen
Valley,
gave
you
a
goodly
share
of
land,
and
allowed
you
to
wax
rich
under
our
protection.
Is
not
this
so?"
"It
is
so,"
answered
John
Ferrier.
"In
return
for
all
this
we
asked
but
one
condition:
that
was,
that
you
should
embrace
the
true
faith,
and
conform
in
every
way
to
its
usages.
This
you
promised
to
do,
and
this,
if
common
report
says
truly,
you
have
neglected."
"And
how
have
I
neglected
it?"
asked
Ferrier,
throwing
out
his
hands
in
expostulation.
"Have
I
not
given
to
the
common
fund?
Have
I
not
attended
at
the
Temple?
Have
I
not——?"
"Where
are
your
wives?"
asked
Young,
looking
round
him.
"Call
them
in,
that
I
may
greet
them."
"It
is
true
that
I
have
not
married,"
Ferrier
answered.
"But
women
were
few,
and
there
were
many
who
had
better
claims
than
I.
I
was
not
a
lonely
man:
I
had
my
daughter
to
attend
to
my
wants."
"It
is
of
that
daughter
that
I
would
speak
to
you,"
said
the
leader
of
the
Mormons.
"She
has
grown
to
be
the
flower
of
Utah,
and
has
found
favour
in
the
eyes
of
many
who
are
high
in
the
land."
John
Ferrier
groaned
internally.
"There
are
stories
of
her
which
I
would
fain
disbelieve—stories
that
she
is
sealed
to
some
Gentile.
This
must
be
the
gossip
of
idle
tongues.
What
is
the
thirteenth
rule
in
the
code
of
the
sainted
Joseph
Smith?
'Let
every
maiden
of
the
true
faith
marry
one
of
the
elect;
for
if
she
wed
a
Gentile,
she
commits
a
grievous
sin.'
This
being
so,
it
is
impossible
that
you,
who
profess
the
holy
creed,
should
suffer
your
daughter
to
violate
it."
John
Ferrier
made
no
answer,
but
he
played
nervously
with
his
riding-whip.
"Upon
this
one
point
your
whole
faith
shall
be
tested—so
it
has
been
decided
in
the
Sacred
Council
of
Four.
The
girl
is
young,
and
we
would
not
have
her
wed
grey
hairs,
neither
would
we
deprive
her
of
all
choice.
We
Elders
have
many
heifers,
29
but
our
children
must
also
be
provided.
Stangerson
has
a
son,
and
Drebber
has
a
son,
and
either
of
them
would
gladly
welcome
your
daughter
to
their
house.
Let
her
choose
between
them.
They
are
young
and
rich,
and
of
the
true
faith.
What
say
you
to
that?"
Ferrier
remained
silent
for
some
little
time
with
his
brows
knitted.
"You
will
give
us
time,"
he
said
at
last.
"My
daughter
is
very
young—she
is
scarce
of
an
age
to
marry."
"She
shall
have
a
month
to
choose,"
said
Young,
rising
from
his
seat.
"At
the
end
of
that
time
she
shall
give
her
answer."
He
was
passing
through
the
door,
when
he
turned,
with
flushed
face
and
flashing
eyes.
"It
were
better
for
you,
John
Ferrier,"
he
thundered,
"that
you
and
she
were
now
lying
blanched
skeletons
upon
the
Sierra
Blanco,
than
that
you
should
put
your
weak
wills
against
the
orders
of
the
Holy
Four!"
With
a
threatening
gesture
of
his
hand,
he
turned
from
the
door,
and
Ferrier
heard
his
heavy
step
scrunching
along
the
shingly
path.
He
was
still
sitting
with
his
elbows
upon
his
knees,
considering
how
he
should
broach
the
matter
to
his
daughter
when
a
soft
hand
was
laid
upon
his,
and
looking
up,
he
saw
her
standing
beside
him.
One
glance
at
her
pale,
frightened
face
showed
him
that
she
had
heard
what
had
passed.
"I
could
not
help
it,"
she
said,
in
answer
to
his
look.
"His
voice
rang
through
the
house.
Oh,
father,
father,
what
shall
we
do?"
"Don't
you
scare
yourself,"
he
answered,
drawing
her
to
him,
and
passing
his
broad,
rough
hand
caressingly
over
her
chestnut
hair.
"We'll
fix
it
up
somehow
or
another.
You
don't
find
your
fancy
kind
o'
lessening
for
this
chap,
do
you?"
A
sob
and
a
squeeze
of
his
hand
was
her
only
answer.
"No;
of
course
not.
I
shouldn't
care
to
hear
you
say
you
did.
He's
a
likely
lad,
and
he's
a
Christian,
which
is
more
than
these
folk
here,
in
spite
o'
all
their
praying
and
preaching.
There's
a
party
starting
for
Nevada
to-morrow,
and
I'll
manage
to
send
him
a
message
letting
him
know
the
hole
we
are
in.
If
I
know
anything
o'
that
young
man,
he'll
be
back
here
with
a
speed
that
would
whip
electro-telegraphs."
Lucy
laughed
through
her
tears
at
her
father's
description.
"When
he
comes,
he
will
advise
us
for
the
best.
But
it
is
for
you
that
I
am
frightened,
dear.
One
hears—one
hears
such
dreadful
stories
about
those
who
oppose
the
Prophet:
something
terrible
always
happens
to
them."
"But
we
haven't
opposed
him
yet,"
her
father
answered.
"It
will
be
time
to
look
out
for
squalls
when
we
do.
We
have
a
clear
month
before
us;
at
the
end
of
that,
I
guess
we
had
best
shin
out
of
Utah."
"Leave
Utah!"
"That's
about
the
size
of
it."
"But
the
farm?"
"We
will
raise
as
much
as
we
can
in
money,
and
let
the
rest
go.
To
tell
the
truth,
Lucy,
it
isn't
the
first
time
I
have
thought
of
doing
it.
I
don't
care
about
knuckling
under
to
any
man,
as
these
folk
do
to
their
darned
prophet.
I'm
a
free-born
American,
and
it's
all
new
to
me.
Guess
I'm
too
old
to
learn.
If
he
comes
browsing
about
this
farm,
he
might
chance
to
run
up
against
a
charge
of
buckshot
travelling
in
the
opposite
direction."
"But
they
won't
let
us
leave,"
his
daughter
objected.
"Wait
till
Jefferson
comes,
and
we'll
soon
manage
that.
In
the
meantime,
don't
you
fret
yourself,
my
dearie,
and
don't
get
your
eyes
swelled
up,
else
he'll
be
walking
into
me
when
he
sees
you.
There's
nothing
to
be
afeared
about,
and
there's
no
danger
at
all."
John
Ferrier
uttered
these
consoling
remarks
in
a
very
confident
tone,
but
she
could
not
help
observing
that
he
paid
unusual
care
to
the
fastening
of
the
doors
that
night,
and
that
he
carefully
cleaned
and
loaded
the
rusty
old
shotgun
which
hung
upon
the
wall
of
his
bedroom.
CHAPTER
IV.
A
FLIGHT
FOR
LIFE.
ON
the
morning
which
followed
his
interview
with
the
Mormon
Prophet,
John
Ferrier
went
in
to
Salt
Lake
City,
and
having
found
his
acquaintance,
who
was
bound
for
the
Nevada
Mountains,
he
entrusted
him
with
his
message
to
Jefferson
Hope.
In
it
he
told
the
young
man
of
the
imminent
danger
which
threatened
them,
and
how
necessary
it
was
that
he
should
return.
Having
done
thus
he
felt
easier
in
his
mind,
and
returned
home
with
a
lighter
heart.
As
he
approached
his
farm,
he
was
surprised
to
see
a
horse
hitched
to
each
of
the
posts
of
the
gate.
Still
more
surprised
was
he
on
entering
to
find
two
young
men
in
possession
of
his
sitting-room.
One,
with
a
long
pale
face,
was
leaning
back
in
the
rocking-chair,
with
his
feet
cocked
up
upon
the
stove.
The
other,
a
bull-necked
youth
with
coarse
bloated
features,
was
standing
in
front
of
the
window
with
his
hands
in
his
pocket,
whistling
a
popular
hymn.
Both
of
them
nodded
to
Ferrier
as
he
entered,
and
the
one
in
the
rocking-chair
commenced
the
conversation.
"Maybe
you
don't
know
us,"
he
said.
"This
here
is
the
son
of
Elder
Drebber,
and
I'm
Joseph
Stangerson,
who
travelled
with
you
in
the
desert
when
the
Lord
stretched
out
His
hand
and
gathered
you
into
the
true
fold."
"As
He
will
all
the
nations
in
His
own
good
time,"
said
the
other
in
a
nasal
voice;
"He
grindeth
slowly
but
exceeding
small."
John
Ferrier
bowed
coldly.
He
had
guessed
who
his
visitors
were.
"We
have
come,"
continued
Stangerson,
"at
the
advice
of
our
fathers
to
solicit
the
hand
of
your
daughter
for
whichever
of
us
may
seem
good
to
you
and
to
her.
As
I
have
but
four
wives
and
Brother
Drebber
here
has
seven,
it
appears
to
me
that
my
claim
is
the
stronger
one."
"Nay,
nay,
Brother
Stangerson,"
cried
the
other;
"the
question
is
not
how
many
wives
we
have,
but
how
many
we
can
keep.
My
father
has
now
given
over
his
mills
to
me,
and
I
am
the
richer
man."
"But
my
prospects
are
better,"
said
the
other,
warmly.
"When
the
Lord
removes
my
father,
I
shall
have
his
tanning
yard
and
his
leather
factory.
Then
I
am
your
elder,
and
am
higher
in
the
Church."
"It
will
be
for
the
maiden
to
decide,"
rejoined
young
Drebber,
smirking
at
his
own
reflection
in
the
glass.
"We
will
leave
it
all
to
her
decision."
During
this
dialogue,
John
Ferrier
had
stood
fuming
in
the
doorway,
hardly
able
to
keep
his
riding-whip
from
the
backs
of
his
two
visitors.
"Look
here,"
he
said
at
last,
striding
up
to
them,
"when
my
daughter
summons
you,
you
can
come,
but
until
then
I
don't
want
to
see
your
faces
again."
The
two
young
Mormons
stared
at
him
in
amazement.
In
their
eyes
this
competition
between
them
for
the
maiden's
hand
was
the
highest
of
honours
both
to
her
and
her
father.
"There
are
two
ways
out
of
the
room,"
cried
Ferrier;
"there
is
the
door,
and
there
is
the
window.
Which
do
you
care
to
use?"
His
brown
face
looked
so
savage,
and
his
gaunt
hands
so
threatening,
that
his
visitors
sprang
to
their
feet
and
beat
a
hurried
retreat.
The
old
farmer
followed
them
to
the
door.
"Let
me
know
when
you
have
settled
which
it
is
to
be,"
he
said,
sardonically.
"You
shall
smart
for
this!"
Stangerson
cried,
white
with
rage.
"You
have
defied
the
Prophet
and
the
Council
of
Four.
You
shall
rue
it
to
the
end
of
your
days."
"The
hand
of
the
Lord
shall
be
heavy
upon
you,"
cried
young
Drebber;
"He
will
arise
and
smite
you!"
"Then
I'll
start
the
smiting,"
exclaimed
Ferrier
furiously,
and
would
have
rushed
upstairs
for
his
gun
had
not
Lucy
seized
him
by
the
arm
and
restrained
him.
Before
he
could
escape
from
her,
the
clatter
of
horses'
hoofs
told
him
that
they
were
beyond
his
reach.
"The
young
canting
rascals!"
he
exclaimed,
wiping
the
perspiration
from
his
forehead;
"I
would
sooner
see
you
in
your
grave,
my
girl,
than
the
wife
of
either
of
them."
"And
so
should
I,
father,"
she
answered,
with
spirit;
"but
Jefferson
will
soon
be
here."
"Yes.
It
will
not
be
long
before
he
comes.
The
sooner
the
better,
for
we
do
not
know
what
their
next
move
may
be."
It
was,
indeed,
high
time
that
someone
capable
of
giving
advice
and
help
should
come
to
the
aid
of
the
sturdy
old
farmer
and
his
adopted
daughter.
In
the
whole
history
of
the
settlement
there
had
never
been
such
a
case
of
rank
disobedience
to
the
authority
of
the
Elders.
If
minor
errors
were
punished
so
sternly,
what
would
be
the
fate
of
this
arch
rebel.
Ferrier
knew
that
his
wealth
and
position
would
be
of
no
avail
to
him.
Others
as
well
known
and
as
rich
as
himself
had
been
spirited
away
before
now,
and
their
goods
given
over
to
the
Church.
He
was
a
brave
man,
but
he
trembled
at
the
vague,
shadowy
terrors
which
hung
over
him.
Any
known
danger
he
could
face
with
a
firm
lip,
but
this
suspense
was
unnerving.
He
concealed
his
fears
from
his
daughter,
however,
and
affected
to
make
light
of
the
whole
matter,
though
she,
with
the
keen
eye
of
love,
saw
plainly
that
he
was
ill
at
ease.
He
expected
that
he
would
receive
some
message
or
remonstrance
from
Young
as
to
his
conduct,
and
he
was
not
mistaken,
though
it
came
in
an
unlooked-for
manner.
Upon
rising
next
morning
he
found,
to
his
surprise,
a
small
square
of
paper
pinned
on
to
the
coverlet
of
his
bed
just
over
his
chest.
On
it
was
printed,
in
bold
straggling
letters:—
"Twenty-nine
days
are
given
you
for
amendment,
and
then——"
The
dash
was
more
fear-inspiring
than
any
threat
could
have
been.
How
this
warning
came
into
his
room
puzzled
John
Ferrier
sorely,
for
his
servants
slept
in
an
outhouse,
and
the
doors
and
windows
had
all
been
secured.
He
crumpled
the
paper
up
and
said
nothing
to
his
daughter,
but
the
incident
struck
a
chill
into
his
heart.
The
twenty-nine
days
were
evidently
the
balance
of
the
month
which
Young
had
promised.
What
strength
or
courage
could
avail
against
an
enemy
armed
with
such
mysterious
powers?
The
hand
which
fastened
that
pin
might
have
struck
him
to
the
heart,
and
he
could
never
have
known
who
had
slain
him.
Still
more
shaken
was
he
next
morning.
They
had
sat
down
to
their
breakfast
when
Lucy
with
a
cry
of
surprise
pointed
upwards.
In
the
centre
of
the
ceiling
was
scrawled,
with
a
burned
stick
apparently,
the
number
28.
To
his
daughter
it
was
unintelligible,
and
he
did
not
enlighten
her.
That
night
he
sat
up
with
his
gun
and
kept
watch
and
ward.
He
saw
and
he
heard
nothing,
and
yet
in
the
morning
a
great
27
had
been
painted
upon
the
outside
of
his
door.
Thus
day
followed
day;
and
as
sure
as
morning
came
he
found
that
his
unseen
enemies
had
kept
their
register,
and
had
marked
up
in
some
conspicuous
position
how
many
days
were
still
left
to
him
out
of
the
month
of
grace.
Sometimes
the
fatal
numbers
appeared
upon
the
walls,
sometimes
upon
the
floors,
occasionally
they
were
on
small
placards
stuck
upon
the
garden
gate
or
the
railings.
With
all
his
vigilance
John
Ferrier
could
not
discover
whence
these
daily
warnings
proceeded.
A
horror
which
was
almost
superstitious
came
upon
him
at
the
sight
of
them.
He
became
haggard
and
restless,
and
his
eyes
had
the
troubled
look
of
some
hunted
creature.
He
had
but
one
hope
in
life
now,
and
that
was
for
the
arrival
of
the
young
hunter
from
Nevada.
Twenty
had
changed
to
fifteen
and
fifteen
to
ten,
but
there
was
no
news
of
the
absentee.
One
by
one
the
numbers
dwindled
down,
and
still
there
came
no
sign
of
him.
Whenever
a
horseman
clattered
down
the
road,
or
a
driver
shouted
at
his
team,
the
old
farmer
hurried
to
the
gate
thinking
that
help
had
arrived
at
last.
At
last,
when
he
saw
five
give
way
to
four
and
that
again
to
three,
he
lost
heart,
and
abandoned
all
hope
of
escape.
Single-handed,
and
with
his
limited
knowledge
of
the
mountains
which
surrounded
the
settlement,
he
knew
that
he
was
powerless.
The
more-frequented
roads
were
strictly
watched
and
guarded,
and
none
could
pass
along
them
without
an
order
from
the
Council.
Turn
which
way
he
would,
there
appeared
to
be
no
avoiding
the
blow
which
hung
over
him.
Yet
the
old
man
never
wavered
in
his
resolution
to
part
with
life
itself
before
he
consented
to
what
he
regarded
as
his
daughter's
dishonour.
He
was
sitting
alone
one
evening
pondering
deeply
over
his
troubles,
and
searching
vainly
for
some
way
out
of
them.
That
morning
had
shown
the
figure
2
upon
the
wall
of
his
house,
and
the
next
day
would
be
the
last
of
the
allotted
time.
What
was
to
happen
then?
All
manner
of
vague
and
terrible
fancies
filled
his
imagination.
And
his
daughter—what
was
to
become
of
her
after
he
was
gone?
Was
there
no
escape
from
the
invisible
network
which
was
drawn
all
round
them.
He
sank
his
head
upon
the
table
and
sobbed
at
the
thought
of
his
own
impotence.
What
was
that?
In
the
silence
he
heard
a
gentle
scratching
sound—low,
but
very
distinct
in
the
quiet
of
the
night.
It
came
from
the
door
of
the
house.
Ferrier
crept
into
the
hall
and
listened
intently.
There
was
a
pause
for
a
few
moments,
and
then
the
low
insidious
sound
was
repeated.
Someone
was
evidently
tapping
very
gently
upon
one
of
the
panels
of
the
door.
Was
it
some
midnight
assassin
who
had
come
to
carry
out
the
murderous
orders
of
the
secret
tribunal?
Or
was
it
some
agent
who
was
marking
up
that
the
last
day
of
grace
had
arrived.
John
Ferrier
felt
that
instant
death
would
be
better
than
the
suspense
which
shook
his
nerves
and
chilled
his
heart.
Springing
forward
he
drew
the
bolt
and
threw
the
door
open.
Outside
all
was
calm
and
quiet.
The
night
was
fine,
and
the
stars
were
twinkling
brightly
overhead.
The
little
front
garden
lay
before
the
farmer's
eyes
bounded
by
the
fence
and
gate,
but
neither
there
nor
on
the
road
was
any
human
being
to
be
seen.
With
a
sigh
of
relief,
Ferrier
looked
to
right
and
to
left,
until
happening
to
glance
straight
down
at
his
own
feet
he
saw
to
his
astonishment
a
man
lying
flat
upon
his
face
upon
the
ground,
with
arms
and
legs
all
asprawl.
So
unnerved
was
he
at
the
sight
that
he
leaned
up
against
the
wall
with
his
hand
to
his
throat
to
stifle
his
inclination
to
call
out.
His
first
thought
was
that
the
prostrate
figure
was
that
of
some
wounded
or
dying
man,
but
as
he
watched
it
he
saw
it
writhe
along
the
ground
and
into
the
hall
with
the
rapidity
and
noiselessness
of
a
serpent.
Once
within
the
house
the
man
sprang
to
his
feet,
closed
the
door,
and
revealed
to
the
astonished
farmer
the
fierce
face
and
resolute
expression
of
Jefferson
Hope.
"Good
God!"
gasped
John
Ferrier.
"How
you
scared
me!
Whatever
made
you
come
in
like
that."
"Give
me
food,"
the
other
said,
hoarsely.
"I
have
had
no
time
for
bite
or
sup
for
eight-and-forty
hours."
He
flung
himself
upon
the
21
cold
meat
and
bread
which
were
still
lying
upon
the
table
from
his
host's
supper,
and
devoured
it
voraciously.
"Does
Lucy
bear
up
well?"
he
asked,
when
he
had
satisfied
his
hunger.
"Yes.
She
does
not
know
the
danger,"
her
father
answered.
"That
is
well.
The
house
is
watched
on
every
side.
That
is
why
I
crawled
my
way
up
to
it.
They
may
be
darned
sharp,
but
they're
not
quite
sharp
enough
to
catch
a
Washoe
hunter."
John
Ferrier
felt
a
different
man
now
that
he
realized
that
he
had
a
devoted
ally.
He
seized
the
young
man's
leathery
hand
and
wrung
it
cordially.
"You're
a
man
to
be
proud
of,"
he
said.
"There
are
not
many
who
would
come
to
share
our
danger
and
our
troubles."
"You've
hit
it
there,
pard,"
the
young
hunter
answered.
"I
have
a
respect
for
you,
but
if
you
were
alone
in
this
business
I'd
think
twice
before
I
put
my
head
into
such
a
hornet's
nest.
It's
Lucy
that
brings
me
here,
and
before
harm
comes
on
her
I
guess
there
will
be
one
less
o'
the
Hope
family
in
Utah."
"What
are
we
to
do?"
"To-morrow
is
your
last
day,
and
unless
you
act
to-night
you
are
lost.
I
have
a
mule
and
two
horses
waiting
in
the
Eagle
Ravine.
How
much
money
have
you?"
"Two
thousand
dollars
in
gold,
and
five
in
notes."
"That
will
do.
I
have
as
much
more
to
add
to
it.
We
must
push
for
Carson
City
through
the
mountains.
You
had
best
wake
Lucy.
It
is
as
well
that
the
servants
do
not
sleep
in
the
house."
While
Ferrier
was
absent,
preparing
his
daughter
for
the
approaching
journey,
Jefferson
Hope
packed
all
the
eatables
that
he
could
find
into
a
small
parcel,
and
filled
a
stoneware
jar
with
water,
for
he
knew
by
experience
that
the
mountain
wells
were
few
and
far
between.
He
had
hardly
completed
his
arrangements
before
the
farmer
returned
with
his
daughter
all
dressed
and
ready
for
a
start.
The
greeting
between
the
lovers
was
warm,
but
brief,
for
minutes
were
precious,
and
there
was
much
to
be
done.
"We
must
make
our
start
at
once,"
said
Jefferson
Hope,
speaking
in
a
low
but
resolute
voice,
like
one
who
realizes
the
greatness
of
the
peril,
but
has
steeled
his
heart
to
meet
it.
"The
front
and
back
entrances
are
watched,
but
with
caution
we
may
get
away
through
the
side
window
and
across
the
fields.
Once
on
the
road
we
are
only
two
miles
from
the
Ravine
where
the
horses
are
waiting.
By
daybreak
we
should
be
half-way
through
the
mountains."
"What
if
we
are
stopped,"
asked
Ferrier.
Hope
slapped
the
revolver
butt
which
protruded
from
the
front
of
his
tunic.
"If
they
are
too
many
for
us
we
shall
take
two
or
three
of
them
with
us,"
he
said
with
a
sinister
smile.
The
lights
inside
the
house
had
all
been
extinguished,
and
from
the
darkened
window
Ferrier
peered
over
the
fields
which
had
been
his
own,
and
which
he
was
now
about
to
abandon
for
ever.
He
had
long
nerved
himself
to
the
sacrifice,
however,
and
the
thought
of
the
honour
and
happiness
of
his
daughter
outweighed
any
regret
at
his
ruined
fortunes.
All
looked
so
peaceful
and
happy,
the
rustling
trees
and
the
broad
silent
stretch
of
grain-land,
that
it
was
difficult
to
realize
that
the
spirit
of
murder
lurked
through
it
all.
Yet
the
white
face
and
set
expression
of
the
young
hunter
showed
that
in
his
approach
to
the
house
he
had
seen
enough
to
satisfy
him
upon
that
head.
Ferrier
carried
the
bag
of
gold
and
notes,
Jefferson
Hope
had
the
scanty
provisions
and
water,
while
Lucy
had
a
small
bundle
containing
a
few
of
her
more
valued
possessions.
Opening
the
window
very
slowly
and
carefully,
they
waited
until
a
dark
cloud
had
somewhat
obscured
the
night,
and
then
one
by
one
passed
through
into
the
little
garden.
With
bated
breath
and
crouching
figures
they
stumbled
across
it,
and
gained
the
shelter
of
the
hedge,
which
they
skirted
until
they
came
to
the
gap
which
opened
into
the
cornfields.
They
had
just
reached
this
point
when
the
young
man
seized
his
two
companions
and
dragged
them
down
into
the
shadow,
where
they
lay
silent
and
trembling.
It
was
as
well
that
his
prairie
training
had
given
Jefferson
Hope
the
ears
of
a
lynx.
He
and
his
friends
had
hardly
crouched
down
before
the
melancholy
hooting
of
a
mountain
owl
was
heard
within
a
few
yards
of
them,
which
was
immediately
answered
by
another
hoot
at
a
small
distance.
At
the
same
moment
a
vague
shadowy
figure
emerged
from
the
gap
for
which
they
had
been
making,
and
uttered
the
plaintive
signal
cry
again,
on
which
a
second
man
appeared
out
of
the
obscurity.
"To-morrow
at
midnight,"
said
the
first
who
appeared
to
be
in
authority.
"When
the
Whip-poor-Will
calls
three
times."
"It
is
well,"
returned
the
other.
"Shall
I
tell
Brother
Drebber?"
"Pass
it
on
to
him,
and
from
him
to
the
others.
Nine
to
seven!"
"Seven
to
five!"
repeated
the
other,
and
the
two
figures
flitted
away
in
different
directions.
Their
concluding
words
had
evidently
been
some
form
of
sign
and
countersign.
The
instant
that
their
footsteps
had
died
away
in
the
distance,
Jefferson
Hope
sprang
to
his
feet,
and
helping
his
companions
through
the
gap,
led
the
way
across
the
fields
at
the
top
of
his
speed,
supporting
and
half-carrying
the
girl
when
her
strength
appeared
to
fail
her.
"Hurry
on!
hurry
on!"
he
gasped
from
time
to
time.
"We
are
through
the
line
of
sentinels.
Everything
depends
on
speed.
Hurry
on!"
Once
on
the
high
road
they
made
rapid
progress.
Only
once
did
they
meet
anyone,
and
then
they
managed
to
slip
into
a
field,
and
so
avoid
recognition.
Before
reaching
the
town
the
hunter
branched
away
into
a
rugged
and
narrow
footpath
which
led
to
the
mountains.
Two
dark
jagged
peaks
loomed
above
them
through
the
darkness,
and
the
defile
which
led
between
them
was
the
Eagle
Ca�on
in
which
the
horses
were
awaiting
them.
With
unerring
instinct
Jefferson
Hope
picked
his
way
among
the
great
boulders
and
along
the
bed
of
a
dried-up
watercourse,
until
he
came
to
the
retired
corner,
screened
with
rocks,
where
the
faithful
animals
had
been
picketed.
The
girl
was
placed
upon
the
mule,
and
old
Ferrier
upon
one
of
the
horses,
with
his
money-bag,
while
Jefferson
Hope
led
the
other
along
the
precipitous
and
dangerous
path.
It
was
a
bewildering
route
for
anyone
who
was
not
accustomed
to
face
Nature
in
her
wildest
moods.
On
the
one
side
a
great
crag
towered
up
a
thousand
feet
or
more,
black,
stern,
and
menacing,
with
long
basaltic
columns
upon
its
rugged
surface
like
the
ribs
of
some
petrified
monster.
On
the
other
hand
a
wild
chaos
of
boulders
and
debris
made
all
advance
impossible.
Between
the
two
ran
the
irregular
track,
so
narrow
in
places
that
they
had
to
travel
in
Indian
file,
and
so
rough
that
only
practised
riders
could
have
traversed
it
at
all.
Yet
in
spite
of
all
dangers
and
difficulties,
the
hearts
of
the
fugitives
were
light
within
them,
for
every
step
increased
the
distance
between
them
and
the
terrible
despotism
from
which
they
were
flying.
They
soon
had
a
proof,
however,
that
they
were
still
within
the
jurisdiction
of
the
Saints.
They
had
reached
the
very
wildest
and
most
desolate
portion
of
the
pass
when
the
girl
gave
a
startled
cry,
and
pointed
upwards.
On
a
rock
which
overlooked
the
track,
showing
out
dark
and
plain
against
the
sky,
there
stood
a
solitary
sentinel.
He
saw
them
as
soon
as
they
perceived
him,
and
his
military
challenge
of
"Who
goes
there?"
rang
through
the
silent
ravine.
"Travellers
for
Nevada,"
said
Jefferson
Hope,
with
his
hand
upon
the
rifle
which
hung
by
his
saddle.
They
could
see
the
lonely
watcher
fingering
his
gun,
and
peering
down
at
them
as
if
dissatisfied
at
their
reply.
"By
whose
permission?"
he
asked.
"The
Holy
Four,"
answered
Ferrier.
His
Mormon
experiences
had
taught
him
that
that
was
the
highest
authority
to
which
he
could
refer.
"Nine
from
seven,"
cried
the
sentinel.
"Seven
from
five,"
returned
Jefferson
Hope
promptly,
remembering
the
countersign
which
he
had
heard
in
the
garden.
"Pass,
and
the
Lord
go
with
you,"
said
the
voice
from
above.
Beyond
his
post
the
path
broadened
out,
and
the
horses
were
able
to
break
into
a
trot.
Looking
back,
they
could
see
the
solitary
watcher
leaning
upon
his
gun,
and
knew
that
they
had
passed
the
outlying
post
of
the
chosen
people,
and
that
freedom
lay
before
them.
CHAPTER
V.
THE
AVENGING
ANGELS.
ALL
night
their
course
lay
through
intricate
defiles
and
over
irregular
and
rock-strewn
paths.
More
than
once
they
lost
their
way,
but
Hope's
intimate
knowledge
of
the
mountains
enabled
them
to
regain
the
track
once
more.
When
morning
broke,
a
scene
of
marvellous
though
savage
beauty
lay
before
them.
In
every
direction
the
great
snow-capped
peaks
hemmed
them
in,
peeping
over
each
other's
shoulders
to
the
far
horizon.
So
steep
were
the
rocky
banks
on
either
side
of
them,
that
the
larch
and
the
pine
seemed
to
be
suspended
over
their
heads,
and
to
need
only
a
gust
of
wind
to
come
hurtling
down
upon
them.
Nor
was
the
fear
entirely
an
illusion,
for
the
barren
valley
was
thickly
strewn
with
trees
and
boulders
which
had
fallen
in
a
similar
manner.
Even
as
they
passed,
a
great
rock
came
thundering
down
with
a
hoarse
rattle
which
woke
the
echoes
in
the
silent
gorges,
and
startled
the
weary
horses
into
a
gallop.
As
the
sun
rose
slowly
above
the
eastern
horizon,
the
caps
of
the
great
mountains
lit
up
one
after
the
other,
like
lamps
at
a
festival,
until
they
were
all
ruddy
and
glowing.
The
magnificent
spectacle
cheered
the
hearts
of
the
three
fugitives
and
gave
them
fresh
energy.
At
a
wild
torrent
which
swept
out
of
a
ravine
they
called
a
halt
and
watered
their
horses,
while
they
partook
of
a
hasty
breakfast.
Lucy
and
her
father
would
fain
have
rested
longer,
but
Jefferson
Hope
was
inexorable.
"They
will
be
upon
our
track
by
this
time,"
he
said.
"Everything
depends
upon
our
speed.
Once
safe
in
Carson
we
may
rest
for
the
remainder
of
our
lives."
During
the
whole
of
that
day
they
struggled
on
through
the
defiles,
and
by
evening
they
calculated
that
they
were
more
than
thirty
miles
from
their
enemies.
At
night-time
they
chose
the
base
of
a
beetling
crag,
where
the
rocks
offered
some
protection
from
the
chill
wind,
and
there
huddled
together
for
warmth,
they
enjoyed
a
few
hours'
sleep.
Before
daybreak,
however,
they
were
up
and
on
their
way
once
more.
They
had
seen
no
signs
of
any
pursuers,
and
Jefferson
Hope
began
to
think
that
they
were
fairly
out
of
the
reach
of
the
terrible
organization
whose
enmity
they
had
incurred.
He
little
knew
how
far
that
iron
grasp
could
reach,
or
how
soon
it
was
to
close
upon
them
and
crush
them.
About
the
middle
of
the
second
day
of
their
flight
their
scanty
store
of
provisions
began
to
run
out.
This
gave
the
hunter
little
uneasiness,
however,
for
there
was
game
to
be
had
among
the
mountains,
and
he
had
frequently
before
had
to
depend
upon
his
rifle
for
the
needs
of
life.
Choosing
a
sheltered
nook,
he
piled
together
a
few
dried
branches
and
made
a
blazing
fire,
at
which
his
companions
might
warm
themselves,
for
they
were
now
nearly
five
thousand
feet
above
the
sea
level,
and
the
air
was
bitter
and
keen.
Having
tethered
the
horses,
and
bade
Lucy
adieu,
he
threw
his
gun
over
his
shoulder,
and
set
out
in
search
of
whatever
chance
might
throw
in
his
way.
Looking
back
he
saw
the
old
man
and
the
young
girl
crouching
over
the
blazing
fire,
while
the
three
animals
stood
motionless
in
the
back-ground.
Then
the
intervening
rocks
hid
them
from
his
view.
He
walked
for
a
couple
of
miles
through
one
ravine
after
another
without
success,
though
from
the
marks
upon
the
bark
of
the
trees,
and
other
indications,
he
judged
that
there
were
numerous
bears
in
the
vicinity.
At
last,
after
two
or
three
hours'
fruitless
search,
he
was
thinking
of
turning
back
in
despair,
when
casting
his
eyes
upwards
he
saw
a
sight
which
sent
a
thrill
of
pleasure
through
his
heart.
On
the
edge
of
a
jutting
pinnacle,
three
or
four
hundred
feet
above
him,
there
stood
a
creature
somewhat
resembling
a
sheep
in
appearance,
but
armed
with
a
pair
of
gigantic
horns.
The
big-horn—for
so
it
is
called—was
acting,
probably,
as
a
guardian
over
a
flock
which
were
invisible
to
the
hunter;
but
fortunately
it
was
heading
in
the
opposite
direction,
and
had
not
perceived
him.
Lying
on
his
face,
he
rested
his
rifle
upon
a
rock,
and
took
a
long
and
steady
aim
before
drawing
the
trigger.
The
animal
sprang
into
the
air,
tottered
for
a
moment
upon
the
edge
of
the
precipice,
and
then
came
crashing
down
into
the
valley
beneath.
The
creature
was
too
unwieldy
to
lift,
so
the
hunter
contented
himself
with
cutting
away
one
haunch
and
part
of
the
flank.
With
this
trophy
over
his
shoulder,
he
hastened
to
retrace
his
steps,
for
the
evening
was
already
drawing
in.
He
had
hardly
started,
however,
before
he
realized
the
difficulty
which
faced
him.
In
his
eagerness
he
had
wandered
far
past
the
ravines
which
were
known
to
him,
and
it
was
no
easy
matter
to
pick
out
the
path
which
he
had
taken.
The
valley
in
which
he
found
himself
divided
and
sub-divided
into
many
gorges,
which
were
so
like
each
other
that
it
was
impossible
to
distinguish
one
from
the
other.
He
followed
one
for
a
mile
or
more
until
he
came
to
a
mountain
torrent
which
he
was
sure
that
he
had
never
seen
before.
Convinced
that
he
had
taken
the
wrong
turn,
he
tried
another,
but
with
the
same
result.
Night
was
coming
on
rapidly,
and
it
was
almost
dark
before
he
at
last
found
himself
in
a
defile
which
was
familiar
to
him.
Even
then
it
was
no
easy
matter
to
keep
to
the
right
track,
for
the
moon
had
not
yet
risen,
and
the
high
cliffs
on
either
side
made
the
obscurity
more
profound.
Weighed
down
with
his
burden,
and
weary
from
his
exertions,
he
stumbled
along,
keeping
up
his
heart
by
the
reflection
that
every
step
brought
him
nearer
to
Lucy,
and
that
he
carried
with
him
enough
to
ensure
them
food
for
the
remainder
of
their
journey.
He
had
now
come
to
the
mouth
of
the
very
defile
in
which
he
had
left
them.
Even
in
the
darkness
he
could
recognize
the
outline
of
the
cliffs
which
bounded
it.
They
must,
he
reflected,
be
awaiting
him
anxiously,
for
he
had
been
absent
nearly
five
hours.
In
the
gladness
of
his
heart
he
put
his
hands
to
his
mouth
and
made
the
glen
re-echo
to
a
loud
halloo
as
a
signal
that
he
was
coming.
He
paused
and
listened
for
an
answer.
None
came
save
his
own
cry,
which
clattered
up
the
dreary
silent
ravines,
and
was
borne
back
to
his
ears
in
countless
repetitions.
Again
he
shouted,
even
louder
than
before,
and
again
no
whisper
came
back
from
the
friends
whom
he
had
left
such
a
short
time
ago.
A
vague,
nameless
dread
came
over
him,
and
he
hurried
onwards
frantically,
dropping
the
precious
food
in
his
agitation.
When
he
turned
the
corner,
he
came
full
in
sight
of
the
spot
where
the
fire
had
been
lit.
There
was
still
a
glowing
pile
of
wood
ashes
there,
but
it
had
evidently
not
been
tended
since
his
departure.
The
same
dead
silence
still
reigned
all
round.
With
his
fears
all
changed
to
convictions,
he
hurried
on.
There
was
no
living
creature
near
the
remains
of
the
fire:
animals,
man,
maiden,
all
were
gone.
It
was
only
too
clear
that
some
sudden
and
terrible
disaster
had
occurred
during
his
absence—a
disaster
which
had
embraced
them
all,
and
yet
had
left
no
traces
behind
it.
Bewildered
and
stunned
by
this
blow,
Jefferson
Hope
felt
his
head
spin
round,
and
had
to
lean
upon
his
rifle
to
save
himself
from
falling.
He
was
essentially
a
man
of
action,
however,
and
speedily
recovered
from
his
temporary
impotence.
Seizing
a
half-consumed
piece
of
wood
from
the
smouldering
fire,
he
blew
it
into
a
flame,
and
proceeded
with
its
help
to
examine
the
little
camp.
The
ground
was
all
stamped
down
by
the
feet
of
horses,
showing
that
a
large
party
of
mounted
men
had
overtaken
the
fugitives,
and
the
direction
of
their
tracks
proved
that
they
had
afterwards
turned
back
to
Salt
Lake
City.
Had
they
carried
back
both
of
his
companions
with
them?
Jefferson
Hope
had
almost
persuaded
himself
that
they
must
have
done
so,
when
his
eye
fell
upon
an
object
which
made
every
nerve
of
his
body
tingle
within
him.
A
little
way
on
one
side
of
the
camp
was
a
low-lying
heap
of
reddish
soil,
which
had
assuredly
not
been
there
before.
There
was
no
mistaking
it
for
anything
but
a
newly-dug
grave.
As
the
young
hunter
approached
it,
he
perceived
that
a
stick
had
been
planted
on
it,
with
a
sheet
of
paper
stuck
in
the
cleft
fork
of
it.
The
inscription
upon
the
paper
was
brief,
but
to
the
point:
JOHN
FERRIER,
FORMERLY
OF
SALT
LAKE
CITY,
22
Died
August
4th,
1860.
The
sturdy
old
man,
whom
he
had
left
so
short
a
time
before,
was
gone,
then,
and
this
was
all
his
epitaph.
Jefferson
Hope
looked
wildly
round
to
see
if
there
was
a
second
grave,
but
there
was
no
sign
of
one.
Lucy
had
been
carried
back
by
their
terrible
pursuers
to
fulfil
her
original
destiny,
by
becoming
one
of
the
harem
of
the
Elder's
son.
As
the
young
fellow
realized
the
certainty
of
her
fate,
and
his
own
powerlessness
to
prevent
it,
he
wished
that
he,
too,
was
lying
with
the
old
farmer
in
his
last
silent
resting-place.
Again,
however,
his
active
spirit
shook
off
the
lethargy
which
springs
from
despair.
If
there
was
nothing
else
left
to
him,
he
could
at
least
devote
his
life
to
revenge.
With
indomitable
patience
and
perseverance,
Jefferson
Hope
possessed
also
a
power
of
sustained
vindictiveness,
which
he
may
have
learned
from
the
Indians
amongst
whom
he
had
lived.
As
he
stood
by
the
desolate
fire,
he
felt
that
the
only
one
thing
which
could
assuage
his
grief
would
be
thorough
and
complete
retribution,
brought
by
his
own
hand
upon
his
enemies.
His
strong
will
and
untiring
energy
should,
he
determined,
be
devoted
to
that
one
end.
With
a
grim,
white
face,
he
retraced
his
steps
to
where
he
had
dropped
the
food,
and
having
stirred
up
the
smouldering
fire,
he
cooked
enough
to
last
him
for
a
few
days.
This
he
made
up
into
a
bundle,
and,
tired
as
he
was,
he
set
himself
to
walk
back
through
the
mountains
upon
the
track
of
the
avenging
angels.
For
five
days
he
toiled
footsore
and
weary
through
the
defiles
which
he
had
already
traversed
on
horseback.
At
night
he
flung
himself
down
among
the
rocks,
and
snatched
a
few
hours
of
sleep;
but
before
daybreak
he
was
always
well
on
his
way.
On
the
sixth
day,
he
reached
the
Eagle
Ca�on,
from
which
they
had
commenced
their
ill-fated
flight.
Thence
he
could
look
down
upon
the
home
of
the
saints.
Worn
and
exhausted,
he
leaned
upon
his
rifle
and
shook
his
gaunt
hand
fiercely
at
the
silent
widespread
city
beneath
him.
As
he
looked
at
it,
he
observed
that
there
were
flags
in
some
of
the
principal
streets,
and
other
signs
of
festivity.
He
was
still
speculating
as
to
what
this
might
mean
when
he
heard
the
clatter
of
horse's
hoofs,
and
saw
a
mounted
man
riding
towards
him.
As
he
approached,
he
recognized
him
as
a
Mormon
named
Cowper,
to
whom
he
had
rendered
services
at
different
times.
He
therefore
accosted
him
when
he
got
up
to
him,
with
the
object
of
finding
out
what
Lucy
Ferrier's
fate
had
been.
"I
am
Jefferson
Hope,"
he
said.
"You
remember
me."
The
Mormon
looked
at
him
with
undisguised
astonishment—indeed,
it
was
difficult
to
recognize
in
this
tattered,
unkempt
wanderer,
with
ghastly
white
face
and
fierce,
wild
eyes,
the
spruce
young
hunter
of
former
days.
Having,
however,
at
last,
satisfied
himself
as
to
his
identity,
the
man's
surprise
changed
to
consternation.
"You
are
mad
to
come
here,"
he
cried.
"It
is
as
much
as
my
own
life
is
worth
to
be
seen
talking
with
you.
There
is
a
warrant
against
you
from
the
Holy
Four
for
assisting
the
Ferriers
away."
"I
don't
fear
them,
or
their
warrant,"
Hope
said,
earnestly.
"You
must
know
something
of
this
matter,
Cowper.
I
conjure
you
by
everything
you
hold
dear
to
answer
a
few
questions.
We
have
always
been
friends.
For
God's
sake,
don't
refuse
to
answer
me."
"What
is
it?"
the
Mormon
asked
uneasily.
"Be
quick.
The
very
rocks
have
ears
and
the
trees
eyes."
"What
has
become
of
Lucy
Ferrier?"
"She
was
married
yesterday
to
young
Drebber.
Hold
up,
man,
hold
up,
you
have
no
life
left
in
you."
"Don't
mind
me,"
said
Hope
faintly.
He
was
white
to
the
very
lips,
and
had
sunk
down
on
the
stone
against
which
he
had
been
leaning.
"Married,
you
say?"
"Married
yesterday—that's
what
those
flags
are
for
on
the
Endowment
House.
There
was
some
words
between
young
Drebber
and
young
Stangerson
as
to
which
was
to
have
her.
They'd
both
been
in
the
party
that
followed
them,
and
Stangerson
had
shot
her
father,
which
seemed
to
give
him
the
best
claim;
but
when
they
argued
it
out
in
council,
Drebber's
party
was
the
stronger,
so
the
Prophet
gave
her
over
to
him.
No
one
won't
have
her
very
long
though,
for
I
saw
death
in
her
face
yesterday.
She
is
more
like
a
ghost
than
a
woman.
Are
you
off,
then?"
"Yes,
I
am
off,"
said
Jefferson
Hope,
who
had
risen
from
his
seat.
His
face
might
have
been
chiselled
out
of
marble,
so
hard
and
set
was
its
expression,
while
its
eyes
glowed
with
a
baleful
light.
"Where
are
you
going?"
"Never
mind,"
he
answered;
and,
slinging
his
weapon
over
his
shoulder,
strode
off
down
the
gorge
and
so
away
into
the
heart
of
the
mountains
to
the
haunts
of
the
wild
beasts.
Amongst
them
all
there
was
none
so
fierce
and
so
dangerous
as
himself.
The
prediction
of
the
Mormon
was
only
too
well
fulfilled.
Whether
it
was
the
terrible
death
of
her
father
or
the
effects
of
the
hateful
marriage
into
which
she
had
been
forced,
poor
Lucy
never
held
up
her
head
again,
but
pined
away
and
died
within
a
month.
Her
sottish
husband,
who
had
married
her
principally
for
the
sake
of
John
Ferrier's
property,
did
not
affect
any
great
grief
at
his
bereavement;
but
his
other
wives
mourned
over
her,
and
sat
up
with
her
the
night
before
the
burial,
as
is
the
Mormon
custom.
They
were
grouped
round
the
bier
in
the
early
hours
of
the
morning,
when,
to
their
inexpressible
fear
and
astonishment,
the
door
was
flung
open,
and
a
savage-looking,
weather-beaten
man
in
tattered
garments
strode
into
the
room.
Without
a
glance
or
a
word
to
the
cowering
women,
he
walked
up
to
the
white
silent
figure
which
had
once
contained
the
pure
soul
of
Lucy
Ferrier.
Stooping
over
her,
he
pressed
his
lips
reverently
to
her
cold
forehead,
and
then,
snatching
up
her
hand,
he
took
the
wedding-ring
from
her
finger.
"She
shall
not
be
buried
in
that,"
he
cried
with
a
fierce
snarl,
and
before
an
alarm
could
be
raised
sprang
down
the
stairs
and
was
gone.
So
strange
and
so
brief
was
the
episode,
that
the
watchers
might
have
found
it
hard
to
believe
it
themselves
or
persuade
other
people
of
it,
had
it
not
been
for
the
undeniable
fact
that
the
circlet
of
gold
which
marked
her
as
having
been
a
bride
had
disappeared.
For
some
months
Jefferson
Hope
lingered
among
the
mountains,
leading
a
strange
wild
life,
and
nursing
in
his
heart
the
fierce
desire
for
vengeance
which
possessed
him.
Tales
were
told
in
the
City
of
the
weird
figure
which
was
seen
prowling
about
the
suburbs,
and
which
haunted
the
lonely
mountain
gorges.
Once
a
bullet
whistled
through
Stangerson's
window
and
flattened
itself
upon
the
wall
within
a
foot
of
him.
On
another
occasion,
as
Drebber
passed
under
a
cliff
a
great
boulder
crashed
down
on
him,
and
he
only
escaped
a
terrible
death
by
throwing
himself
upon
his
face.
The
two
young
Mormons
were
not
long
in
discovering
the
reason
of
these
attempts
upon
their
lives,
and
led
repeated
expeditions
into
the
mountains
in
the
hope
of
capturing
or
killing
their
enemy,
but
always
without
success.
Then
they
adopted
the
precaution
of
never
going
out
alone
or
after
nightfall,
and
of
having
their
houses
guarded.
After
a
time
they
were
able
to
relax
these
measures,
for
nothing
was
either
heard
or
seen
of
their
opponent,
and
they
hoped
that
time
had
cooled
his
vindictiveness.
Far
from
doing
so,
it
had,
if
anything,
augmented
it.
The
hunter's
mind
was
of
a
hard,
unyielding
nature,
and
the
predominant
idea
of
revenge
had
taken
such
complete
possession
of
it
that
there
was
no
room
for
any
other
emotion.
He
was,
however,
above
all
things
practical.
He
soon
realized
that
even
his
iron
constitution
could
not
stand
the
incessant
strain
which
he
was
putting
upon
it.
Exposure
and
want
of
wholesome
food
were
wearing
him
out.
If
he
died
like
a
dog
among
the
mountains,
what
was
to
become
of
his
revenge
then?
And
yet
such
a
death
was
sure
to
overtake
him
if
he
persisted.
He
felt
that
that
was
to
play
his
enemy's
game,
so
he
reluctantly
returned
to
the
old
Nevada
mines,
there
to
recruit
his
health
and
to
amass
money
enough
to
allow
him
to
pursue
his
object
without
privation.
His
intention
had
been
to
be
absent
a
year
at
the
most,
but
a
combination
of
unforeseen
circumstances
prevented
his
leaving
the
mines
for
nearly
five.
At
the
end
of
that
time,
however,
his
memory
of
his
wrongs
and
his
craving
for
revenge
were
quite
as
keen
as
on
that
memorable
night
when
he
had
stood
by
John
Ferrier's
grave.
Disguised,
and
under
an
assumed
name,
he
returned
to
Salt
Lake
City,
careless
what
became
of
his
own
life,
as
long
as
he
obtained
what
he
knew
to
be
justice.
There
he
found
evil
tidings
awaiting
him.
There
had
been
a
schism
among
the
Chosen
People
a
few
months
before,
some
of
the
younger
members
of
the
Church
having
rebelled
against
the
authority
of
the
Elders,
and
the
result
had
been
the
secession
of
a
certain
number
of
the
malcontents,
who
had
left
Utah
and
become
Gentiles.
Among
these
had
been
Drebber
and
Stangerson;
and
no
one
knew
whither
they
had
gone.
Rumour
reported
that
Drebber
had
managed
to
convert
a
large
part
of
his
property
into
money,
and
that
he
had
departed
a
wealthy
man,
while
his
companion,
Stangerson,
was
comparatively
poor.
There
was
no
clue
at
all,
however,
as
to
their
whereabouts.
Many
a
man,
however
vindictive,
would
have
abandoned
all
thought
of
revenge
in
the
face
of
such
a
difficulty,
but
Jefferson
Hope
never
faltered
for
a
moment.
With
the
small
competence
he
possessed,
eked
out
by
such
employment
as
he
could
pick
up,
he
travelled
from
town
to
town
through
the
United
States
in
quest
of
his
enemies.
Year
passed
into
year,
his
black
hair
turned
grizzled,
but
still
he
wandered
on,
a
human
bloodhound,
with
his
mind
wholly
set
upon
the
one
object
upon
which
he
had
devoted
his
life.
At
last
his
perseverance
was
rewarded.
It
was
but
a
glance
of
a
face
in
a
window,
but
that
one
glance
told
him
that
Cleveland
in
Ohio
possessed
the
men
whom
he
was
in
pursuit
of.
He
returned
to
his
miserable
lodgings
with
his
plan
of
vengeance
all
arranged.
It
chanced,
however,
that
Drebber,
looking
from
his
window,
had
recognized
the
vagrant
in
the
street,
and
had
read
murder
in
his
eyes.
He
hurried
before
a
justice
of
the
peace,
accompanied
by
Stangerson,
who
had
become
his
private
secretary,
and
represented
to
him
that
they
were
in
danger
of
their
lives
from
the
jealousy
and
hatred
of
an
old
rival.
That
evening
Jefferson
Hope
was
taken
into
custody,
and
not
being
able
to
find
sureties,
was
detained
for
some
weeks.
When
at
last
he
was
liberated,
it
was
only
to
find
that
Drebber's
house
was
deserted,
and
that
he
and
his
secretary
had
departed
for
Europe.
Again
the
avenger
had
been
foiled,
and
again
his
concentrated
hatred
urged
him
to
continue
the
pursuit.
Funds
were
wanting,
however,
and
for
some
time
he
had
to
return
to
work,
saving
every
dollar
for
his
approaching
journey.
At
last,
having
collected
enough
to
keep
life
in
him,
he
departed
for
Europe,
and
tracked
his
enemies
from
city
to
city,
working
his
way
in
any
menial
capacity,
but
never
overtaking
the
fugitives.
When
he
reached
St.
Petersburg
they
had
departed
for
Paris;
and
when
he
followed
them
there
he
learned
that
they
had
just
set
off
for
Copenhagen.
At
the
Danish
capital
he
was
again
a
few
days
late,
for
they
had
journeyed
on
to
London,
where
he
at
last
succeeded
in
running
them
to
earth.
As
to
what
occurred
there,
we
cannot
do
better
than
quote
the
old
hunter's
own
account,
as
duly
recorded
in
Dr.
Watson's
Journal,
to
which
we
are
already
under
such
obligations.
CHAPTER
VI.
A
CONTINUATION
OF
THE
REMINISCENCES
OF
JOHN
WATSON,
M.D.
OUR
prisoner's
furious
resistance
did
not
apparently
indicate
any
ferocity
in
his
disposition
towards
ourselves,
for
on
finding
himself
powerless,
he
smiled
in
an
affable
manner,
and
expressed
his
hopes
that
he
had
not
hurt
any
of
us
in
the
scuffle.
"I
guess
you're
going
to
take
me
to
the
police-station,"
he
remarked
to
Sherlock
Holmes.
"My
cab's
at
the
door.
If
you'll
loose
my
legs
I'll
walk
down
to
it.
I'm
not
so
light
to
lift
as
I
used
to
be."
Gregson
and
Lestrade
exchanged
glances
as
if
they
thought
this
proposition
rather
a
bold
one;
but
Holmes
at
once
took
the
prisoner
at
his
word,
and
loosened
the
towel
which
we
had
bound
round
his
ancles.
23
He
rose
and
stretched
his
legs,
as
though
to
assure
himself
that
they
were
free
once
more.
I
remember
that
I
thought
to
myself,
as
I
eyed
him,
that
I
had
seldom
seen
a
more
powerfully
built
man;
and
his
dark
sunburned
face
bore
an
expression
of
determination
and
energy
which
was
as
formidable
as
his
personal
strength.
"If
there's
a
vacant
place
for
a
chief
of
the
police,
I
reckon
you
are
the
man
for
it,"
he
said,
gazing
with
undisguised
admiration
at
my
fellow-lodger.
"The
way
you
kept
on
my
trail
was
a
caution."
"You
had
better
come
with
me,"
said
Holmes
to
the
two
detectives.
"I
can
drive
you,"
said
Lestrade.
"Good!
and
Gregson
can
come
inside
with
me.
You
too,
Doctor,
you
have
taken
an
interest
in
the
case
and
may
as
well
stick
to
us."
I
assented
gladly,
and
we
all
descended
together.
Our
prisoner
made
no
attempt
at
escape,
but
stepped
calmly
into
the
cab
which
had
been
his,
and
we
followed
him.
Lestrade
mounted
the
box,
whipped
up
the
horse,
and
brought
us
in
a
very
short
time
to
our
destination.
We
were
ushered
into
a
small
chamber
where
a
police
Inspector
noted
down
our
prisoner's
name
and
the
names
of
the
men
with
whose
murder
he
had
been
charged.
The
official
was
a
white-faced
unemotional
man,
who
went
through
his
duties
in
a
dull
mechanical
way.
"The
prisoner
will
be
put
before
the
magistrates
in
the
course
of
the
week,"
he
said;
"in
the
mean
time,
Mr.
Jefferson
Hope,
have
you
anything
that
you
wish
to
say?
I
must
warn
you
that
your
words
will
be
taken
down,
and
may
be
used
against
you."
"I've
got
a
good
deal
to
say,"
our
prisoner
said
slowly.
"I
want
to
tell
you
gentlemen
all
about
it."
"Hadn't
you
better
reserve
that
for
your
trial?"
asked
the
Inspector.
"I
may
never
be
tried,"
he
answered.
"You
needn't
look
startled.
It
isn't
suicide
I
am
thinking
of.
Are
you
a
Doctor?"
He
turned
his
fierce
dark
eyes
upon
me
as
he
asked
this
last
question.
"Yes;
I
am,"
I
answered.
"Then
put
your
hand
here,"
he
said,
with
a
smile,
motioning
with
his
manacled
wrists
towards
his
chest.
I
did
so;
and
became
at
once
conscious
of
an
extraordinary
throbbing
and
commotion
which
was
going
on
inside.
The
walls
of
his
chest
seemed
to
thrill
and
quiver
as
a
frail
building
would
do
inside
when
some
powerful
engine
was
at
work.
In
the
silence
of
the
room
I
could
hear
a
dull
humming
and
buzzing
noise
which
proceeded
from
the
same
source.
"Why,"
I
cried,
"you
have
an
aortic
aneurism!"
"That's
what
they
call
it,"
he
said,
placidly.
"I
went
to
a
Doctor
last
week
about
it,
and
he
told
me
that
it
is
bound
to
burst
before
many
days
passed.
It
has
been
getting
worse
for
years.
I
got
it
from
over-exposure
and
under-feeding
among
the
Salt
Lake
Mountains.
I've
done
my
work
now,
and
I
don't
care
how
soon
I
go,
but
I
should
like
to
leave
some
account
of
the
business
behind
me.
I
don't
want
to
be
remembered
as
a
common
cut-throat."
The
Inspector
and
the
two
detectives
had
a
hurried
discussion
as
to
the
advisability
of
allowing
him
to
tell
his
story.
"Do
you
consider,
Doctor,
that
there
is
immediate
danger?"
the
former
asked,
24
"Most
certainly
there
is,"
I
answered.
"In
that
case
it
is
clearly
our
duty,
in
the
interests
of
justice,
to
take
his
statement,"
said
the
Inspector.
"You
are
at
liberty,
sir,
to
give
your
account,
which
I
again
warn
you
will
be
taken
down."
"I'll
sit
down,
with
your
leave,"
the
prisoner
said,
suiting
the
action
to
the
word.
"This
aneurism
of
mine
makes
me
easily
tired,
and
the
tussle
we
had
half
an
hour
ago
has
not
mended
matters.
I'm
on
the
brink
of
the
grave,
and
I
am
not
likely
to
lie
to
you.
Every
word
I
say
is
the
absolute
truth,
and
how
you
use
it
is
a
matter
of
no
consequence
to
me."
With
these
words,
Jefferson
Hope
leaned
back
in
his
chair
and
began
the
following
remarkable
statement.
He
spoke
in
a
calm
and
methodical
manner,
as
though
the
events
which
he
narrated
were
commonplace
enough.
I
can
vouch
for
the
accuracy
of
the
subjoined
account,
for
I
have
had
access
to
Lestrade's
note-book,
in
which
the
prisoner's
words
were
taken
down
exactly
as
they
were
uttered.
"It
don't
much
matter
to
you
why
I
hated
these
men,"
he
said;
"it's
enough
that
they
were
guilty
of
the
death
of
two
human
beings—a
father
and
a
daughter—and
that
they
had,
therefore,
forfeited
their
own
lives.
After
the
lapse
of
time
that
has
passed
since
their
crime,
it
was
impossible
for
me
to
secure
a
conviction
against
them
in
any
court.
I
knew
of
their
guilt
though,
and
I
determined
that
I
should
be
judge,
jury,
and
executioner
all
rolled
into
one.
You'd
have
done
the
same,
if
you
have
any
manhood
in
you,
if
you
had
been
in
my
place.
"That
girl
that
I
spoke
of
was
to
have
married
me
twenty
years
ago.
She
was
forced
into
marrying
that
same
Drebber,
and
broke
her
heart
over
it.
I
took
the
marriage
ring
from
her
dead
finger,
and
I
vowed
that
his
dying
eyes
should
rest
upon
that
very
ring,
and
that
his
last
thoughts
should
be
of
the
crime
for
which
he
was
punished.
I
have
carried
it
about
with
me,
and
have
followed
him
and
his
accomplice
over
two
continents
until
I
caught
them.
They
thought
to
tire
me
out,
but
they
could
not
do
it.
If
I
die
to-morrow,
as
is
likely
enough,
I
die
knowing
that
my
work
in
this
world
is
done,
and
well
done.
They
have
perished,
and
by
my
hand.
There
is
nothing
left
for
me
to
hope
for,
or
to
desire.
"They
were
rich
and
I
was
poor,
so
that
it
was
no
easy
matter
for
me
to
follow
them.
When
I
got
to
London
my
pocket
was
about
empty,
and
I
found
that
I
must
turn
my
hand
to
something
for
my
living.
Driving
and
riding
are
as
natural
to
me
as
walking,
so
I
applied
at
a
cabowner's
office,
and
soon
got
employment.
I
was
to
bring
a
certain
sum
a
week
to
the
owner,
and
whatever
was
over
that
I
might
keep
for
myself.
There
was
seldom
much
over,
but
I
managed
to
scrape
along
somehow.
The
hardest
job
was
to
learn
my
way
about,
for
I
reckon
that
of
all
the
mazes
that
ever
were
contrived,
this
city
is
the
most
confusing.
I
had
a
map
beside
me
though,
and
when
once
I
had
spotted
the
principal
hotels
and
stations,
I
got
on
pretty
well.
"It
was
some
time
before
I
found
out
where
my
two
gentlemen
were
living;
but
I
inquired
and
inquired
until
at
last
I
dropped
across
them.
They
were
at
a
boarding-house
at
Camberwell,
over
on
the
other
side
of
the
river.
When
once
I
found
them
out
I
knew
that
I
had
them
at
my
mercy.
I
had
grown
my
beard,
and
there
was
no
chance
of
their
recognizing
me.
I
would
dog
them
and
follow
them
until
I
saw
my
opportunity.
I
was
determined
that
they
should
not
escape
me
again.
"They
were
very
near
doing
it
for
all
that.
Go
where
they
would
about
London,
I
was
always
at
their
heels.
Sometimes
I
followed
them
on
my
cab,
and
sometimes
on
foot,
but
the
former
was
the
best,
for
then
they
could
not
get
away
from
me.
It
was
only
early
in
the
morning
or
late
at
night
that
I
could
earn
anything,
so
that
I
began
to
get
behind
hand
with
my
employer.
I
did
not
mind
that,
however,
as
long
as
I
could
lay
my
hand
upon
the
men
I
wanted.
"They
were
very
cunning,
though.
They
must
have
thought
that
there
was
some
chance
of
their
being
followed,
for
they
would
never
go
out
alone,
and
never
after
nightfall.
During
two
weeks
I
drove
behind
them
every
day,
and
never
once
saw
them
separate.
Drebber
himself
was
drunk
half
the
time,
but
Stangerson
was
not
to
be
caught
napping.
I
watched
them
late
and
early,
but
never
saw
the
ghost
of
a
chance;
but
I
was
not
discouraged,
for
something
told
me
that
the
hour
had
almost
come.
My
only
fear
was
that
this
thing
in
my
chest
might
burst
a
little
too
soon
and
leave
my
work
undone.
"At
last,
one
evening
I
was
driving
up
and
down
Torquay
Terrace,
as
the
street
was
called
in
which
they
boarded,
when
I
saw
a
cab
drive
up
to
their
door.
Presently
some
luggage
was
brought
out,
and
after
a
time
Drebber
and
Stangerson
followed
it,
and
drove
off.
I
whipped
up
my
horse
and
kept
within
sight
of
them,
feeling
very
ill
at
ease,
for
I
feared
that
they
were
going
to
shift
their
quarters.
At
Euston
Station
they
got
out,
and
I
left
a
boy
to
hold
my
horse,
and
followed
them
on
to
the
platform.
I
heard
them
ask
for
the
Liverpool
train,
and
the
guard
answer
that
one
had
just
gone
and
there
would
not
be
another
for
some
hours.
Stangerson
seemed
to
be
put
out
at
that,
but
Drebber
was
rather
pleased
than
otherwise.
I
got
so
close
to
them
in
the
bustle
that
I
could
hear
every
word
that
passed
between
them.
Drebber
said
that
he
had
a
little
business
of
his
own
to
do,
and
that
if
the
other
would
wait
for
him
he
would
soon
rejoin
him.
His
companion
remonstrated
with
him,
and
reminded
him
that
they
had
resolved
to
stick
together.
Drebber
answered
that
the
matter
was
a
delicate
one,
and
that
he
must
go
alone.
I
could
not
catch
what
Stangerson
said
to
that,
but
the
other
burst
out
swearing,
and
reminded
him
that
he
was
nothing
more
than
his
paid
servant,
and
that
he
must
not
presume
to
dictate
to
him.
On
that
the
Secretary
gave
it
up
as
a
bad
job,
and
simply
bargained
with
him
that
if
he
missed
the
last
train
he
should
rejoin
him
at
Halliday's
Private
Hotel;
to
which
Drebber
answered
that
he
would
be
back
on
the
platform
before
eleven,
and
made
his
way
out
of
the
station.
"The
moment
for
which
I
had
waited
so
long
had
at
last
come.
I
had
my
enemies
within
my
power.
Together
they
could
protect
each
other,
but
singly
they
were
at
my
mercy.
I
did
not
act,
however,
with
undue
precipitation.
My
plans
were
already
formed.
There
is
no
satisfaction
in
vengeance
unless
the
offender
has
time
to
realize
who
it
is
that
strikes
him,
and
why
retribution
has
come
upon
him.
I
had
my
plans
arranged
by
which
I
should
have
the
opportunity
of
making
the
man
who
had
wronged
me
understand
that
his
old
sin
had
found
him
out.
It
chanced
that
some
days
before
a
gentleman
who
had
been
engaged
in
looking
over
some
houses
in
the
Brixton
Road
had
dropped
the
key
of
one
of
them
in
my
carriage.
It
was
claimed
that
same
evening,
and
returned;
but
in
the
interval
I
had
taken
a
moulding
of
it,
and
had
a
duplicate
constructed.
By
means
of
this
I
had
access
to
at
least
one
spot
in
this
great
city
where
I
could
rely
upon
being
free
from
interruption.
How
to
get
Drebber
to
that
house
was
the
difficult
problem
which
I
had
now
to
solve.
"He
walked
down
the
road
and
went
into
one
or
two
liquor
shops,
staying
for
nearly
half-an-hour
in
the
last
of
them.
When
he
came
out
he
staggered
in
his
walk,
and
was
evidently
pretty
well
on.
There
was
a
hansom
just
in
front
of
me,
and
he
hailed
it.
I
followed
it
so
close
that
the
nose
of
my
horse
was
within
a
yard
of
his
driver
the
whole
way.
We
rattled
across
Waterloo
Bridge
and
through
miles
of
streets,
until,
to
my
astonishment,
we
found
ourselves
back
in
the
Terrace
in
which
he
had
boarded.
I
could
not
imagine
what
his
intention
was
in
returning
there;
but
I
went
on
and
pulled
up
my
cab
a
hundred
yards
or
so
from
the
house.
He
entered
it,
and
his
hansom
drove
away.
Give
me
a
glass
of
water,
if
you
please.
My
mouth
gets
dry
with
the
talking."
I
handed
him
the
glass,
and
he
drank
it
down.
"That's
better,"
he
said.
"Well,
I
waited
for
a
quarter
of
an
hour,
or
more,
when
suddenly
there
came
a
noise
like
people
struggling
inside
the
house.
Next
moment
the
door
was
flung
open
and
two
men
appeared,
one
of
whom
was
Drebber,
and
the
other
was
a
young
chap
whom
I
had
never
seen
before.
This
fellow
had
Drebber
by
the
collar,
and
when
they
came
to
the
head
of
the
steps
he
gave
him
a
shove
and
a
kick
which
sent
him
half
across
the
road.
'You
hound,'
he
cried,
shaking
his
stick
at
him;
'I'll
teach
you
to
insult
an
honest
girl!'
He
was
so
hot
that
I
think
he
would
have
thrashed
Drebber
with
his
cudgel,
only
that
the
cur
staggered
away
down
the
road
as
fast
as
his
legs
would
carry
him.
He
ran
as
far
as
the
corner,
and
then,
seeing
my
cab,
he
hailed
me
and
jumped
in.
'Drive
me
to
Halliday's
Private
Hotel,'
said
he.
"When
I
had
him
fairly
inside
my
cab,
my
heart
jumped
so
with
joy
that
I
feared
lest
at
this
last
moment
my
aneurism
might
go
wrong.
I
drove
along
slowly,
weighing
in
my
own
mind
what
it
was
best
to
do.
I
might
take
him
right
out
into
the
country,
and
there
in
some
deserted
lane
have
my
last
interview
with
him.
I
had
almost
decided
upon
this,
when
he
solved
the
problem
for
me.
The
craze
for
drink
had
seized
him
again,
and
he
ordered
me
to
pull
up
outside
a
gin
palace.
He
went
in,
leaving
word
that
I
should
wait
for
him.
There
he
remained
until
closing
time,
and
when
he
came
out
he
was
so
far
gone
that
I
knew
the
game
was
in
my
own
hands.
"Don't
imagine
that
I
intended
to
kill
him
in
cold
blood.
It
would
only
have
been
rigid
justice
if
I
had
done
so,
but
I
could
not
bring
myself
to
do
it.
I
had
long
determined
that
he
should
have
a
show
for
his
life
if
he
chose
to
take
advantage
of
it.
Among
the
many
billets
which
I
have
filled
in
America
during
my
wandering
life,
I
was
once
janitor
and
sweeper
out
of
the
laboratory
at
York
College.
One
day
the
professor
was
lecturing
on
poisions,
25
and
he
showed
his
students
some
alkaloid,
as
he
called
it,
which
he
had
extracted
from
some
South
American
arrow
poison,
and
which
was
so
powerful
that
the
least
grain
meant
instant
death.
I
spotted
the
bottle
in
which
this
preparation
was
kept,
and
when
they
were
all
gone,
I
helped
myself
to
a
little
of
it.
I
was
a
fairly
good
dispenser,
so
I
worked
this
alkaloid
into
small,
soluble
pills,
and
each
pill
I
put
in
a
box
with
a
similar
pill
made
without
the
poison.
I
determined
at
the
time
that
when
I
had
my
chance,
my
gentlemen
should
each
have
a
draw
out
of
one
of
these
boxes,
while
I
ate
the
pill
that
remained.
It
would
be
quite
as
deadly,
and
a
good
deal
less
noisy
than
firing
across
a
handkerchief.
From
that
day
I
had
always
my
pill
boxes
about
with
me,
and
the
time
had
now
come
when
I
was
to
use
them.
"It
was
nearer
one
than
twelve,
and
a
wild,
bleak
night,
blowing
hard
and
raining
in
torrents.
Dismal
as
it
was
outside,
I
was
glad
within—so
glad
that
I
could
have
shouted
out
from
pure
exultation.
If
any
of
you
gentlemen
have
ever
pined
for
a
thing,
and
longed
for
it
during
twenty
long
years,
and
then
suddenly
found
it
within
your
reach,
you
would
understand
my
feelings.
I
lit
a
cigar,
and
puffed
at
it
to
steady
my
nerves,
but
my
hands
were
trembling,
and
my
temples
throbbing
with
excitement.
As
I
drove,
I
could
see
old
John
Ferrier
and
sweet
Lucy
looking
at
me
out
of
the
darkness
and
smiling
at
me,
just
as
plain
as
I
see
you
all
in
this
room.
All
the
way
they
were
ahead
of
me,
one
on
each
side
of
the
horse
until
I
pulled
up
at
the
house
in
the
Brixton
Road.
"There
was
not
a
soul
to
be
seen,
nor
a
sound
to
be
heard,
except
the
dripping
of
the
rain.
When
I
looked
in
at
the
window,
I
found
Drebber
all
huddled
together
in
a
drunken
sleep.
I
shook
him
by
the
arm,
'It's
time
to
get
out,'
I
said.
"'All
right,
cabby,'
said
he.
"I
suppose
he
thought
we
had
come
to
the
hotel
that
he
had
mentioned,
for
he
got
out
without
another
word,
and
followed
me
down
the
garden.
I
had
to
walk
beside
him
to
keep
him
steady,
for
he
was
still
a
little
top-heavy.
When
we
came
to
the
door,
I
opened
it,
and
led
him
into
the
front
room.
I
give
you
my
word
that
all
the
way,
the
father
and
the
daughter
were
walking
in
front
of
us.
"'It's
infernally
dark,'
said
he,
stamping
about.
"'We'll
soon
have
a
light,'
I
said,
striking
a
match
and
putting
it
to
a
wax
candle
which
I
had
brought
with
me.
'Now,
Enoch
Drebber,'
I
continued,
turning
to
him,
and
holding
the
light
to
my
own
face,
'who
am
I?'
"He
gazed
at
me
with
bleared,
drunken
eyes
for
a
moment,
and
then
I
saw
a
horror
spring
up
in
them,
and
convulse
his
whole
features,
which
showed
me
that
he
knew
me.
He
staggered
back
with
a
livid
face,
and
I
saw
the
perspiration
break
out
upon
his
brow,
while
his
teeth
chattered
in
his
head.
At
the
sight,
I
leaned
my
back
against
the
door
and
laughed
loud
and
long.
I
had
always
known
that
vengeance
would
be
sweet,
but
I
had
never
hoped
for
the
contentment
of
soul
which
now
possessed
me.
"'You
dog!'
I
said;
'I
have
hunted
you
from
Salt
Lake
City
to
St.
Petersburg,
and
you
have
always
escaped
me.
Now,
at
last
your
wanderings
have
come
to
an
end,
for
either
you
or
I
shall
never
see
to-morrow's
sun
rise.'
He
shrunk
still
further
away
as
I
spoke,
and
I
could
see
on
his
face
that
he
thought
I
was
mad.
So
I
was
for
the
time.
The
pulses
in
my
temples
beat
like
sledge-hammers,
and
I
believe
I
would
have
had
a
fit
of
some
sort
if
the
blood
had
not
gushed
from
my
nose
and
relieved
me.
"'What
do
you
think
of
Lucy
Ferrier
now?'
I
cried,
locking
the
door,
and
shaking
the
key
in
his
face.
'Punishment
has
been
slow
in
coming,
but
it
has
overtaken
you
at
last.'
I
saw
his
coward
lips
tremble
as
I
spoke.
He
would
have
begged
for
his
life,
but
he
knew
well
that
it
was
useless.
"'Would
you
murder
me?'
he
stammered.
"'There
is
no
murder,'
I
answered.
'Who
talks
of
murdering
a
mad
dog?
What
mercy
had
you
upon
my
poor
darling,
when
you
dragged
her
from
her
slaughtered
father,
and
bore
her
away
to
your
accursed
and
shameless
harem.'
"'It
was
not
I
who
killed
her
father,'
he
cried.
"'But
it
was
you
who
broke
her
innocent
heart,'
I
shrieked,
thrusting
the
box
before
him.
'Let
the
high
God
judge
between
us.
Choose
and
eat.
There
is
death
in
one
and
life
in
the
other.
I
shall
take
what
you
leave.
Let
us
see
if
there
is
justice
upon
the
earth,
or
if
we
are
ruled
by
chance.'
"He
cowered
away
with
wild
cries
and
prayers
for
mercy,
but
I
drew
my
knife
and
held
it
to
his
throat
until
he
had
obeyed
me.
Then
I
swallowed
the
other,
and
we
stood
facing
one
another
in
silence
for
a
minute
or
more,
waiting
to
see
which
was
to
live
and
which
was
to
die.
Shall
I
ever
forget
the
look
which
came
over
his
face
when
the
first
warning
pangs
told
him
that
the
poison
was
in
his
system?
I
laughed
as
I
saw
it,
and
held
Lucy's
marriage
ring
in
front
of
his
eyes.
It
was
but
for
a
moment,
for
the
action
of
the
alkaloid
is
rapid.
A
spasm
of
pain
contorted
his
features;
he
threw
his
hands
out
in
front
of
him,
staggered,
and
then,
with
a
hoarse
cry,
fell
heavily
upon
the
floor.
I
turned
him
over
with
my
foot,
and
placed
my
hand
upon
his
heart.
There
was
no
movement.
He
was
dead!
"The
blood
had
been
streaming
from
my
nose,
but
I
had
taken
no
notice
of
it.
I
don't
know
what
it
was
that
put
it
into
my
head
to
write
upon
the
wall
with
it.
Perhaps
it
was
some
mischievous
idea
of
setting
the
police
upon
a
wrong
track,
for
I
felt
light-hearted
and
cheerful.
I
remembered
a
German
being
found
in
New
York
with
RACHE
written
up
above
him,
and
it
was
argued
at
the
time
in
the
newspapers
that
the
secret
societies
must
have
done
it.
I
guessed
that
what
puzzled
the
New
Yorkers
would
puzzle
the
Londoners,
so
I
dipped
my
finger
in
my
own
blood
and
printed
it
on
a
convenient
place
on
the
wall.
Then
I
walked
down
to
my
cab
and
found
that
there
was
nobody
about,
and
that
the
night
was
still
very
wild.
I
had
driven
some
distance
when
I
put
my
hand
into
the
pocket
in
which
I
usually
kept
Lucy's
ring,
and
found
that
it
was
not
there.
I
was
thunderstruck
at
this,
for
it
was
the
only
memento
that
I
had
of
her.
Thinking
that
I
might
have
dropped
it
when
I
stooped
over
Drebber's
body,
I
drove
back,
and
leaving
my
cab
in
a
side
street,
I
went
boldly
up
to
the
house—for
I
was
ready
to
dare
anything
rather
than
lose
the
ring.
When
I
arrived
there,
I
walked
right
into
the
arms
of
a
police-officer
who
was
coming
out,
and
only
managed
to
disarm
his
suspicions
by
pretending
to
be
hopelessly
drunk.
"That
was
how
Enoch
Drebber
came
to
his
end.
All
I
had
to
do
then
was
to
do
as
much
for
Stangerson,
and
so
pay
off
John
Ferrier's
debt.
I
knew
that
he
was
staying
at
Halliday's
Private
Hotel,
and
I
hung
about
all
day,
but
he
never
came
out.
26
fancy
that
he
suspected
something
when
Drebber
failed
to
put
in
an
appearance.
He
was
cunning,
was
Stangerson,
and
always
on
his
guard.
If
he
thought
he
could
keep
me
off
by
staying
indoors
he
was
very
much
mistaken.
I
soon
found
out
which
was
the
window
of
his
bedroom,
and
early
next
morning
I
took
advantage
of
some
ladders
which
were
lying
in
the
lane
behind
the
hotel,
and
so
made
my
way
into
his
room
in
the
grey
of
the
dawn.
I
woke
him
up
and
told
him
that
the
hour
had
come
when
he
was
to
answer
for
the
life
he
had
taken
so
long
before.
I
described
Drebber's
death
to
him,
and
I
gave
him
the
same
choice
of
the
poisoned
pills.
Instead
of
grasping
at
the
chance
of
safety
which
that
offered
him,
he
sprang
from
his
bed
and
flew
at
my
throat.
In
self-defence
I
stabbed
him
to
the
heart.
It
would
have
been
the
same
in
any
case,
for
Providence
would
never
have
allowed
his
guilty
hand
to
pick
out
anything
but
the
poison.
"I
have
little
more
to
say,
and
it's
as
well,
for
I
am
about
done
up.
I
went
on
cabbing
it
for
a
day
or
so,
intending
to
keep
at
it
until
I
could
save
enough
to
take
me
back
to
America.
I
was
standing
in
the
yard
when
a
ragged
youngster
asked
if
there
was
a
cabby
there
called
Jefferson
Hope,
and
said
that
his
cab
was
wanted
by
a
gentleman
at
221B,
Baker
Street.
I
went
round,
suspecting
no
harm,
and
the
next
thing
I
knew,
this
young
man
here
had
the
bracelets
on
my
wrists,
and
as
neatly
snackled
27
as
ever
I
saw
in
my
life.
That's
the
whole
of
my
story,
gentlemen.
You
may
consider
me
to
be
a
murderer;
but
I
hold
that
I
am
just
as
much
an
officer
of
justice
as
you
are."
So
thrilling
had
the
man's
narrative
been,
and
his
manner
was
so
impressive
that
we
had
sat
silent
and
absorbed.
Even
the
professional
detectives,
blas�
as
they
were
in
every
detail
of
crime,
appeared
to
be
keenly
interested
in
the
man's
story.
When
he
finished
we
sat
for
some
minutes
in
a
stillness
which
was
only
broken
by
the
scratching
of
Lestrade's
pencil
as
he
gave
the
finishing
touches
to
his
shorthand
account.
"There
is
only
one
point
on
which
I
should
like
a
little
more
information,"
Sherlock
Holmes
said
at
last.
"Who
was
your
accomplice
who
came
for
the
ring
which
I
advertised?"
The
prisoner
winked
at
my
friend
jocosely.
"I
can
tell
my
own
secrets,"
he
said,
"but
I
don't
get
other
people
into
trouble.
I
saw
your
advertisement,
and
I
thought
it
might
be
a
plant,
or
it
might
be
the
ring
which
I
wanted.
My
friend
volunteered
to
go
and
see.
I
think
you'll
own
he
did
it
smartly."
"Not
a
doubt
of
that,"
said
Holmes
heartily.
"Now,
gentlemen,"
the
Inspector
remarked
gravely,
"the
forms
of
the
law
must
be
complied
with.
On
Thursday
the
prisoner
will
be
brought
before
the
magistrates,
and
your
attendance
will
be
required.
Until
then
I
will
be
responsible
for
him."
He
rang
the
bell
as
he
spoke,
and
Jefferson
Hope
was
led
off
by
a
couple
of
warders,
while
my
friend
and
I
made
our
way
out
of
the
Station
and
took
a
cab
back
to
Baker
Street.
CHAPTER
VII.
THE
CONCLUSION.
WE
had
all
been
warned
to
appear
before
the
magistrates
upon
the
Thursday;
but
when
the
Thursday
came
there
was
no
occasion
for
our
testimony.
A
higher
Judge
had
taken
the
matter
in
hand,
and
Jefferson
Hope
had
been
summoned
before
a
tribunal
where
strict
justice
would
be
meted
out
to
him.
On
the
very
night
after
his
capture
the
aneurism
burst,
and
he
was
found
in
the
morning
stretched
upon
the
floor
of
the
cell,
with
a
placid
smile
upon
his
face,
as
though
he
had
been
able
in
his
dying
moments
to
look
back
upon
a
useful
life,
and
on
work
well
done.
"Gregson
and
Lestrade
will
be
wild
about
his
death,"
Holmes
remarked,
as
we
chatted
it
over
next
evening.
"Where
will
their
grand
advertisement
be
now?"
"I
don't
see
that
they
had
very
much
to
do
with
his
capture,"
I
answered.
"What
you
do
in
this
world
is
a
matter
of
no
consequence,"
returned
my
companion,
bitterly.
"The
question
is,
what
can
you
make
people
believe
that
you
have
done.
Never
mind,"
he
continued,
more
brightly,
after
a
pause.
"I
would
not
have
missed
the
investigation
for
anything.
There
has
been
no
better
case
within
my
recollection.
Simple
as
it
was,
there
were
several
most
instructive
points
about
it."
"Simple!"
I
ejaculated.
"Well,
really,
it
can
hardly
be
described
as
otherwise,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
smiling
at
my
surprise.
"The
proof
of
its
intrinsic
simplicity
is,
that
without
any
help
save
a
few
very
ordinary
deductions
I
was
able
to
lay
my
hand
upon
the
criminal
within
three
days."
"That
is
true,"
said
I.
"I
have
already
explained
to
you
that
what
is
out
of
the
common
is
usually
a
guide
rather
than
a
hindrance.
In
solving
a
problem
of
this
sort,
the
grand
thing
is
to
be
able
to
reason
backwards.
That
is
a
very
useful
accomplishment,
and
a
very
easy
one,
but
people
do
not
practise
it
much.
In
the
every-day
affairs
of
life
it
is
more
useful
to
reason
forwards,
and
so
the
other
comes
to
be
neglected.
There
are
fifty
who
can
reason
synthetically
for
one
who
can
reason
analytically."
"I
confess,"
said
I,
"that
I
do
not
quite
follow
you."
"I
hardly
expected
that
you
would.
Let
me
see
if
I
can
make
it
clearer.
Most
people,
if
you
describe
a
train
of
events
to
them,
will
tell
you
what
the
result
would
be.
They
can
put
those
events
together
in
their
minds,
and
argue
from
them
that
something
will
come
to
pass.
There
are
few
people,
however,
who,
if
you
told
them
a
result,
would
be
able
to
evolve
from
their
own
inner
consciousness
what
the
steps
were
which
led
up
to
that
result.
This
power
is
what
I
mean
when
I
talk
of
reasoning
backwards,
or
analytically."
"I
understand,"
said
I.
"Now
this
was
a
case
in
which
you
were
given
the
result
and
had
to
find
everything
else
for
yourself.
Now
let
me
endeavour
to
show
you
the
different
steps
in
my
reasoning.
To
begin
at
the
beginning.
I
approached
the
house,
as
you
know,
on
foot,
and
with
my
mind
entirely
free
from
all
impressions.
I
naturally
began
by
examining
the
roadway,
and
there,
as
I
have
already
explained
to
you,
I
saw
clearly
the
marks
of
a
cab,
which,
I
ascertained
by
inquiry,
must
have
been
there
during
the
night.
I
satisfied
myself
that
it
was
a
cab
and
not
a
private
carriage
by
the
narrow
gauge
of
the
wheels.
The
ordinary
London
growler
is
considerably
less
wide
than
a
gentleman's
brougham.
"This
was
the
first
point
gained.
I
then
walked
slowly
down
the
garden
path,
which
happened
to
be
composed
of
a
clay
soil,
peculiarly
suitable
for
taking
impressions.
No
doubt
it
appeared
to
you
to
be
a
mere
trampled
line
of
slush,
but
to
my
trained
eyes
every
mark
upon
its
surface
had
a
meaning.
There
is
no
branch
of
detective
science
which
is
so
important
and
so
much
neglected
as
the
art
of
tracing
footsteps.
Happily,
I
have
always
laid
great
stress
upon
it,
and
much
practice
has
made
it
second
nature
to
me.
I
saw
the
heavy
footmarks
of
the
constables,
but
I
saw
also
the
track
of
the
two
men
who
had
first
passed
through
the
garden.
It
was
easy
to
tell
that
they
had
been
before
the
others,
because
in
places
their
marks
had
been
entirely
obliterated
by
the
others
coming
upon
the
top
of
them.
In
this
way
my
second
link
was
formed,
which
told
me
that
the
nocturnal
visitors
were
two
in
number,
one
remarkable
for
his
height
(as
I
calculated
from
the
length
of
his
stride),
and
the
other
fashionably
dressed,
to
judge
from
the
small
and
elegant
impression
left
by
his
boots.
"On
entering
the
house
this
last
inference
was
confirmed.
My
well-booted
man
lay
before
me.
The
tall
one,
then,
had
done
the
murder,
if
murder
there
was.
There
was
no
wound
upon
the
dead
man's
person,
but
the
agitated
expression
upon
his
face
assured
me
that
he
had
foreseen
his
fate
before
it
came
upon
him.
Men
who
die
from
heart
disease,
or
any
sudden
natural
cause,
never
by
any
chance
exhibit
agitation
upon
their
features.
Having
sniffed
the
dead
man's
lips
I
detected
a
slightly
sour
smell,
and
I
came
to
the
conclusion
that
he
had
had
poison
forced
upon
him.
Again,
I
argued
that
it
had
been
forced
upon
him
from
the
hatred
and
fear
expressed
upon
his
face.
By
the
method
of
exclusion,
I
had
arrived
at
this
result,
for
no
other
hypothesis
would
meet
the
facts.
Do
not
imagine
that
it
was
a
very
unheard
of
idea.
The
forcible
administration
of
poison
is
by
no
means
a
new
thing
in
criminal
annals.
The
cases
of
Dolsky
in
Odessa,
and
of
Leturier
in
Montpellier,
will
occur
at
once
to
any
toxicologist.
"And
now
came
the
great
question
as
to
the
reason
why.
Robbery
had
not
been
the
object
of
the
murder,
for
nothing
was
taken.
Was
it
politics,
then,
or
was
it
a
woman?
That
was
the
question
which
confronted
me.
I
was
inclined
from
the
first
to
the
latter
supposition.
Political
assassins
are
only
too
glad
to
do
their
work
and
to
fly.
This
murder
had,
on
the
contrary,
been
done
most
deliberately,
and
the
perpetrator
had
left
his
tracks
all
over
the
room,
showing
that
he
had
been
there
all
the
time.
It
must
have
been
a
private
wrong,
and
not
a
political
one,
which
called
for
such
a
methodical
revenge.
When
the
inscription
was
discovered
upon
the
wall
I
was
more
inclined
than
ever
to
my
opinion.
The
thing
was
too
evidently
a
blind.
When
the
ring
was
found,
however,
it
settled
the
question.
Clearly
the
murderer
had
used
it
to
remind
his
victim
of
some
dead
or
absent
woman.
It
was
at
this
point
that
I
asked
Gregson
whether
he
had
enquired
in
his
telegram
to
Cleveland
as
to
any
particular
point
in
Mr.
Drebber's
former
career.
He
answered,
you
remember,
in
the
negative.
"I
then
proceeded
to
make
a
careful
examination
of
the
room,
which
confirmed
me
in
my
opinion
as
to
the
murderer's
height,
and
furnished
me
with
the
additional
details
as
to
the
Trichinopoly
cigar
and
the
length
of
his
nails.
I
had
already
come
to
the
conclusion,
since
there
were
no
signs
of
a
struggle,
that
the
blood
which
covered
the
floor
had
burst
from
the
murderer's
nose
in
his
excitement.
I
could
perceive
that
the
track
of
blood
coincided
with
the
track
of
his
feet.
It
is
seldom
that
any
man,
unless
he
is
very
full-blooded,
breaks
out
in
this
way
through
emotion,
so
I
hazarded
the
opinion
that
the
criminal
was
probably
a
robust
and
ruddy-faced
man.
Events
proved
that
I
had
judged
correctly.
"Having
left
the
house,
I
proceeded
to
do
what
Gregson
had
neglected.
I
telegraphed
to
the
head
of
the
police
at
Cleveland,
limiting
my
enquiry
to
the
circumstances
connected
with
the
marriage
of
Enoch
Drebber.
The
answer
was
conclusive.
It
told
me
that
Drebber
had
already
applied
for
the
protection
of
the
law
against
an
old
rival
in
love,
named
Jefferson
Hope,
and
that
this
same
Hope
was
at
present
in
Europe.
I
knew
now
that
I
held
the
clue
to
the
mystery
in
my
hand,
and
all
that
remained
was
to
secure
the
murderer.
"I
had
already
determined
in
my
own
mind
that
the
man
who
had
walked
into
the
house
with
Drebber,
was
none
other
than
the
man
who
had
driven
the
cab.
The
marks
in
the
road
showed
me
that
the
horse
had
wandered
on
in
a
way
which
would
have
been
impossible
had
there
been
anyone
in
charge
of
it.
Where,
then,
could
the
driver
be,
unless
he
were
inside
the
house?
Again,
it
is
absurd
to
suppose
that
any
sane
man
would
carry
out
a
deliberate
crime
under
the
very
eyes,
as
it
were,
of
a
third
person,
who
was
sure
to
betray
him.
Lastly,
supposing
one
man
wished
to
dog
another
through
London,
what
better
means
could
he
adopt
than
to
turn
cabdriver.
All
these
considerations
led
me
to
the
irresistible
conclusion
that
Jefferson
Hope
was
to
be
found
among
the
jarveys
of
the
Metropolis.
"If
he
had
been
one
there
was
no
reason
to
believe
that
he
had
ceased
to
be.
On
the
contrary,
from
his
point
of
view,
any
sudden
change
would
be
likely
to
draw
attention
to
himself.
He
would,
probably,
for
a
time
at
least,
continue
to
perform
his
duties.
There
was
no
reason
to
suppose
that
he
was
going
under
an
assumed
name.
Why
should
he
change
his
name
in
a
country
where
no
one
knew
his
original
one?
I
therefore
organized
my
Street
Arab
detective
corps,
and
sent
them
systematically
to
every
cab
proprietor
in
London
until
they
ferreted
out
the
man
that
I
wanted.
How
well
they
succeeded,
and
how
quickly
I
took
advantage
of
it,
are
still
fresh
in
your
recollection.
The
murder
of
Stangerson
was
an
incident
which
was
entirely
unexpected,
but
which
could
hardly
in
any
case
have
been
prevented.
Through
it,
as
you
know,
I
came
into
possession
of
the
pills,
the
existence
of
which
I
had
already
surmised.
You
see
the
whole
thing
is
a
chain
of
logical
sequences
without
a
break
or
flaw."
"It
is
wonderful!"
I
cried.
"Your
merits
should
be
publicly
recognized.
You
should
publish
an
account
of
the
case.
If
you
won't,
I
will
for
you."
"You
may
do
what
you
like,
Doctor,"
he
answered.
"See
here!"
he
continued,
handing
a
paper
over
to
me,
"look
at
this!"
It
was
the
Echo
for
the
day,
and
the
paragraph
to
which
he
pointed
was
devoted
to
the
case
in
question.
"The
public,"
it
said,
"have
lost
a
sensational
treat
through
the
sudden
death
of
the
man
Hope,
who
was
suspected
of
the
murder
of
Mr.
Enoch
Drebber
and
of
Mr.
Joseph
Stangerson.
The
details
of
the
case
will
probably
be
never
known
now,
though
we
are
informed
upon
good
authority
that
the
crime
was
the
result
of
an
old
standing
and
romantic
feud,
in
which
love
and
Mormonism
bore
a
part.
It
seems
that
both
the
victims
belonged,
in
their
younger
days,
to
the
Latter
Day
Saints,
and
Hope,
the
deceased
prisoner,
hails
also
from
Salt
Lake
City.
If
the
case
has
had
no
other
effect,
it,
at
least,
brings
out
in
the
most
striking
manner
the
efficiency
of
our
detective
police
force,
and
will
serve
as
a
lesson
to
all
foreigners
that
they
will
do
wisely
to
settle
their
feuds
at
home,
and
not
to
carry
them
on
to
British
soil.
It
is
an
open
secret
that
the
credit
of
this
smart
capture
belongs
entirely
to
the
well-known
Scotland
Yard
officials,
Messrs.
Lestrade
and
Gregson.
The
man
was
apprehended,
it
appears,
in
the
rooms
of
a
certain
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,
who
has
himself,
as
an
amateur,
shown
some
talent
in
the
detective
line,
and
who,
with
such
instructors,
may
hope
in
time
to
attain
to
some
degree
of
their
skill.
It
is
expected
that
a
testimonial
of
some
sort
will
be
presented
to
the
two
officers
as
a
fitting
recognition
of
their
services."
"Didn't
I
tell
you
so
when
we
started?"
cried
Sherlock
Holmes
with
a
laugh.
"That's
the
result
of
all
our
Study
in
Scarlet:
to
get
them
a
testimonial!"
"Never
mind,"
I
answered,
"I
have
all
the
facts
in
my
journal,
and
the
public
shall
know
them.
In
the
meantime
you
must
make
yourself
contented
by
the
consciousness
of
success,
like
the
Roman
miser
%%%%%
THE
HOUND
OF
THE
BASKERVILLES
by
Sir
Arthur
Conan
Doyle,
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2852/2852-h/2852-h.htm
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,
who
was
usually
very
late
in
the
mornings,
save
upon
those
not
infrequent
occasions
when
he
was
up
all
night,
was
seated
at
the
breakfast
table.
I
stood
upon
the
hearth-rug
and
picked
up
the
stick
which
our
visitor
had
left
behind
him
the
night
before.
It
was
a
fine,
thick
piece
of
wood,
bulbous-headed,
of
the
sort
which
is
known
as
a
"Penang
lawyer."
Just
under
the
head
was
a
broad
silver
band
nearly
an
inch
across.
"To
James
Mortimer,
M.R.C.S.,
from
his
friends
of
the
C.C.H.,"
was
engraved
upon
it,
with
the
date
"1884."
It
was
just
such
a
stick
as
the
old-fashioned
family
practitioner
used
to
carry—dignified,
solid,
and
reassuring.
"Well,
Watson,
what
do
you
make
of
it?"
Holmes
was
sitting
with
his
back
to
me,
and
I
had
given
him
no
sign
of
my
occupation.
"How
did
you
know
what
I
was
doing?
I
believe
you
have
eyes
in
the
back
of
your
head."
"I
have,
at
least,
a
well-polished,
silver-plated
coffee-pot
in
front
of
me,"
said
he.
"But,
tell
me,
Watson,
what
do
you
make
of
our
visitor's
stick?
Since
we
have
been
so
unfortunate
as
to
miss
him
and
have
no
notion
of
his
errand,
this
accidental
souvenir
becomes
of
importance.
Let
me
hear
you
reconstruct
the
man
by
an
examination
of
it."
"I
think,"
said
I,
following
as
far
as
I
could
the
methods
of
my
companion,
"that
Dr.
Mortimer
is
a
successful,
elderly
medical
man,
well-esteemed
since
those
who
know
him
give
him
this
mark
of
their
appreciation."
"Good!"
said
Holmes.
"Excellent!"
"I
think
also
that
the
probability
is
in
favour
of
his
being
a
country
practitioner
who
does
a
great
deal
of
his
visiting
on
foot."
"Why
so?"
"Because
this
stick,
though
originally
a
very
handsome
one
has
been
so
knocked
about
that
I
can
hardly
imagine
a
town
practitioner
carrying
it.
The
thick-iron
ferrule
is
worn
down,
so
it
is
evident
that
he
has
done
a
great
amount
of
walking
with
it."
"Perfectly
sound!"
said
Holmes.
"And
then
again,
there
is
the
'friends
of
the
C.C.H.'
I
should
guess
that
to
be
the
Something
Hunt,
the
local
hunt
to
whose
members
he
has
possibly
given
some
surgical
assistance,
and
which
has
made
him
a
small
presentation
in
return."
"Really,
Watson,
you
excel
yourself,"
said
Holmes,
pushing
back
his
chair
and
lighting
a
cigarette.
"I
am
bound
to
say
that
in
all
the
accounts
which
you
have
been
so
good
as
to
give
of
my
own
small
achievements
you
have
habitually
underrated
your
own
abilities.
It
may
be
that
you
are
not
yourself
luminous,
but
you
are
a
conductor
of
light.
Some
people
without
possessing
genius
have
a
remarkable
power
of
stimulating
it.
I
confess,
my
dear
fellow,
that
I
am
very
much
in
your
debt."
He
had
never
said
as
much
before,
and
I
must
admit
that
his
words
gave
me
keen
pleasure,
for
I
had
often
been
piqued
by
his
indifference
to
my
admiration
and
to
the
attempts
which
I
had
made
to
give
publicity
to
his
methods.
I
was
proud,
too,
to
think
that
I
had
so
far
mastered
his
system
as
to
apply
it
in
a
way
which
earned
his
approval.
He
now
took
the
stick
from
my
hands
and
examined
it
for
a
few
minutes
with
his
naked
eyes.
Then
with
an
expression
of
interest
he
laid
down
his
cigarette,
and
carrying
the
cane
to
the
window,
he
looked
over
it
again
with
a
convex
lens.
"Interesting,
though
elementary,"
said
he
as
he
returned
to
his
favourite
corner
of
the
settee.
"There
are
certainly
one
or
two
indications
upon
the
stick.
It
gives
us
the
basis
for
several
deductions."
"Has
anything
escaped
me?"
I
asked
with
some
self-importance.
"I
trust
that
there
is
nothing
of
consequence
which
I
have
overlooked?"
"I
am
afraid,
my
dear
Watson,
that
most
of
your
conclusions
were
erroneous.
When
I
said
that
you
stimulated
me
I
meant,
to
be
frank,
that
in
noting
your
fallacies
I
was
occasionally
guided
towards
the
truth.
Not
that
you
are
entirely
wrong
in
this
instance.
The
man
is
certainly
a
country
practitioner.
And
he
walks
a
good
deal."
"Then
I
was
right."
"To
that
extent."
"But
that
was
all."
"No,
no,
my
dear
Watson,
not
all—by
no
means
all.
I
would
suggest,
for
example,
that
a
presentation
to
a
doctor
is
more
likely
to
come
from
a
hospital
than
from
a
hunt,
and
that
when
the
initials
'C.C.'
are
placed
before
that
hospital
the
words
'Charing
Cross'
very
naturally
suggest
themselves."
"You
may
be
right."
"The
probability
lies
in
that
direction.
And
if
we
take
this
as
a
working
hypothesis
we
have
a
fresh
basis
from
which
to
start
our
construction
of
this
unknown
visitor."
"Well,
then,
supposing
that
'C.C.H.'
does
stand
for
'Charing
Cross
Hospital,'
what
further
inferences
may
we
draw?"
"Do
none
suggest
themselves?
You
know
my
methods.
Apply
them!"
"I
can
only
think
of
the
obvious
conclusion
that
the
man
has
practised
in
town
before
going
to
the
country."
"I
think
that
we
might
venture
a
little
farther
than
this.
Look
at
it
in
this
light.
On
what
occasion
would
it
be
most
probable
that
such
a
presentation
would
be
made?
When
would
his
friends
unite
to
give
him
a
pledge
of
their
good
will?
Obviously
at
the
moment
when
Dr.
Mortimer
withdrew
from
the
service
of
the
hospital
in
order
to
start
a
practice
for
himself.
We
know
there
has
been
a
presentation.
We
believe
there
has
been
a
change
from
a
town
hospital
to
a
country
practice.
Is
it,
then,
stretching
our
inference
too
far
to
say
that
the
presentation
was
on
the
occasion
of
the
change?"
"It
certainly
seems
probable."
"Now,
you
will
observe
that
he
could
not
have
been
on
the
staff
of
the
hospital,
since
only
a
man
well-established
in
a
London
practice
could
hold
such
a
position,
and
such
a
one
would
not
drift
into
the
country.
What
was
he,
then?
If
he
was
in
the
hospital
and
yet
not
on
the
staff
he
could
only
have
been
a
house-surgeon
or
a
house-physician—little
more
than
a
senior
student.
And
he
left
five
years
ago—the
date
is
on
the
stick.
So
your
grave,
middle-aged
family
practitioner
vanishes
into
thin
air,
my
dear
Watson,
and
there
emerges
a
young
fellow
under
thirty,
amiable,
unambitious,
absent-minded,
and
the
possessor
of
a
favourite
dog,
which
I
should
describe
roughly
as
being
larger
than
a
terrier
and
smaller
than
a
mastiff."
I
laughed
incredulously
as
Sherlock
Holmes
leaned
back
in
his
settee
and
blew
little
wavering
rings
of
smoke
up
to
the
ceiling.
"As
to
the
latter
part,
I
have
no
means
of
checking
you,"
said
I,
"but
at
least
it
is
not
difficult
to
find
out
a
few
particulars
about
the
man's
age
and
professional
career."
From
my
small
medical
shelf
I
took
down
the
Medical
Directory
and
turned
up
the
name.
There
were
several
Mortimers,
but
only
one
who
could
be
our
visitor.
I
read
his
record
aloud.
"Mortimer,
James,
M.R.C.S.,
1882,
Grimpen,
Dartmoor,
Devon.
House-surgeon,
from
1882
to
1884,
at
Charing
Cross
Hospital.
Winner
of
the
Jackson
prize
for
Comparative
Pathology,
with
essay
entitled
'Is
Disease
a
Reversion?'
Corresponding
member
of
the
Swedish
Pathological
Society.
Author
of
'Some
Freaks
of
Atavism'
(Lancet
1882).
'Do
We
Progress?'
(Journal
of
Psychology,
March,
1883).
Medical
Officer
for
the
parishes
of
Grimpen,
Thorsley,
and
High
Barrow."
"No
mention
of
that
local
hunt,
Watson,"
said
Holmes
with
a
mischievous
smile,
"but
a
country
doctor,
as
you
very
astutely
observed.
I
think
that
I
am
fairly
justified
in
my
inferences.
As
to
the
adjectives,
I
said,
if
I
remember
right,
amiable,
unambitious,
and
absent-minded.
It
is
my
experience
that
it
is
only
an
amiable
man
in
this
world
who
receives
testimonials,
only
an
unambitious
one
who
abandons
a
London
career
for
the
country,
and
only
an
absent-minded
one
who
leaves
his
stick
and
not
his
visiting-card
after
waiting
an
hour
in
your
room."
"And
the
dog?"
"Has
been
in
the
habit
of
carrying
this
stick
behind
his
master.
Being
a
heavy
stick
the
dog
has
held
it
tightly
by
the
middle,
and
the
marks
of
his
teeth
are
very
plainly
visible.
The
dog's
jaw,
as
shown
in
the
space
between
these
marks,
is
too
broad
in
my
opinion
for
a
terrier
and
not
broad
enough
for
a
mastiff.
It
may
have
been—yes,
by
Jove,
it
is
a
curly-haired
spaniel."
He
had
risen
and
paced
the
room
as
he
spoke.
Now
he
halted
in
the
recess
of
the
window.
There
was
such
a
ring
of
conviction
in
his
voice
that
I
glanced
up
in
surprise.
"My
dear
fellow,
how
can
you
possibly
be
so
sure
of
that?"
"For
the
very
simple
reason
that
I
see
the
dog
himself
on
our
very
door-step,
and
there
is
the
ring
of
its
owner.
Don't
move,
I
beg
you,
Watson.
He
is
a
professional
brother
of
yours,
and
your
presence
may
be
of
assistance
to
me.
Now
is
the
dramatic
moment
of
fate,
Watson,
when
you
hear
a
step
upon
the
stair
which
is
walking
into
your
life,
and
you
know
not
whether
for
good
or
ill.
What
does
Dr.
James
Mortimer,
the
man
of
science,
ask
of
Sherlock
Holmes,
the
specialist
in
crime?
Come
in!"
The
appearance
of
our
visitor
was
a
surprise
to
me,
since
I
had
expected
a
typical
country
practitioner.
He
was
a
very
tall,
thin
man,
with
a
long
nose
like
a
beak,
which
jutted
out
between
two
keen,
gray
eyes,
set
closely
together
and
sparkling
brightly
from
behind
a
pair
of
gold-rimmed
glasses.
He
was
clad
in
a
professional
but
rather
slovenly
fashion,
for
his
frock-coat
was
dingy
and
his
trousers
frayed.
Though
young,
his
long
back
was
already
bowed,
and
he
walked
with
a
forward
thrust
of
his
head
and
a
general
air
of
peering
benevolence.
As
he
entered
his
eyes
fell
upon
the
stick
in
Holmes's
hand,
and
he
ran
towards
it
with
an
exclamation
of
joy.
"I
am
so
very
glad,"
said
he.
"I
was
not
sure
whether
I
had
left
it
here
or
in
the
Shipping
Office.
I
would
not
lose
that
stick
for
the
world."
"A
presentation,
I
see,"
said
Holmes.
"Yes,
sir."
"From
Charing
Cross
Hospital?"
"From
one
or
two
friends
there
on
the
occasion
of
my
marriage."
"Dear,
dear,
that's
bad!"
said
Holmes,
shaking
his
head.
Dr.
Mortimer
blinked
through
his
glasses
in
mild
astonishment.
"Why
was
it
bad?"
"Only
that
you
have
disarranged
our
little
deductions.
Your
marriage,
you
say?"
"Yes,
sir.
I
married,
and
so
left
the
hospital,
and
with
it
all
hopes
of
a
consulting
practice.
It
was
necessary
to
make
a
home
of
my
own."
"Come,
come,
we
are
not
so
far
wrong,
after
all,"
said
Holmes.
"And
now,
Dr.
James
Mortimer—"
"Mister,
sir,
Mister—a
humble
M.R.C.S."
"And
a
man
of
precise
mind,
evidently."
"A
dabbler
in
science,
Mr.
Holmes,
a
picker
up
of
shells
on
the
shores
of
the
great
unknown
ocean.
I
presume
that
it
is
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
whom
I
am
addressing
and
not—"
"No,
this
is
my
friend
Dr.
Watson."
"Glad
to
meet
you,
sir.
I
have
heard
your
name
mentioned
in
connection
with
that
of
your
friend.
You
interest
me
very
much,
Mr.
Holmes.
I
had
hardly
expected
so
dolichocephalic
a
skull
or
such
well-marked
supra-orbital
development.
Would
you
have
any
objection
to
my
running
my
finger
along
your
parietal
fissure?
A
cast
of
your
skull,
sir,
until
the
original
is
available,
would
be
an
ornament
to
any
anthropological
museum.
It
is
not
my
intention
to
be
fulsome,
but
I
confess
that
I
covet
your
skull."
Sherlock
Holmes
waved
our
strange
visitor
into
a
chair.
"You
are
an
enthusiast
in
your
line
of
thought,
I
perceive,
sir,
as
I
am
in
mine,"
said
he.
"I
observe
from
your
forefinger
that
you
make
your
own
cigarettes.
Have
no
hesitation
in
lighting
one."
The
man
drew
out
paper
and
tobacco
and
twirled
the
one
up
in
the
other
with
surprising
dexterity.
He
had
long,
quivering
fingers
as
agile
and
restless
as
the
antennae
of
an
insect.
Holmes
was
silent,
but
his
little
darting
glances
showed
me
the
interest
which
he
took
in
our
curious
companion.
"I
presume,
sir,"
said
he
at
last,
"that
it
was
not
merely
for
the
purpose
of
examining
my
skull
that
you
have
done
me
the
honour
to
call
here
last
night
and
again
today?"
"No,
sir,
no;
though
I
am
happy
to
have
had
the
opportunity
of
doing
that
as
well.
I
came
to
you,
Mr.
Holmes,
because
I
recognized
that
I
am
myself
an
unpractical
man
and
because
I
am
suddenly
confronted
with
a
most
serious
and
extraordinary
problem.
Recognizing,
as
I
do,
that
you
are
the
second
highest
expert
in
Europe—"
"Indeed,
sir!
May
I
inquire
who
has
the
honour
to
be
the
first?"
asked
Holmes
with
some
asperity.
"To
the
man
of
precisely
scientific
mind
the
work
of
Monsieur
Bertillon
must
always
appeal
strongly."
"Then
had
you
not
better
consult
him?"
"I
said,
sir,
to
the
precisely
scientific
mind.
But
as
a
practical
man
of
affairs
it
is
acknowledged
that
you
stand
alone.
I
trust,
sir,
that
I
have
not
inadvertently—"
"Just
a
little,"
said
Holmes.
"I
think,
Dr.
Mortimer,
you
would
do
wisely
if
without
more
ado
you
would
kindly
tell
me
plainly
what
the
exact
nature
of
the
problem
is
in
which
you
demand
my
assistance."
Chapter
2.
The
Curse
of
the
Baskervilles
"I
have
in
my
pocket
a
manuscript,"
said
Dr.
James
Mortimer.
"I
observed
it
as
you
entered
the
room,"
said
Holmes.
"It
is
an
old
manuscript."
"Early
eighteenth
century,
unless
it
is
a
forgery."
"How
can
you
say
that,
sir?"
"You
have
presented
an
inch
or
two
of
it
to
my
examination
all
the
time
that
you
have
been
talking.
It
would
be
a
poor
expert
who
could
not
give
the
date
of
a
document
within
a
decade
or
so.
You
may
possibly
have
read
my
little
monograph
upon
the
subject.
I
put
that
at
1730."
"The
exact
date
is
1742."
Dr.
Mortimer
drew
it
from
his
breast-pocket.
"This
family
paper
was
committed
to
my
care
by
Sir
Charles
Baskerville,
whose
sudden
and
tragic
death
some
three
months
ago
created
so
much
excitement
in
Devonshire.
I
may
say
that
I
was
his
personal
friend
as
well
as
his
medical
attendant.
He
was
a
strong-minded
man,
sir,
shrewd,
practical,
and
as
unimaginative
as
I
am
myself.
Yet
he
took
this
document
very
seriously,
and
his
mind
was
prepared
for
just
such
an
end
as
did
eventually
overtake
him."
Holmes
stretched
out
his
hand
for
the
manuscript
and
flattened
it
upon
his
knee.
"You
will
observe,
Watson,
the
alternative
use
of
the
long
s
and
the
short.
It
is
one
of
several
indications
which
enabled
me
to
fix
the
date."
I
looked
over
his
shoulder
at
the
yellow
paper
and
the
faded
script.
At
the
head
was
written:
"Baskerville
Hall,"
and
below
in
large,
scrawling
figures:
"1742."
"It
appears
to
be
a
statement
of
some
sort."
"Yes,
it
is
a
statement
of
a
certain
legend
which
runs
in
the
Baskerville
family."
"But
I
understand
that
it
is
something
more
modern
and
practical
upon
which
you
wish
to
consult
me?"
"Most
modern.
A
most
practical,
pressing
matter,
which
must
be
decided
within
twenty-four
hours.
But
the
manuscript
is
short
and
is
intimately
connected
with
the
affair.
With
your
permission
I
will
read
it
to
you."
Holmes
leaned
back
in
his
chair,
placed
his
finger-tips
together,
and
closed
his
eyes,
with
an
air
of
resignation.
Dr.
Mortimer
turned
the
manuscript
to
the
light
and
read
in
a
high,
cracking
voice
the
following
curious,
old-world
narrative:
"Of
the
origin
of
the
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles
there
have
been
many
statements,
yet
as
I
come
in
a
direct
line
from
Hugo
Baskerville,
and
as
I
had
the
story
from
my
father,
who
also
had
it
from
his,
I
have
set
it
down
with
all
belief
that
it
occurred
even
as
is
here
set
forth.
And
I
would
have
you
believe,
my
sons,
that
the
same
Justice
which
punishes
sin
may
also
most
graciously
forgive
it,
and
that
no
ban
is
so
heavy
but
that
by
prayer
and
repentance
it
may
be
removed.
Learn
then
from
this
story
not
to
fear
the
fruits
of
the
past,
but
rather
to
be
circumspect
in
the
future,
that
those
foul
passions
whereby
our
family
has
suffered
so
grievously
may
not
again
be
loosed
to
our
undoing.
"Know
then
that
in
the
time
of
the
Great
Rebellion
(the
history
of
which
by
the
learned
Lord
Clarendon
I
most
earnestly
commend
to
your
attention)
this
Manor
of
Baskerville
was
held
by
Hugo
of
that
name,
nor
can
it
be
gainsaid
that
he
was
a
most
wild,
profane,
and
godless
man.
This,
in
truth,
his
neighbours
might
have
pardoned,
seeing
that
saints
have
never
flourished
in
those
parts,
but
there
was
in
him
a
certain
wanton
and
cruel
humour
which
made
his
name
a
by-word
through
the
West.
It
chanced
that
this
Hugo
came
to
love
(if,
indeed,
so
dark
a
passion
may
be
known
under
so
bright
a
name)
the
daughter
of
a
yeoman
who
held
lands
near
the
Baskerville
estate.
But
the
young
maiden,
being
discreet
and
of
good
repute,
would
ever
avoid
him,
for
she
feared
his
evil
name.
So
it
came
to
pass
that
one
Michaelmas
this
Hugo,
with
five
or
six
of
his
idle
and
wicked
companions,
stole
down
upon
the
farm
and
carried
off
the
maiden,
her
father
and
brothers
being
from
home,
as
he
well
knew.
When
they
had
brought
her
to
the
Hall
the
maiden
was
placed
in
an
upper
chamber,
while
Hugo
and
his
friends
sat
down
to
a
long
carouse,
as
was
their
nightly
custom.
Now,
the
poor
lass
upstairs
was
like
to
have
her
wits
turned
at
the
singing
and
shouting
and
terrible
oaths
which
came
up
to
her
from
below,
for
they
say
that
the
words
used
by
Hugo
Baskerville,
when
he
was
in
wine,
were
such
as
might
blast
the
man
who
said
them.
At
last
in
the
stress
of
her
fear
she
did
that
which
might
have
daunted
the
bravest
or
most
active
man,
for
by
the
aid
of
the
growth
of
ivy
which
covered
(and
still
covers)
the
south
wall
she
came
down
from
under
the
eaves,
and
so
homeward
across
the
moor,
there
being
three
leagues
betwixt
the
Hall
and
her
father's
farm.
"It
chanced
that
some
little
time
later
Hugo
left
his
guests
to
carry
food
and
drink—with
other
worse
things,
perchance—to
his
captive,
and
so
found
the
cage
empty
and
the
bird
escaped.
Then,
as
it
would
seem,
he
became
as
one
that
hath
a
devil,
for,
rushing
down
the
stairs
into
the
dining-hall,
he
sprang
upon
the
great
table,
flagons
and
trenchers
flying
before
him,
and
he
cried
aloud
before
all
the
company
that
he
would
that
very
night
render
his
body
and
soul
to
the
Powers
of
Evil
if
he
might
but
overtake
the
wench.
And
while
the
revellers
stood
aghast
at
the
fury
of
the
man,
one
more
wicked
or,
it
may
be,
more
drunken
than
the
rest,
cried
out
that
they
should
put
the
hounds
upon
her.
Whereat
Hugo
ran
from
the
house,
crying
to
his
grooms
that
they
should
saddle
his
mare
and
unkennel
the
pack,
and
giving
the
hounds
a
kerchief
of
the
maid's,
he
swung
them
to
the
line,
and
so
off
full
cry
in
the
moonlight
over
the
moor.
"Now,
for
some
space
the
revellers
stood
agape,
unable
to
understand
all
that
had
been
done
in
such
haste.
But
anon
their
bemused
wits
awoke
to
the
nature
of
the
deed
which
was
like
to
be
done
upon
the
moorlands.
Everything
was
now
in
an
uproar,
some
calling
for
their
pistols,
some
for
their
horses,
and
some
for
another
flask
of
wine.
But
at
length
some
sense
came
back
to
their
crazed
minds,
and
the
whole
of
them,
thirteen
in
number,
took
horse
and
started
in
pursuit.
The
moon
shone
clear
above
them,
and
they
rode
swiftly
abreast,
taking
that
course
which
the
maid
must
needs
have
taken
if
she
were
to
reach
her
own
home.
"They
had
gone
a
mile
or
two
when
they
passed
one
of
the
night
shepherds
upon
the
moorlands,
and
they
cried
to
him
to
know
if
he
had
seen
the
hunt.
And
the
man,
as
the
story
goes,
was
so
crazed
with
fear
that
he
could
scarce
speak,
but
at
last
he
said
that
he
had
indeed
seen
the
unhappy
maiden,
with
the
hounds
upon
her
track.
'But
I
have
seen
more
than
that,'
said
he,
'for
Hugo
Baskerville
passed
me
upon
his
black
mare,
and
there
ran
mute
behind
him
such
a
hound
of
hell
as
God
forbid
should
ever
be
at
my
heels.'
So
the
drunken
squires
cursed
the
shepherd
and
rode
onward.
But
soon
their
skins
turned
cold,
for
there
came
a
galloping
across
the
moor,
and
the
black
mare,
dabbled
with
white
froth,
went
past
with
trailing
bridle
and
empty
saddle.
Then
the
revellers
rode
close
together,
for
a
great
fear
was
on
them,
but
they
still
followed
over
the
moor,
though
each,
had
he
been
alone,
would
have
been
right
glad
to
have
turned
his
horse's
head.
Riding
slowly
in
this
fashion
they
came
at
last
upon
the
hounds.
These,
though
known
for
their
valour
and
their
breed,
were
whimpering
in
a
cluster
at
the
head
of
a
deep
dip
or
goyal,
as
we
call
it,
upon
the
moor,
some
slinking
away
and
some,
with
starting
hackles
and
staring
eyes,
gazing
down
the
narrow
valley
before
them.
"The
company
had
come
to
a
halt,
more
sober
men,
as
you
may
guess,
than
when
they
started.
The
most
of
them
would
by
no
means
advance,
but
three
of
them,
the
boldest,
or
it
may
be
the
most
drunken,
rode
forward
down
the
goyal.
Now,
it
opened
into
a
broad
space
in
which
stood
two
of
those
great
stones,
still
to
be
seen
there,
which
were
set
by
certain
forgotten
peoples
in
the
days
of
old.
The
moon
was
shining
bright
upon
the
clearing,
and
there
in
the
centre
lay
the
unhappy
maid
where
she
had
fallen,
dead
of
fear
and
of
fatigue.
But
it
was
not
the
sight
of
her
body,
nor
yet
was
it
that
of
the
body
of
Hugo
Baskerville
lying
near
her,
which
raised
the
hair
upon
the
heads
of
these
three
dare-devil
roysterers,
but
it
was
that,
standing
over
Hugo,
and
plucking
at
his
throat,
there
stood
a
foul
thing,
a
great,
black
beast,
shaped
like
a
hound,
yet
larger
than
any
hound
that
ever
mortal
eye
has
rested
upon.
And
even
as
they
looked
the
thing
tore
the
throat
out
of
Hugo
Baskerville,
on
which,
as
it
turned
its
blazing
eyes
and
dripping
jaws
upon
them,
the
three
shrieked
with
fear
and
rode
for
dear
life,
still
screaming,
across
the
moor.
One,
it
is
said,
died
that
very
night
of
what
he
had
seen,
and
the
other
twain
were
but
broken
men
for
the
rest
of
their
days.
"Such
is
the
tale,
my
sons,
of
the
coming
of
the
hound
which
is
said
to
have
plagued
the
family
so
sorely
ever
since.
If
I
have
set
it
down
it
is
because
that
which
is
clearly
known
hath
less
terror
than
that
which
is
but
hinted
at
and
guessed.
Nor
can
it
be
denied
that
many
of
the
family
have
been
unhappy
in
their
deaths,
which
have
been
sudden,
bloody,
and
mysterious.
Yet
may
we
shelter
ourselves
in
the
infinite
goodness
of
Providence,
which
would
not
forever
punish
the
innocent
beyond
that
third
or
fourth
generation
which
is
threatened
in
Holy
Writ.
To
that
Providence,
my
sons,
I
hereby
commend
you,
and
I
counsel
you
by
way
of
caution
to
forbear
from
crossing
the
moor
in
those
dark
hours
when
the
powers
of
evil
are
exalted.
"[This
from
Hugo
Baskerville
to
his
sons
Rodger
and
John,
with
instructions
that
they
say
nothing
thereof
to
their
sister
Elizabeth.]"
When
Dr.
Mortimer
had
finished
reading
this
singular
narrative
he
pushed
his
spectacles
up
on
his
forehead
and
stared
across
at
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes.
The
latter
yawned
and
tossed
the
end
of
his
cigarette
into
the
fire.
"Well?"
said
he.
"Do
you
not
find
it
interesting?"
"To
a
collector
of
fairy
tales."
Dr.
Mortimer
drew
a
folded
newspaper
out
of
his
pocket.
"Now,
Mr.
Holmes,
we
will
give
you
something
a
little
more
recent.
This
is
the
Devon
County
Chronicle
of
May
14th
of
this
year.
It
is
a
short
account
of
the
facts
elicited
at
the
death
of
Sir
Charles
Baskerville
which
occurred
a
few
days
before
that
date."
My
friend
leaned
a
little
forward
and
his
expression
became
intent.
Our
visitor
readjusted
his
glasses
and
began:
"The
recent
sudden
death
of
Sir
Charles
Baskerville,
whose
name
has
been
mentioned
as
the
probable
Liberal
candidate
for
Mid-Devon
at
the
next
election,
has
cast
a
gloom
over
the
county.
Though
Sir
Charles
had
resided
at
Baskerville
Hall
for
a
comparatively
short
period
his
amiability
of
character
and
extreme
generosity
had
won
the
affection
and
respect
of
all
who
had
been
brought
into
contact
with
him.
In
these
days
of
nouveaux
riches
it
is
refreshing
to
find
a
case
where
the
scion
of
an
old
county
family
which
has
fallen
upon
evil
days
is
able
to
make
his
own
fortune
and
to
bring
it
back
with
him
to
restore
the
fallen
grandeur
of
his
line.
Sir
Charles,
as
is
well
known,
made
large
sums
of
money
in
South
African
speculation.
More
wise
than
those
who
go
on
until
the
wheel
turns
against
them,
he
realized
his
gains
and
returned
to
England
with
them.
It
is
only
two
years
since
he
took
up
his
residence
at
Baskerville
Hall,
and
it
is
common
talk
how
large
were
those
schemes
of
reconstruction
and
improvement
which
have
been
interrupted
by
his
death.
Being
himself
childless,
it
was
his
openly
expressed
desire
that
the
whole
countryside
should,
within
his
own
lifetime,
profit
by
his
good
fortune,
and
many
will
have
personal
reasons
for
bewailing
his
untimely
end.
His
generous
donations
to
local
and
county
charities
have
been
frequently
chronicled
in
these
columns.
"The
circumstances
connected
with
the
death
of
Sir
Charles
cannot
be
said
to
have
been
entirely
cleared
up
by
the
inquest,
but
at
least
enough
has
been
done
to
dispose
of
those
rumours
to
which
local
superstition
has
given
rise.
There
is
no
reason
whatever
to
suspect
foul
play,
or
to
imagine
that
death
could
be
from
any
but
natural
causes.
Sir
Charles
was
a
widower,
and
a
man
who
may
be
said
to
have
been
in
some
ways
of
an
eccentric
habit
of
mind.
In
spite
of
his
considerable
wealth
he
was
simple
in
his
personal
tastes,
and
his
indoor
servants
at
Baskerville
Hall
consisted
of
a
married
couple
named
Barrymore,
the
husband
acting
as
butler
and
the
wife
as
housekeeper.
Their
evidence,
corroborated
by
that
of
several
friends,
tends
to
show
that
Sir
Charles's
health
has
for
some
time
been
impaired,
and
points
especially
to
some
affection
of
the
heart,
manifesting
itself
in
changes
of
colour,
breathlessness,
and
acute
attacks
of
nervous
depression.
Dr.
James
Mortimer,
the
friend
and
medical
attendant
of
the
deceased,
has
given
evidence
to
the
same
effect.
"The
facts
of
the
case
are
simple.
Sir
Charles
Baskerville
was
in
the
habit
every
night
before
going
to
bed
of
walking
down
the
famous
yew
alley
of
Baskerville
Hall.
The
evidence
of
the
Barrymores
shows
that
this
had
been
his
custom.
On
the
fourth
of
May
Sir
Charles
had
declared
his
intention
of
starting
next
day
for
London,
and
had
ordered
Barrymore
to
prepare
his
luggage.
That
night
he
went
out
as
usual
for
his
nocturnal
walk,
in
the
course
of
which
he
was
in
the
habit
of
smoking
a
cigar.
He
never
returned.
At
twelve
o'clock
Barrymore,
finding
the
hall
door
still
open,
became
alarmed,
and,
lighting
a
lantern,
went
in
search
of
his
master.
The
day
had
been
wet,
and
Sir
Charles's
footmarks
were
easily
traced
down
the
alley.
Halfway
down
this
walk
there
is
a
gate
which
leads
out
on
to
the
moor.
There
were
indications
that
Sir
Charles
had
stood
for
some
little
time
here.
He
then
proceeded
down
the
alley,
and
it
was
at
the
far
end
of
it
that
his
body
was
discovered.
One
fact
which
has
not
been
explained
is
the
statement
of
Barrymore
that
his
master's
footprints
altered
their
character
from
the
time
that
he
passed
the
moor-gate,
and
that
he
appeared
from
thence
onward
to
have
been
walking
upon
his
toes.
One
Murphy,
a
gipsy
horse-dealer,
was
on
the
moor
at
no
great
distance
at
the
time,
but
he
appears
by
his
own
confession
to
have
been
the
worse
for
drink.
He
declares
that
he
heard
cries
but
is
unable
to
state
from
what
direction
they
came.
No
signs
of
violence
were
to
be
discovered
upon
Sir
Charles's
person,
and
though
the
doctor's
evidence
pointed
to
an
almost
incredible
facial
distortion—so
great
that
Dr.
Mortimer
refused
at
first
to
believe
that
it
was
indeed
his
friend
and
patient
who
lay
before
him—it
was
explained
that
that
is
a
symptom
which
is
not
unusual
in
cases
of
dyspnoea
and
death
from
cardiac
exhaustion.
This
explanation
was
borne
out
by
the
post-mortem
examination,
which
showed
long-standing
organic
disease,
and
the
coroner's
jury
returned
a
verdict
in
accordance
with
the
medical
evidence.
It
is
well
that
this
is
so,
for
it
is
obviously
of
the
utmost
importance
that
Sir
Charles's
heir
should
settle
at
the
Hall
and
continue
the
good
work
which
has
been
so
sadly
interrupted.
Had
the
prosaic
finding
of
the
coroner
not
finally
put
an
end
to
the
romantic
stories
which
have
been
whispered
in
connection
with
the
affair,
it
might
have
been
difficult
to
find
a
tenant
for
Baskerville
Hall.
It
is
understood
that
the
next
of
kin
is
Mr.
Henry
Baskerville,
if
he
be
still
alive,
the
son
of
Sir
Charles
Baskerville's
younger
brother.
The
young
man
when
last
heard
of
was
in
America,
and
inquiries
are
being
instituted
with
a
view
to
informing
him
of
his
good
fortune."
Dr.
Mortimer
refolded
his
paper
and
replaced
it
in
his
pocket.
"Those
are
the
public
facts,
Mr.
Holmes,
in
connection
with
the
death
of
Sir
Charles
Baskerville."
"I
must
thank
you,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
"for
calling
my
attention
to
a
case
which
certainly
presents
some
features
of
interest.
I
had
observed
some
newspaper
comment
at
the
time,
but
I
was
exceedingly
preoccupied
by
that
little
affair
of
the
Vatican
cameos,
and
in
my
anxiety
to
oblige
the
Pope
I
lost
touch
with
several
interesting
English
cases.
This
article,
you
say,
contains
all
the
public
facts?"
"It
does."
"Then
let
me
have
the
private
ones."
He
leaned
back,
put
his
finger-tips
together,
and
assumed
his
most
impassive
and
judicial
expression.
"In
doing
so,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer,
who
had
begun
to
show
signs
of
some
strong
emotion,
"I
am
telling
that
which
I
have
not
confided
to
anyone.
My
motive
for
withholding
it
from
the
coroner's
inquiry
is
that
a
man
of
science
shrinks
from
placing
himself
in
the
public
position
of
seeming
to
indorse
a
popular
superstition.
I
had
the
further
motive
that
Baskerville
Hall,
as
the
paper
says,
would
certainly
remain
untenanted
if
anything
were
done
to
increase
its
already
rather
grim
reputation.
For
both
these
reasons
I
thought
that
I
was
justified
in
telling
rather
less
than
I
knew,
since
no
practical
good
could
result
from
it,
but
with
you
there
is
no
reason
why
I
should
not
be
perfectly
frank.
"The
moor
is
very
sparsely
inhabited,
and
those
who
live
near
each
other
are
thrown
very
much
together.
For
this
reason
I
saw
a
good
deal
of
Sir
Charles
Baskerville.
With
the
exception
of
Mr.
Frankland,
of
Lafter
Hall,
and
Mr.
Stapleton,
the
naturalist,
there
are
no
other
men
of
education
within
many
miles.
Sir
Charles
was
a
retiring
man,
but
the
chance
of
his
illness
brought
us
together,
and
a
community
of
interests
in
science
kept
us
so.
He
had
brought
back
much
scientific
information
from
South
Africa,
and
many
a
charming
evening
we
have
spent
together
discussing
the
comparative
anatomy
of
the
Bushman
and
the
Hottentot.
"Within
the
last
few
months
it
became
increasingly
plain
to
me
that
Sir
Charles's
nervous
system
was
strained
to
the
breaking
point.
He
had
taken
this
legend
which
I
have
read
you
exceedingly
to
heart—so
much
so
that,
although
he
would
walk
in
his
own
grounds,
nothing
would
induce
him
to
go
out
upon
the
moor
at
night.
Incredible
as
it
may
appear
to
you,
Mr.
Holmes,
he
was
honestly
convinced
that
a
dreadful
fate
overhung
his
family,
and
certainly
the
records
which
he
was
able
to
give
of
his
ancestors
were
not
encouraging.
The
idea
of
some
ghastly
presence
constantly
haunted
him,
and
on
more
than
one
occasion
he
has
asked
me
whether
I
had
on
my
medical
journeys
at
night
ever
seen
any
strange
creature
or
heard
the
baying
of
a
hound.
The
latter
question
he
put
to
me
several
times,
and
always
with
a
voice
which
vibrated
with
excitement.
"I
can
well
remember
driving
up
to
his
house
in
the
evening
some
three
weeks
before
the
fatal
event.
He
chanced
to
be
at
his
hall
door.
I
had
descended
from
my
gig
and
was
standing
in
front
of
him,
when
I
saw
his
eyes
fix
themselves
over
my
shoulder
and
stare
past
me
with
an
expression
of
the
most
dreadful
horror.
I
whisked
round
and
had
just
time
to
catch
a
glimpse
of
something
which
I
took
to
be
a
large
black
calf
passing
at
the
head
of
the
drive.
So
excited
and
alarmed
was
he
that
I
was
compelled
to
go
down
to
the
spot
where
the
animal
had
been
and
look
around
for
it.
It
was
gone,
however,
and
the
incident
appeared
to
make
the
worst
impression
upon
his
mind.
I
stayed
with
him
all
the
evening,
and
it
was
on
that
occasion,
to
explain
the
emotion
which
he
had
shown,
that
he
confided
to
my
keeping
that
narrative
which
I
read
to
you
when
first
I
came.
I
mention
this
small
episode
because
it
assumes
some
importance
in
view
of
the
tragedy
which
followed,
but
I
was
convinced
at
the
time
that
the
matter
was
entirely
trivial
and
that
his
excitement
had
no
justification.
"It
was
at
my
advice
that
Sir
Charles
was
about
to
go
to
London.
His
heart
was,
I
knew,
affected,
and
the
constant
anxiety
in
which
he
lived,
however
chimerical
the
cause
of
it
might
be,
was
evidently
having
a
serious
effect
upon
his
health.
I
thought
that
a
few
months
among
the
distractions
of
town
would
send
him
back
a
new
man.
Mr.
Stapleton,
a
mutual
friend
who
was
much
concerned
at
his
state
of
health,
was
of
the
same
opinion.
At
the
last
instant
came
this
terrible
catastrophe.
"On
the
night
of
Sir
Charles's
death
Barrymore
the
butler,
who
made
the
discovery,
sent
Perkins
the
groom
on
horseback
to
me,
and
as
I
was
sitting
up
late
I
was
able
to
reach
Baskerville
Hall
within
an
hour
of
the
event.
I
checked
and
corroborated
all
the
facts
which
were
mentioned
at
the
inquest.
I
followed
the
footsteps
down
the
yew
alley,
I
saw
the
spot
at
the
moor-gate
where
he
seemed
to
have
waited,
I
remarked
the
change
in
the
shape
of
the
prints
after
that
point,
I
noted
that
there
were
no
other
footsteps
save
those
of
Barrymore
on
the
soft
gravel,
and
finally
I
carefully
examined
the
body,
which
had
not
been
touched
until
my
arrival.
Sir
Charles
lay
on
his
face,
his
arms
out,
his
fingers
dug
into
the
ground,
and
his
features
convulsed
with
some
strong
emotion
to
such
an
extent
that
I
could
hardly
have
sworn
to
his
identity.
There
was
certainly
no
physical
injury
of
any
kind.
But
one
false
statement
was
made
by
Barrymore
at
the
inquest.
He
said
that
there
were
no
traces
upon
the
ground
round
the
body.
He
did
not
observe
any.
But
I
did—some
little
distance
off,
but
fresh
and
clear."
"Footprints?"
"Footprints."
"A
man's
or
a
woman's?"
Dr.
Mortimer
looked
strangely
at
us
for
an
instant,
and
his
voice
sank
almost
to
a
whisper
as
he
answered.
"Mr.
Holmes,
they
were
the
footprints
of
a
gigantic
hound!"
Chapter
3.
The
Problem
I
confess
at
these
words
a
shudder
passed
through
me.
There
was
a
thrill
in
the
doctor's
voice
which
showed
that
he
was
himself
deeply
moved
by
that
which
he
told
us.
Holmes
leaned
forward
in
his
excitement
and
his
eyes
had
the
hard,
dry
glitter
which
shot
from
them
when
he
was
keenly
interested.
"You
saw
this?"
"As
clearly
as
I
see
you."
"And
you
said
nothing?"
"What
was
the
use?"
"How
was
it
that
no
one
else
saw
it?"
"The
marks
were
some
twenty
yards
from
the
body
and
no
one
gave
them
a
thought.
I
don't
suppose
I
should
have
done
so
had
I
not
known
this
legend."
"There
are
many
sheep-dogs
on
the
moor?"
"No
doubt,
but
this
was
no
sheep-dog."
"You
say
it
was
large?"
"Enormous."
"But
it
had
not
approached
the
body?"
"No."
"What
sort
of
night
was
it?'
"Damp
and
raw."
"But
not
actually
raining?"
"No."
"What
is
the
alley
like?"
"There
are
two
lines
of
old
yew
hedge,
twelve
feet
high
and
impenetrable.
The
walk
in
the
centre
is
about
eight
feet
across."
"Is
there
anything
between
the
hedges
and
the
walk?"
"Yes,
there
is
a
strip
of
grass
about
six
feet
broad
on
either
side."
"I
understand
that
the
yew
hedge
is
penetrated
at
one
point
by
a
gate?"
"Yes,
the
wicket-gate
which
leads
on
to
the
moor."
"Is
there
any
other
opening?"
"None."
"So
that
to
reach
the
yew
alley
one
either
has
to
come
down
it
from
the
house
or
else
to
enter
it
by
the
moor-gate?"
"There
is
an
exit
through
a
summer-house
at
the
far
end."
"Had
Sir
Charles
reached
this?"
"No;
he
lay
about
fifty
yards
from
it."
"Now,
tell
me,
Dr.
Mortimer—and
this
is
important—the
marks
which
you
saw
were
on
the
path
and
not
on
the
grass?"
"No
marks
could
show
on
the
grass."
"Were
they
on
the
same
side
of
the
path
as
the
moor-gate?"
"Yes;
they
were
on
the
edge
of
the
path
on
the
same
side
as
the
moor-gate."
"You
interest
me
exceedingly.
Another
point.
Was
the
wicket-gate
closed?"
"Closed
and
padlocked."
"How
high
was
it?"
"About
four
feet
high."
"Then
anyone
could
have
got
over
it?"
"Yes."
"And
what
marks
did
you
see
by
the
wicket-gate?"
"None
in
particular."
"Good
heaven!
Did
no
one
examine?"
"Yes,
I
examined,
myself."
"And
found
nothing?"
"It
was
all
very
confused.
Sir
Charles
had
evidently
stood
there
for
five
or
ten
minutes."
"How
do
you
know
that?"
"Because
the
ash
had
twice
dropped
from
his
cigar."
"Excellent!
This
is
a
colleague,
Watson,
after
our
own
heart.
But
the
marks?"
"He
had
left
his
own
marks
all
over
that
small
patch
of
gravel.
I
could
discern
no
others."
Sherlock
Holmes
struck
his
hand
against
his
knee
with
an
impatient
gesture.
"If
I
had
only
been
there!"
he
cried.
"It
is
evidently
a
case
of
extraordinary
interest,
and
one
which
presented
immense
opportunities
to
the
scientific
expert.
That
gravel
page
upon
which
I
might
have
read
so
much
has
been
long
ere
this
smudged
by
the
rain
and
defaced
by
the
clogs
of
curious
peasants.
Oh,
Dr.
Mortimer,
Dr.
Mortimer,
to
think
that
you
should
not
have
called
me
in!
You
have
indeed
much
to
answer
for."
"I
could
not
call
you
in,
Mr.
Holmes,
without
disclosing
these
facts
to
the
world,
and
I
have
already
given
my
reasons
for
not
wishing
to
do
so.
Besides,
besides—"
"Why
do
you
hesitate?"
"There
is
a
realm
in
which
the
most
acute
and
most
experienced
of
detectives
is
helpless."
"You
mean
that
the
thing
is
supernatural?"
"I
did
not
positively
say
so."
"No,
but
you
evidently
think
it."
"Since
the
tragedy,
Mr.
Holmes,
there
have
come
to
my
ears
several
incidents
which
are
hard
to
reconcile
with
the
settled
order
of
Nature."
"For
example?"
"I
find
that
before
the
terrible
event
occurred
several
people
had
seen
a
creature
upon
the
moor
which
corresponds
with
this
Baskerville
demon,
and
which
could
not
possibly
be
any
animal
known
to
science.
They
all
agreed
that
it
was
a
huge
creature,
luminous,
ghastly,
and
spectral.
I
have
cross-examined
these
men,
one
of
them
a
hard-headed
countryman,
one
a
farrier,
and
one
a
moorland
farmer,
who
all
tell
the
same
story
of
this
dreadful
apparition,
exactly
corresponding
to
the
hell-hound
of
the
legend.
I
assure
you
that
there
is
a
reign
of
terror
in
the
district,
and
that
it
is
a
hardy
man
who
will
cross
the
moor
at
night."
"And
you,
a
trained
man
of
science,
believe
it
to
be
supernatural?"
"I
do
not
know
what
to
believe."
Holmes
shrugged
his
shoulders.
"I
have
hitherto
confined
my
investigations
to
this
world,"
said
he.
"In
a
modest
way
I
have
combated
evil,
but
to
take
on
the
Father
of
Evil
himself
would,
perhaps,
be
too
ambitious
a
task.
Yet
you
must
admit
that
the
footmark
is
material."
"The
original
hound
was
material
enough
to
tug
a
man's
throat
out,
and
yet
he
was
diabolical
as
well."
"I
see
that
you
have
quite
gone
over
to
the
supernaturalists.
But
now,
Dr.
Mortimer,
tell
me
this.
If
you
hold
these
views,
why
have
you
come
to
consult
me
at
all?
You
tell
me
in
the
same
breath
that
it
is
useless
to
investigate
Sir
Charles's
death,
and
that
you
desire
me
to
do
it."
"I
did
not
say
that
I
desired
you
to
do
it."
"Then,
how
can
I
assist
you?"
"By
advising
me
as
to
what
I
should
do
with
Sir
Henry
Baskerville,
who
arrives
at
Waterloo
Station"—Dr.
Mortimer
looked
at
his
watch—"in
exactly
one
hour
and
a
quarter."
"He
being
the
heir?"
"Yes.
On
the
death
of
Sir
Charles
we
inquired
for
this
young
gentleman
and
found
that
he
had
been
farming
in
Canada.
From
the
accounts
which
have
reached
us
he
is
an
excellent
fellow
in
every
way.
I
speak
now
not
as
a
medical
man
but
as
a
trustee
and
executor
of
Sir
Charles's
will."
"There
is
no
other
claimant,
I
presume?"
"None.
The
only
other
kinsman
whom
we
have
been
able
to
trace
was
Rodger
Baskerville,
the
youngest
of
three
brothers
of
whom
poor
Sir
Charles
was
the
elder.
The
second
brother,
who
died
young,
is
the
father
of
this
lad
Henry.
The
third,
Rodger,
was
the
black
sheep
of
the
family.
He
came
of
the
old
masterful
Baskerville
strain
and
was
the
very
image,
they
tell
me,
of
the
family
picture
of
old
Hugo.
He
made
England
too
hot
to
hold
him,
fled
to
Central
America,
and
died
there
in
1876
of
yellow
fever.
Henry
is
the
last
of
the
Baskervilles.
In
one
hour
and
five
minutes
I
meet
him
at
Waterloo
Station.
I
have
had
a
wire
that
he
arrived
at
Southampton
this
morning.
Now,
Mr.
Holmes,
what
would
you
advise
me
to
do
with
him?"
"Why
should
he
not
go
to
the
home
of
his
fathers?"
"It
seems
natural,
does
it
not?
And
yet,
consider
that
every
Baskerville
who
goes
there
meets
with
an
evil
fate.
I
feel
sure
that
if
Sir
Charles
could
have
spoken
with
me
before
his
death
he
would
have
warned
me
against
bringing
this,
the
last
of
the
old
race,
and
the
heir
to
great
wealth,
to
that
deadly
place.
And
yet
it
cannot
be
denied
that
the
prosperity
of
the
whole
poor,
bleak
countryside
depends
upon
his
presence.
All
the
good
work
which
has
been
done
by
Sir
Charles
will
crash
to
the
ground
if
there
is
no
tenant
of
the
Hall.
I
fear
lest
I
should
be
swayed
too
much
by
my
own
obvious
interest
in
the
matter,
and
that
is
why
I
bring
the
case
before
you
and
ask
for
your
advice."
Holmes
considered
for
a
little
time.
"Put
into
plain
words,
the
matter
is
this,"
said
he.
"In
your
opinion
there
is
a
diabolical
agency
which
makes
Dartmoor
an
unsafe
abode
for
a
Baskerville—that
is
your
opinion?"
"At
least
I
might
go
the
length
of
saying
that
there
is
some
evidence
that
this
may
be
so."
"Exactly.
But
surely,
if
your
supernatural
theory
be
correct,
it
could
work
the
young
man
evil
in
London
as
easily
as
in
Devonshire.
A
devil
with
merely
local
powers
like
a
parish
vestry
would
be
too
inconceivable
a
thing."
"You
put
the
matter
more
flippantly,
Mr.
Holmes,
than
you
would
probably
do
if
you
were
brought
into
personal
contact
with
these
things.
Your
advice,
then,
as
I
understand
it,
is
that
the
young
man
will
be
as
safe
in
Devonshire
as
in
London.
He
comes
in
fifty
minutes.
What
would
you
recommend?"
"I
recommend,
sir,
that
you
take
a
cab,
call
off
your
spaniel
who
is
scratching
at
my
front
door,
and
proceed
to
Waterloo
to
meet
Sir
Henry
Baskerville."
"And
then?"
"And
then
you
will
say
nothing
to
him
at
all
until
I
have
made
up
my
mind
about
the
matter."
"How
long
will
it
take
you
to
make
up
your
mind?"
"Twenty-four
hours.
At
ten
o'clock
tomorrow,
Dr.
Mortimer,
I
will
be
much
obliged
to
you
if
you
will
call
upon
me
here,
and
it
will
be
of
help
to
me
in
my
plans
for
the
future
if
you
will
bring
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
with
you."
"I
will
do
so,
Mr.
Holmes."
He
scribbled
the
appointment
on
his
shirt-cuff
and
hurried
off
in
his
strange,
peering,
absent-minded
fashion.
Holmes
stopped
him
at
the
head
of
the
stair.
"Only
one
more
question,
Dr.
Mortimer.
You
say
that
before
Sir
Charles
Baskerville's
death
several
people
saw
this
apparition
upon
the
moor?"
"Three
people
did."
"Did
any
see
it
after?"
"I
have
not
heard
of
any."
"Thank
you.
Good-morning."
Holmes
returned
to
his
seat
with
that
quiet
look
of
inward
satisfaction
which
meant
that
he
had
a
congenial
task
before
him.
"Going
out,
Watson?"
"Unless
I
can
help
you."
"No,
my
dear
fellow,
it
is
at
the
hour
of
action
that
I
turn
to
you
for
aid.
But
this
is
splendid,
really
unique
from
some
points
of
view.
When
you
pass
Bradley's,
would
you
ask
him
to
send
up
a
pound
of
the
strongest
shag
tobacco?
Thank
you.
It
would
be
as
well
if
you
could
make
it
convenient
not
to
return
before
evening.
Then
I
should
be
very
glad
to
compare
impressions
as
to
this
most
interesting
problem
which
has
been
submitted
to
us
this
morning."
I
knew
that
seclusion
and
solitude
were
very
necessary
for
my
friend
in
those
hours
of
intense
mental
concentration
during
which
he
weighed
every
particle
of
evidence,
constructed
alternative
theories,
balanced
one
against
the
other,
and
made
up
his
mind
as
to
which
points
were
essential
and
which
immaterial.
I
therefore
spent
the
day
at
my
club
and
did
not
return
to
Baker
Street
until
evening.
It
was
nearly
nine
o'clock
when
I
found
myself
in
the
sitting-room
once
more.
My
first
impression
as
I
opened
the
door
was
that
a
fire
had
broken
out,
for
the
room
was
so
filled
with
smoke
that
the
light
of
the
lamp
upon
the
table
was
blurred
by
it.
As
I
entered,
however,
my
fears
were
set
at
rest,
for
it
was
the
acrid
fumes
of
strong
coarse
tobacco
which
took
me
by
the
throat
and
set
me
coughing.
Through
the
haze
I
had
a
vague
vision
of
Holmes
in
his
dressing-gown
coiled
up
in
an
armchair
with
his
black
clay
pipe
between
his
lips.
Several
rolls
of
paper
lay
around
him.
"Caught
cold,
Watson?"
said
he.
"No,
it's
this
poisonous
atmosphere."
"I
suppose
it
is
pretty
thick,
now
that
you
mention
it."
"Thick!
It
is
intolerable."
"Open
the
window,
then!
You
have
been
at
your
club
all
day,
I
perceive."
"My
dear
Holmes!"
"Am
I
right?"
"Certainly,
but
how?"
He
laughed
at
my
bewildered
expression.
"There
is
a
delightful
freshness
about
you,
Watson,
which
makes
it
a
pleasure
to
exercise
any
small
powers
which
I
possess
at
your
expense.
A
gentleman
goes
forth
on
a
showery
and
miry
day.
He
returns
immaculate
in
the
evening
with
the
gloss
still
on
his
hat
and
his
boots.
He
has
been
a
fixture
therefore
all
day.
He
is
not
a
man
with
intimate
friends.
Where,
then,
could
he
have
been?
Is
it
not
obvious?"
"Well,
it
is
rather
obvious."
"The
world
is
full
of
obvious
things
which
nobody
by
any
chance
ever
observes.
Where
do
you
think
that
I
have
been?"
"A
fixture
also."
"On
the
contrary,
I
have
been
to
Devonshire."
"In
spirit?"
"Exactly.
My
body
has
remained
in
this
armchair
and
has,
I
regret
to
observe,
consumed
in
my
absence
two
large
pots
of
coffee
and
an
incredible
amount
of
tobacco.
After
you
left
I
sent
down
to
Stamford's
for
the
Ordnance
map
of
this
portion
of
the
moor,
and
my
spirit
has
hovered
over
it
all
day.
I
flatter
myself
that
I
could
find
my
way
about."
"A
large-scale
map,
I
presume?"
"Very
large."
He
unrolled
one
section
and
held
it
over
his
knee.
"Here
you
have
the
particular
district
which
concerns
us.
That
is
Baskerville
Hall
in
the
middle."
"With
a
wood
round
it?"
"Exactly.
I
fancy
the
yew
alley,
though
not
marked
under
that
name,
must
stretch
along
this
line,
with
the
moor,
as
you
perceive,
upon
the
right
of
it.
This
small
clump
of
buildings
here
is
the
hamlet
of
Grimpen,
where
our
friend
Dr.
Mortimer
has
his
headquarters.
Within
a
radius
of
five
miles
there
are,
as
you
see,
only
a
very
few
scattered
dwellings.
Here
is
Lafter
Hall,
which
was
mentioned
in
the
narrative.
There
is
a
house
indicated
here
which
may
be
the
residence
of
the
naturalist—Stapleton,
if
I
remember
right,
was
his
name.
Here
are
two
moorland
farmhouses,
High
Tor
and
Foulmire.
Then
fourteen
miles
away
the
great
convict
prison
of
Princetown.
Between
and
around
these
scattered
points
extends
the
desolate,
lifeless
moor.
This,
then,
is
the
stage
upon
which
tragedy
has
been
played,
and
upon
which
we
may
help
to
play
it
again."
"It
must
be
a
wild
place."
"Yes,
the
setting
is
a
worthy
one.
If
the
devil
did
desire
to
have
a
hand
in
the
affairs
of
men—"
"Then
you
are
yourself
inclining
to
the
supernatural
explanation."
"The
devil's
agents
may
be
of
flesh
and
blood,
may
they
not?
There
are
two
questions
waiting
for
us
at
the
outset.
The
one
is
whether
any
crime
has
been
committed
at
all;
the
second
is,
what
is
the
crime
and
how
was
it
committed?
Of
course,
if
Dr.
Mortimer's
surmise
should
be
correct,
and
we
are
dealing
with
forces
outside
the
ordinary
laws
of
Nature,
there
is
an
end
of
our
investigation.
But
we
are
bound
to
exhaust
all
other
hypotheses
before
falling
back
upon
this
one.
I
think
we'll
shut
that
window
again,
if
you
don't
mind.
It
is
a
singular
thing,
but
I
find
that
a
concentrated
atmosphere
helps
a
concentration
of
thought.
I
have
not
pushed
it
to
the
length
of
getting
into
a
box
to
think,
but
that
is
the
logical
outcome
of
my
convictions.
Have
you
turned
the
case
over
in
your
mind?"
"Yes,
I
have
thought
a
good
deal
of
it
in
the
course
of
the
day."
"What
do
you
make
of
it?"
"It
is
very
bewildering."
"It
has
certainly
a
character
of
its
own.
There
are
points
of
distinction
about
it.
That
change
in
the
footprints,
for
example.
What
do
you
make
of
that?"
"Mortimer
said
that
the
man
had
walked
on
tiptoe
down
that
portion
of
the
alley."
"He
only
repeated
what
some
fool
had
said
at
the
inquest.
Why
should
a
man
walk
on
tiptoe
down
the
alley?"
"What
then?"
"He
was
running,
Watson—running
desperately,
running
for
his
life,
running
until
he
burst
his
heart—and
fell
dead
upon
his
face."
"Running
from
what?"
"There
lies
our
problem.
There
are
indications
that
the
man
was
crazed
with
fear
before
ever
he
began
to
run."
"How
can
you
say
that?"
"I
am
presuming
that
the
cause
of
his
fears
came
to
him
across
the
moor.
If
that
were
so,
and
it
seems
most
probable,
only
a
man
who
had
lost
his
wits
would
have
run
from
the
house
instead
of
towards
it.
If
the
gipsy's
evidence
may
be
taken
as
true,
he
ran
with
cries
for
help
in
the
direction
where
help
was
least
likely
to
be.
Then,
again,
whom
was
he
waiting
for
that
night,
and
why
was
he
waiting
for
him
in
the
yew
alley
rather
than
in
his
own
house?"
"You
think
that
he
was
waiting
for
someone?"
"The
man
was
elderly
and
infirm.
We
can
understand
his
taking
an
evening
stroll,
but
the
ground
was
damp
and
the
night
inclement.
Is
it
natural
that
he
should
stand
for
five
or
ten
minutes,
as
Dr.
Mortimer,
with
more
practical
sense
than
I
should
have
given
him
credit
for,
deduced
from
the
cigar
ash?"
"But
he
went
out
every
evening."
"I
think
it
unlikely
that
he
waited
at
the
moor-gate
every
evening.
On
the
contrary,
the
evidence
is
that
he
avoided
the
moor.
That
night
he
waited
there.
It
was
the
night
before
he
made
his
departure
for
London.
The
thing
takes
shape,
Watson.
It
becomes
coherent.
Might
I
ask
you
to
hand
me
my
violin,
and
we
will
postpone
all
further
thought
upon
this
business
until
we
have
had
the
advantage
of
meeting
Dr.
Mortimer
and
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
in
the
morning."
Chapter
4.
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
Our
breakfast
table
was
cleared
early,
and
Holmes
waited
in
his
dressing-gown
for
the
promised
interview.
Our
clients
were
punctual
to
their
appointment,
for
the
clock
had
just
struck
ten
when
Dr.
Mortimer
was
shown
up,
followed
by
the
young
baronet.
The
latter
was
a
small,
alert,
dark-eyed
man
about
thirty
years
of
age,
very
sturdily
built,
with
thick
black
eyebrows
and
a
strong,
pugnacious
face.
He
wore
a
ruddy-tinted
tweed
suit
and
had
the
weather-beaten
appearance
of
one
who
has
spent
most
of
his
time
in
the
open
air,
and
yet
there
was
something
in
his
steady
eye
and
the
quiet
assurance
of
his
bearing
which
indicated
the
gentleman.
"This
is
Sir
Henry
Baskerville,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer.
"Why,
yes,"
said
he,
"and
the
strange
thing
is,
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,
that
if
my
friend
here
had
not
proposed
coming
round
to
you
this
morning
I
should
have
come
on
my
own
account.
I
understand
that
you
think
out
little
puzzles,
and
I've
had
one
this
morning
which
wants
more
thinking
out
than
I
am
able
to
give
it."
"Pray
take
a
seat,
Sir
Henry.
Do
I
understand
you
to
say
that
you
have
yourself
had
some
remarkable
experience
since
you
arrived
in
London?"
"Nothing
of
much
importance,
Mr.
Holmes.
Only
a
joke,
as
like
as
not.
It
was
this
letter,
if
you
can
call
it
a
letter,
which
reached
me
this
morning."
He
laid
an
envelope
upon
the
table,
and
we
all
bent
over
it.
It
was
of
common
quality,
grayish
in
colour.
The
address,
"Sir
Henry
Baskerville,
Northumberland
Hotel,"
was
printed
in
rough
characters;
the
post-mark
"Charing
Cross,"
and
the
date
of
posting
the
preceding
evening.
"Who
knew
that
you
were
going
to
the
Northumberland
Hotel?"
asked
Holmes,
glancing
keenly
across
at
our
visitor.
"No
one
could
have
known.
We
only
decided
after
I
met
Dr.
Mortimer."
"But
Dr.
Mortimer
was
no
doubt
already
stopping
there?"
"No,
I
had
been
staying
with
a
friend,"
said
the
doctor.
"There
was
no
possible
indication
that
we
intended
to
go
to
this
hotel."
"Hum!
Someone
seems
to
be
very
deeply
interested
in
your
movements."
Out
of
the
envelope
he
took
a
half-sheet
of
foolscap
paper
folded
into
four.
This
he
opened
and
spread
flat
upon
the
table.
Across
the
middle
of
it
a
single
sentence
had
been
formed
by
the
expedient
of
pasting
printed
words
upon
it.
It
ran:
As
you
value
your
life
or
your
reason
keep
away
from
the
moor.
The
word
"moor"
only
was
printed
in
ink.
"Now,"
said
Sir
Henry
Baskerville,
"perhaps
you
will
tell
me,
Mr.
Holmes,
what
in
thunder
is
the
meaning
of
that,
and
who
it
is
that
takes
so
much
interest
in
my
affairs?"
"What
do
you
make
of
it,
Dr.
Mortimer?
You
must
allow
that
there
is
nothing
supernatural
about
this,
at
any
rate?"
"No,
sir,
but
it
might
very
well
come
from
someone
who
was
convinced
that
the
business
is
supernatural."
"What
business?"
asked
Sir
Henry
sharply.
"It
seems
to
me
that
all
you
gentlemen
know
a
great
deal
more
than
I
do
about
my
own
affairs."
"You
shall
share
our
knowledge
before
you
leave
this
room,
Sir
Henry.
I
promise
you
that,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"We
will
confine
ourselves
for
the
present
with
your
permission
to
this
very
interesting
document,
which
must
have
been
put
together
and
posted
yesterday
evening.
Have
you
yesterday's
Times,
Watson?"
"It
is
here
in
the
corner."
"Might
I
trouble
you
for
it—the
inside
page,
please,
with
the
leading
articles?"
He
glanced
swiftly
over
it,
running
his
eyes
up
and
down
the
columns.
"Capital
article
this
on
free
trade.
Permit
me
to
give
you
an
extract
from
it.
'You
may
be
cajoled
into
imagining
that
your
own
special
trade
or
your
own
industry
will
be
encouraged
by
a
protective
tariff,
but
it
stands
to
reason
that
such
legislation
must
in
the
long
run
keep
away
wealth
from
the
country,
diminish
the
value
of
our
imports,
and
lower
the
general
conditions
of
life
in
this
island.'
"What
do
you
think
of
that,
Watson?"
cried
Holmes
in
high
glee,
rubbing
his
hands
together
with
satisfaction.
"Don't
you
think
that
is
an
admirable
sentiment?"
Dr.
Mortimer
looked
at
Holmes
with
an
air
of
professional
interest,
and
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
turned
a
pair
of
puzzled
dark
eyes
upon
me.
"I
don't
know
much
about
the
tariff
and
things
of
that
kind,"
said
he,
"but
it
seems
to
me
we've
got
a
bit
off
the
trail
so
far
as
that
note
is
concerned."
"On
the
contrary,
I
think
we
are
particularly
hot
upon
the
trail,
Sir
Henry.
Watson
here
knows
more
about
my
methods
than
you
do,
but
I
fear
that
even
he
has
not
quite
grasped
the
significance
of
this
sentence."
"No,
I
confess
that
I
see
no
connection."
"And
yet,
my
dear
Watson,
there
is
so
very
close
a
connection
that
the
one
is
extracted
out
of
the
other.
'You,'
'your,'
'your,'
'life,'
'reason,'
'value,'
'keep
away,'
'from
the.'
Don't
you
see
now
whence
these
words
have
been
taken?"
"By
thunder,
you're
right!
Well,
if
that
isn't
smart!"
cried
Sir
Henry.
"If
any
possible
doubt
remained
it
is
settled
by
the
fact
that
'keep
away'
and
'from
the'
are
cut
out
in
one
piece."
"Well,
now—so
it
is!"
"Really,
Mr.
Holmes,
this
exceeds
anything
which
I
could
have
imagined,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer,
gazing
at
my
friend
in
amazement.
"I
could
understand
anyone
saying
that
the
words
were
from
a
newspaper;
but
that
you
should
name
which,
and
add
that
it
came
from
the
leading
article,
is
really
one
of
the
most
remarkable
things
which
I
have
ever
known.
How
did
you
do
it?"
"I
presume,
Doctor,
that
you
could
tell
the
skull
of
a
negro
from
that
of
an
Esquimau?"
"Most
certainly."
"But
how?"
"Because
that
is
my
special
hobby.
The
differences
are
obvious.
The
supra-orbital
crest,
the
facial
angle,
the
maxillary
curve,
the—"
"But
this
is
my
special
hobby,
and
the
differences
are
equally
obvious.
There
is
as
much
difference
to
my
eyes
between
the
leaded
bourgeois
type
of
a
Times
article
and
the
slovenly
print
of
an
evening
half-penny
paper
as
there
could
be
between
your
negro
and
your
Esquimau.
The
detection
of
types
is
one
of
the
most
elementary
branches
of
knowledge
to
the
special
expert
in
crime,
though
I
confess
that
once
when
I
was
very
young
I
confused
the
Leeds
Mercury
with
the
Western
Morning
News.
But
a
Times
leader
is
entirely
distinctive,
and
these
words
could
have
been
taken
from
nothing
else.
As
it
was
done
yesterday
the
strong
probability
was
that
we
should
find
the
words
in
yesterday's
issue."
"So
far
as
I
can
follow
you,
then,
Mr.
Holmes,"
said
Sir
Henry
Baskerville,
"someone
cut
out
this
message
with
a
scissors—"
"Nail-scissors,"
said
Holmes.
"You
can
see
that
it
was
a
very
short-bladed
scissors,
since
the
cutter
had
to
take
two
snips
over
'keep
away.'"
"That
is
so.
Someone,
then,
cut
out
the
message
with
a
pair
of
short-bladed
scissors,
pasted
it
with
paste—"
"Gum,"
said
Holmes.
"With
gum
on
to
the
paper.
But
I
want
to
know
why
the
word
'moor'
should
have
been
written?"
"Because
he
could
not
find
it
in
print.
The
other
words
were
all
simple
and
might
be
found
in
any
issue,
but
'moor'
would
be
less
common."
"Why,
of
course,
that
would
explain
it.
Have
you
read
anything
else
in
this
message,
Mr.
Holmes?"
"There
are
one
or
two
indications,
and
yet
the
utmost
pains
have
been
taken
to
remove
all
clues.
The
address,
you
observe
is
printed
in
rough
characters.
But
the
Times
is
a
paper
which
is
seldom
found
in
any
hands
but
those
of
the
highly
educated.
We
may
take
it,
therefore,
that
the
letter
was
composed
by
an
educated
man
who
wished
to
pose
as
an
uneducated
one,
and
his
effort
to
conceal
his
own
writing
suggests
that
that
writing
might
be
known,
or
come
to
be
known,
by
you.
Again,
you
will
observe
that
the
words
are
not
gummed
on
in
an
accurate
line,
but
that
some
are
much
higher
than
others.
'Life,'
for
example
is
quite
out
of
its
proper
place.
That
may
point
to
carelessness
or
it
may
point
to
agitation
and
hurry
upon
the
part
of
the
cutter.
On
the
whole
I
incline
to
the
latter
view,
since
the
matter
was
evidently
important,
and
it
is
unlikely
that
the
composer
of
such
a
letter
would
be
careless.
If
he
were
in
a
hurry
it
opens
up
the
interesting
question
why
he
should
be
in
a
hurry,
since
any
letter
posted
up
to
early
morning
would
reach
Sir
Henry
before
he
would
leave
his
hotel.
Did
the
composer
fear
an
interruption—and
from
whom?"
"We
are
coming
now
rather
into
the
region
of
guesswork,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer.
"Say,
rather,
into
the
region
where
we
balance
probabilities
and
choose
the
most
likely.
It
is
the
scientific
use
of
the
imagination,
but
we
have
always
some
material
basis
on
which
to
start
our
speculation.
Now,
you
would
call
it
a
guess,
no
doubt,
but
I
am
almost
certain
that
this
address
has
been
written
in
a
hotel."
"How
in
the
world
can
you
say
that?"
"If
you
examine
it
carefully
you
will
see
that
both
the
pen
and
the
ink
have
given
the
writer
trouble.
The
pen
has
spluttered
twice
in
a
single
word
and
has
run
dry
three
times
in
a
short
address,
showing
that
there
was
very
little
ink
in
the
bottle.
Now,
a
private
pen
or
ink-bottle
is
seldom
allowed
to
be
in
such
a
state,
and
the
combination
of
the
two
must
be
quite
rare.
But
you
know
the
hotel
ink
and
the
hotel
pen,
where
it
is
rare
to
get
anything
else.
Yes,
I
have
very
little
hesitation
in
saying
that
could
we
examine
the
waste-paper
baskets
of
the
hotels
around
Charing
Cross
until
we
found
the
remains
of
the
mutilated
Times
leader
we
could
lay
our
hands
straight
upon
the
person
who
sent
this
singular
message.
Halloa!
Halloa!
What's
this?"
He
was
carefully
examining
the
foolscap,
upon
which
the
words
were
pasted,
holding
it
only
an
inch
or
two
from
his
eyes.
"Well?"
"Nothing,"
said
he,
throwing
it
down.
"It
is
a
blank
half-sheet
of
paper,
without
even
a
water-mark
upon
it.
I
think
we
have
drawn
as
much
as
we
can
from
this
curious
letter;
and
now,
Sir
Henry,
has
anything
else
of
interest
happened
to
you
since
you
have
been
in
London?"
"Why,
no,
Mr.
Holmes.
I
think
not."
"You
have
not
observed
anyone
follow
or
watch
you?"
"I
seem
to
have
walked
right
into
the
thick
of
a
dime
novel,"
said
our
visitor.
"Why
in
thunder
should
anyone
follow
or
watch
me?"
"We
are
coming
to
that.
You
have
nothing
else
to
report
to
us
before
we
go
into
this
matter?"
"Well,
it
depends
upon
what
you
think
worth
reporting."
"I
think
anything
out
of
the
ordinary
routine
of
life
well
worth
reporting."
Sir
Henry
smiled.
"I
don't
know
much
of
British
life
yet,
for
I
have
spent
nearly
all
my
time
in
the
States
and
in
Canada.
But
I
hope
that
to
lose
one
of
your
boots
is
not
part
of
the
ordinary
routine
of
life
over
here."
"You
have
lost
one
of
your
boots?"
"My
dear
sir,"
cried
Dr.
Mortimer,
"it
is
only
mislaid.
You
will
find
it
when
you
return
to
the
hotel.
What
is
the
use
of
troubling
Mr.
Holmes
with
trifles
of
this
kind?"
"Well,
he
asked
me
for
anything
outside
the
ordinary
routine."
"Exactly,"
said
Holmes,
"however
foolish
the
incident
may
seem.
You
have
lost
one
of
your
boots,
you
say?"
"Well,
mislaid
it,
anyhow.
I
put
them
both
outside
my
door
last
night,
and
there
was
only
one
in
the
morning.
I
could
get
no
sense
out
of
the
chap
who
cleans
them.
The
worst
of
it
is
that
I
only
bought
the
pair
last
night
in
the
Strand,
and
I
have
never
had
them
on."
"If
you
have
never
worn
them,
why
did
you
put
them
out
to
be
cleaned?"
"They
were
tan
boots
and
had
never
been
varnished.
That
was
why
I
put
them
out."
"Then
I
understand
that
on
your
arrival
in
London
yesterday
you
went
out
at
once
and
bought
a
pair
of
boots?"
"I
did
a
good
deal
of
shopping.
Dr.
Mortimer
here
went
round
with
me.
You
see,
if
I
am
to
be
squire
down
there
I
must
dress
the
part,
and
it
may
be
that
I
have
got
a
little
careless
in
my
ways
out
West.
Among
other
things
I
bought
these
brown
boots—gave
six
dollars
for
them—and
had
one
stolen
before
ever
I
had
them
on
my
feet."
"It
seems
a
singularly
useless
thing
to
steal,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"I
confess
that
I
share
Dr.
Mortimer's
belief
that
it
will
not
be
long
before
the
missing
boot
is
found."
"And,
now,
gentlemen,"
said
the
baronet
with
decision,
"it
seems
to
me
that
I
have
spoken
quite
enough
about
the
little
that
I
know.
It
is
time
that
you
kept
your
promise
and
gave
me
a
full
account
of
what
we
are
all
driving
at."
"Your
request
is
a
very
reasonable
one,"
Holmes
answered.
"Dr.
Mortimer,
I
think
you
could
not
do
better
than
to
tell
your
story
as
you
told
it
to
us."
Thus
encouraged,
our
scientific
friend
drew
his
papers
from
his
pocket
and
presented
the
whole
case
as
he
had
done
upon
the
morning
before.
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
listened
with
the
deepest
attention
and
with
an
occasional
exclamation
of
surprise.
"Well,
I
seem
to
have
come
into
an
inheritance
with
a
vengeance,"
said
he
when
the
long
narrative
was
finished.
"Of
course,
I've
heard
of
the
hound
ever
since
I
was
in
the
nursery.
It's
the
pet
story
of
the
family,
though
I
never
thought
of
taking
it
seriously
before.
But
as
to
my
uncle's
death—well,
it
all
seems
boiling
up
in
my
head,
and
I
can't
get
it
clear
yet.
You
don't
seem
quite
to
have
made
up
your
mind
whether
it's
a
case
for
a
policeman
or
a
clergyman."
"Precisely."
"And
now
there's
this
affair
of
the
letter
to
me
at
the
hotel.
I
suppose
that
fits
into
its
place."
"It
seems
to
show
that
someone
knows
more
than
we
do
about
what
goes
on
upon
the
moor,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer.
"And
also,"
said
Holmes,
"that
someone
is
not
ill-disposed
towards
you,
since
they
warn
you
of
danger."
"Or
it
may
be
that
they
wish,
for
their
own
purposes,
to
scare
me
away."
"Well,
of
course,
that
is
possible
also.
I
am
very
much
indebted
to
you,
Dr.
Mortimer,
for
introducing
me
to
a
problem
which
presents
several
interesting
alternatives.
But
the
practical
point
which
we
now
have
to
decide,
Sir
Henry,
is
whether
it
is
or
is
not
advisable
for
you
to
go
to
Baskerville
Hall."
"Why
should
I
not
go?"
"There
seems
to
be
danger."
"Do
you
mean
danger
from
this
family
fiend
or
do
you
mean
danger
from
human
beings?"
"Well,
that
is
what
we
have
to
find
out."
"Whichever
it
is,
my
answer
is
fixed.
There
is
no
devil
in
hell,
Mr.
Holmes,
and
there
is
no
man
upon
earth
who
can
prevent
me
from
going
to
the
home
of
my
own
people,
and
you
may
take
that
to
be
my
final
answer."
His
dark
brows
knitted
and
his
face
flushed
to
a
dusky
red
as
he
spoke.
It
was
evident
that
the
fiery
temper
of
the
Baskervilles
was
not
extinct
in
this
their
last
representative.
"Meanwhile,"
said
he,
"I
have
hardly
had
time
to
think
over
all
that
you
have
told
me.
It's
a
big
thing
for
a
man
to
have
to
understand
and
to
decide
at
one
sitting.
I
should
like
to
have
a
quiet
hour
by
myself
to
make
up
my
mind.
Now,
look
here,
Mr.
Holmes,
it's
half-past
eleven
now
and
I
am
going
back
right
away
to
my
hotel.
Suppose
you
and
your
friend,
Dr.
Watson,
come
round
and
lunch
with
us
at
two.
I'll
be
able
to
tell
you
more
clearly
then
how
this
thing
strikes
me."
"Is
that
convenient
to
you,
Watson?"
"Perfectly."
"Then
you
may
expect
us.
Shall
I
have
a
cab
called?"
"I'd
prefer
to
walk,
for
this
affair
has
flurried
me
rather."
"I'll
join
you
in
a
walk,
with
pleasure,"
said
his
companion.
"Then
we
meet
again
at
two
o'clock.
Au
revoir,
and
good-morning!"
We
heard
the
steps
of
our
visitors
descend
the
stair
and
the
bang
of
the
front
door.
In
an
instant
Holmes
had
changed
from
the
languid
dreamer
to
the
man
of
action.
"Your
hat
and
boots,
Watson,
quick!
Not
a
moment
to
lose!"
He
rushed
into
his
room
in
his
dressing-gown
and
was
back
again
in
a
few
seconds
in
a
frock-coat.
We
hurried
together
down
the
stairs
and
into
the
street.
Dr.
Mortimer
and
Baskerville
were
still
visible
about
two
hundred
yards
ahead
of
us
in
the
direction
of
Oxford
Street.
"Shall
I
run
on
and
stop
them?"
"Not
for
the
world,
my
dear
Watson.
I
am
perfectly
satisfied
with
your
company
if
you
will
tolerate
mine.
Our
friends
are
wise,
for
it
is
certainly
a
very
fine
morning
for
a
walk."
He
quickened
his
pace
until
we
had
decreased
the
distance
which
divided
us
by
about
half.
Then,
still
keeping
a
hundred
yards
behind,
we
followed
into
Oxford
Street
and
so
down
Regent
Street.
Once
our
friends
stopped
and
stared
into
a
shop
window,
upon
which
Holmes
did
the
same.
An
instant
afterwards
he
gave
a
little
cry
of
satisfaction,
and,
following
the
direction
of
his
eager
eyes,
I
saw
that
a
hansom
cab
with
a
man
inside
which
had
halted
on
the
other
side
of
the
street
was
now
proceeding
slowly
onward
again.
"There's
our
man,
Watson!
Come
along!
We'll
have
a
good
look
at
him,
if
we
can
do
no
more."
At
that
instant
I
was
aware
of
a
bushy
black
beard
and
a
pair
of
piercing
eyes
turned
upon
us
through
the
side
window
of
the
cab.
Instantly
the
trapdoor
at
the
top
flew
up,
something
was
screamed
to
the
driver,
and
the
cab
flew
madly
off
down
Regent
Street.
Holmes
looked
eagerly
round
for
another,
but
no
empty
one
was
in
sight.
Then
he
dashed
in
wild
pursuit
amid
the
stream
of
the
traffic,
but
the
start
was
too
great,
and
already
the
cab
was
out
of
sight.
"There
now!"
said
Holmes
bitterly
as
he
emerged
panting
and
white
with
vexation
from
the
tide
of
vehicles.
"Was
ever
such
bad
luck
and
such
bad
management,
too?
Watson,
Watson,
if
you
are
an
honest
man
you
will
record
this
also
and
set
it
against
my
successes!"
"Who
was
the
man?"
"I
have
not
an
idea."
"A
spy?"
"Well,
it
was
evident
from
what
we
have
heard
that
Baskerville
has
been
very
closely
shadowed
by
someone
since
he
has
been
in
town.
How
else
could
it
be
known
so
quickly
that
it
was
the
Northumberland
Hotel
which
he
had
chosen?
If
they
had
followed
him
the
first
day
I
argued
that
they
would
follow
him
also
the
second.
You
may
have
observed
that
I
twice
strolled
over
to
the
window
while
Dr.
Mortimer
was
reading
his
legend."
"Yes,
I
remember."
"I
was
looking
out
for
loiterers
in
the
street,
but
I
saw
none.
We
are
dealing
with
a
clever
man,
Watson.
This
matter
cuts
very
deep,
and
though
I
have
not
finally
made
up
my
mind
whether
it
is
a
benevolent
or
a
malevolent
agency
which
is
in
touch
with
us,
I
am
conscious
always
of
power
and
design.
When
our
friends
left
I
at
once
followed
them
in
the
hopes
of
marking
down
their
invisible
attendant.
So
wily
was
he
that
he
had
not
trusted
himself
upon
foot,
but
he
had
availed
himself
of
a
cab
so
that
he
could
loiter
behind
or
dash
past
them
and
so
escape
their
notice.
His
method
had
the
additional
advantage
that
if
they
were
to
take
a
cab
he
was
all
ready
to
follow
them.
It
has,
however,
one
obvious
disadvantage."
"It
puts
him
in
the
power
of
the
cabman."
"Exactly."
"What
a
pity
we
did
not
get
the
number!"
"My
dear
Watson,
clumsy
as
I
have
been,
you
surely
do
not
seriously
imagine
that
I
neglected
to
get
the
number?
No.
2704
is
our
man.
But
that
is
no
use
to
us
for
the
moment."
"I
fail
to
see
how
you
could
have
done
more."
"On
observing
the
cab
I
should
have
instantly
turned
and
walked
in
the
other
direction.
I
should
then
at
my
leisure
have
hired
a
second
cab
and
followed
the
first
at
a
respectful
distance,
or,
better
still,
have
driven
to
the
Northumberland
Hotel
and
waited
there.
When
our
unknown
had
followed
Baskerville
home
we
should
have
had
the
opportunity
of
playing
his
own
game
upon
himself
and
seeing
where
he
made
for.
As
it
is,
by
an
indiscreet
eagerness,
which
was
taken
advantage
of
with
extraordinary
quickness
and
energy
by
our
opponent,
we
have
betrayed
ourselves
and
lost
our
man."
We
had
been
sauntering
slowly
down
Regent
Street
during
this
conversation,
and
Dr.
Mortimer,
with
his
companion,
had
long
vanished
in
front
of
us.
"There
is
no
object
in
our
following
them,"
said
Holmes.
"The
shadow
has
departed
and
will
not
return.
We
must
see
what
further
cards
we
have
in
our
hands
and
play
them
with
decision.
Could
you
swear
to
that
man's
face
within
the
cab?"
"I
could
swear
only
to
the
beard."
"And
so
could
I—from
which
I
gather
that
in
all
probability
it
was
a
false
one.
A
clever
man
upon
so
delicate
an
errand
has
no
use
for
a
beard
save
to
conceal
his
features.
Come
in
here,
Watson!"
He
turned
into
one
of
the
district
messenger
offices,
where
he
was
warmly
greeted
by
the
manager.
"Ah,
Wilson,
I
see
you
have
not
forgotten
the
little
case
in
which
I
had
the
good
fortune
to
help
you?"
"No,
sir,
indeed
I
have
not.
You
saved
my
good
name,
and
perhaps
my
life."
"My
dear
fellow,
you
exaggerate.
I
have
some
recollection,
Wilson,
that
you
had
among
your
boys
a
lad
named
Cartwright,
who
showed
some
ability
during
the
investigation."
"Yes,
sir,
he
is
still
with
us."
"Could
you
ring
him
up?—thank
you!
And
I
should
be
glad
to
have
change
of
this
five-pound
note."
A
lad
of
fourteen,
with
a
bright,
keen
face,
had
obeyed
the
summons
of
the
manager.
He
stood
now
gazing
with
great
reverence
at
the
famous
detective.
"Let
me
have
the
Hotel
Directory,"
said
Holmes.
"Thank
you!
Now,
Cartwright,
there
are
the
names
of
twenty-three
hotels
here,
all
in
the
immediate
neighbourhood
of
Charing
Cross.
Do
you
see?"
"Yes,
sir."
"You
will
visit
each
of
these
in
turn."
"Yes,
sir."
"You
will
begin
in
each
case
by
giving
the
outside
porter
one
shilling.
Here
are
twenty-three
shillings."
"Yes,
sir."
"You
will
tell
him
that
you
want
to
see
the
waste-paper
of
yesterday.
You
will
say
that
an
important
telegram
has
miscarried
and
that
you
are
looking
for
it.
You
understand?"
"Yes,
sir."
"But
what
you
are
really
looking
for
is
the
centre
page
of
the
Times
with
some
holes
cut
in
it
with
scissors.
Here
is
a
copy
of
the
Times.
It
is
this
page.
You
could
easily
recognize
it,
could
you
not?"
"Yes,
sir."
"In
each
case
the
outside
porter
will
send
for
the
hall
porter,
to
whom
also
you
will
give
a
shilling.
Here
are
twenty-three
shillings.
You
will
then
learn
in
possibly
twenty
cases
out
of
the
twenty-three
that
the
waste
of
the
day
before
has
been
burned
or
removed.
In
the
three
other
cases
you
will
be
shown
a
heap
of
paper
and
you
will
look
for
this
page
of
the
Times
among
it.
The
odds
are
enormously
against
your
finding
it.
There
are
ten
shillings
over
in
case
of
emergencies.
Let
me
have
a
report
by
wire
at
Baker
Street
before
evening.
And
now,
Watson,
it
only
remains
for
us
to
find
out
by
wire
the
identity
of
the
cabman,
No.
2704,
and
then
we
will
drop
into
one
of
the
Bond
Street
picture
galleries
and
fill
in
the
time
until
we
are
due
at
the
hotel."
Chapter
5.
Three
Broken
Threads
Sherlock
Holmes
had,
in
a
very
remarkable
degree,
the
power
of
detaching
his
mind
at
will.
For
two
hours
the
strange
business
in
which
we
had
been
involved
appeared
to
be
forgotten,
and
he
was
entirely
absorbed
in
the
pictures
of
the
modern
Belgian
masters.
He
would
talk
of
nothing
but
art,
of
which
he
had
the
crudest
ideas,
from
our
leaving
the
gallery
until
we
found
ourselves
at
the
Northumberland
Hotel.
"Sir
Henry
Baskerville
is
upstairs
expecting
you,"
said
the
clerk.
"He
asked
me
to
show
you
up
at
once
when
you
came."
"Have
you
any
objection
to
my
looking
at
your
register?"
said
Holmes.
"Not
in
the
least."
The
book
showed
that
two
names
had
been
added
after
that
of
Baskerville.
One
was
Theophilus
Johnson
and
family,
of
Newcastle;
the
other
Mrs.
Oldmore
and
maid,
of
High
Lodge,
Alton.
"Surely
that
must
be
the
same
Johnson
whom
I
used
to
know,"
said
Holmes
to
the
porter.
"A
lawyer,
is
he
not,
gray-headed,
and
walks
with
a
limp?"
"No,
sir,
this
is
Mr.
Johnson,
the
coal-owner,
a
very
active
gentleman,
not
older
than
yourself."
"Surely
you
are
mistaken
about
his
trade?"
"No,
sir!
he
has
used
this
hotel
for
many
years,
and
he
is
very
well
known
to
us."
"Ah,
that
settles
it.
Mrs.
Oldmore,
too;
I
seem
to
remember
the
name.
Excuse
my
curiosity,
but
often
in
calling
upon
one
friend
one
finds
another."
"She
is
an
invalid
lady,
sir.
Her
husband
was
once
mayor
of
Gloucester.
She
always
comes
to
us
when
she
is
in
town."
"Thank
you;
I
am
afraid
I
cannot
claim
her
acquaintance.
We
have
established
a
most
important
fact
by
these
questions,
Watson,"
he
continued
in
a
low
voice
as
we
went
upstairs
together.
"We
know
now
that
the
people
who
are
so
interested
in
our
friend
have
not
settled
down
in
his
own
hotel.
That
means
that
while
they
are,
as
we
have
seen,
very
anxious
to
watch
him,
they
are
equally
anxious
that
he
should
not
see
them.
Now,
this
is
a
most
suggestive
fact."
"What
does
it
suggest?"
"It
suggests—halloa,
my
dear
fellow,
what
on
earth
is
the
matter?"
As
we
came
round
the
top
of
the
stairs
we
had
run
up
against
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
himself.
His
face
was
flushed
with
anger,
and
he
held
an
old
and
dusty
boot
in
one
of
his
hands.
So
furious
was
he
that
he
was
hardly
articulate,
and
when
he
did
speak
it
was
in
a
much
broader
and
more
Western
dialect
than
any
which
we
had
heard
from
him
in
the
morning.
"Seems
to
me
they
are
playing
me
for
a
sucker
in
this
hotel,"
he
cried.
"They'll
find
they've
started
in
to
monkey
with
the
wrong
man
unless
they
are
careful.
By
thunder,
if
that
chap
can't
find
my
missing
boot
there
will
be
trouble.
I
can
take
a
joke
with
the
best,
Mr.
Holmes,
but
they've
got
a
bit
over
the
mark
this
time."
"Still
looking
for
your
boot?"
"Yes,
sir,
and
mean
to
find
it."
"But,
surely,
you
said
that
it
was
a
new
brown
boot?"
"So
it
was,
sir.
And
now
it's
an
old
black
one."
"What!
you
don't
mean
to
say—?"
"That's
just
what
I
do
mean
to
say.
I
only
had
three
pairs
in
the
world—the
new
brown,
the
old
black,
and
the
patent
leathers,
which
I
am
wearing.
Last
night
they
took
one
of
my
brown
ones,
and
today
they
have
sneaked
one
of
the
black.
Well,
have
you
got
it?
Speak
out,
man,
and
don't
stand
staring!"
An
agitated
German
waiter
had
appeared
upon
the
scene.
"No,
sir;
I
have
made
inquiry
all
over
the
hotel,
but
I
can
hear
no
word
of
it."
"Well,
either
that
boot
comes
back
before
sundown
or
I'll
see
the
manager
and
tell
him
that
I
go
right
straight
out
of
this
hotel."
"It
shall
be
found,
sir—I
promise
you
that
if
you
will
have
a
little
patience
it
will
be
found."
"Mind
it
is,
for
it's
the
last
thing
of
mine
that
I'll
lose
in
this
den
of
thieves.
Well,
well,
Mr.
Holmes,
you'll
excuse
my
troubling
you
about
such
a
trifle—"
"I
think
it's
well
worth
troubling
about."
"Why,
you
look
very
serious
over
it."
"How
do
you
explain
it?"
"I
just
don't
attempt
to
explain
it.
It
seems
the
very
maddest,
queerest
thing
that
ever
happened
to
me."
"The
queerest
perhaps—"
said
Holmes
thoughtfully.
"What
do
you
make
of
it
yourself?"
"Well,
I
don't
profess
to
understand
it
yet.
This
case
of
yours
is
very
complex,
Sir
Henry.
When
taken
in
conjunction
with
your
uncle's
death
I
am
not
sure
that
of
all
the
five
hundred
cases
of
capital
importance
which
I
have
handled
there
is
one
which
cuts
so
deep.
But
we
hold
several
threads
in
our
hands,
and
the
odds
are
that
one
or
other
of
them
guides
us
to
the
truth.
We
may
waste
time
in
following
the
wrong
one,
but
sooner
or
later
we
must
come
upon
the
right."
We
had
a
pleasant
luncheon
in
which
little
was
said
of
the
business
which
had
brought
us
together.
It
was
in
the
private
sitting-room
to
which
we
afterwards
repaired
that
Holmes
asked
Baskerville
what
were
his
intentions.
"To
go
to
Baskerville
Hall."
"And
when?"
"At
the
end
of
the
week."
"On
the
whole,"
said
Holmes,
"I
think
that
your
decision
is
a
wise
one.
I
have
ample
evidence
that
you
are
being
dogged
in
London,
and
amid
the
millions
of
this
great
city
it
is
difficult
to
discover
who
these
people
are
or
what
their
object
can
be.
If
their
intentions
are
evil
they
might
do
you
a
mischief,
and
we
should
be
powerless
to
prevent
it.
You
did
not
know,
Dr.
Mortimer,
that
you
were
followed
this
morning
from
my
house?"
Dr.
Mortimer
started
violently.
"Followed!
By
whom?"
"That,
unfortunately,
is
what
I
cannot
tell
you.
Have
you
among
your
neighbours
or
acquaintances
on
Dartmoor
any
man
with
a
black,
full
beard?"
"No—or,
let
me
see—why,
yes.
Barrymore,
Sir
Charles's
butler,
is
a
man
with
a
full,
black
beard."
"Ha!
Where
is
Barrymore?"
"He
is
in
charge
of
the
Hall."
"We
had
best
ascertain
if
he
is
really
there,
or
if
by
any
possibility
he
might
be
in
London."
"How
can
you
do
that?"
"Give
me
a
telegraph
form.
'Is
all
ready
for
Sir
Henry?'
That
will
do.
Address
to
Mr.
Barrymore,
Baskerville
Hall.
What
is
the
nearest
telegraph-office?
Grimpen.
Very
good,
we
will
send
a
second
wire
to
the
postmaster,
Grimpen:
'Telegram
to
Mr.
Barrymore
to
be
delivered
into
his
own
hand.
If
absent,
please
return
wire
to
Sir
Henry
Baskerville,
Northumberland
Hotel.'
That
should
let
us
know
before
evening
whether
Barrymore
is
at
his
post
in
Devonshire
or
not."
"That's
so,"
said
Baskerville.
"By
the
way,
Dr.
Mortimer,
who
is
this
Barrymore,
anyhow?"
"He
is
the
son
of
the
old
caretaker,
who
is
dead.
They
have
looked
after
the
Hall
for
four
generations
now.
So
far
as
I
know,
he
and
his
wife
are
as
respectable
a
couple
as
any
in
the
county."
"At
the
same
time,"
said
Baskerville,
"it's
clear
enough
that
so
long
as
there
are
none
of
the
family
at
the
Hall
these
people
have
a
mighty
fine
home
and
nothing
to
do."
"That
is
true."
"Did
Barrymore
profit
at
all
by
Sir
Charles's
will?"
asked
Holmes.
"He
and
his
wife
had
five
hundred
pounds
each."
"Ha!
Did
they
know
that
they
would
receive
this?"
"Yes;
Sir
Charles
was
very
fond
of
talking
about
the
provisions
of
his
will."
"That
is
very
interesting."
"I
hope,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer,
"that
you
do
not
look
with
suspicious
eyes
upon
everyone
who
received
a
legacy
from
Sir
Charles,
for
I
also
had
a
thousand
pounds
left
to
me."
"Indeed!
And
anyone
else?"
"There
were
many
insignificant
sums
to
individuals,
and
a
large
number
of
public
charities.
The
residue
all
went
to
Sir
Henry."
"And
how
much
was
the
residue?"
"Seven
hundred
and
forty
thousand
pounds."
Holmes
raised
his
eyebrows
in
surprise.
"I
had
no
idea
that
so
gigantic
a
sum
was
involved,"
said
he.
"Sir
Charles
had
the
reputation
of
being
rich,
but
we
did
not
know
how
very
rich
he
was
until
we
came
to
examine
his
securities.
The
total
value
of
the
estate
was
close
on
to
a
million."
"Dear
me!
It
is
a
stake
for
which
a
man
might
well
play
a
desperate
game.
And
one
more
question,
Dr.
Mortimer.
Supposing
that
anything
happened
to
our
young
friend
here—you
will
forgive
the
unpleasant
hypothesis!—who
would
inherit
the
estate?"
"Since
Rodger
Baskerville,
Sir
Charles's
younger
brother
died
unmarried,
the
estate
would
descend
to
the
Desmonds,
who
are
distant
cousins.
James
Desmond
is
an
elderly
clergyman
in
Westmoreland."
"Thank
you.
These
details
are
all
of
great
interest.
Have
you
met
Mr.
James
Desmond?"
"Yes;
he
once
came
down
to
visit
Sir
Charles.
He
is
a
man
of
venerable
appearance
and
of
saintly
life.
I
remember
that
he
refused
to
accept
any
settlement
from
Sir
Charles,
though
he
pressed
it
upon
him."
"And
this
man
of
simple
tastes
would
be
the
heir
to
Sir
Charles's
thousands."
"He
would
be
the
heir
to
the
estate
because
that
is
entailed.
He
would
also
be
the
heir
to
the
money
unless
it
were
willed
otherwise
by
the
present
owner,
who
can,
of
course,
do
what
he
likes
with
it."
"And
have
you
made
your
will,
Sir
Henry?"
"No,
Mr.
Holmes,
I
have
not.
I've
had
no
time,
for
it
was
only
yesterday
that
I
learned
how
matters
stood.
But
in
any
case
I
feel
that
the
money
should
go
with
the
title
and
estate.
That
was
my
poor
uncle's
idea.
How
is
the
owner
going
to
restore
the
glories
of
the
Baskervilles
if
he
has
not
money
enough
to
keep
up
the
property?
House,
land,
and
dollars
must
go
together."
"Quite
so.
Well,
Sir
Henry,
I
am
of
one
mind
with
you
as
to
the
advisability
of
your
going
down
to
Devonshire
without
delay.
There
is
only
one
provision
which
I
must
make.
You
certainly
must
not
go
alone."
"Dr.
Mortimer
returns
with
me."
"But
Dr.
Mortimer
has
his
practice
to
attend
to,
and
his
house
is
miles
away
from
yours.
With
all
the
goodwill
in
the
world
he
may
be
unable
to
help
you.
No,
Sir
Henry,
you
must
take
with
you
someone,
a
trusty
man,
who
will
be
always
by
your
side."
"Is
it
possible
that
you
could
come
yourself,
Mr.
Holmes?"
"If
matters
came
to
a
crisis
I
should
endeavour
to
be
present
in
person;
but
you
can
understand
that,
with
my
extensive
consulting
practice
and
with
the
constant
appeals
which
reach
me
from
many
quarters,
it
is
impossible
for
me
to
be
absent
from
London
for
an
indefinite
time.
At
the
present
instant
one
of
the
most
revered
names
in
England
is
being
besmirched
by
a
blackmailer,
and
only
I
can
stop
a
disastrous
scandal.
You
will
see
how
impossible
it
is
for
me
to
go
to
Dartmoor."
"Whom
would
you
recommend,
then?"
Holmes
laid
his
hand
upon
my
arm.
"If
my
friend
would
undertake
it
there
is
no
man
who
is
better
worth
having
at
your
side
when
you
are
in
a
tight
place.
No
one
can
say
so
more
confidently
than
I."
The
proposition
took
me
completely
by
surprise,
but
before
I
had
time
to
answer,
Baskerville
seized
me
by
the
hand
and
wrung
it
heartily.
"Well,
now,
that
is
real
kind
of
you,
Dr.
Watson,"
said
he.
"You
see
how
it
is
with
me,
and
you
know
just
as
much
about
the
matter
as
I
do.
If
you
will
come
down
to
Baskerville
Hall
and
see
me
through
I'll
never
forget
it."
The
promise
of
adventure
had
always
a
fascination
for
me,
and
I
was
complimented
by
the
words
of
Holmes
and
by
the
eagerness
with
which
the
baronet
hailed
me
as
a
companion.
"I
will
come,
with
pleasure,"
said
I.
"I
do
not
know
how
I
could
employ
my
time
better."
"And
you
will
report
very
carefully
to
me,"
said
Holmes.
"When
a
crisis
comes,
as
it
will
do,
I
will
direct
how
you
shall
act.
I
suppose
that
by
Saturday
all
might
be
ready?"
"Would
that
suit
Dr.
Watson?"
"Perfectly."
"Then
on
Saturday,
unless
you
hear
to
the
contrary,
we
shall
meet
at
the
ten-thirty
train
from
Paddington."
We
had
risen
to
depart
when
Baskerville
gave
a
cry,
of
triumph,
and
diving
into
one
of
the
corners
of
the
room
he
drew
a
brown
boot
from
under
a
cabinet.
"My
missing
boot!"
he
cried.
"May
all
our
difficulties
vanish
as
easily!"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"But
it
is
a
very
singular
thing,"
Dr.
Mortimer
remarked.
"I
searched
this
room
carefully
before
lunch."
"And
so
did
I,"
said
Baskerville.
"Every
inch
of
it."
"There
was
certainly
no
boot
in
it
then."
"In
that
case
the
waiter
must
have
placed
it
there
while
we
were
lunching."
The
German
was
sent
for
but
professed
to
know
nothing
of
the
matter,
nor
could
any
inquiry
clear
it
up.
Another
item
had
been
added
to
that
constant
and
apparently
purposeless
series
of
small
mysteries
which
had
succeeded
each
other
so
rapidly.
Setting
aside
the
whole
grim
story
of
Sir
Charles's
death,
we
had
a
line
of
inexplicable
incidents
all
within
the
limits
of
two
days,
which
included
the
receipt
of
the
printed
letter,
the
black-bearded
spy
in
the
hansom,
the
loss
of
the
new
brown
boot,
the
loss
of
the
old
black
boot,
and
now
the
return
of
the
new
brown
boot.
Holmes
sat
in
silence
in
the
cab
as
we
drove
back
to
Baker
Street,
and
I
knew
from
his
drawn
brows
and
keen
face
that
his
mind,
like
my
own,
was
busy
in
endeavouring
to
frame
some
scheme
into
which
all
these
strange
and
apparently
disconnected
episodes
could
be
fitted.
All
afternoon
and
late
into
the
evening
he
sat
lost
in
tobacco
and
thought.
Just
before
dinner
two
telegrams
were
handed
in.
The
first
ran:
Have
just
heard
that
Barrymore
is
at
the
Hall.
BASKERVILLE.
The
second:
Visited
twenty-three
hotels
as
directed,
but
sorry,
to
report
unable
to
trace
cut
sheet
of
Times.
CARTWRIGHT.
"There
go
two
of
my
threads,
Watson.
There
is
nothing
more
stimulating
than
a
case
where
everything
goes
against
you.
We
must
cast
round
for
another
scent."
"We
have
still
the
cabman
who
drove
the
spy."
"Exactly.
I
have
wired
to
get
his
name
and
address
from
the
Official
Registry.
I
should
not
be
surprised
if
this
were
an
answer
to
my
question."
The
ring
at
the
bell
proved
to
be
something
even
more
satisfactory
than
an
answer,
however,
for
the
door
opened
and
a
rough-looking
fellow
entered
who
was
evidently
the
man
himself.
"I
got
a
message
from
the
head
office
that
a
gent
at
this
address
had
been
inquiring
for
No.
2704,"
said
he.
"I've
driven
my
cab
this
seven
years
and
never
a
word
of
complaint.
I
came
here
straight
from
the
Yard
to
ask
you
to
your
face
what
you
had
against
me."
"I
have
nothing
in
the
world
against
you,
my
good
man,"
said
Holmes.
"On
the
contrary,
I
have
half
a
sovereign
for
you
if
you
will
give
me
a
clear
answer
to
my
questions."
"Well,
I've
had
a
good
day
and
no
mistake,"
said
the
cabman
with
a
grin.
"What
was
it
you
wanted
to
ask,
sir?"
"First
of
all
your
name
and
address,
in
case
I
want
you
again."
"John
Clayton,
3
Turpey
Street,
the
Borough.
My
cab
is
out
of
Shipley's
Yard,
near
Waterloo
Station."
Sherlock
Holmes
made
a
note
of
it.
"Now,
Clayton,
tell
me
all
about
the
fare
who
came
and
watched
this
house
at
ten
o'clock
this
morning
and
afterwards
followed
the
two
gentlemen
down
Regent
Street."
The
man
looked
surprised
and
a
little
embarrassed.
"Why,
there's
no
good
my
telling
you
things,
for
you
seem
to
know
as
much
as
I
do
already,"
said
he.
"The
truth
is
that
the
gentleman
told
me
that
he
was
a
detective
and
that
I
was
to
say
nothing
about
him
to
anyone."
"My
good
fellow;
this
is
a
very
serious
business,
and
you
may
find
yourself
in
a
pretty
bad
position
if
you
try
to
hide
anything
from
me.
You
say
that
your
fare
told
you
that
he
was
a
detective?"
"Yes,
he
did."
"When
did
he
say
this?"
"When
he
left
me."
"Did
he
say
anything
more?"
"He
mentioned
his
name."
Holmes
cast
a
swift
glance
of
triumph
at
me.
"Oh,
he
mentioned
his
name,
did
he?
That
was
imprudent.
What
was
the
name
that
he
mentioned?"
"His
name,"
said
the
cabman,
"was
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes."
Never
have
I
seen
my
friend
more
completely
taken
aback
than
by
the
cabman's
reply.
For
an
instant
he
sat
in
silent
amazement.
Then
he
burst
into
a
hearty
laugh.
"A
touch,
Watson—an
undeniable
touch!"
said
he.
"I
feel
a
foil
as
quick
and
supple
as
my
own.
He
got
home
upon
me
very
prettily
that
time.
So
his
name
was
Sherlock
Holmes,
was
it?"
"Yes,
sir,
that
was
the
gentleman's
name."
"Excellent!
Tell
me
where
you
picked
him
up
and
all
that
occurred."
"He
hailed
me
at
half-past
nine
in
Trafalgar
Square.
He
said
that
he
was
a
detective,
and
he
offered
me
two
guineas
if
I
would
do
exactly
what
he
wanted
all
day
and
ask
no
questions.
I
was
glad
enough
to
agree.
First
we
drove
down
to
the
Northumberland
Hotel
and
waited
there
until
two
gentlemen
came
out
and
took
a
cab
from
the
rank.
We
followed
their
cab
until
it
pulled
up
somewhere
near
here."
"This
very
door,"
said
Holmes.
"Well,
I
couldn't
be
sure
of
that,
but
I
dare
say
my
fare
knew
all
about
it.
We
pulled
up
halfway
down
the
street
and
waited
an
hour
and
a
half.
Then
the
two
gentlemen
passed
us,
walking,
and
we
followed
down
Baker
Street
and
along—"
"I
know,"
said
Holmes.
"Until
we
got
three-quarters
down
Regent
Street.
Then
my
gentleman
threw
up
the
trap,
and
he
cried
that
I
should
drive
right
away
to
Waterloo
Station
as
hard
as
I
could
go.
I
whipped
up
the
mare
and
we
were
there
under
the
ten
minutes.
Then
he
paid
up
his
two
guineas,
like
a
good
one,
and
away
he
went
into
the
station.
Only
just
as
he
was
leaving
he
turned
round
and
he
said:
'It
might
interest
you
to
know
that
you
have
been
driving
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes.'
That's
how
I
come
to
know
the
name."
"I
see.
And
you
saw
no
more
of
him?"
"Not
after
he
went
into
the
station."
"And
how
would
you
describe
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes?"
The
cabman
scratched
his
head.
"Well,
he
wasn't
altogether
such
an
easy
gentleman
to
describe.
I'd
put
him
at
forty
years
of
age,
and
he
was
of
a
middle
height,
two
or
three
inches
shorter
than
you,
sir.
He
was
dressed
like
a
toff,
and
he
had
a
black
beard,
cut
square
at
the
end,
and
a
pale
face.
I
don't
know
as
I
could
say
more
than
that."
"Colour
of
his
eyes?"
"No,
I
can't
say
that."
"Nothing
more
that
you
can
remember?"
"No,
sir;
nothing."
"Well,
then,
here
is
your
half-sovereign.
There's
another
one
waiting
for
you
if
you
can
bring
any
more
information.
Good-night!"
"Good-night,
sir,
and
thank
you!"
John
Clayton
departed
chuckling,
and
Holmes
turned
to
me
with
a
shrug
of
his
shoulders
and
a
rueful
smile.
"Snap
goes
our
third
thread,
and
we
end
where
we
began,"
said
he.
"The
cunning
rascal!
He
knew
our
number,
knew
that
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
had
consulted
me,
spotted
who
I
was
in
Regent
Street,
conjectured
that
I
had
got
the
number
of
the
cab
and
would
lay
my
hands
on
the
driver,
and
so
sent
back
this
audacious
message.
I
tell
you,
Watson,
this
time
we
have
got
a
foeman
who
is
worthy
of
our
steel.
I've
been
checkmated
in
London.
I
can
only
wish
you
better
luck
in
Devonshire.
But
I'm
not
easy
in
my
mind
about
it."
"About
what?"
"About
sending
you.
It's
an
ugly
business,
Watson,
an
ugly
dangerous
business,
and
the
more
I
see
of
it
the
less
I
like
it.
Yes,
my
dear
fellow,
you
may
laugh,
but
I
give
you
my
word
that
I
shall
be
very
glad
to
have
you
back
safe
and
sound
in
Baker
Street
once
more."
Chapter
6.
Baskerville
Hall
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
and
Dr.
Mortimer
were
ready
upon
the
appointed
day,
and
we
started
as
arranged
for
Devonshire.
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
drove
with
me
to
the
station
and
gave
me
his
last
parting
injunctions
and
advice.
"I
will
not
bias
your
mind
by
suggesting
theories
or
suspicions,
Watson,"
said
he;
"I
wish
you
simply
to
report
facts
in
the
fullest
possible
manner
to
me,
and
you
can
leave
me
to
do
the
theorizing."
"What
sort
of
facts?"
I
asked.
"Anything
which
may
seem
to
have
a
bearing
however
indirect
upon
the
case,
and
especially
the
relations
between
young
Baskerville
and
his
neighbours
or
any
fresh
particulars
concerning
the
death
of
Sir
Charles.
I
have
made
some
inquiries
myself
in
the
last
few
days,
but
the
results
have,
I
fear,
been
negative.
One
thing
only
appears
to
be
certain,
and
that
is
that
Mr.
James
Desmond,
who
is
the
next
heir,
is
an
elderly
gentleman
of
a
very
amiable
disposition,
so
that
this
persecution
does
not
arise
from
him.
I
really
think
that
we
may
eliminate
him
entirely
from
our
calculations.
There
remain
the
people
who
will
actually
surround
Sir
Henry
Baskerville
upon
the
moor."
"Would
it
not
be
well
in
the
first
place
to
get
rid
of
this
Barrymore
couple?"
"By
no
means.
You
could
not
make
a
greater
mistake.
If
they
are
innocent
it
would
be
a
cruel
injustice,
and
if
they
are
guilty
we
should
be
giving
up
all
chance
of
bringing
it
home
to
them.
No,
no,
we
will
preserve
them
upon
our
list
of
suspects.
Then
there
is
a
groom
at
the
Hall,
if
I
remember
right.
There
are
two
moorland
farmers.
There
is
our
friend
Dr.
Mortimer,
whom
I
believe
to
be
entirely
honest,
and
there
is
his
wife,
of
whom
we
know
nothing.
There
is
this
naturalist,
Stapleton,
and
there
is
his
sister,
who
is
said
to
be
a
young
lady
of
attractions.
There
is
Mr.
Frankland,
of
Lafter
Hall,
who
is
also
an
unknown
factor,
and
there
are
one
or
two
other
neighbours.
These
are
the
folk
who
must
be
your
very
special
study."
"I
will
do
my
best."
"You
have
arms,
I
suppose?"
"Yes,
I
thought
it
as
well
to
take
them."
"Most
certainly.
Keep
your
revolver
near
you
night
and
day,
and
never
relax
your
precautions."
Our
friends
had
already
secured
a
first-class
carriage
and
were
waiting
for
us
upon
the
platform.
"No,
we
have
no
news
of
any
kind,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer
in
answer
to
my
friend's
questions.
"I
can
swear
to
one
thing,
and
that
is
that
we
have
not
been
shadowed
during
the
last
two
days.
We
have
never
gone
out
without
keeping
a
sharp
watch,
and
no
one
could
have
escaped
our
notice."
"You
have
always
kept
together,
I
presume?"
"Except
yesterday
afternoon.
I
usually
give
up
one
day
to
pure
amusement
when
I
come
to
town,
so
I
spent
it
at
the
Museum
of
the
College
of
Surgeons."
"And
I
went
to
look
at
the
folk
in
the
park,"
said
Baskerville.
"But
we
had
no
trouble
of
any
kind."
"It
was
imprudent,
all
the
same,"
said
Holmes,
shaking
his
head
and
looking
very
grave.
"I
beg,
Sir
Henry,
that
you
will
not
go
about
alone.
Some
great
misfortune
will
befall
you
if
you
do.
Did
you
get
your
other
boot?"
"No,
sir,
it
is
gone
forever."
"Indeed.
That
is
very
interesting.
Well,
good-bye,"
he
added
as
the
train
began
to
glide
down
the
platform.
"Bear
in
mind,
Sir
Henry,
one
of
the
phrases
in
that
queer
old
legend
which
Dr.
Mortimer
has
read
to
us,
and
avoid
the
moor
in
those
hours
of
darkness
when
the
powers
of
evil
are
exalted."
I
looked
back
at
the
platform
when
we
had
left
it
far
behind
and
saw
the
tall,
austere
figure
of
Holmes
standing
motionless
and
gazing
after
us.
The
journey
was
a
swift
and
pleasant
one,
and
I
spent
it
in
making
the
more
intimate
acquaintance
of
my
two
companions
and
in
playing
with
Dr.
Mortimer's
spaniel.
In
a
very
few
hours
the
brown
earth
had
become
ruddy,
the
brick
had
changed
to
granite,
and
red
cows
grazed
in
well-hedged
fields
where
the
lush
grasses
and
more
luxuriant
vegetation
spoke
of
a
richer,
if
a
damper,
climate.
Young
Baskerville
stared
eagerly
out
of
the
window
and
cried
aloud
with
delight
as
he
recognized
the
familiar
features
of
the
Devon
scenery.
"I've
been
over
a
good
part
of
the
world
since
I
left
it,
Dr.
Watson,"
said
he;
"but
I
have
never
seen
a
place
to
compare
with
it."
"I
never
saw
a
Devonshire
man
who
did
not
swear
by
his
county,"
I
remarked.
"It
depends
upon
the
breed
of
men
quite
as
much
as
on
the
county,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer.
"A
glance
at
our
friend
here
reveals
the
rounded
head
of
the
Celt,
which
carries
inside
it
the
Celtic
enthusiasm
and
power
of
attachment.
Poor
Sir
Charles's
head
was
of
a
very
rare
type,
half
Gaelic,
half
Ivernian
in
its
characteristics.
But
you
were
very
young
when
you
last
saw
Baskerville
Hall,
were
you
not?"
"I
was
a
boy
in
my
teens
at
the
time
of
my
father's
death
and
had
never
seen
the
Hall,
for
he
lived
in
a
little
cottage
on
the
South
Coast.
Thence
I
went
straight
to
a
friend
in
America.
I
tell
you
it
is
all
as
new
to
me
as
it
is
to
Dr.
Watson,
and
I'm
as
keen
as
possible
to
see
the
moor."
"Are
you?
Then
your
wish
is
easily
granted,
for
there
is
your
first
sight
of
the
moor,"
said
Dr.
Mortimer,
pointing
out
of
the
carriage
window.
Over
the
green
squares
of
the
fields
and
the
low
curve
of
a
wood
there
rose
in
the
distance
a
gray,
melancholy
hill,
with
a
strange
jagged
summit,
dim
and
vague
in
the
distance,
like
some
fantastic
landscape
in
a
dream.
Baskerville
sat
for
a
long
time,
his
eyes
fixed
upon
it,
and
I
read
upon
his
eager
face
how
much
it
meant
to
him,
this
first
sight
of
that
strange
spot
where
the
men
of
his
blood
had
held
sway
so
long
and
left
their
mark
so
deep.
There
he
sat,
with
his
tweed
suit
and
his
American
accent,
in
the
corner
of
a
prosaic
railway-carriage,
and
yet
as
I
looked
at
his
dark
and
expressive
face
I
felt
more
than
ever
how
true
a
descendant
he
was
of
that
long
line
of
high-blooded,
fiery,
and
masterful
men.
There
were
pride,
valour,
and
strength
in
his
thick
brows,
his
sensitive
nostrils,
and
his
large
hazel
eyes.
If
on
that
forbidding
moor
a
difficult
and
dangerous
quest
should
lie
before
us,
this
was
at
least
a
comrade
for
whom
one
might
venture
to
take
a
risk
with
the
certainty
that
he
would
bravely
share
it.
The
train
pulled
up
at
a
small
wayside
station
and
we
all
descended.
Outside,
beyond
the
low,
white
fence,
a
wagonette
with
a
pair
of
cobs
was
waiting.
Our
coming
was
evidently
a
great
event,
for
station-master
and
porters
clustered
round
us
to
carry
out
our
luggage.
It
was
a
sweet,
simple
country
spot,
but
I
was
surprised
to
observe
that
by
the
gate
there
stood
two
soldierly
men
in
dark
uniforms
who
leaned
upon
their
short
rifles
and
glanced
keenly
at
us
as
we
passed.
The
coachman,
a
hard-faced,
gnarled
little
fellow,
saluted
Sir
Henry
Baskerville,
and
in
a
few
minutes
we
were
flying
swiftly
down
the
broad,
white
road.
Rolling
pasture
lands
curved
upward
on
either
side
of
us,
and
old
gabled
houses
peeped
out
from
amid
the
thick
green
foliage,
but
behind
the
peaceful
and
sunlit
countryside
there
rose
ever,
dark
against
the
evening
sky,
the
long,
gloomy
curve
of
the
moor,
broken
by
the
jagged
and
sinister
hills.
The
wagonette
swung
round
into
a
side
road,
and
we
curved
upward
through
deep
lanes
worn
by
centuries
of
wheels,
high
banks
on
either
side,
heavy
with
dripping
moss
and
fleshy
hart's-tongue
ferns.
Bronzing
bracken
and
mottled
bramble
gleamed
in
the
light
of
the
sinking
sun.
Still
steadily
rising,
we
passed
over
a
narrow
granite
bridge
and
skirted
a
noisy
stream
which
gushed
swiftly
down,
foaming
and
roaring
amid
the
gray
boulders.
Both
road
and
stream
wound
up
through
a
valley
dense
with
scrub
oak
and
fir.
At
every
turn
Baskerville
gave
an
exclamation
of
delight,
looking
eagerly
about
him
and
asking
countless
questions.
To
his
eyes
all
seemed
beautiful,
but
to
me
a
tinge
of
melancholy
lay
upon
the
countryside,
which
bore
so
clearly
the
mark
of
the
waning
year.
Yellow
leaves
carpeted
the
lanes
and
fluttered
down
upon
us
as
we
passed.
The
rattle
of
our
wheels
died
away
as
we
drove
through
drifts
of
rotting
vegetation—sad
gifts,
as
it
seemed
to
me,
for
Nature
to
throw
before
the
carriage
of
the
returning
heir
of
the
Baskervilles.
"Halloa!"
cried
Dr.
Mortimer,
"what
is
this?"
A
steep
curve
of
heath-clad
land,
an
outlying
spur
of
the
moor,
lay
in
front
of
us.
On
the
summit,
hard
and
clear
like
an
equestrian
statue
upon
its
pedestal,
was
a
mounted
soldier,
dark
and
stern,
his
rifle
poised
ready
over
his
forearm.
He
was
watching
the
road
along
which
we
travelled.
"What
is
this,
Perkins?"
asked
Dr.
Mortimer.
Our
driver
half
turned
in
his
seat.
"There's
a
convict
escaped
from
Princetown,
sir.
He's
been
out
three
days
now,
and
the
warders
watch
every
road
and
every
station,
but
they've
had
no
sight
of
him
yet.
The
farmers
about
here
don't
like
it,
sir,
and
that's
a
fact."
"Well,
I
understand
that
they
get
five
pounds
if
they
can
give
information."
"Yes,
sir,
but
the
chance
of
five
pounds
is
but
a
poor
thing
compared
to
the
chance
of
having
your
throat
cut.
You
see,
it
isn't
like
any
ordinary
convict.
This
is
a
man
that
would
stick
at
nothing."
"Who
is
he,
then?"
"It
is
Selden,
the
Notting
Hill
murderer."
I
remembered
the
case
well,
for
it
was
one
in
which
Holmes
had
taken
an
interest
on
account
of
the
peculiar
ferocity
of
the
crime
and
the
wanton
brutality
which
had
marked
all
the
actions
of
the
assassin.
The
commutation
of
his
death
sentence
had
been
due
to
some
doubts
as
to
his
complete
sanity,
so
atrocious
was
his
conduct.
Our
wagonette
had
topped
a
rise
and
in
front
of
us
rose
the
huge
expanse
of
the
moor,
mottled
with
gnarled
and
craggy
cairns
and
tors.
A
cold
wind
swept
down
from
it
and
set
us
shivering.
Somewhere
there,
on
that
desolate
plain,
was
lurking
this
fiendish
man,
hiding
in
a
burrow
like
a
wild
beast,
his
heart
full
of
malignancy
against
the
whole
race
which
had
cast
him
out.
It
needed
but
this
to
complete
the
grim
suggestiveness
of
the
barren
waste,
the
chilling
wind,
and
the
darkling
sky.
Even
Baskerville
fell
silent
and
pulled
his
overcoat
more
closely
around
him.
We
had
left
the
fertile
country
behind
and
beneath
us.
We
looked
back
on
it
now,
the
slanting
rays
of
a
low
sun
turning
the
streams
to
threads
of
gold
and
glowing
on
the
red
earth
new
turned
by
the
plough
and
the
broad
tangle
of
the
woodlands.
The
road
in
front
of
us
grew
bleaker
and
wilder
over
huge
russet
and
olive
slopes,
sprinkled
with
giant
boulders.
Now
and
then
we
passed
a
moorland
cottage,
walled
and
roofed
with
stone,
with
no
creeper
to
break
its
harsh
outline.
Suddenly
we
looked
down
into
a
cuplike
depression,
patched
with
stunted
oaks
and
firs
which
had
been
twisted
and
bent
by
the
fury
of
years
of
storm.
Two
high,
narrow
towers
rose
over
the
trees.
The
driver
pointed
with
his
whip.
"Baskerville
Hall,"
said
he.
Its
master
had
risen
and
was
staring
with
flushed
cheeks
and
shining
eyes.
A
few
minutes
later
we
had
reached
the
lodge-gates,
a
maze
of
fantastic
tracery
in
wrought
iron,
with
weather-bitten
pillars
on
either
side,
blotched
with
lichens,
and
surmounted
by
the
boars'
heads
of
the
Baskervilles.
The
lodge
was
a
ruin
of
black
granite
and
bared
ribs
of
rafters,
but
facing
it
was
a
new
building,
half
constructed,
the
first
fruit
of
Sir
Charles's
South
African
gold.
Through
the
gateway
we
passed
into
the
avenue,
where
the
wheels
were
again
hushed
amid
the
leaves,
and
the
old
trees
shot
their
branches
in
a
sombre
tunnel
over
our
heads.
Baskerville
shuddered
as
he
looked
up
the
long,
dark
drive
to
where
the
house
glimmered
like
a
ghost
at
the
farther
end.
"Was
it
here?"
he
asked
in
a
low
voice.
"No,
no,
the
yew
alley
is
on
the
other
side."
The
young
heir
glanced
round
with
a
gloomy
face.
"It's
no
wonder
my
uncle
felt
as
if
trouble
were
coming
on
him
in
such
a
place
as
this,"
said
he.
"It's
enough
to
scare
any
man.
I'll
have
a
row
of
electric
lamps
up
here
inside
of
six
months,
and
you
won't
know
it
again,
with
a
thousand
candle-power
Swan
and
Edison
right
here
in
front
of
the
hall
door."
The
avenue
opened
into
a
broad
expanse
of
turf,
and
the
house
lay
before
us.
In
the
fading
light
I
could
see
that
the
centre
was
a
heavy
block
of
building
from
which
a
porch
projected.
The
whole
front
was
draped
in
ivy,
with
a
patch
clipped
bare
here
and
there
where
a
window
or
a
coat
of
arms
broke
through
the
dark
veil.
From
this
central
block
rose
the
twin
towers,
ancient,
crenelated,
and
pierced
with
many
loopholes.
To
right
and
left
of
the
turrets
were
more
modern
wings
of
black
granite.
A
dull
light
shone
through
heavy
mullioned
windows,
and
from
the
high
chimneys
which
rose
from
the
steep,
high-angled
roof
there
sprang
a
single
black
column
of
smoke.
"Welcome,
Sir
Henry!
Welcome
to
Baskerville
Hall!"
A
tall
man
had
stepped
from
the
shadow
of
the
porch
to
open
the
door
of
the
wagonette.
The
figure
of
a
woman
was
silhouetted
against
the
yellow
light
of
the
hall.
She
came
out
and
helped
the
man
to
hand
down
our
bags.
"You
don't
mind
my
driving
straight
home,
Sir
Henry?"
said
Dr.
Mortimer.
"My
wife
is
expecting
me."
"Surely
you
will
stay
and
have
some
dinner?"
"No,
I
must
go.
I
shall
probably
find
some
work
awaiting
me.
I
would
stay
to
show
you
over
the
house,
but
Barrymore
will
be
a
better
guide
than
I.
Good-bye,
and
never
hesitate
night
or
day
to
send
for
me
if
I
can
be
of
service."
The
wheels
died
away
down
the
drive
while
Sir
Henry
and
I
turned
into
the
hall,
and
the
door
clanged
heavily
behind
us.
It
was
a
fine
apartment
in
which
we
found
ourselves,
large,
lofty,
and
heavily
raftered
with
huge
baulks
of
age-blackened
oak.
In
the
great
old-fashioned
fireplace
behind
the
high
iron
dogs
a
log-fire
crackled
and
snapped.
Sir
Henry
and
I
held
out
our
hands
to
it,
for
we
were
numb
from
our
long
drive.
Then
we
gazed
round
us
at
the
high,
thin
window
of
old
stained
glass,
the
oak
panelling,
the
stags'
heads,
the
coats
of
arms
upon
the
walls,
all
dim
and
sombre
in
the
subdued
light
of
the
central
lamp.
"It's
just
as
I
imagined
it,"
said
Sir
Henry.
"Is
it
not
the
very
picture
of
an
old
family
home?
To
think
that
this
should
be
the
same
hall
in
which
for
five
hundred
years
my
people
have
lived.
It
strikes
me
solemn
to
think
of
it."
I
saw
his
dark
face
lit
up
with
a
boyish
enthusiasm
as
he
gazed
about
him.
The
light
beat
upon
him
where
he
stood,
but
long
shadows
trailed
down
the
walls
and
hung
like
a
black
canopy
above
him.
Barrymore
had
returned
from
taking
our
luggage
to
our
rooms.
He
stood
in
front
of
us
now
with
the
subdued
manner
of
a
well-trained
servant.
He
was
a
remarkable-looking
man,
tall,
handsome,
with
a
square
black
beard
and
pale,
distinguished
features.
"Would
you
wish
dinner
to
be
served
at
once,
sir?"
"Is
it
ready?"
"In
a
very
few
minutes,
sir.
You
will
find
hot
water
in
your
rooms.
My
wife
and
I
will
be
happy,
Sir
Henry,
to
stay
with
you
until
you
have
made
your
fresh
arrangements,
but
you
will
understand
that
under
the
new
conditions
this
house
will
require
a
considerable
staff."
"What
new
conditions?"
"I
only
meant,
sir,
that
Sir
Charles
led
a
very
retired
life,
and
we
were
able
to
look
after
his
wants.
You
would,
naturally,
wish
to
have
more
company,
and
so
you
will
need
changes
in
your
household."
"Do
you
mean
that
your
wife
and
you
wish
to
leave?"
"Only
when
it
is
quite
convenient
to
you,
sir."
"But
your
family
have
been
with
us
for
several
generations,
have
they
not?
I
should
be
sorry
to
begin
my
life
here
by
breaking
an
old
family
connection."
I
seemed
to
discern
some
signs
of
emotion
upon
the
butler's
white
face.
"I
feel
that
also,
sir,
and
so
does
my
wife.
But
to
tell
the
truth,
sir,
we
were
both
very
much
attached
to
Sir
Charles,
and
his
death
gave
us
a
shock
and
made
these
surroundings
very
painful
to
us.
I
fear
that
we
shall
never
again
be
easy
in
our
minds
at
Baskerville
Hall."
"But
what
do
you
intend
to
do?"
"I
have
no
doubt,
sir,
that
we
shall
succeed
in
establishing
ourselves
in
some
business.
Sir
Charles's
generosity
has
given
us
the
means
to
do
so.
And
now,
sir,
perhaps
I
had
best
show
you
to
your
rooms."
A
square
balustraded
gallery
ran
round
the
top
of
the
old
hall,
approached
by
a
double
stair.
From
this
central
point
two
long
corridors
extended
the
whole
length
of
the
building,
from
which
all
the
bedrooms
opened.
My
own
was
in
the
same
wing
as
Baskerville's
and
almost
next
door
to
it.
These
rooms
appeared
to
be
much
more
modern
than
the
central
part
of
the
house,
and
the
bright
paper
and
numerous
candles
did
something
to
remove
the
sombre
impression
which
our
arrival
had
left
upon
my
mind.
But
the
dining-room
which
opened
out
of
the
hall
was
a
place
of
shadow
and
gloom.
It
was
a
long
chamber
with
a
step
separating
the
dais
where
the
family
sat
from
the
lower
portion
reserved
for
their
dependents.
At
one
end
a
minstrel's
gallery
overlooked
it.
Black
beams
shot
across
above
our
heads,
with
a
smoke-darkened
ceiling
beyond
them.
With
rows
of
flaring
torches
to
light
it
up,
and
the
colour
and
rude
hilarity
of
an
old-time
banquet,
it
might
have
softened;
but
now,
when
two
black-clothed
gentlemen
sat
in
the
little
circle
of
light
thrown
by
a
shaded
lamp,
one's
voice
became
hushed
and
one's
spirit
subdued.
A
dim
line
of
ancestors,
in
every
variety
of
dress,
from
the
Elizabethan
knight
to
the
buck
of
the
Regency,
stared
down
upon
us
and
daunted
us
by
their
silent
company.
We
talked
little,
and
I
for
one
was
glad
when
the
meal
was
over
and
we
were
able
to
retire
into
the
modern
billiard-room
and
smoke
a
cigarette.
"My
word,
it
isn't
a
very
cheerful
place,"
said
Sir
Henry.
"I
suppose
one
can
tone
down
to
it,
but
I
feel
a
bit
out
of
the
picture
at
present.
I
don't
wonder
that
my
uncle
got
a
little
jumpy
if
he
lived
all
alone
in
such
a
house
as
this.
However,
if
it
suits
you,
we
will
retire
early
tonight,
and
perhaps
things
may
seem
more
cheerful
in
the
morning."
I
drew
aside
my
curtains
before
I
went
to
bed
and
looked
out
from
my
window.
It
opened
upon
the
grassy
space
which
lay
in
front
of
the
hall
door.
Beyond,
two
copses
of
trees
moaned
and
swung
in
a
rising
wind.
A
half
moon
broke
through
the
rifts
of
racing
clouds.
In
its
cold
light
I
saw
beyond
the
trees
a
broken
fringe
of
rocks,
and
the
long,
low
curve
of
the
melancholy
moor.
I
closed
the
curtain,
feeling
that
my
last
impression
was
in
keeping
with
the
rest.
And
yet
it
was
not
quite
the
last.
I
found
myself
weary
and
yet
wakeful,
tossing
restlessly
from
side
to
side,
seeking
for
the
sleep
which
would
not
come.
Far
away
a
chiming
clock
struck
out
the
quarters
of
the
hours,
but
otherwise
a
deathly
silence
lay
upon
the
old
house.
And
then
suddenly,
in
the
very
dead
of
the
night,
there
came
a
sound
to
my
ears,
clear,
resonant,
and
unmistakable.
It
was
the
sob
of
a
woman,
the
muffled,
strangling
gasp
of
one
who
is
torn
by
an
uncontrollable
sorrow.
I
sat
up
in
bed
and
listened
intently.
The
noise
could
not
have
been
far
away
and
was
certainly
in
the
house.
For
half
an
hour
I
waited
with
every
nerve
on
the
alert,
but
there
came
no
other
sound
save
the
chiming
clock
and
the
rustle
of
the
ivy
on
the
wall.
Chapter
7.
The
Stapletons
of
Merripit
House
The
fresh
beauty
of
the
following
morning
did
something
to
efface
from
our
minds
the
grim
and
gray
impression
which
had
been
left
upon
both
of
us
by
our
first
experience
of
Baskerville
Hall.
As
Sir
Henry
and
I
sat
at
breakfast
the
sunlight
flooded
in
through
the
high
mullioned
windows,
throwing
watery
patches
of
colour
from
the
coats
of
arms
which
covered
them.
The
dark
panelling
glowed
like
bronze
in
the
golden
rays,
and
it
was
hard
to
realize
that
this
was
indeed
the
chamber
which
had
struck
such
a
gloom
into
our
souls
upon
the
evening
before.
"I
guess
it
is
ourselves
and
not
the
house
that
we
have
to
blame!"
said
the
baronet.
"We
were
tired
with
our
journey
and
chilled
by
our
drive,
so
we
took
a
gray
view
of
the
place.
Now
we
are
fresh
and
well,
so
it
is
all
cheerful
once
more."
"And
yet
it
was
not
entirely
a
question
of
imagination,"
I
answered.
"Did
you,
for
example,
happen
to
hear
someone,
a
woman
I
think,
sobbing
in
the
night?"
"That
is
curious,
for
I
did
when
I
was
half
asleep
fancy
that
I
heard
something
of
the
sort.
I
waited
quite
a
time,
but
there
was
no
more
of
it,
so
I
concluded
that
it
was
all
a
dream."
"I
heard
it
distinctly,
and
I
am
sure
that
it
was
really
the
sob
of
a
woman."
"We
must
ask
about
this
right
away."
He
rang
the
bell
and
asked
Barrymore
whether
he
could
account
for
our
experience.
It
seemed
to
me
that
the
pallid
features
of
the
butler
turned
a
shade
paler
still
as
he
listened
to
his
master's
question.
"There
are
only
two
women
in
the
house,
Sir
Henry,"
he
answered.
"One
is
the
scullery-maid,
who
sleeps
in
the
other
wing.
The
other
is
my
wife,
and
I
can
answer
for
it
that
the
sound
could
not
have
come
from
her."
And
yet
he
lied
as
he
said
it,
for
it
chanced
that
after
breakfast
I
met
Mrs.
Barrymore
in
the
long
corridor
with
the
sun
full
upon
her
face.
She
was
a
large,
impassive,
heavy-featured
woman
with
a
stern
set
expression
of
mouth.
But
her
telltale
eyes
were
red
and
glanced
at
me
from
between
swollen
lids.
It
was
she,
then,
who
wept
in
the
night,
and
if
she
did
so
her
husband
must
know
it.
Yet
he
had
taken
the
obvious
risk
of
discovery
in
declaring
that
it
was
not
so.
Why
had
he
done
this?
And
why
did
she
weep
so
bitterly?
Already
round
this
pale-faced,
handsome,
black-bearded
man
there
was
gathering
an
atmosphere
of
mystery
and
of
gloom.
It
was
he
who
had
been
the
first
to
discover
the
body
of
Sir
Charles,
and
we
had
only
his
word
for
all
the
circumstances
which
led
up
to
the
old
man's
death.
Was
it
possible
that
it
was
Barrymore,
after
all,
whom
we
had
seen
in
the
cab
in
Regent
Street?
The
beard
might
well
have
been
the
same.
The
cabman
had
described
a
somewhat
shorter
man,
but
such
an
impression
might
easily
have
been
erroneous.
How
could
I
settle
the
point
forever?
Obviously
the
first
thing
to
do
was
to
see
the
Grimpen
postmaster
and
find
whether
the
test
telegram
had
really
been
placed
in
Barrymore's
own
hands.
Be
the
answer
what
it
might,
I
should
at
least
have
something
to
report
to
Sherlock
Holmes.
Sir
Henry
had
numerous
papers
to
examine
after
breakfast,
so
that
the
time
was
propitious
for
my
excursion.
It
was
a
pleasant
walk
of
four
miles
along
the
edge
of
the
moor,
leading
me
at
last
to
a
small
gray
hamlet,
in
which
two
larger
buildings,
which
proved
to
be
the
inn
and
the
house
of
Dr.
Mortimer,
stood
high
above
the
rest.
The
postmaster,
who
was
also
the
village
grocer,
had
a
clear
recollection
of
the
telegram.
"Certainly,
sir,"
said
he,
"I
had
the
telegram
delivered
to
Mr.
Barrymore
exactly
as
directed."
"Who
delivered
it?"
"My
boy
here.
James,
you
delivered
that
telegram
to
Mr.
Barrymore
at
the
Hall
last
week,
did
you
not?"
"Yes,
father,
I
delivered
it."
"Into
his
own
hands?"
I
asked.
"Well,
he
was
up
in
the
loft
at
the
time,
so
that
I
could
not
put
it
into
his
own
hands,
but
I
gave
it
into
Mrs.
Barrymore's
hands,
and
she
promised
to
deliver
it
at
once."
"Did
you
see
Mr.
Barrymore?"
"No,
sir;
I
tell
you
he
was
in
the
loft."
"If
you
didn't
see
him,
how
do
you
know
he
was
in
the
loft?"
"Well,
surely
his
own
wife
ought
to
know
where
he
is,"
said
the
postmaster
testily.
"Didn't
he
get
the
telegram?
If
there
is
any
mistake
it
is
for
Mr.
Barrymore
himself
to
complain."
It
seemed
hopeless
to
pursue
the
inquiry
any
farther,
but
it
was
clear
that
in
spite
of
Holmes's
ruse
we
had
no
proof
that
Barrymore
had
not
been
in
London
all
the
time.
Suppose
that
it
were
so—suppose
that
the
same
man
had
been
the
last
who
had
seen
Sir
Charles
alive,
and
the
first
to
dog
the
new
heir
when
he
returned
to
England.
What
then?
Was
he
the
agent
of
others
or
had
he
some
sinister
design
of
his
own?
What
interest
could
he
have
in
persecuting
the
Baskerville
family?
I
thought
of
the
strange
warning
clipped
out
of
the
leading
article
of
the
Times.
Was
that
his
work
or
was
it
possibly
the
doing
of
someone
who
was
bent
upon
counteracting
his
schemes?
The
only
conceivable
motive
was
that
which
had
been
suggested
by
Sir
Henry,
that
if
the
family
could
be
scared
away
a
comfortable
and
permanent
home
would
be
secured
for
the
Barrymores.
But
surely
such
an
explanation
as
that
would
be
quite
inadequate
to
account
for
the
deep
and
subtle
scheming
which
seemed
to
be
weaving
an
invisible
net
round
the
young
baronet.
Holmes
himself
had
said
that
no
more
complex
case
had
come
to
him
in
all
the
long
series
of
his
sensational
investigations.
I
prayed,
as
I
walked
back
along
the
gray,
lonely
road,
that
my
friend
might
soon
be
freed
from
his
preoccupations
and
able
to
come
down
to
take
this
heavy
burden
of
responsibility
from
my
shoulders.
Suddenly
my
thoughts
were
interrupted
by
the
sound
of
running
feet
behind
me
and
by
a
voice
which
called
me
by
name.
I
turned,
expecting
to
see
Dr.
Mortimer,
but
to
my
surprise
it
was
a
stranger
who
was
pursuing
me.
He
was
a
small,
slim,
clean-shaven,
prim-faced
man,
flaxen-haired
and
leanjawed,
between
thirty
and
forty
years
of
age,
dressed
in
a
gray
suit
and
wearing
a
straw
hat.
A
tin
box
for
botanical
specimens
hung
over
his
shoulder
and
he
carried
a
green
butterfly-net
in
one
of
his
hands.
"You
will,
I
am
sure,
excuse
my
presumption,
Dr.
Watson,"
said
he
as
he
came
panting
up
to
where
I
stood.
"Here
on
the
moor
we
are
homely
folk
and
do
not
wait
for
formal
introductions.
You
may
possibly
have
heard
my
name
from
our
mutual
friend,
Mortimer.
I
am
Stapleton,
of
Merripit
House."
"Your
net
and
box
would
have
told
me
as
much,"
said
I,
"for
I
knew
that
Mr.
Stapleton
was
a
naturalist.
But
how
did
you
know
me?"
"I
have
been
calling
on
Mortimer,
and
he
pointed
you
out
to
me
from
the
window
of
his
surgery
as
you
passed.
As
our
road
lay
the
same
way
I
thought
that
I
would
overtake
you
and
introduce
myself.
I
trust
that
Sir
Henry
is
none
the
worse
for
his
journey?"
"He
is
very
well,
thank
you."
"We
were
all
rather
afraid
that
after
the
sad
death
of
Sir
Charles
the
new
baronet
might
refuse
to
live
here.
It
is
asking
much
of
a
wealthy
man
to
come
down
and
bury
himself
in
a
place
of
this
kind,
but
I
need
not
tell
you
that
it
means
a
very
great
deal
to
the
countryside.
Sir
Henry
has,
I
suppose,
no
superstitious
fears
in
the
matter?"
"I
do
not
think
that
it
is
likely."
"Of
course
you
know
the
legend
of
the
fiend
dog
which
haunts
the
family?"
"I
have
heard
it."
"It
is
extraordinary
how
credulous
the
peasants
are
about
here!
Any
number
of
them
are
ready
to
swear
that
they
have
seen
such
a
creature
upon
the
moor."
He
spoke
with
a
smile,
but
I
seemed
to
read
in
his
eyes
that
he
took
the
matter
more
seriously.
"The
story
took
a
great
hold
upon
the
imagination
of
Sir
Charles,
and
I
have
no
doubt
that
it
led
to
his
tragic
end."
"But
how?"
"His
nerves
were
so
worked
up
that
the
appearance
of
any
dog
might
have
had
a
fatal
effect
upon
his
diseased
heart.
I
fancy
that
he
really
did
see
something
of
the
kind
upon
that
last
night
in
the
yew
alley.
I
feared
that
some
disaster
might
occur,
for
I
was
very
fond
of
the
old
man,
and
I
knew
that
his
heart
was
weak."
"How
did
you
know
that?"
"My
friend
Mortimer
told
me."
"You
think,
then,
that
some
dog
pursued
Sir
Charles,
and
that
he
died
of
fright
in
consequence?"
"Have
you
any
better
explanation?"
"I
have
not
come
to
any
conclusion."
"Has
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes?"
The
words
took
away
my
breath
for
an
instant
but
a
glance
at
the
placid
face
and
steadfast
eyes
of
my
companion
showed
that
no
surprise
was
intended.
"It
is
useless
for
us
to
pretend
that
we
do
not
know
you,
Dr.
Watson,"
said
he.
"The
records
of
your
detective
have
reached
us
here,
and
you
could
not
celebrate
him
without
being
known
yourself.
When
Mortimer
told
me
your
name
he
could
not
deny
your
identity.
If
you
are
here,
then
it
follows
that
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
is
interesting
himself
in
the
matter,
and
I
am
naturally
curious
to
know
what
view
he
may
take."
"I
am
afraid
that
I
cannot
answer
that
question."
"May
I
ask
if
he
is
going
to
honour
us
with
a
visit
himself?"
"He
cannot
leave
town
at
present.
He
has
other
cases
which
engage
his
attention."
"What
a
pity!
He
might
throw
some
light
on
that
which
is
so
dark
to
us.
But
as
to
your
own
researches,
if
there
is
any
possible
way
in
which
I
can
be
of
service
to
you
I
trust
that
you
will
command
me.
If
I
had
any
indication
of
the
nature
of
your
suspicions
or
how
you
propose
to
investigate
the
case,
I
might
perhaps
even
now
give
you
some
aid
or
advice."
"I
assure
you
that
I
am
simply
here
upon
a
visit
to
my
friend,
Sir
Henry,
and
that
I
need
no
help
of
any
kind."
"Excellent!"
said
Stapleton.
"You
are
perfectly
right
to
be
wary
and
discreet.
I
am
justly
reproved
for
what
I
feel
was
an
unjustifiable
intrusion,
and
I
promise
you
that
I
will
not
mention
the
matter
again."
We
had
come
to
a
point
where
a
narrow
grassy
path
struck
off
from
the
road
and
wound
away
across
the
moor.
A
steep,
boulder-sprinkled
hill
lay
upon
the
right
which
had
in
bygone
days
been
cut
into
a
granite
quarry.
The
face
which
was
turned
towards
us
formed
a
dark
cliff,
with
ferns
and
brambles
growing
in
its
niches.
From
over
a
distant
rise
there
floated
a
gray
plume
of
smoke.
"A
moderate
walk
along
this
moor-path
brings
us
to
Merripit
House,"
said
he.
"Perhaps
you
will
spare
an
hour
that
I
may
have
the
pleasure
of
introducing
you
to
my
sister."
My
first
thought
was
that
I
should
be
by
Sir
Henry's
side.
But
then
I
remembered
the
pile
of
papers
and
bills
with
which
his
study
table
was
littered.
It
was
certain
that
I
could
not
help
with
those.
And
Holmes
had
expressly
said
that
I
should
study
the
neighbours
upon
the
moor.
I
accepted
Stapleton's
invitation,
and
we
turned
together
down
the
path.
"It
is
a
wonderful
place,
the
moor,"
said
he,
looking
round
over
the
undulating
downs,
long
green
rollers,
with
crests
of
jagged
granite
foaming
up
into
fantastic
surges.
"You
never
tire
of
the
moor.
You
cannot
think
the
wonderful
secrets
which
it
contains.
It
is
so
vast,
and
so
barren,
and
so
mysterious."
"You
know
it
well,
then?"
"I
have
only
been
here
two
years.
The
residents
would
call
me
a
newcomer.
We
came
shortly
after
Sir
Charles
settled.
But
my
tastes
led
me
to
explore
every
part
of
the
country
round,
and
I
should
think
that
there
are
few
men
who
know
it
better
than
I
do."
"Is
it
hard
to
know?"
"Very
hard.
You
see,
for
example,
this
great
plain
to
the
north
here
with
the
queer
hills
breaking
out
of
it.
Do
you
observe
anything
remarkable
about
that?"
"It
would
be
a
rare
place
for
a
gallop."
"You
would
naturally
think
so
and
the
thought
has
cost
several
their
lives
before
now.
You
notice
those
bright
green
spots
scattered
thickly
over
it?"
"Yes,
they
seem
more
fertile
than
the
rest."
Stapleton
laughed.
"That
is
the
great
Grimpen
Mire,"
said
he.
"A
false
step
yonder
means
death
to
man
or
beast.
Only
yesterday
I
saw
one
of
the
moor
ponies
wander
into
it.
He
never
came
out.
I
saw
his
head
for
quite
a
long
time
craning
out
of
the
bog-hole,
but
it
sucked
him
down
at
last.
Even
in
dry
seasons
it
is
a
danger
to
cross
it,
but
after
these
autumn
rains
it
is
an
awful
place.
And
yet
I
can
find
my
way
to
the
very
heart
of
it
and
return
alive.
By
George,
there
is
another
of
those
miserable
ponies!"
Something
brown
was
rolling
and
tossing
among
the
green
sedges.
Then
a
long,
agonized,
writhing
neck
shot
upward
and
a
dreadful
cry
echoed
over
the
moor.
It
turned
me
cold
with
horror,
but
my
companion's
nerves
seemed
to
be
stronger
than
mine.
"It's
gone!"
said
he.
"The
mire
has
him.
Two
in
two
days,
and
many
more,
perhaps,
for
they
get
in
the
way
of
going
there
in
the
dry
weather
and
never
know
the
difference
until
the
mire
has
them
in
its
clutches.
It's
a
bad
place,
the
great
Grimpen
Mire."
"And
you
say
you
can
penetrate
it?"
"Yes,
there
are
one
or
two
paths
which
a
very
active
man
can
take.
I
have
found
them
out."
"But
why
should
you
wish
to
go
into
so
horrible
a
place?"
"Well,
you
see
the
hills
beyond?
They
are
really
islands
cut
off
on
all
sides
by
the
impassable
mire,
which
has
crawled
round
them
in
the
course
of
years.
That
is
where
the
rare
plants
and
the
butterflies
are,
if
you
have
the
wit
to
reach
them."
"I
shall
try
my
luck
some
day."
He
looked
at
me
with
a
surprised
face.
"For
God's
sake
put
such
an
idea
out
of
your
mind,"
said
he.
"Your
blood
would
be
upon
my
head.
I
assure
you
that
there
would
not
be
the
least
chance
of
your
coming
back
alive.
It
is
only
by
remembering
certain
complex
landmarks
that
I
am
able
to
do
it."
"Halloa!"
I
cried.
"What
is
that?"
A
long,
low
moan,
indescribably
sad,
swept
over
the
moor.
It
filled
the
whole
air,
and
yet
it
was
impossible
to
say
whence
it
came.
From
a
dull
murmur
it
swelled
into
a
deep
roar,
and
then
sank
back
into
a
melancholy,
throbbing
murmur
once
again.
Stapleton
looked
at
me
with
a
curious
expression
in
his
face.
"Queer
place,
the
moor!"
said
he.
"But
what
is
it?"
"The
peasants
say
it
is
the
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles
calling
for
its
prey.
I've
heard
it
once
or
twice
before,
but
never
quite
so
loud."
I
looked
round,
with
a
chill
of
fear
in
my
heart,
at
the
huge
swelling
plain,
mottled
with
the
green
patches
of
rushes.
Nothing
stirred
over
the
vast
expanse
save
a
pair
of
ravens,
which
croaked
loudly
from
a
tor
behind
us.
"You
are
an
educated
man.
You
don't
believe
such
nonsense
as
that?"
said
I.
"What
do
you
think
is
the
cause
of
so
strange
a
sound?"
"Bogs
make
queer
noises
sometimes.
It's
the
mud
settling,
or
the
water
rising,
or
something."
"No,
no,
that
was
a
living
voice."
"Well,
perhaps
it
was.
Did
you
ever
hear
a
bittern
booming?"
"No,
I
never
did."
"It's
a
very
rare
bird—practically
extinct—in
England
now,
but
all
things
are
possible
upon
the
moor.
Yes,
I
should
not
be
surprised
to
learn
that
what
we
have
heard
is
the
cry
of
the
last
of
the
bitterns."
"It's
the
weirdest,
strangest
thing
that
ever
I
heard
in
my
life."
"Yes,
it's
rather
an
uncanny
place
altogether.
Look
at
the
hillside
yonder.
What
do
you
make
of
those?"
The
whole
steep
slope
was
covered
with
gray
circular
rings
of
stone,
a
score
of
them
at
least.
"What
are
they?
Sheep-pens?"
"No,
they
are
the
homes
of
our
worthy
ancestors.
Prehistoric
man
lived
thickly
on
the
moor,
and
as
no
one
in
particular
has
lived
there
since,
we
find
all
his
little
arrangements
exactly
as
he
left
them.
These
are
his
wigwams
with
the
roofs
off.
You
can
even
see
his
hearth
and
his
couch
if
you
have
the
curiosity
to
go
inside.
"But
it
is
quite
a
town.
When
was
it
inhabited?"
"Neolithic
man—no
date."
"What
did
he
do?"
"He
grazed
his
cattle
on
these
slopes,
and
he
learned
to
dig
for
tin
when
the
bronze
sword
began
to
supersede
the
stone
axe.
Look
at
the
great
trench
in
the
opposite
hill.
That
is
his
mark.
Yes,
you
will
find
some
very
singular
points
about
the
moor,
Dr.
Watson.
Oh,
excuse
me
an
instant!
It
is
surely
Cyclopides."
A
small
fly
or
moth
had
fluttered
across
our
path,
and
in
an
instant
Stapleton
was
rushing
with
extraordinary
energy
and
speed
in
pursuit
of
it.
To
my
dismay
the
creature
flew
straight
for
the
great
mire,
and
my
acquaintance
never
paused
for
an
instant,
bounding
from
tuft
to
tuft
behind
it,
his
green
net
waving
in
the
air.
His
gray
clothes
and
jerky,
zigzag,
irregular
progress
made
him
not
unlike
some
huge
moth
himself.
I
was
standing
watching
his
pursuit
with
a
mixture
of
admiration
for
his
extraordinary
activity
and
fear
lest
he
should
lose
his
footing
in
the
treacherous
mire,
when
I
heard
the
sound
of
steps
and,
turning
round,
found
a
woman
near
me
upon
the
path.
She
had
come
from
the
direction
in
which
the
plume
of
smoke
indicated
the
position
of
Merripit
House,
but
the
dip
of
the
moor
had
hid
her
until
she
was
quite
close.
I
could
not
doubt
that
this
was
the
Miss
Stapleton
of
whom
I
had
been
told,
since
ladies
of
any
sort
must
be
few
upon
the
moor,
and
I
remembered
that
I
had
heard
someone
describe
her
as
being
a
beauty.
The
woman
who
approached
me
was
certainly
that,
and
of
a
most
uncommon
type.
There
could
not
have
been
a
greater
contrast
between
brother
and
sister,
for
Stapleton
was
neutral
tinted,
with
light
hair
and
gray
eyes,
while
she
was
darker
than
any
brunette
whom
I
have
seen
in
England—slim,
elegant,
and
tall.
She
had
a
proud,
finely
cut
face,
so
regular
that
it
might
have
seemed
impassive
were
it
not
for
the
sensitive
mouth
and
the
beautiful
dark,
eager
eyes.
With
her
perfect
figure
and
elegant
dress
she
was,
indeed,
a
strange
apparition
upon
a
lonely
moorland
path.
Her
eyes
were
on
her
brother
as
I
turned,
and
then
she
quickened
her
pace
towards
me.
I
had
raised
my
hat
and
was
about
to
make
some
explanatory
remark
when
her
own
words
turned
all
my
thoughts
into
a
new
channel.
"Go
back!"
she
said.
"Go
straight
back
to
London,
instantly."
I
could
only
stare
at
her
in
stupid
surprise.
Her
eyes
blazed
at
me,
and
she
tapped
the
ground
impatiently
with
her
foot.
"Why
should
I
go
back?"
I
asked.
"I
cannot
explain."
She
spoke
in
a
low,
eager
voice,
with
a
curious
lisp
in
her
utterance.
"But
for
God's
sake
do
what
I
ask
you.
Go
back
and
never
set
foot
upon
the
moor
again."
"But
I
have
only
just
come."
"Man,
man!"
she
cried.
"Can
you
not
tell
when
a
warning
is
for
your
own
good?
Go
back
to
London!
Start
tonight!
Get
away
from
this
place
at
all
costs!
Hush,
my
brother
is
coming!
Not
a
word
of
what
I
have
said.
Would
you
mind
getting
that
orchid
for
me
among
the
mare's-tails
yonder?
We
are
very
rich
in
orchids
on
the
moor,
though,
of
course,
you
are
rather
late
to
see
the
beauties
of
the
place."
Stapleton
had
abandoned
the
chase
and
came
back
to
us
breathing
hard
and
flushed
with
his
exertions.
"Halloa,
Beryl!"
said
he,
and
it
seemed
to
me
that
the
tone
of
his
greeting
was
not
altogether
a
cordial
one.
"Well,
Jack,
you
are
very
hot."
"Yes,
I
was
chasing
a
Cyclopides.
He
is
very
rare
and
seldom
found
in
the
late
autumn.
What
a
pity
that
I
should
have
missed
him!"
He
spoke
unconcernedly,
but
his
small
light
eyes
glanced
incessantly
from
the
girl
to
me.
"You
have
introduced
yourselves,
I
can
see."
"Yes.
I
was
telling
Sir
Henry
that
it
was
rather
late
for
him
to
see
the
true
beauties
of
the
moor."
"Why,
who
do
you
think
this
is?"
"I
imagine
that
it
must
be
Sir
Henry
Baskerville."
"No,
no,"
said
I.
"Only
a
humble
commoner,
but
his
friend.
My
name
is
Dr.
Watson."
A
flush
of
vexation
passed
over
her
expressive
face.
"We
have
been
talking
at
cross
purposes,"
said
she.
"Why,
you
had
not
very
much
time
for
talk,"
her
brother
remarked
with
the
same
questioning
eyes.
"I
talked
as
if
Dr.
Watson
were
a
resident
instead
of
being
merely
a
visitor,"
said
she.
"It
cannot
much
matter
to
him
whether
it
is
early
or
late
for
the
orchids.
But
you
will
come
on,
will
you
not,
and
see
Merripit
House?"
A
short
walk
brought
us
to
it,
a
bleak
moorland
house,
once
the
farm
of
some
grazier
in
the
old
prosperous
days,
but
now
put
into
repair
and
turned
into
a
modern
dwelling.
An
orchard
surrounded
it,
but
the
trees,
as
is
usual
upon
the
moor,
were
stunted
and
nipped,
and
the
effect
of
the
whole
place
was
mean
and
melancholy.
We
were
admitted
by
a
strange,
wizened,
rusty-coated
old
manservant,
who
seemed
in
keeping
with
the
house.
Inside,
however,
there
were
large
rooms
furnished
with
an
elegance
in
which
I
seemed
to
recognize
the
taste
of
the
lady.
As
I
looked
from
their
windows
at
the
interminable
granite-flecked
moor
rolling
unbroken
to
the
farthest
horizon
I
could
not
but
marvel
at
what
could
have
brought
this
highly
educated
man
and
this
beautiful
woman
to
live
in
such
a
place.
"Queer
spot
to
choose,
is
it
not?"
said
he
as
if
in
answer
to
my
thought.
"And
yet
we
manage
to
make
ourselves
fairly
happy,
do
we
not,
Beryl?"
"Quite
happy,"
said
she,
but
there
was
no
ring
of
conviction
in
her
words.
"I
had
a
school,"
said
Stapleton.
"It
was
in
the
north
country.
The
work
to
a
man
of
my
temperament
was
mechanical
and
uninteresting,
but
the
privilege
of
living
with
youth,
of
helping
to
mould
those
young
minds,
and
of
impressing
them
with
one's
own
character
and
ideals
was
very
dear
to
me.
However,
the
fates
were
against
us.
A
serious
epidemic
broke
out
in
the
school
and
three
of
the
boys
died.
It
never
recovered
from
the
blow,
and
much
of
my
capital
was
irretrievably
swallowed
up.
And
yet,
if
it
were
not
for
the
loss
of
the
charming
companionship
of
the
boys,
I
could
rejoice
over
my
own
misfortune,
for,
with
my
strong
tastes
for
botany
and
zoology,
I
find
an
unlimited
field
of
work
here,
and
my
sister
is
as
devoted
to
Nature
as
I
am.
All
this,
Dr.
Watson,
has
been
brought
upon
your
head
by
your
expression
as
you
surveyed
the
moor
out
of
our
window."
"It
certainly
did
cross
my
mind
that
it
might
be
a
little
dull—less
for
you,
perhaps,
than
for
your
sister."
"No,
no,
I
am
never
dull,"
said
she
quickly.
"We
have
books,
we
have
our
studies,
and
we
have
interesting
neighbours.
Dr.
Mortimer
is
a
most
learned
man
in
his
own
line.
Poor
Sir
Charles
was
also
an
admirable
companion.
We
knew
him
well
and
miss
him
more
than
I
can
tell.
Do
you
think
that
I
should
intrude
if
I
were
to
call
this
afternoon
and
make
the
acquaintance
of
Sir
Henry?"
"I
am
sure
that
he
would
be
delighted."
"Then
perhaps
you
would
mention
that
I
propose
to
do
so.
We
may
in
our
humble
way
do
something
to
make
things
more
easy
for
him
until
he
becomes
accustomed
to
his
new
surroundings.
Will
you
come
upstairs,
Dr.
Watson,
and
inspect
my
collection
of
Lepidoptera?
I
think
it
is
the
most
complete
one
in
the
south-west
of
England.
By
the
time
that
you
have
looked
through
them
lunch
will
be
almost
ready."
But
I
was
eager
to
get
back
to
my
charge.
The
melancholy
of
the
moor,
the
death
of
the
unfortunate
pony,
the
weird
sound
which
had
been
associated
with
the
grim
legend
of
the
Baskervilles,
all
these
things
tinged
my
thoughts
with
sadness.
Then
on
the
top
of
these
more
or
less
vague
impressions
there
had
come
the
definite
and
distinct
warning
of
Miss
Stapleton,
delivered
with
such
intense
earnestness
that
I
could
not
doubt
that
some
grave
and
deep
reason
lay
behind
it.
I
resisted
all
pressure
to
stay
for
lunch,
and
I
set
off
at
once
upon
my
return
journey,
taking
the
grass-grown
path
by
which
we
had
come.
It
seems,
however,
that
there
must
have
been
some
short
cut
for
those
who
knew
it,
for
before
I
had
reached
the
road
I
was
astounded
to
see
Miss
Stapleton
sitting
upon
a
rock
by
the
side
of
the
track.
Her
face
was
beautifully
flushed
with
her
exertions
and
she
held
her
hand
to
her
side.
"I
have
run
all
the
way
in
order
to
cut
you
off,
Dr.
Watson,"
said
she.
"I
had
not
even
time
to
put
on
my
hat.
I
must
not
stop,
or
my
brother
may
miss
me.
I
wanted
to
say
to
you
how
sorry
I
am
about
the
stupid
mistake
I
made
in
thinking
that
you
were
Sir
Henry.
Please
forget
the
words
I
said,
which
have
no
application
whatever
to
you."
"But
I
can't
forget
them,
Miss
Stapleton,"
said
I.
"I
am
Sir
Henry's
friend,
and
his
welfare
is
a
very
close
concern
of
mine.
Tell
me
why
it
was
that
you
were
so
eager
that
Sir
Henry
should
return
to
London."
"A
woman's
whim,
Dr.
Watson.
When
you
know
me
better
you
will
understand
that
I
cannot
always
give
reasons
for
what
I
say
or
do."
"No,
no.
I
remember
the
thrill
in
your
voice.
I
remember
the
look
in
your
eyes.
Please,
please,
be
frank
with
me,
Miss
Stapleton,
for
ever
since
I
have
been
here
I
have
been
conscious
of
shadows
all
round
me.
Life
has
become
like
that
great
Grimpen
Mire,
with
little
green
patches
everywhere
into
which
one
may
sink
and
with
no
guide
to
point
the
track.
Tell
me
then
what
it
was
that
you
meant,
and
I
will
promise
to
convey
your
warning
to
Sir
Henry."
An
expression
of
irresolution
passed
for
an
instant
over
her
face,
but
her
eyes
had
hardened
again
when
she
answered
me.
"You
make
too
much
of
it,
Dr.
Watson,"
said
she.
"My
brother
and
I
were
very
much
shocked
by
the
death
of
Sir
Charles.
We
knew
him
very
intimately,
for
his
favourite
walk
was
over
the
moor
to
our
house.
He
was
deeply
impressed
with
the
curse
which
hung
over
the
family,
and
when
this
tragedy
came
I
naturally
felt
that
there
must
be
some
grounds
for
the
fears
which
he
had
expressed.
I
was
distressed
therefore
when
another
member
of
the
family
came
down
to
live
here,
and
I
felt
that
he
should
be
warned
of
the
danger
which
he
will
run.
That
was
all
which
I
intended
to
convey.
"But
what
is
the
danger?"
"You
know
the
story
of
the
hound?"
"I
do
not
believe
in
such
nonsense."
"But
I
do.
If
you
have
any
influence
with
Sir
Henry,
take
him
away
from
a
place
which
has
always
been
fatal
to
his
family.
The
world
is
wide.
Why
should
he
wish
to
live
at
the
place
of
danger?"
"Because
it
is
the
place
of
danger.
That
is
Sir
Henry's
nature.
I
fear
that
unless
you
can
give
me
some
more
definite
information
than
this
it
would
be
impossible
to
get
him
to
move."
"I
cannot
say
anything
definite,
for
I
do
not
know
anything
definite."
"I
would
ask
you
one
more
question,
Miss
Stapleton.
If
you
meant
no
more
than
this
when
you
first
spoke
to
me,
why
should
you
not
wish
your
brother
to
overhear
what
you
said?
There
is
nothing
to
which
he,
or
anyone
else,
could
object."
"My
brother
is
very
anxious
to
have
the
Hall
inhabited,
for
he
thinks
it
is
for
the
good
of
the
poor
folk
upon
the
moor.
He
would
be
very
angry
if
he
knew
that
I
have
said
anything
which
might
induce
Sir
Henry
to
go
away.
But
I
have
done
my
duty
now
and
I
will
say
no
more.
I
must
go
back,
or
he
will
miss
me
and
suspect
that
I
have
seen
you.
Good-bye!"
She
turned
and
had
disappeared
in
a
few
minutes
among
the
scattered
boulders,
while
I,
with
my
soul
full
of
vague
fears,
pursued
my
way
to
Baskerville
Hall.
Chapter
8.
First
Report
of
Dr.
Watson
From
this
point
onward
I
will
follow
the
course
of
events
by
transcribing
my
own
letters
to
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
which
lie
before
me
on
the
table.
One
page
is
missing,
but
otherwise
they
are
exactly
as
written
and
show
my
feelings
and
suspicions
of
the
moment
more
accurately
than
my
memory,
clear
as
it
is
upon
these
tragic
events,
can
possibly
do.
Baskerville
Hall,
October
13th.
MY
DEAR
HOLMES:
My
previous
letters
and
telegrams
have
kept
you
pretty
well
up
to
date
as
to
all
that
has
occurred
in
this
most
God-forsaken
corner
of
the
world.
The
longer
one
stays
here
the
more
does
the
spirit
of
the
moor
sink
into
one's
soul,
its
vastness,
and
also
its
grim
charm.
When
you
are
once
out
upon
its
bosom
you
have
left
all
traces
of
modern
England
behind
you,
but,
on
the
other
hand,
you
are
conscious
everywhere
of
the
homes
and
the
work
of
the
prehistoric
people.
On
all
sides
of
you
as
you
walk
are
the
houses
of
these
forgotten
folk,
with
their
graves
and
the
huge
monoliths
which
are
supposed
to
have
marked
their
temples.
As
you
look
at
their
gray
stone
huts
against
the
scarred
hillsides
you
leave
your
own
age
behind
you,
and
if
you
were
to
see
a
skin-clad,
hairy
man
crawl
out
from
the
low
door
fitting
a
flint-tipped
arrow
on
to
the
string
of
his
bow,
you
would
feel
that
his
presence
there
was
more
natural
than
your
own.
The
strange
thing
is
that
they
should
have
lived
so
thickly
on
what
must
always
have
been
most
unfruitful
soil.
I
am
no
antiquarian,
but
I
could
imagine
that
they
were
some
unwarlike
and
harried
race
who
were
forced
to
accept
that
which
none
other
would
occupy.
All
this,
however,
is
foreign
to
the
mission
on
which
you
sent
me
and
will
probably
be
very
uninteresting
to
your
severely
practical
mind.
I
can
still
remember
your
complete
indifference
as
to
whether
the
sun
moved
round
the
earth
or
the
earth
round
the
sun.
Let
me,
therefore,
return
to
the
facts
concerning
Sir
Henry
Baskerville.
If
you
have
not
had
any
report
within
the
last
few
days
it
is
because
up
to
today
there
was
nothing
of
importance
to
relate.
Then
a
very
surprising
circumstance
occurred,
which
I
shall
tell
you
in
due
course.
But,
first
of
all,
I
must
keep
you
in
touch
with
some
of
the
other
factors
in
the
situation.
One
of
these,
concerning
which
I
have
said
little,
is
the
escaped
convict
upon
the
moor.
There
is
strong
reason
now
to
believe
that
he
has
got
right
away,
which
is
a
considerable
relief
to
the
lonely
householders
of
this
district.
A
fortnight
has
passed
since
his
flight,
during
which
he
has
not
been
seen
and
nothing
has
been
heard
of
him.
It
is
surely
inconceivable
that
he
could
have
held
out
upon
the
moor
during
all
that
time.
Of
course,
so
far
as
his
concealment
goes
there
is
no
difficulty
at
all.
Any
one
of
these
stone
huts
would
give
him
a
hiding-place.
But
there
is
nothing
to
eat
unless
he
were
to
catch
and
slaughter
one
of
the
moor
sheep.
We
think,
therefore,
that
he
has
gone,
and
the
outlying
farmers
sleep
the
better
in
consequence.
We
are
four
able-bodied
men
in
this
household,
so
that
we
could
take
good
care
of
ourselves,
but
I
confess
that
I
have
had
uneasy
moments
when
I
have
thought
of
the
Stapletons.
They
live
miles
from
any
help.
There
are
one
maid,
an
old
manservant,
the
sister,
and
the
brother,
the
latter
not
a
very
strong
man.
They
would
be
helpless
in
the
hands
of
a
desperate
fellow
like
this
Notting
Hill
criminal
if
he
could
once
effect
an
entrance.
Both
Sir
Henry
and
I
were
concerned
at
their
situation,
and
it
was
suggested
that
Perkins
the
groom
should
go
over
to
sleep
there,
but
Stapleton
would
not
hear
of
it.
The
fact
is
that
our
friend,
the
baronet,
begins
to
display
a
considerable
interest
in
our
fair
neighbour.
It
is
not
to
be
wondered
at,
for
time
hangs
heavily
in
this
lonely
spot
to
an
active
man
like
him,
and
she
is
a
very
fascinating
and
beautiful
woman.
There
is
something
tropical
and
exotic
about
her
which
forms
a
singular
contrast
to
her
cool
and
unemotional
brother.
Yet
he
also
gives
the
idea
of
hidden
fires.
He
has
certainly
a
very
marked
influence
over
her,
for
I
have
seen
her
continually
glance
at
him
as
she
talked
as
if
seeking
approbation
for
what
she
said.
I
trust
that
he
is
kind
to
her.
There
is
a
dry
glitter
in
his
eyes
and
a
firm
set
of
his
thin
lips,
which
goes
with
a
positive
and
possibly
a
harsh
nature.
You
would
find
him
an
interesting
study.
He
came
over
to
call
upon
Baskerville
on
that
first
day,
and
the
very
next
morning
he
took
us
both
to
show
us
the
spot
where
the
legend
of
the
wicked
Hugo
is
supposed
to
have
had
its
origin.
It
was
an
excursion
of
some
miles
across
the
moor
to
a
place
which
is
so
dismal
that
it
might
have
suggested
the
story.
We
found
a
short
valley
between
rugged
tors
which
led
to
an
open,
grassy
space
flecked
over
with
the
white
cotton
grass.
In
the
middle
of
it
rose
two
great
stones,
worn
and
sharpened
at
the
upper
end
until
they
looked
like
the
huge
corroding
fangs
of
some
monstrous
beast.
In
every
way
it
corresponded
with
the
scene
of
the
old
tragedy.
Sir
Henry
was
much
interested
and
asked
Stapleton
more
than
once
whether
he
did
really
believe
in
the
possibility
of
the
interference
of
the
supernatural
in
the
affairs
of
men.
He
spoke
lightly,
but
it
was
evident
that
he
was
very
much
in
earnest.
Stapleton
was
guarded
in
his
replies,
but
it
was
easy
to
see
that
he
said
less
than
he
might,
and
that
he
would
not
express
his
whole
opinion
out
of
consideration
for
the
feelings
of
the
baronet.
He
told
us
of
similar
cases,
where
families
had
suffered
from
some
evil
influence,
and
he
left
us
with
the
impression
that
he
shared
the
popular
view
upon
the
matter.
On
our
way
back
we
stayed
for
lunch
at
Merripit
House,
and
it
was
there
that
Sir
Henry
made
the
acquaintance
of
Miss
Stapleton.
From
the
first
moment
that
he
saw
her
he
appeared
to
be
strongly
attracted
by
her,
and
I
am
much
mistaken
if
the
feeling
was
not
mutual.
He
referred
to
her
again
and
again
on
our
walk
home,
and
since
then
hardly
a
day
has
passed
that
we
have
not
seen
something
of
the
brother
and
sister.
They
dine
here
tonight,
and
there
is
some
talk
of
our
going
to
them
next
week.
One
would
imagine
that
such
a
match
would
be
very
welcome
to
Stapleton,
and
yet
I
have
more
than
once
caught
a
look
of
the
strongest
disapprobation
in
his
face
when
Sir
Henry
has
been
paying
some
attention
to
his
sister.
He
is
much
attached
to
her,
no
doubt,
and
would
lead
a
lonely
life
without
her,
but
it
would
seem
the
height
of
selfishness
if
he
were
to
stand
in
the
way
of
her
making
so
brilliant
a
marriage.
Yet
I
am
certain
that
he
does
not
wish
their
intimacy
to
ripen
into
love,
and
I
have
several
times
observed
that
he
has
taken
pains
to
prevent
them
from
being
tete-a-tete.
By
the
way,
your
instructions
to
me
never
to
allow
Sir
Henry
to
go
out
alone
will
become
very
much
more
onerous
if
a
love
affair
were
to
be
added
to
our
other
difficulties.
My
popularity
would
soon
suffer
if
I
were
to
carry
out
your
orders
to
the
letter.
The
other
day—Thursday,
to
be
more
exact—Dr.
Mortimer
lunched
with
us.
He
has
been
excavating
a
barrow
at
Long
Down
and
has
got
a
prehistoric
skull
which
fills
him
with
great
joy.
Never
was
there
such
a
single-minded
enthusiast
as
he!
The
Stapletons
came
in
afterwards,
and
the
good
doctor
took
us
all
to
the
yew
alley
at
Sir
Henry's
request
to
show
us
exactly
how
everything
occurred
upon
that
fatal
night.
It
is
a
long,
dismal
walk,
the
yew
alley,
between
two
high
walls
of
clipped
hedge,
with
a
narrow
band
of
grass
upon
either
side.
At
the
far
end
is
an
old
tumble-down
summer-house.
Halfway
down
is
the
moor-gate,
where
the
old
gentleman
left
his
cigar-ash.
It
is
a
white
wooden
gate
with
a
latch.
Beyond
it
lies
the
wide
moor.
I
remembered
your
theory
of
the
affair
and
tried
to
picture
all
that
had
occurred.
As
the
old
man
stood
there
he
saw
something
coming
across
the
moor,
something
which
terrified
him
so
that
he
lost
his
wits
and
ran
and
ran
until
he
died
of
sheer
horror
and
exhaustion.
There
was
the
long,
gloomy
tunnel
down
which
he
fled.
And
from
what?
A
sheep-dog
of
the
moor?
Or
a
spectral
hound,
black,
silent,
and
monstrous?
Was
there
a
human
agency
in
the
matter?
Did
the
pale,
watchful
Barrymore
know
more
than
he
cared
to
say?
It
was
all
dim
and
vague,
but
always
there
is
the
dark
shadow
of
crime
behind
it.
One
other
neighbour
I
have
met
since
I
wrote
last.
This
is
Mr.
Frankland,
of
Lafter
Hall,
who
lives
some
four
miles
to
the
south
of
us.
He
is
an
elderly
man,
red-faced,
white-haired,
and
choleric.
His
passion
is
for
the
British
law,
and
he
has
spent
a
large
fortune
in
litigation.
He
fights
for
the
mere
pleasure
of
fighting
and
is
equally
ready
to
take
up
either
side
of
a
question,
so
that
it
is
no
wonder
that
he
has
found
it
a
costly
amusement.
Sometimes
he
will
shut
up
a
right
of
way
and
defy
the
parish
to
make
him
open
it.
At
others
he
will
with
his
own
hands
tear
down
some
other
man's
gate
and
declare
that
a
path
has
existed
there
from
time
immemorial,
defying
the
owner
to
prosecute
him
for
trespass.
He
is
learned
in
old
manorial
and
communal
rights,
and
he
applies
his
knowledge
sometimes
in
favour
of
the
villagers
of
Fernworthy
and
sometimes
against
them,
so
that
he
is
periodically
either
carried
in
triumph
down
the
village
street
or
else
burned
in
effigy,
according
to
his
latest
exploit.
He
is
said
to
have
about
seven
lawsuits
upon
his
hands
at
present,
which
will
probably
swallow
up
the
remainder
of
his
fortune
and
so
draw
his
sting
and
leave
him
harmless
for
the
future.
Apart
from
the
law
he
seems
a
kindly,
good-natured
person,
and
I
only
mention
him
because
you
were
particular
that
I
should
send
some
description
of
the
people
who
surround
us.
He
is
curiously
employed
at
present,
for,
being
an
amateur
astronomer,
he
has
an
excellent
telescope,
with
which
he
lies
upon
the
roof
of
his
own
house
and
sweeps
the
moor
all
day
in
the
hope
of
catching
a
glimpse
of
the
escaped
convict.
If
he
would
confine
his
energies
to
this
all
would
be
well,
but
there
are
rumours
that
he
intends
to
prosecute
Dr.
Mortimer
for
opening
a
grave
without
the
consent
of
the
next
of
kin
because
he
dug
up
the
Neolithic
skull
in
the
barrow
on
Long
Down.
He
helps
to
keep
our
lives
from
being
monotonous
and
gives
a
little
comic
relief
where
it
is
badly
needed.
And
now,
having
brought
you
up
to
date
in
the
escaped
convict,
the
Stapletons,
Dr.
Mortimer,
and
Frankland,
of
Lafter
Hall,
let
me
end
on
that
which
is
most
important
and
tell
you
more
about
the
Barrymores,
and
especially
about
the
surprising
development
of
last
night.
First
of
all
about
the
test
telegram,
which
you
sent
from
London
in
order
to
make
sure
that
Barrymore
was
really
here.
I
have
already
explained
that
the
testimony
of
the
postmaster
shows
that
the
test
was
worthless
and
that
we
have
no
proof
one
way
or
the
other.
I
told
Sir
Henry
how
the
matter
stood,
and
he
at
once,
in
his
downright
fashion,
had
Barrymore
up
and
asked
him
whether
he
had
received
the
telegram
himself.
Barrymore
said
that
he
had.
"Did
the
boy
deliver
it
into
your
own
hands?"
asked
Sir
Henry.
Barrymore
looked
surprised,
and
considered
for
a
little
time.
"No,"
said
he,
"I
was
in
the
box-room
at
the
time,
and
my
wife
brought
it
up
to
me."
"Did
you
answer
it
yourself?"
"No;
I
told
my
wife
what
to
answer
and
she
went
down
to
write
it."
In
the
evening
he
recurred
to
the
subject
of
his
own
accord.
"I
could
not
quite
understand
the
object
of
your
questions
this
morning,
Sir
Henry,"
said
he.
"I
trust
that
they
do
not
mean
that
I
have
done
anything
to
forfeit
your
confidence?"
Sir
Henry
had
to
assure
him
that
it
was
not
so
and
pacify
him
by
giving
him
a
considerable
part
of
his
old
wardrobe,
the
London
outfit
having
now
all
arrived.
Mrs.
Barrymore
is
of
interest
to
me.
She
is
a
heavy,
solid
person,
very
limited,
intensely
respectable,
and
inclined
to
be
puritanical.
You
could
hardly
conceive
a
less
emotional
subject.
Yet
I
have
told
you
how,
on
the
first
night
here,
I
heard
her
sobbing
bitterly,
and
since
then
I
have
more
than
once
observed
traces
of
tears
upon
her
face.
Some
deep
sorrow
gnaws
ever
at
her
heart.
Sometimes
I
wonder
if
she
has
a
guilty
memory
which
haunts
her,
and
sometimes
I
suspect
Barrymore
of
being
a
domestic
tyrant.
I
have
always
felt
that
there
was
something
singular
and
questionable
in
this
man's
character,
but
the
adventure
of
last
night
brings
all
my
suspicions
to
a
head.
And
yet
it
may
seem
a
small
matter
in
itself.
You
are
aware
that
I
am
not
a
very
sound
sleeper,
and
since
I
have
been
on
guard
in
this
house
my
slumbers
have
been
lighter
than
ever.
Last
night,
about
two
in
the
morning,
I
was
aroused
by
a
stealthy
step
passing
my
room.
I
rose,
opened
my
door,
and
peeped
out.
A
long
black
shadow
was
trailing
down
the
corridor.
It
was
thrown
by
a
man
who
walked
softly
down
the
passage
with
a
candle
held
in
his
hand.
He
was
in
shirt
and
trousers,
with
no
covering
to
his
feet.
I
could
merely
see
the
outline,
but
his
height
told
me
that
it
was
Barrymore.
He
walked
very
slowly
and
circumspectly,
and
there
was
something
indescribably
guilty
and
furtive
in
his
whole
appearance.
I
have
told
you
that
the
corridor
is
broken
by
the
balcony
which
runs
round
the
hall,
but
that
it
is
resumed
upon
the
farther
side.
I
waited
until
he
had
passed
out
of
sight
and
then
I
followed
him.
When
I
came
round
the
balcony
he
had
reached
the
end
of
the
farther
corridor,
and
I
could
see
from
the
glimmer
of
light
through
an
open
door
that
he
had
entered
one
of
the
rooms.
Now,
all
these
rooms
are
unfurnished
and
unoccupied
so
that
his
expedition
became
more
mysterious
than
ever.
The
light
shone
steadily
as
if
he
were
standing
motionless.
I
crept
down
the
passage
as
noiselessly
as
I
could
and
peeped
round
the
corner
of
the
door.
Barrymore
was
crouching
at
the
window
with
the
candle
held
against
the
glass.
His
profile
was
half
turned
towards
me,
and
his
face
seemed
to
be
rigid
with
expectation
as
he
stared
out
into
the
blackness
of
the
moor.
For
some
minutes
he
stood
watching
intently.
Then
he
gave
a
deep
groan
and
with
an
impatient
gesture
he
put
out
the
light.
Instantly
I
made
my
way
back
to
my
room,
and
very
shortly
came
the
stealthy
steps
passing
once
more
upon
their
return
journey.
Long
afterwards
when
I
had
fallen
into
a
light
sleep
I
heard
a
key
turn
somewhere
in
a
lock,
but
I
could
not
tell
whence
the
sound
came.
What
it
all
means
I
cannot
guess,
but
there
is
some
secret
business
going
on
in
this
house
of
gloom
which
sooner
or
later
we
shall
get
to
the
bottom
of.
I
do
not
trouble
you
with
my
theories,
for
you
asked
me
to
furnish
you
only
with
facts.
I
have
had
a
long
talk
with
Sir
Henry
this
morning,
and
we
have
made
a
plan
of
campaign
founded
upon
my
observations
of
last
night.
I
will
not
speak
about
it
just
now,
but
it
should
make
my
next
report
interesting
reading.
Chapter
9.
The
Light
upon
the
Moor
[Second
Report
of
Dr.
Watson]
Baskerville
Hall,
Oct.
15th.
MY
DEAR
HOLMES:
If
I
was
compelled
to
leave
you
without
much
news
during
the
early
days
of
my
mission
you
must
acknowledge
that
I
am
making
up
for
lost
time,
and
that
events
are
now
crowding
thick
and
fast
upon
us.
In
my
last
report
I
ended
upon
my
top
note
with
Barrymore
at
the
window,
and
now
I
have
quite
a
budget
already
which
will,
unless
I
am
much
mistaken,
considerably
surprise
you.
Things
have
taken
a
turn
which
I
could
not
have
anticipated.
In
some
ways
they
have
within
the
last
forty-eight
hours
become
much
clearer
and
in
some
ways
they
have
become
more
complicated.
But
I
will
tell
you
all
and
you
shall
judge
for
yourself.
Before
breakfast
on
the
morning
following
my
adventure
I
went
down
the
corridor
and
examined
the
room
in
which
Barrymore
had
been
on
the
night
before.
The
western
window
through
which
he
had
stared
so
intently
has,
I
noticed,
one
peculiarity
above
all
other
windows
in
the
house—it
commands
the
nearest
outlook
on
to
the
moor.
There
is
an
opening
between
two
trees
which
enables
one
from
this
point
of
view
to
look
right
down
upon
it,
while
from
all
the
other
windows
it
is
only
a
distant
glimpse
which
can
be
obtained.
It
follows,
therefore,
that
Barrymore,
since
only
this
window
would
serve
the
purpose,
must
have
been
looking
out
for
something
or
somebody
upon
the
moor.
The
night
was
very
dark,
so
that
I
can
hardly
imagine
how
he
could
have
hoped
to
see
anyone.
It
had
struck
me
that
it
was
possible
that
some
love
intrigue
was
on
foot.
That
would
have
accounted
for
his
stealthy
movements
and
also
for
the
uneasiness
of
his
wife.
The
man
is
a
striking-looking
fellow,
very
well
equipped
to
steal
the
heart
of
a
country
girl,
so
that
this
theory
seemed
to
have
something
to
support
it.
That
opening
of
the
door
which
I
had
heard
after
I
had
returned
to
my
room
might
mean
that
he
had
gone
out
to
keep
some
clandestine
appointment.
So
I
reasoned
with
myself
in
the
morning,
and
I
tell
you
the
direction
of
my
suspicions,
however
much
the
result
may
have
shown
that
they
were
unfounded.
But
whatever
the
true
explanation
of
Barrymore's
movements
might
be,
I
felt
that
the
responsibility
of
keeping
them
to
myself
until
I
could
explain
them
was
more
than
I
could
bear.
I
had
an
interview
with
the
baronet
in
his
study
after
breakfast,
and
I
told
him
all
that
I
had
seen.
He
was
less
surprised
than
I
had
expected.
"I
knew
that
Barrymore
walked
about
nights,
and
I
had
a
mind
to
speak
to
him
about
it,"
said
he.
"Two
or
three
times
I
have
heard
his
steps
in
the
passage,
coming
and
going,
just
about
the
hour
you
name."
"Perhaps
then
he
pays
a
visit
every
night
to
that
particular
window,"
I
suggested.
"Perhaps
he
does.
If
so,
we
should
be
able
to
shadow
him
and
see
what
it
is
that
he
is
after.
I
wonder
what
your
friend
Holmes
would
do
if
he
were
here."
"I
believe
that
he
would
do
exactly
what
you
now
suggest,"
said
I.
"He
would
follow
Barrymore
and
see
what
he
did."
"Then
we
shall
do
it
together."
"But
surely
he
would
hear
us."
"The
man
is
rather
deaf,
and
in
any
case
we
must
take
our
chance
of
that.
We'll
sit
up
in
my
room
tonight
and
wait
until
he
passes."
Sir
Henry
rubbed
his
hands
with
pleasure,
and
it
was
evident
that
he
hailed
the
adventure
as
a
relief
to
his
somewhat
quiet
life
upon
the
moor.
The
baronet
has
been
in
communication
with
the
architect
who
prepared
the
plans
for
Sir
Charles,
and
with
a
contractor
from
London,
so
that
we
may
expect
great
changes
to
begin
here
soon.
There
have
been
decorators
and
furnishers
up
from
Plymouth,
and
it
is
evident
that
our
friend
has
large
ideas
and
means
to
spare
no
pains
or
expense
to
restore
the
grandeur
of
his
family.
When
the
house
is
renovated
and
refurnished,
all
that
he
will
need
will
be
a
wife
to
make
it
complete.
Between
ourselves
there
are
pretty
clear
signs
that
this
will
not
be
wanting
if
the
lady
is
willing,
for
I
have
seldom
seen
a
man
more
infatuated
with
a
woman
than
he
is
with
our
beautiful
neighbour,
Miss
Stapleton.
And
yet
the
course
of
true
love
does
not
run
quite
as
smoothly
as
one
would
under
the
circumstances
expect.
Today,
for
example,
its
surface
was
broken
by
a
very
unexpected
ripple,
which
has
caused
our
friend
considerable
perplexity
and
annoyance.
After
the
conversation
which
I
have
quoted
about
Barrymore,
Sir
Henry
put
on
his
hat
and
prepared
to
go
out.
As
a
matter
of
course
I
did
the
same.
"What,
are
you
coming,
Watson?"
he
asked,
looking
at
me
in
a
curious
way.
"That
depends
on
whether
you
are
going
on
the
moor,"
said
I.
"Yes,
I
am."
"Well,
you
know
what
my
instructions
are.
I
am
sorry
to
intrude,
but
you
heard
how
earnestly
Holmes
insisted
that
I
should
not
leave
you,
and
especially
that
you
should
not
go
alone
upon
the
moor."
Sir
Henry
put
his
hand
upon
my
shoulder
with
a
pleasant
smile.
"My
dear
fellow,"
said
he,
"Holmes,
with
all
his
wisdom,
did
not
foresee
some
things
which
have
happened
since
I
have
been
on
the
moor.
You
understand
me?
I
am
sure
that
you
are
the
last
man
in
the
world
who
would
wish
to
be
a
spoil-sport.
I
must
go
out
alone."
It
put
me
in
a
most
awkward
position.
I
was
at
a
loss
what
to
say
or
what
to
do,
and
before
I
had
made
up
my
mind
he
picked
up
his
cane
and
was
gone.
But
when
I
came
to
think
the
matter
over
my
conscience
reproached
me
bitterly
for
having
on
any
pretext
allowed
him
to
go
out
of
my
sight.
I
imagined
what
my
feelings
would
be
if
I
had
to
return
to
you
and
to
confess
that
some
misfortune
had
occurred
through
my
disregard
for
your
instructions.
I
assure
you
my
cheeks
flushed
at
the
very
thought.
It
might
not
even
now
be
too
late
to
overtake
him,
so
I
set
off
at
once
in
the
direction
of
Merripit
House.
I
hurried
along
the
road
at
the
top
of
my
speed
without
seeing
anything
of
Sir
Henry,
until
I
came
to
the
point
where
the
moor
path
branches
off.
There,
fearing
that
perhaps
I
had
come
in
the
wrong
direction
after
all,
I
mounted
a
hill
from
which
I
could
command
a
view—the
same
hill
which
is
cut
into
the
dark
quarry.
Thence
I
saw
him
at
once.
He
was
on
the
moor
path
about
a
quarter
of
a
mile
off,
and
a
lady
was
by
his
side
who
could
only
be
Miss
Stapleton.
It
was
clear
that
there
was
already
an
understanding
between
them
and
that
they
had
met
by
appointment.
They
were
walking
slowly
along
in
deep
conversation,
and
I
saw
her
making
quick
little
movements
of
her
hands
as
if
she
were
very
earnest
in
what
she
was
saying,
while
he
listened
intently,
and
once
or
twice
shook
his
head
in
strong
dissent.
I
stood
among
the
rocks
watching
them,
very
much
puzzled
as
to
what
I
should
do
next.
To
follow
them
and
break
into
their
intimate
conversation
seemed
to
be
an
outrage,
and
yet
my
clear
duty
was
never
for
an
instant
to
let
him
out
of
my
sight.
To
act
the
spy
upon
a
friend
was
a
hateful
task.
Still,
I
could
see
no
better
course
than
to
observe
him
from
the
hill,
and
to
clear
my
conscience
by
confessing
to
him
afterwards
what
I
had
done.
It
is
true
that
if
any
sudden
danger
had
threatened
him
I
was
too
far
away
to
be
of
use,
and
yet
I
am
sure
that
you
will
agree
with
me
that
the
position
was
very
difficult,
and
that
there
was
nothing
more
which
I
could
do.
Our
friend,
Sir
Henry,
and
the
lady
had
halted
on
the
path
and
were
standing
deeply
absorbed
in
their
conversation,
when
I
was
suddenly
aware
that
I
was
not
the
only
witness
of
their
interview.
A
wisp
of
green
floating
in
the
air
caught
my
eye,
and
another
glance
showed
me
that
it
was
carried
on
a
stick
by
a
man
who
was
moving
among
the
broken
ground.
It
was
Stapleton
with
his
butterfly-net.
He
was
very
much
closer
to
the
pair
than
I
was,
and
he
appeared
to
be
moving
in
their
direction.
At
this
instant
Sir
Henry
suddenly
drew
Miss
Stapleton
to
his
side.
His
arm
was
round
her,
but
it
seemed
to
me
that
she
was
straining
away
from
him
with
her
face
averted.
He
stooped
his
head
to
hers,
and
she
raised
one
hand
as
if
in
protest.
Next
moment
I
saw
them
spring
apart
and
turn
hurriedly
round.
Stapleton
was
the
cause
of
the
interruption.
He
was
running
wildly
towards
them,
his
absurd
net
dangling
behind
him.
He
gesticulated
and
almost
danced
with
excitement
in
front
of
the
lovers.
What
the
scene
meant
I
could
not
imagine,
but
it
seemed
to
me
that
Stapleton
was
abusing
Sir
Henry,
who
offered
explanations,
which
became
more
angry
as
the
other
refused
to
accept
them.
The
lady
stood
by
in
haughty
silence.
Finally
Stapleton
turned
upon
his
heel
and
beckoned
in
a
peremptory
way
to
his
sister,
who,
after
an
irresolute
glance
at
Sir
Henry,
walked
off
by
the
side
of
her
brother.
The
naturalist's
angry
gestures
showed
that
the
lady
was
included
in
his
displeasure.
The
baronet
stood
for
a
minute
looking
after
them,
and
then
he
walked
slowly
back
the
way
that
he
had
come,
his
head
hanging,
the
very
picture
of
dejection.
What
all
this
meant
I
could
not
imagine,
but
I
was
deeply
ashamed
to
have
witnessed
so
intimate
a
scene
without
my
friend's
knowledge.
I
ran
down
the
hill
therefore
and
met
the
baronet
at
the
bottom.
His
face
was
flushed
with
anger
and
his
brows
were
wrinkled,
like
one
who
is
at
his
wit's
ends
what
to
do.
"Halloa,
Watson!
Where
have
you
dropped
from?"
said
he.
"You
don't
mean
to
say
that
you
came
after
me
in
spite
of
all?"
I
explained
everything
to
him:
how
I
had
found
it
impossible
to
remain
behind,
how
I
had
followed
him,
and
how
I
had
witnessed
all
that
had
occurred.
For
an
instant
his
eyes
blazed
at
me,
but
my
frankness
disarmed
his
anger,
and
he
broke
at
last
into
a
rather
rueful
laugh.
"You
would
have
thought
the
middle
of
that
prairie
a
fairly
safe
place
for
a
man
to
be
private,"
said
he,
"but,
by
thunder,
the
whole
countryside
seems
to
have
been
out
to
see
me
do
my
wooing—and
a
mighty
poor
wooing
at
that!
Where
had
you
engaged
a
seat?"
"I
was
on
that
hill."
"Quite
in
the
back
row,
eh?
But
her
brother
was
well
up
to
the
front.
Did
you
see
him
come
out
on
us?"
"Yes,
I
did."
"Did
he
ever
strike
you
as
being
crazy—this
brother
of
hers?"
"I
can't
say
that
he
ever
did."
"I
dare
say
not.
I
always
thought
him
sane
enough
until
today,
but
you
can
take
it
from
me
that
either
he
or
I
ought
to
be
in
a
straitjacket.
What's
the
matter
with
me,
anyhow?
You've
lived
near
me
for
some
weeks,
Watson.
Tell
me
straight,
now!
Is
there
anything
that
would
prevent
me
from
making
a
good
husband
to
a
woman
that
I
loved?"
"I
should
say
not."
"He
can't
object
to
my
worldly
position,
so
it
must
be
myself
that
he
has
this
down
on.
What
has
he
against
me?
I
never
hurt
man
or
woman
in
my
life
that
I
know
of.
And
yet
he
would
not
so
much
as
let
me
touch
the
tips
of
her
fingers."
"Did
he
say
so?"
"That,
and
a
deal
more.
I
tell
you,
Watson,
I've
only
known
her
these
few
weeks,
but
from
the
first
I
just
felt
that
she
was
made
for
me,
and
she,
too—she
was
happy
when
she
was
with
me,
and
that
I'll
swear.
There's
a
light
in
a
woman's
eyes
that
speaks
louder
than
words.
But
he
has
never
let
us
get
together
and
it
was
only
today
for
the
first
time
that
I
saw
a
chance
of
having
a
few
words
with
her
alone.
She
was
glad
to
meet
me,
but
when
she
did
it
was
not
love
that
she
would
talk
about,
and
she
wouldn't
have
let
me
talk
about
it
either
if
she
could
have
stopped
it.
She
kept
coming
back
to
it
that
this
was
a
place
of
danger,
and
that
she
would
never
be
happy
until
I
had
left
it.
I
told
her
that
since
I
had
seen
her
I
was
in
no
hurry
to
leave
it,
and
that
if
she
really
wanted
me
to
go,
the
only
way
to
work
it
was
for
her
to
arrange
to
go
with
me.
With
that
I
offered
in
as
many
words
to
marry
her,
but
before
she
could
answer,
down
came
this
brother
of
hers,
running
at
us
with
a
face
on
him
like
a
madman.
He
was
just
white
with
rage,
and
those
light
eyes
of
his
were
blazing
with
fury.
What
was
I
doing
with
the
lady?
How
dared
I
offer
her
attentions
which
were
distasteful
to
her?
Did
I
think
that
because
I
was
a
baronet
I
could
do
what
I
liked?
If
he
had
not
been
her
brother
I
should
have
known
better
how
to
answer
him.
As
it
was
I
told
him
that
my
feelings
towards
his
sister
were
such
as
I
was
not
ashamed
of,
and
that
I
hoped
that
she
might
honour
me
by
becoming
my
wife.
That
seemed
to
make
the
matter
no
better,
so
then
I
lost
my
temper
too,
and
I
answered
him
rather
more
hotly
than
I
should
perhaps,
considering
that
she
was
standing
by.
So
it
ended
by
his
going
off
with
her,
as
you
saw,
and
here
am
I
as
badly
puzzled
a
man
as
any
in
this
county.
Just
tell
me
what
it
all
means,
Watson,
and
I'll
owe
you
more
than
ever
I
can
hope
to
pay."
I
tried
one
or
two
explanations,
but,
indeed,
I
was
completely
puzzled
myself.
Our
friend's
title,
his
fortune,
his
age,
his
character,
and
his
appearance
are
all
in
his
favour,
and
I
know
nothing
against
him
unless
it
be
this
dark
fate
which
runs
in
his
family.
That
his
advances
should
be
rejected
so
brusquely
without
any
reference
to
the
lady's
own
wishes
and
that
the
lady
should
accept
the
situation
without
protest
is
very
amazing.
However,
our
conjectures
were
set
at
rest
by
a
visit
from
Stapleton
himself
that
very
afternoon.
He
had
come
to
offer
apologies
for
his
rudeness
of
the
morning,
and
after
a
long
private
interview
with
Sir
Henry
in
his
study
the
upshot
of
their
conversation
was
that
the
breach
is
quite
healed,
and
that
we
are
to
dine
at
Merripit
House
next
Friday
as
a
sign
of
it.
"I
don't
say
now
that
he
isn't
a
crazy
man,"
said
Sir
Henry;
"I
can't
forget
the
look
in
his
eyes
when
he
ran
at
me
this
morning,
but
I
must
allow
that
no
man
could
make
a
more
handsome
apology
than
he
has
done."
"Did
he
give
any
explanation
of
his
conduct?"
"His
sister
is
everything
in
his
life,
he
says.
That
is
natural
enough,
and
I
am
glad
that
he
should
understand
her
value.
They
have
always
been
together,
and
according
to
his
account
he
has
been
a
very
lonely
man
with
only
her
as
a
companion,
so
that
the
thought
of
losing
her
was
really
terrible
to
him.
He
had
not
understood,
he
said,
that
I
was
becoming
attached
to
her,
but
when
he
saw
with
his
own
eyes
that
it
was
really
so,
and
that
she
might
be
taken
away
from
him,
it
gave
him
such
a
shock
that
for
a
time
he
was
not
responsible
for
what
he
said
or
did.
He
was
very
sorry
for
all
that
had
passed,
and
he
recognized
how
foolish
and
how
selfish
it
was
that
he
should
imagine
that
he
could
hold
a
beautiful
woman
like
his
sister
to
himself
for
her
whole
life.
If
she
had
to
leave
him
he
had
rather
it
was
to
a
neighbour
like
myself
than
to
anyone
else.
But
in
any
case
it
was
a
blow
to
him
and
it
would
take
him
some
time
before
he
could
prepare
himself
to
meet
it.
He
would
withdraw
all
opposition
upon
his
part
if
I
would
promise
for
three
months
to
let
the
matter
rest
and
to
be
content
with
cultivating
the
lady's
friendship
during
that
time
without
claiming
her
love.
This
I
promised,
and
so
the
matter
rests."
So
there
is
one
of
our
small
mysteries
cleared
up.
It
is
something
to
have
touched
bottom
anywhere
in
this
bog
in
which
we
are
floundering.
We
know
now
why
Stapleton
looked
with
disfavour
upon
his
sister's
suitor—even
when
that
suitor
was
so
eligible
a
one
as
Sir
Henry.
And
now
I
pass
on
to
another
thread
which
I
have
extricated
out
of
the
tangled
skein,
the
mystery
of
the
sobs
in
the
night,
of
the
tear-stained
face
of
Mrs.
Barrymore,
of
the
secret
journey
of
the
butler
to
the
western
lattice
window.
Congratulate
me,
my
dear
Holmes,
and
tell
me
that
I
have
not
disappointed
you
as
an
agent—that
you
do
not
regret
the
confidence
which
you
showed
in
me
when
you
sent
me
down.
All
these
things
have
by
one
night's
work
been
thoroughly
cleared.
I
have
said
"by
one
night's
work,"
but,
in
truth,
it
was
by
two
nights'
work,
for
on
the
first
we
drew
entirely
blank.
I
sat
up
with
Sir
Henry
in
his
rooms
until
nearly
three
o'clock
in
the
morning,
but
no
sound
of
any
sort
did
we
hear
except
the
chiming
clock
upon
the
stairs.
It
was
a
most
melancholy
vigil
and
ended
by
each
of
us
falling
asleep
in
our
chairs.
Fortunately
we
were
not
discouraged,
and
we
determined
to
try
again.
The
next
night
we
lowered
the
lamp
and
sat
smoking
cigarettes
without
making
the
least
sound.
It
was
incredible
how
slowly
the
hours
crawled
by,
and
yet
we
were
helped
through
it
by
the
same
sort
of
patient
interest
which
the
hunter
must
feel
as
he
watches
the
trap
into
which
he
hopes
the
game
may
wander.
One
struck,
and
two,
and
we
had
almost
for
the
second
time
given
it
up
in
despair
when
in
an
instant
we
both
sat
bolt
upright
in
our
chairs
with
all
our
weary
senses
keenly
on
the
alert
once
more.
We
had
heard
the
creak
of
a
step
in
the
passage.
Very
stealthily
we
heard
it
pass
along
until
it
died
away
in
the
distance.
Then
the
baronet
gently
opened
his
door
and
we
set
out
in
pursuit.
Already
our
man
had
gone
round
the
gallery
and
the
corridor
was
all
in
darkness.
Softly
we
stole
along
until
we
had
come
into
the
other
wing.
We
were
just
in
time
to
catch
a
glimpse
of
the
tall,
black-bearded
figure,
his
shoulders
rounded
as
he
tiptoed
down
the
passage.
Then
he
passed
through
the
same
door
as
before,
and
the
light
of
the
candle
framed
it
in
the
darkness
and
shot
one
single
yellow
beam
across
the
gloom
of
the
corridor.
We
shuffled
cautiously
towards
it,
trying
every
plank
before
we
dared
to
put
our
whole
weight
upon
it.
We
had
taken
the
precaution
of
leaving
our
boots
behind
us,
but,
even
so,
the
old
boards
snapped
and
creaked
beneath
our
tread.
Sometimes
it
seemed
impossible
that
he
should
fail
to
hear
our
approach.
However,
the
man
is
fortunately
rather
deaf,
and
he
was
entirely
preoccupied
in
that
which
he
was
doing.
When
at
last
we
reached
the
door
and
peeped
through
we
found
him
crouching
at
the
window,
candle
in
hand,
his
white,
intent
face
pressed
against
the
pane,
exactly
as
I
had
seen
him
two
nights
before.
We
had
arranged
no
plan
of
campaign,
but
the
baronet
is
a
man
to
whom
the
most
direct
way
is
always
the
most
natural.
He
walked
into
the
room,
and
as
he
did
so
Barrymore
sprang
up
from
the
window
with
a
sharp
hiss
of
his
breath
and
stood,
livid
and
trembling,
before
us.
His
dark
eyes,
glaring
out
of
the
white
mask
of
his
face,
were
full
of
horror
and
astonishment
as
he
gazed
from
Sir
Henry
to
me.
"What
are
you
doing
here,
Barrymore?"
"Nothing,
sir."
His
agitation
was
so
great
that
he
could
hardly
speak,
and
the
shadows
sprang
up
and
down
from
the
shaking
of
his
candle.
"It
was
the
window,
sir.
I
go
round
at
night
to
see
that
they
are
fastened."
"On
the
second
floor?"
"Yes,
sir,
all
the
windows."
"Look
here,
Barrymore,"
said
Sir
Henry
sternly,
"we
have
made
up
our
minds
to
have
the
truth
out
of
you,
so
it
will
save
you
trouble
to
tell
it
sooner
rather
than
later.
Come,
now!
No
lies!
What
were
you
doing
at
that
window?"
The
fellow
looked
at
us
in
a
helpless
way,
and
he
wrung
his
hands
together
like
one
who
is
in
the
last
extremity
of
doubt
and
misery.
"I
was
doing
no
harm,
sir.
I
was
holding
a
candle
to
the
window."
"And
why
were
you
holding
a
candle
to
the
window?"
"Don't
ask
me,
Sir
Henry—don't
ask
me!
I
give
you
my
word,
sir,
that
it
is
not
my
secret,
and
that
I
cannot
tell
it.
If
it
concerned
no
one
but
myself
I
would
not
try
to
keep
it
from
you."
A
sudden
idea
occurred
to
me,
and
I
took
the
candle
from
the
trembling
hand
of
the
butler.
"He
must
have
been
holding
it
as
a
signal,"
said
I.
"Let
us
see
if
there
is
any
answer."
I
held
it
as
he
had
done,
and
stared
out
into
the
darkness
of
the
night.
Vaguely
I
could
discern
the
black
bank
of
the
trees
and
the
lighter
expanse
of
the
moor,
for
the
moon
was
behind
the
clouds.
And
then
I
gave
a
cry
of
exultation,
for
a
tiny
pinpoint
of
yellow
light
had
suddenly
transfixed
the
dark
veil,
and
glowed
steadily
in
the
centre
of
the
black
square
framed
by
the
window.
"There
it
is!"
I
cried.
"No,
no,
sir,
it
is
nothing—nothing
at
all!"
the
butler
broke
in;
"I
assure
you,
sir—"
"Move
your
light
across
the
window,
Watson!"
cried
the
baronet.
"See,
the
other
moves
also!
Now,
you
rascal,
do
you
deny
that
it
is
a
signal?
Come,
speak
up!
Who
is
your
confederate
out
yonder,
and
what
is
this
conspiracy
that
is
going
on?"
The
man's
face
became
openly
defiant.
"It
is
my
business,
and
not
yours.
I
will
not
tell."
"Then
you
leave
my
employment
right
away."
"Very
good,
sir.
If
I
must
I
must."
"And
you
go
in
disgrace.
By
thunder,
you
may
well
be
ashamed
of
yourself.
Your
family
has
lived
with
mine
for
over
a
hundred
years
under
this
roof,
and
here
I
find
you
deep
in
some
dark
plot
against
me."
"No,
no,
sir;
no,
not
against
you!"
It
was
a
woman's
voice,
and
Mrs.
Barrymore,
paler
and
more
horror-struck
than
her
husband,
was
standing
at
the
door.
Her
bulky
figure
in
a
shawl
and
skirt
might
have
been
comic
were
it
not
for
the
intensity
of
feeling
upon
her
face.
"We
have
to
go,
Eliza.
This
is
the
end
of
it.
You
can
pack
our
things,"
said
the
butler.
"Oh,
John,
John,
have
I
brought
you
to
this?
It
is
my
doing,
Sir
Henry—all
mine.
He
has
done
nothing
except
for
my
sake
and
because
I
asked
him."
"Speak
out,
then!
What
does
it
mean?"
"My
unhappy
brother
is
starving
on
the
moor.
We
cannot
let
him
perish
at
our
very
gates.
The
light
is
a
signal
to
him
that
food
is
ready
for
him,
and
his
light
out
yonder
is
to
show
the
spot
to
which
to
bring
it."
"Then
your
brother
is—"
"The
escaped
convict,
sir—Selden,
the
criminal."
"That's
the
truth,
sir,"
said
Barrymore.
"I
said
that
it
was
not
my
secret
and
that
I
could
not
tell
it
to
you.
But
now
you
have
heard
it,
and
you
will
see
that
if
there
was
a
plot
it
was
not
against
you."
This,
then,
was
the
explanation
of
the
stealthy
expeditions
at
night
and
the
light
at
the
window.
Sir
Henry
and
I
both
stared
at
the
woman
in
amazement.
Was
it
possible
that
this
stolidly
respectable
person
was
of
the
same
blood
as
one
of
the
most
notorious
criminals
in
the
country?
"Yes,
sir,
my
name
was
Selden,
and
he
is
my
younger
brother.
We
humoured
him
too
much
when
he
was
a
lad
and
gave
him
his
own
way
in
everything
until
he
came
to
think
that
the
world
was
made
for
his
pleasure,
and
that
he
could
do
what
he
liked
in
it.
Then
as
he
grew
older
he
met
wicked
companions,
and
the
devil
entered
into
him
until
he
broke
my
mother's
heart
and
dragged
our
name
in
the
dirt.
From
crime
to
crime
he
sank
lower
and
lower
until
it
is
only
the
mercy
of
God
which
has
snatched
him
from
the
scaffold;
but
to
me,
sir,
he
was
always
the
little
curly-headed
boy
that
I
had
nursed
and
played
with
as
an
elder
sister
would.
That
was
why
he
broke
prison,
sir.
He
knew
that
I
was
here
and
that
we
could
not
refuse
to
help
him.
When
he
dragged
himself
here
one
night,
weary
and
starving,
with
the
warders
hard
at
his
heels,
what
could
we
do?
We
took
him
in
and
fed
him
and
cared
for
him.
Then
you
returned,
sir,
and
my
brother
thought
he
would
be
safer
on
the
moor
than
anywhere
else
until
the
hue
and
cry
was
over,
so
he
lay
in
hiding
there.
But
every
second
night
we
made
sure
if
he
was
still
there
by
putting
a
light
in
the
window,
and
if
there
was
an
answer
my
husband
took
out
some
bread
and
meat
to
him.
Every
day
we
hoped
that
he
was
gone,
but
as
long
as
he
was
there
we
could
not
desert
him.
That
is
the
whole
truth,
as
I
am
an
honest
Christian
woman
and
you
will
see
that
if
there
is
blame
in
the
matter
it
does
not
lie
with
my
husband
but
with
me,
for
whose
sake
he
has
done
all
that
he
has."
The
woman's
words
came
with
an
intense
earnestness
which
carried
conviction
with
them.
"Is
this
true,
Barrymore?"
"Yes,
Sir
Henry.
Every
word
of
it."
"Well,
I
cannot
blame
you
for
standing
by
your
own
wife.
Forget
what
I
have
said.
Go
to
your
room,
you
two,
and
we
shall
talk
further
about
this
matter
in
the
morning."
When
they
were
gone
we
looked
out
of
the
window
again.
Sir
Henry
had
flung
it
open,
and
the
cold
night
wind
beat
in
upon
our
faces.
Far
away
in
the
black
distance
there
still
glowed
that
one
tiny
point
of
yellow
light.
"I
wonder
he
dares,"
said
Sir
Henry.
"It
may
be
so
placed
as
to
be
only
visible
from
here."
"Very
likely.
How
far
do
you
think
it
is?"
"Out
by
the
Cleft
Tor,
I
think."
"Not
more
than
a
mile
or
two
off."
"Hardly
that."
"Well,
it
cannot
be
far
if
Barrymore
had
to
carry
out
the
food
to
it.
And
he
is
waiting,
this
villain,
beside
that
candle.
By
thunder,
Watson,
I
am
going
out
to
take
that
man!"
The
same
thought
had
crossed
my
own
mind.
It
was
not
as
if
the
Barrymores
had
taken
us
into
their
confidence.
Their
secret
had
been
forced
from
them.
The
man
was
a
danger
to
the
community,
an
unmitigated
scoundrel
for
whom
there
was
neither
pity
nor
excuse.
We
were
only
doing
our
duty
in
taking
this
chance
of
putting
him
back
where
he
could
do
no
harm.
With
his
brutal
and
violent
nature,
others
would
have
to
pay
the
price
if
we
held
our
hands.
Any
night,
for
example,
our
neighbours
the
Stapletons
might
be
attacked
by
him,
and
it
may
have
been
the
thought
of
this
which
made
Sir
Henry
so
keen
upon
the
adventure.
"I
will
come,"
said
I.
"Then
get
your
revolver
and
put
on
your
boots.
The
sooner
we
start
the
better,
as
the
fellow
may
put
out
his
light
and
be
off."
In
five
minutes
we
were
outside
the
door,
starting
upon
our
expedition.
We
hurried
through
the
dark
shrubbery,
amid
the
dull
moaning
of
the
autumn
wind
and
the
rustle
of
the
falling
leaves.
The
night
air
was
heavy
with
the
smell
of
damp
and
decay.
Now
and
again
the
moon
peeped
out
for
an
instant,
but
clouds
were
driving
over
the
face
of
the
sky,
and
just
as
we
came
out
on
the
moor
a
thin
rain
began
to
fall.
The
light
still
burned
steadily
in
front.
"Are
you
armed?"
I
asked.
"I
have
a
hunting-crop."
"We
must
close
in
on
him
rapidly,
for
he
is
said
to
be
a
desperate
fellow.
We
shall
take
him
by
surprise
and
have
him
at
our
mercy
before
he
can
resist."
"I
say,
Watson,"
said
the
baronet,
"what
would
Holmes
say
to
this?
How
about
that
hour
of
darkness
in
which
the
power
of
evil
is
exalted?"
As
if
in
answer
to
his
words
there
rose
suddenly
out
of
the
vast
gloom
of
the
moor
that
strange
cry
which
I
had
already
heard
upon
the
borders
of
the
great
Grimpen
Mire.
It
came
with
the
wind
through
the
silence
of
the
night,
a
long,
deep
mutter,
then
a
rising
howl,
and
then
the
sad
moan
in
which
it
died
away.
Again
and
again
it
sounded,
the
whole
air
throbbing
with
it,
strident,
wild,
and
menacing.
The
baronet
caught
my
sleeve
and
his
face
glimmered
white
through
the
darkness.
"My
God,
what's
that,
Watson?"
"I
don't
know.
It's
a
sound
they
have
on
the
moor.
I
heard
it
once
before."
It
died
away,
and
an
absolute
silence
closed
in
upon
us.
We
stood
straining
our
ears,
but
nothing
came.
"Watson,"
said
the
baronet,
"it
was
the
cry
of
a
hound."
My
blood
ran
cold
in
my
veins,
for
there
was
a
break
in
his
voice
which
told
of
the
sudden
horror
which
had
seized
him.
"What
do
they
call
this
sound?"
he
asked.
"Who?"
"The
folk
on
the
countryside."
"Oh,
they
are
ignorant
people.
Why
should
you
mind
what
they
call
it?"
"Tell
me,
Watson.
What
do
they
say
of
it?"
I
hesitated
but
could
not
escape
the
question.
"They
say
it
is
the
cry
of
the
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles."
He
groaned
and
was
silent
for
a
few
moments.
"A
hound
it
was,"
he
said
at
last,
"but
it
seemed
to
come
from
miles
away,
over
yonder,
I
think."
"It
was
hard
to
say
whence
it
came."
"It
rose
and
fell
with
the
wind.
Isn't
that
the
direction
of
the
great
Grimpen
Mire?"
"Yes,
it
is."
"Well,
it
was
up
there.
Come
now,
Watson,
didn't
you
think
yourself
that
it
was
the
cry
of
a
hound?
I
am
not
a
child.
You
need
not
fear
to
speak
the
truth."
"Stapleton
was
with
me
when
I
heard
it
last.
He
said
that
it
might
be
the
calling
of
a
strange
bird."
"No,
no,
it
was
a
hound.
My
God,
can
there
be
some
truth
in
all
these
stories?
Is
it
possible
that
I
am
really
in
danger
from
so
dark
a
cause?
You
don't
believe
it,
do
you,
Watson?"
"No,
no."
"And
yet
it
was
one
thing
to
laugh
about
it
in
London,
and
it
is
another
to
stand
out
here
in
the
darkness
of
the
moor
and
to
hear
such
a
cry
as
that.
And
my
uncle!
There
was
the
footprint
of
the
hound
beside
him
as
he
lay.
It
all
fits
together.
I
don't
think
that
I
am
a
coward,
Watson,
but
that
sound
seemed
to
freeze
my
very
blood.
Feel
my
hand!"
It
was
as
cold
as
a
block
of
marble.
"You'll
be
all
right
tomorrow."
"I
don't
think
I'll
get
that
cry
out
of
my
head.
What
do
you
advise
that
we
do
now?"
"Shall
we
turn
back?"
"No,
by
thunder;
we
have
come
out
to
get
our
man,
and
we
will
do
it.
We
after
the
convict,
and
a
hell-hound,
as
likely
as
not,
after
us.
Come
on!
We'll
see
it
through
if
all
the
fiends
of
the
pit
were
loose
upon
the
moor."
We
stumbled
slowly
along
in
the
darkness,
with
the
black
loom
of
the
craggy
hills
around
us,
and
the
yellow
speck
of
light
burning
steadily
in
front.
There
is
nothing
so
deceptive
as
the
distance
of
a
light
upon
a
pitch-dark
night,
and
sometimes
the
glimmer
seemed
to
be
far
away
upon
the
horizon
and
sometimes
it
might
have
been
within
a
few
yards
of
us.
But
at
last
we
could
see
whence
it
came,
and
then
we
knew
that
we
were
indeed
very
close.
A
guttering
candle
was
stuck
in
a
crevice
of
the
rocks
which
flanked
it
on
each
side
so
as
to
keep
the
wind
from
it
and
also
to
prevent
it
from
being
visible,
save
in
the
direction
of
Baskerville
Hall.
A
boulder
of
granite
concealed
our
approach,
and
crouching
behind
it
we
gazed
over
it
at
the
signal
light.
It
was
strange
to
see
this
single
candle
burning
there
in
the
middle
of
the
moor,
with
no
sign
of
life
near
it—just
the
one
straight
yellow
flame
and
the
gleam
of
the
rock
on
each
side
of
it.
"What
shall
we
do
now?"
whispered
Sir
Henry.
"Wait
here.
He
must
be
near
his
light.
Let
us
see
if
we
can
get
a
glimpse
of
him."
The
words
were
hardly
out
of
my
mouth
when
we
both
saw
him.
Over
the
rocks,
in
the
crevice
of
which
the
candle
burned,
there
was
thrust
out
an
evil
yellow
face,
a
terrible
animal
face,
all
seamed
and
scored
with
vile
passions.
Foul
with
mire,
with
a
bristling
beard,
and
hung
with
matted
hair,
it
might
well
have
belonged
to
one
of
those
old
savages
who
dwelt
in
the
burrows
on
the
hillsides.
The
light
beneath
him
was
reflected
in
his
small,
cunning
eyes
which
peered
fiercely
to
right
and
left
through
the
darkness
like
a
crafty
and
savage
animal
who
has
heard
the
steps
of
the
hunters.
Something
had
evidently
aroused
his
suspicions.
It
may
have
been
that
Barrymore
had
some
private
signal
which
we
had
neglected
to
give,
or
the
fellow
may
have
had
some
other
reason
for
thinking
that
all
was
not
well,
but
I
could
read
his
fears
upon
his
wicked
face.
Any
instant
he
might
dash
out
the
light
and
vanish
in
the
darkness.
I
sprang
forward
therefore,
and
Sir
Henry
did
the
same.
At
the
same
moment
the
convict
screamed
out
a
curse
at
us
and
hurled
a
rock
which
splintered
up
against
the
boulder
which
had
sheltered
us.
I
caught
one
glimpse
of
his
short,
squat,
strongly
built
figure
as
he
sprang
to
his
feet
and
turned
to
run.
At
the
same
moment
by
a
lucky
chance
the
moon
broke
through
the
clouds.
We
rushed
over
the
brow
of
the
hill,
and
there
was
our
man
running
with
great
speed
down
the
other
side,
springing
over
the
stones
in
his
way
with
the
activity
of
a
mountain
goat.
A
lucky
long
shot
of
my
revolver
might
have
crippled
him,
but
I
had
brought
it
only
to
defend
myself
if
attacked
and
not
to
shoot
an
unarmed
man
who
was
running
away.
We
were
both
swift
runners
and
in
fairly
good
training,
but
we
soon
found
that
we
had
no
chance
of
overtaking
him.
We
saw
him
for
a
long
time
in
the
moonlight
until
he
was
only
a
small
speck
moving
swiftly
among
the
boulders
upon
the
side
of
a
distant
hill.
We
ran
and
ran
until
we
were
completely
blown,
but
the
space
between
us
grew
ever
wider.
Finally
we
stopped
and
sat
panting
on
two
rocks,
while
we
watched
him
disappearing
in
the
distance.
And
it
was
at
this
moment
that
there
occurred
a
most
strange
and
unexpected
thing.
We
had
risen
from
our
rocks
and
were
turning
to
go
home,
having
abandoned
the
hopeless
chase.
The
moon
was
low
upon
the
right,
and
the
jagged
pinnacle
of
a
granite
tor
stood
up
against
the
lower
curve
of
its
silver
disc.
There,
outlined
as
black
as
an
ebony
statue
on
that
shining
background,
I
saw
the
figure
of
a
man
upon
the
tor.
Do
not
think
that
it
was
a
delusion,
Holmes.
I
assure
you
that
I
have
never
in
my
life
seen
anything
more
clearly.
As
far
as
I
could
judge,
the
figure
was
that
of
a
tall,
thin
man.
He
stood
with
his
legs
a
little
separated,
his
arms
folded,
his
head
bowed,
as
if
he
were
brooding
over
that
enormous
wilderness
of
peat
and
granite
which
lay
before
him.
He
might
have
been
the
very
spirit
of
that
terrible
place.
It
was
not
the
convict.
This
man
was
far
from
the
place
where
the
latter
had
disappeared.
Besides,
he
was
a
much
taller
man.
With
a
cry
of
surprise
I
pointed
him
out
to
the
baronet,
but
in
the
instant
during
which
I
had
turned
to
grasp
his
arm
the
man
was
gone.
There
was
the
sharp
pinnacle
of
granite
still
cutting
the
lower
edge
of
the
moon,
but
its
peak
bore
no
trace
of
that
silent
and
motionless
figure.
I
wished
to
go
in
that
direction
and
to
search
the
tor,
but
it
was
some
distance
away.
The
baronet's
nerves
were
still
quivering
from
that
cry,
which
recalled
the
dark
story
of
his
family,
and
he
was
not
in
the
mood
for
fresh
adventures.
He
had
not
seen
this
lonely
man
upon
the
tor
and
could
not
feel
the
thrill
which
his
strange
presence
and
his
commanding
attitude
had
given
to
me.
"A
warder,
no
doubt,"
said
he.
"The
moor
has
been
thick
with
them
since
this
fellow
escaped."
Well,
perhaps
his
explanation
may
be
the
right
one,
but
I
should
like
to
have
some
further
proof
of
it.
Today
we
mean
to
communicate
to
the
Princetown
people
where
they
should
look
for
their
missing
man,
but
it
is
hard
lines
that
we
have
not
actually
had
the
triumph
of
bringing
him
back
as
our
own
prisoner.
Such
are
the
adventures
of
last
night,
and
you
must
acknowledge,
my
dear
Holmes,
that
I
have
done
you
very
well
in
the
matter
of
a
report.
Much
of
what
I
tell
you
is
no
doubt
quite
irrelevant,
but
still
I
feel
that
it
is
best
that
I
should
let
you
have
all
the
facts
and
leave
you
to
select
for
yourself
those
which
will
be
of
most
service
to
you
in
helping
you
to
your
conclusions.
We
are
certainly
making
some
progress.
So
far
as
the
Barrymores
go
we
have
found
the
motive
of
their
actions,
and
that
has
cleared
up
the
situation
very
much.
But
the
moor
with
its
mysteries
and
its
strange
inhabitants
remains
as
inscrutable
as
ever.
Perhaps
in
my
next
I
may
be
able
to
throw
some
light
upon
this
also.
Best
of
all
would
it
be
if
you
could
come
down
to
us.
In
any
case
you
will
hear
from
me
again
in
the
course
of
the
next
few
days.
Chapter
10.
Extract
from
the
Diary
of
Dr.
Watson
So
far
I
have
been
able
to
quote
from
the
reports
which
I
have
forwarded
during
these
early
days
to
Sherlock
Holmes.
Now,
however,
I
have
arrived
at
a
point
in
my
narrative
where
I
am
compelled
to
abandon
this
method
and
to
trust
once
more
to
my
recollections,
aided
by
the
diary
which
I
kept
at
the
time.
A
few
extracts
from
the
latter
will
carry
me
on
to
those
scenes
which
are
indelibly
fixed
in
every
detail
upon
my
memory.
I
proceed,
then,
from
the
morning
which
followed
our
abortive
chase
of
the
convict
and
our
other
strange
experiences
upon
the
moor.
October
16th.
A
dull
and
foggy
day
with
a
drizzle
of
rain.
The
house
is
banked
in
with
rolling
clouds,
which
rise
now
and
then
to
show
the
dreary
curves
of
the
moor,
with
thin,
silver
veins
upon
the
sides
of
the
hills,
and
the
distant
boulders
gleaming
where
the
light
strikes
upon
their
wet
faces.
It
is
melancholy
outside
and
in.
The
baronet
is
in
a
black
reaction
after
the
excitements
of
the
night.
I
am
conscious
myself
of
a
weight
at
my
heart
and
a
feeling
of
impending
danger—ever
present
danger,
which
is
the
more
terrible
because
I
am
unable
to
define
it.
And
have
I
not
cause
for
such
a
feeling?
Consider
the
long
sequence
of
incidents
which
have
all
pointed
to
some
sinister
influence
which
is
at
work
around
us.
There
is
the
death
of
the
last
occupant
of
the
Hall,
fulfilling
so
exactly
the
conditions
of
the
family
legend,
and
there
are
the
repeated
reports
from
peasants
of
the
appearance
of
a
strange
creature
upon
the
moor.
Twice
I
have
with
my
own
ears
heard
the
sound
which
resembled
the
distant
baying
of
a
hound.
It
is
incredible,
impossible,
that
it
should
really
be
outside
the
ordinary
laws
of
nature.
A
spectral
hound
which
leaves
material
footmarks
and
fills
the
air
with
its
howling
is
surely
not
to
be
thought
of.
Stapleton
may
fall
in
with
such
a
superstition,
and
Mortimer
also,
but
if
I
have
one
quality
upon
earth
it
is
common
sense,
and
nothing
will
persuade
me
to
believe
in
such
a
thing.
To
do
so
would
be
to
descend
to
the
level
of
these
poor
peasants,
who
are
not
content
with
a
mere
fiend
dog
but
must
needs
describe
him
with
hell-fire
shooting
from
his
mouth
and
eyes.
Holmes
would
not
listen
to
such
fancies,
and
I
am
his
agent.
But
facts
are
facts,
and
I
have
twice
heard
this
crying
upon
the
moor.
Suppose
that
there
were
really
some
huge
hound
loose
upon
it;
that
would
go
far
to
explain
everything.
But
where
could
such
a
hound
lie
concealed,
where
did
it
get
its
food,
where
did
it
come
from,
how
was
it
that
no
one
saw
it
by
day?
It
must
be
confessed
that
the
natural
explanation
offers
almost
as
many
difficulties
as
the
other.
And
always,
apart
from
the
hound,
there
is
the
fact
of
the
human
agency
in
London,
the
man
in
the
cab,
and
the
letter
which
warned
Sir
Henry
against
the
moor.
This
at
least
was
real,
but
it
might
have
been
the
work
of
a
protecting
friend
as
easily
as
of
an
enemy.
Where
is
that
friend
or
enemy
now?
Has
he
remained
in
London,
or
has
he
followed
us
down
here?
Could
he—could
he
be
the
stranger
whom
I
saw
upon
the
tor?
It
is
true
that
I
have
had
only
the
one
glance
at
him,
and
yet
there
are
some
things
to
which
I
am
ready
to
swear.
He
is
no
one
whom
I
have
seen
down
here,
and
I
have
now
met
all
the
neighbours.
The
figure
was
far
taller
than
that
of
Stapleton,
far
thinner
than
that
of
Frankland.
Barrymore
it
might
possibly
have
been,
but
we
had
left
him
behind
us,
and
I
am
certain
that
he
could
not
have
followed
us.
A
stranger
then
is
still
dogging
us,
just
as
a
stranger
dogged
us
in
London.
We
have
never
shaken
him
off.
If
I
could
lay
my
hands
upon
that
man,
then
at
last
we
might
find
ourselves
at
the
end
of
all
our
difficulties.
To
this
one
purpose
I
must
now
devote
all
my
energies.
My
first
impulse
was
to
tell
Sir
Henry
all
my
plans.
My
second
and
wisest
one
is
to
play
my
own
game
and
speak
as
little
as
possible
to
anyone.
He
is
silent
and
distrait.
His
nerves
have
been
strangely
shaken
by
that
sound
upon
the
moor.
I
will
say
nothing
to
add
to
his
anxieties,
but
I
will
take
my
own
steps
to
attain
my
own
end.
We
had
a
small
scene
this
morning
after
breakfast.
Barrymore
asked
leave
to
speak
with
Sir
Henry,
and
they
were
closeted
in
his
study
some
little
time.
Sitting
in
the
billiard-room
I
more
than
once
heard
the
sound
of
voices
raised,
and
I
had
a
pretty
good
idea
what
the
point
was
which
was
under
discussion.
After
a
time
the
baronet
opened
his
door
and
called
for
me.
"Barrymore
considers
that
he
has
a
grievance,"
he
said.
"He
thinks
that
it
was
unfair
on
our
part
to
hunt
his
brother-in-law
down
when
he,
of
his
own
free
will,
had
told
us
the
secret."
The
butler
was
standing
very
pale
but
very
collected
before
us.
"I
may
have
spoken
too
warmly,
sir,"
said
he,
"and
if
I
have,
I
am
sure
that
I
beg
your
pardon.
At
the
same
time,
I
was
very
much
surprised
when
I
heard
you
two
gentlemen
come
back
this
morning
and
learned
that
you
had
been
chasing
Selden.
The
poor
fellow
has
enough
to
fight
against
without
my
putting
more
upon
his
track."
"If
you
had
told
us
of
your
own
free
will
it
would
have
been
a
different
thing,"
said
the
baronet,
"you
only
told
us,
or
rather
your
wife
only
told
us,
when
it
was
forced
from
you
and
you
could
not
help
yourself."
"I
didn't
think
you
would
have
taken
advantage
of
it,
Sir
Henry—indeed
I
didn't."
"The
man
is
a
public
danger.
There
are
lonely
houses
scattered
over
the
moor,
and
he
is
a
fellow
who
would
stick
at
nothing.
You
only
want
to
get
a
glimpse
of
his
face
to
see
that.
Look
at
Mr.
Stapleton's
house,
for
example,
with
no
one
but
himself
to
defend
it.
There's
no
safety
for
anyone
until
he
is
under
lock
and
key."
"He'll
break
into
no
house,
sir.
I
give
you
my
solemn
word
upon
that.
But
he
will
never
trouble
anyone
in
this
country
again.
I
assure
you,
Sir
Henry,
that
in
a
very
few
days
the
necessary
arrangements
will
have
been
made
and
he
will
be
on
his
way
to
South
America.
For
God's
sake,
sir,
I
beg
of
you
not
to
let
the
police
know
that
he
is
still
on
the
moor.
They
have
given
up
the
chase
there,
and
he
can
lie
quiet
until
the
ship
is
ready
for
him.
You
can't
tell
on
him
without
getting
my
wife
and
me
into
trouble.
I
beg
you,
sir,
to
say
nothing
to
the
police."
"What
do
you
say,
Watson?"
I
shrugged
my
shoulders.
"If
he
were
safely
out
of
the
country
it
would
relieve
the
tax-payer
of
a
burden."
"But
how
about
the
chance
of
his
holding
someone
up
before
he
goes?"
"He
would
not
do
anything
so
mad,
sir.
We
have
provided
him
with
all
that
he
can
want.
To
commit
a
crime
would
be
to
show
where
he
was
hiding."
"That
is
true,"
said
Sir
Henry.
"Well,
Barrymore—"
"God
bless
you,
sir,
and
thank
you
from
my
heart!
It
would
have
killed
my
poor
wife
had
he
been
taken
again."
"I
guess
we
are
aiding
and
abetting
a
felony,
Watson?
But,
after
what
we
have
heard
I
don't
feel
as
if
I
could
give
the
man
up,
so
there
is
an
end
of
it.
All
right,
Barrymore,
you
can
go."
With
a
few
broken
words
of
gratitude
the
man
turned,
but
he
hesitated
and
then
came
back.
"You've
been
so
kind
to
us,
sir,
that
I
should
like
to
do
the
best
I
can
for
you
in
return.
I
know
something,
Sir
Henry,
and
perhaps
I
should
have
said
it
before,
but
it
was
long
after
the
inquest
that
I
found
it
out.
I've
never
breathed
a
word
about
it
yet
to
mortal
man.
It's
about
poor
Sir
Charles's
death."
The
baronet
and
I
were
both
upon
our
feet.
"Do
you
know
how
he
died?"
"No,
sir,
I
don't
know
that."
"What
then?"
"I
know
why
he
was
at
the
gate
at
that
hour.
It
was
to
meet
a
woman."
"To
meet
a
woman!
He?"
"Yes,
sir."
"And
the
woman's
name?"
"I
can't
give
you
the
name,
sir,
but
I
can
give
you
the
initials.
Her
initials
were
L.
L."
"How
do
you
know
this,
Barrymore?"
"Well,
Sir
Henry,
your
uncle
had
a
letter
that
morning.
He
had
usually
a
great
many
letters,
for
he
was
a
public
man
and
well
known
for
his
kind
heart,
so
that
everyone
who
was
in
trouble
was
glad
to
turn
to
him.
But
that
morning,
as
it
chanced,
there
was
only
this
one
letter,
so
I
took
the
more
notice
of
it.
It
was
from
Coombe
Tracey,
and
it
was
addressed
in
a
woman's
hand."
"Well?"
"Well,
sir,
I
thought
no
more
of
the
matter,
and
never
would
have
done
had
it
not
been
for
my
wife.
Only
a
few
weeks
ago
she
was
cleaning
out
Sir
Charles's
study—it
had
never
been
touched
since
his
death—and
she
found
the
ashes
of
a
burned
letter
in
the
back
of
the
grate.
The
greater
part
of
it
was
charred
to
pieces,
but
one
little
slip,
the
end
of
a
page,
hung
together,
and
the
writing
could
still
be
read,
though
it
was
gray
on
a
black
ground.
It
seemed
to
us
to
be
a
postscript
at
the
end
of
the
letter
and
it
said:
'Please,
please,
as
you
are
a
gentleman,
burn
this
letter,
and
be
at
the
gate
by
ten
o
clock.
Beneath
it
were
signed
the
initials
L.
L."
"Have
you
got
that
slip?"
"No,
sir,
it
crumbled
all
to
bits
after
we
moved
it."
"Had
Sir
Charles
received
any
other
letters
in
the
same
writing?"
"Well,
sir,
I
took
no
particular
notice
of
his
letters.
I
should
not
have
noticed
this
one,
only
it
happened
to
come
alone."
"And
you
have
no
idea
who
L.
L.
is?"
"No,
sir.
No
more
than
you
have.
But
I
expect
if
we
could
lay
our
hands
upon
that
lady
we
should
know
more
about
Sir
Charles's
death."
"I
cannot
understand,
Barrymore,
how
you
came
to
conceal
this
important
information."
"Well,
sir,
it
was
immediately
after
that
our
own
trouble
came
to
us.
And
then
again,
sir,
we
were
both
of
us
very
fond
of
Sir
Charles,
as
we
well
might
be
considering
all
that
he
has
done
for
us.
To
rake
this
up
couldn't
help
our
poor
master,
and
it's
well
to
go
carefully
when
there's
a
lady
in
the
case.
Even
the
best
of
us—"
"You
thought
it
might
injure
his
reputation?"
"Well,
sir,
I
thought
no
good
could
come
of
it.
But
now
you
have
been
kind
to
us,
and
I
feel
as
if
it
would
be
treating
you
unfairly
not
to
tell
you
all
that
I
know
about
the
matter."
"Very
good,
Barrymore;
you
can
go."
When
the
butler
had
left
us
Sir
Henry
turned
to
me.
"Well,
Watson,
what
do
you
think
of
this
new
light?"
"It
seems
to
leave
the
darkness
rather
blacker
than
before."
"So
I
think.
But
if
we
can
only
trace
L.
L.
it
should
clear
up
the
whole
business.
We
have
gained
that
much.
We
know
that
there
is
someone
who
has
the
facts
if
we
can
only
find
her.
What
do
you
think
we
should
do?"
"Let
Holmes
know
all
about
it
at
once.
It
will
give
him
the
clue
for
which
he
has
been
seeking.
I
am
much
mistaken
if
it
does
not
bring
him
down."
I
went
at
once
to
my
room
and
drew
up
my
report
of
the
morning's
conversation
for
Holmes.
It
was
evident
to
me
that
he
had
been
very
busy
of
late,
for
the
notes
which
I
had
from
Baker
Street
were
few
and
short,
with
no
comments
upon
the
information
which
I
had
supplied
and
hardly
any
reference
to
my
mission.
No
doubt
his
blackmailing
case
is
absorbing
all
his
faculties.
And
yet
this
new
factor
must
surely
arrest
his
attention
and
renew
his
interest.
I
wish
that
he
were
here.
October
17th.
All
day
today
the
rain
poured
down,
rustling
on
the
ivy
and
dripping
from
the
eaves.
I
thought
of
the
convict
out
upon
the
bleak,
cold,
shelterless
moor.
Poor
devil!
Whatever
his
crimes,
he
has
suffered
something
to
atone
for
them.
And
then
I
thought
of
that
other
one—the
face
in
the
cab,
the
figure
against
the
moon.
Was
he
also
out
in
that
deluged—the
unseen
watcher,
the
man
of
darkness?
In
the
evening
I
put
on
my
waterproof
and
I
walked
far
upon
the
sodden
moor,
full
of
dark
imaginings,
the
rain
beating
upon
my
face
and
the
wind
whistling
about
my
ears.
God
help
those
who
wander
into
the
great
mire
now,
for
even
the
firm
uplands
are
becoming
a
morass.
I
found
the
black
tor
upon
which
I
had
seen
the
solitary
watcher,
and
from
its
craggy
summit
I
looked
out
myself
across
the
melancholy
downs.
Rain
squalls
drifted
across
their
russet
face,
and
the
heavy,
slate-coloured
clouds
hung
low
over
the
landscape,
trailing
in
gray
wreaths
down
the
sides
of
the
fantastic
hills.
In
the
distant
hollow
on
the
left,
half
hidden
by
the
mist,
the
two
thin
towers
of
Baskerville
Hall
rose
above
the
trees.
They
were
the
only
signs
of
human
life
which
I
could
see,
save
only
those
prehistoric
huts
which
lay
thickly
upon
the
slopes
of
the
hills.
Nowhere
was
there
any
trace
of
that
lonely
man
whom
I
had
seen
on
the
same
spot
two
nights
before.
As
I
walked
back
I
was
overtaken
by
Dr.
Mortimer
driving
in
his
dog-cart
over
a
rough
moorland
track
which
led
from
the
outlying
farmhouse
of
Foulmire.
He
has
been
very
attentive
to
us,
and
hardly
a
day
has
passed
that
he
has
not
called
at
the
Hall
to
see
how
we
were
getting
on.
He
insisted
upon
my
climbing
into
his
dog-cart,
and
he
gave
me
a
lift
homeward.
I
found
him
much
troubled
over
the
disappearance
of
his
little
spaniel.
It
had
wandered
on
to
the
moor
and
had
never
come
back.
I
gave
him
such
consolation
as
I
might,
but
I
thought
of
the
pony
on
the
Grimpen
Mire,
and
I
do
not
fancy
that
he
will
see
his
little
dog
again.
"By
the
way,
Mortimer,"
said
I
as
we
jolted
along
the
rough
road,
"I
suppose
there
are
few
people
living
within
driving
distance
of
this
whom
you
do
not
know?"
"Hardly
any,
I
think."
"Can
you,
then,
tell
me
the
name
of
any
woman
whose
initials
are
L.
L.?"
He
thought
for
a
few
minutes.
"No,"
said
he.
"There
are
a
few
gipsies
and
labouring
folk
for
whom
I
can't
answer,
but
among
the
farmers
or
gentry
there
is
no
one
whose
initials
are
those.
Wait
a
bit
though,"
he
added
after
a
pause.
"There
is
Laura
Lyons—her
initials
are
L.
L.—but
she
lives
in
Coombe
Tracey."
"Who
is
she?"
I
asked.
"She
is
Frankland's
daughter."
"What!
Old
Frankland
the
crank?"
"Exactly.
She
married
an
artist
named
Lyons,
who
came
sketching
on
the
moor.
He
proved
to
be
a
blackguard
and
deserted
her.
The
fault
from
what
I
hear
may
not
have
been
entirely
on
one
side.
Her
father
refused
to
have
anything
to
do
with
her
because
she
had
married
without
his
consent
and
perhaps
for
one
or
two
other
reasons
as
well.
So,
between
the
old
sinner
and
the
young
one
the
girl
has
had
a
pretty
bad
time."
"How
does
she
live?"
"I
fancy
old
Frankland
allows
her
a
pittance,
but
it
cannot
be
more,
for
his
own
affairs
are
considerably
involved.
Whatever
she
may
have
deserved
one
could
not
allow
her
to
go
hopelessly
to
the
bad.
Her
story
got
about,
and
several
of
the
people
here
did
something
to
enable
her
to
earn
an
honest
living.
Stapleton
did
for
one,
and
Sir
Charles
for
another.
I
gave
a
trifle
myself.
It
was
to
set
her
up
in
a
typewriting
business."
He
wanted
to
know
the
object
of
my
inquiries,
but
I
managed
to
satisfy
his
curiosity
without
telling
him
too
much,
for
there
is
no
reason
why
we
should
take
anyone
into
our
confidence.
Tomorrow
morning
I
shall
find
my
way
to
Coombe
Tracey,
and
if
I
can
see
this
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons,
of
equivocal
reputation,
a
long
step
will
have
been
made
towards
clearing
one
incident
in
this
chain
of
mysteries.
I
am
certainly
developing
the
wisdom
of
the
serpent,
for
when
Mortimer
pressed
his
questions
to
an
inconvenient
extent
I
asked
him
casually
to
what
type
Frankland's
skull
belonged,
and
so
heard
nothing
but
craniology
for
the
rest
of
our
drive.
I
have
not
lived
for
years
with
Sherlock
Holmes
for
nothing.
I
have
only
one
other
incident
to
record
upon
this
tempestuous
and
melancholy
day.
This
was
my
conversation
with
Barrymore
just
now,
which
gives
me
one
more
strong
card
which
I
can
play
in
due
time.
Mortimer
had
stayed
to
dinner,
and
he
and
the
baronet
played
ecarte
afterwards.
The
butler
brought
me
my
coffee
into
the
library,
and
I
took
the
chance
to
ask
him
a
few
questions.
"Well,"
said
I,
"has
this
precious
relation
of
yours
departed,
or
is
he
still
lurking
out
yonder?"
"I
don't
know,
sir.
I
hope
to
heaven
that
he
has
gone,
for
he
has
brought
nothing
but
trouble
here!
I've
not
heard
of
him
since
I
left
out
food
for
him
last,
and
that
was
three
days
ago."
"Did
you
see
him
then?"
"No,
sir,
but
the
food
was
gone
when
next
I
went
that
way."
"Then
he
was
certainly
there?"
"So
you
would
think,
sir,
unless
it
was
the
other
man
who
took
it."
I
sat
with
my
coffee-cup
halfway
to
my
lips
and
stared
at
Barrymore.
"You
know
that
there
is
another
man
then?"
"Yes,
sir;
there
is
another
man
upon
the
moor."
"Have
you
seen
him?"
"No,
sir."
"How
do
you
know
of
him
then?"
"Selden
told
me
of
him,
sir,
a
week
ago
or
more.
He's
in
hiding,
too,
but
he's
not
a
convict
as
far
as
I
can
make
out.
I
don't
like
it,
Dr.
Watson—I
tell
you
straight,
sir,
that
I
don't
like
it."
He
spoke
with
a
sudden
passion
of
earnestness.
"Now,
listen
to
me,
Barrymore!
I
have
no
interest
in
this
matter
but
that
of
your
master.
I
have
come
here
with
no
object
except
to
help
him.
Tell
me,
frankly,
what
it
is
that
you
don't
like."
Barrymore
hesitated
for
a
moment,
as
if
he
regretted
his
outburst
or
found
it
difficult
to
express
his
own
feelings
in
words.
"It's
all
these
goings-on,
sir,"
he
cried
at
last,
waving
his
hand
towards
the
rain-lashed
window
which
faced
the
moor.
"There's
foul
play
somewhere,
and
there's
black
villainy
brewing,
to
that
I'll
swear!
Very
glad
I
should
be,
sir,
to
see
Sir
Henry
on
his
way
back
to
London
again!"
"But
what
is
it
that
alarms
you?"
"Look
at
Sir
Charles's
death!
That
was
bad
enough,
for
all
that
the
coroner
said.
Look
at
the
noises
on
the
moor
at
night.
There's
not
a
man
would
cross
it
after
sundown
if
he
was
paid
for
it.
Look
at
this
stranger
hiding
out
yonder,
and
watching
and
waiting!
What's
he
waiting
for?
What
does
it
mean?
It
means
no
good
to
anyone
of
the
name
of
Baskerville,
and
very
glad
I
shall
be
to
be
quit
of
it
all
on
the
day
that
Sir
Henry's
new
servants
are
ready
to
take
over
the
Hall."
"But
about
this
stranger,"
said
I.
"Can
you
tell
me
anything
about
him?
What
did
Selden
say?
Did
he
find
out
where
he
hid,
or
what
he
was
doing?"
"He
saw
him
once
or
twice,
but
he
is
a
deep
one
and
gives
nothing
away.
At
first
he
thought
that
he
was
the
police,
but
soon
he
found
that
he
had
some
lay
of
his
own.
A
kind
of
gentleman
he
was,
as
far
as
he
could
see,
but
what
he
was
doing
he
could
not
make
out."
"And
where
did
he
say
that
he
lived?"
"Among
the
old
houses
on
the
hillside—the
stone
huts
where
the
old
folk
used
to
live."
"But
how
about
his
food?"
"Selden
found
out
that
he
has
got
a
lad
who
works
for
him
and
brings
all
he
needs.
I
dare
say
he
goes
to
Coombe
Tracey
for
what
he
wants."
"Very
good,
Barrymore.
We
may
talk
further
of
this
some
other
time."
When
the
butler
had
gone
I
walked
over
to
the
black
window,
and
I
looked
through
a
blurred
pane
at
the
driving
clouds
and
at
the
tossing
outline
of
the
wind-swept
trees.
It
is
a
wild
night
indoors,
and
what
must
it
be
in
a
stone
hut
upon
the
moor.
What
passion
of
hatred
can
it
be
which
leads
a
man
to
lurk
in
such
a
place
at
such
a
time!
And
what
deep
and
earnest
purpose
can
he
have
which
calls
for
such
a
trial!
There,
in
that
hut
upon
the
moor,
seems
to
lie
the
very
centre
of
that
problem
which
has
vexed
me
so
sorely.
I
swear
that
another
day
shall
not
have
passed
before
I
have
done
all
that
man
can
do
to
reach
the
heart
of
the
mystery.
Chapter
11.
The
Man
on
the
Tor
The
extract
from
my
private
diary
which
forms
the
last
chapter
has
brought
my
narrative
up
to
the
eighteenth
of
October,
a
time
when
these
strange
events
began
to
move
swiftly
towards
their
terrible
conclusion.
The
incidents
of
the
next
few
days
are
indelibly
graven
upon
my
recollection,
and
I
can
tell
them
without
reference
to
the
notes
made
at
the
time.
I
start
them
from
the
day
which
succeeded
that
upon
which
I
had
established
two
facts
of
great
importance,
the
one
that
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons
of
Coombe
Tracey
had
written
to
Sir
Charles
Baskerville
and
made
an
appointment
with
him
at
the
very
place
and
hour
that
he
met
his
death,
the
other
that
the
lurking
man
upon
the
moor
was
to
be
found
among
the
stone
huts
upon
the
hillside.
With
these
two
facts
in
my
possession
I
felt
that
either
my
intelligence
or
my
courage
must
be
deficient
if
I
could
not
throw
some
further
light
upon
these
dark
places.
I
had
no
opportunity
to
tell
the
baronet
what
I
had
learned
about
Mrs.
Lyons
upon
the
evening
before,
for
Dr.
Mortimer
remained
with
him
at
cards
until
it
was
very
late.
At
breakfast,
however,
I
informed
him
about
my
discovery
and
asked
him
whether
he
would
care
to
accompany
me
to
Coombe
Tracey.
At
first
he
was
very
eager
to
come,
but
on
second
thoughts
it
seemed
to
both
of
us
that
if
I
went
alone
the
results
might
be
better.
The
more
formal
we
made
the
visit
the
less
information
we
might
obtain.
I
left
Sir
Henry
behind,
therefore,
not
without
some
prickings
of
conscience,
and
drove
off
upon
my
new
quest.
When
I
reached
Coombe
Tracey
I
told
Perkins
to
put
up
the
horses,
and
I
made
inquiries
for
the
lady
whom
I
had
come
to
interrogate.
I
had
no
difficulty
in
finding
her
rooms,
which
were
central
and
well
appointed.
A
maid
showed
me
in
without
ceremony,
and
as
I
entered
the
sitting-room
a
lady,
who
was
sitting
before
a
Remington
typewriter,
sprang
up
with
a
pleasant
smile
of
welcome.
Her
face
fell,
however,
when
she
saw
that
I
was
a
stranger,
and
she
sat
down
again
and
asked
me
the
object
of
my
visit.
The
first
impression
left
by
Mrs.
Lyons
was
one
of
extreme
beauty.
Her
eyes
and
hair
were
of
the
same
rich
hazel
colour,
and
her
cheeks,
though
considerably
freckled,
were
flushed
with
the
exquisite
bloom
of
the
brunette,
the
dainty
pink
which
lurks
at
the
heart
of
the
sulphur
rose.
Admiration
was,
I
repeat,
the
first
impression.
But
the
second
was
criticism.
There
was
something
subtly
wrong
with
the
face,
some
coarseness
of
expression,
some
hardness,
perhaps,
of
eye,
some
looseness
of
lip
which
marred
its
perfect
beauty.
But
these,
of
course,
are
afterthoughts.
At
the
moment
I
was
simply
conscious
that
I
was
in
the
presence
of
a
very
handsome
woman,
and
that
she
was
asking
me
the
reasons
for
my
visit.
I
had
not
quite
understood
until
that
instant
how
delicate
my
mission
was.
"I
have
the
pleasure,"
said
I,
"of
knowing
your
father."
It
was
a
clumsy
introduction,
and
the
lady
made
me
feel
it.
"There
is
nothing
in
common
between
my
father
and
me,"
she
said.
"I
owe
him
nothing,
and
his
friends
are
not
mine.
If
it
were
not
for
the
late
Sir
Charles
Baskerville
and
some
other
kind
hearts
I
might
have
starved
for
all
that
my
father
cared."
"It
was
about
the
late
Sir
Charles
Baskerville
that
I
have
come
here
to
see
you."
The
freckles
started
out
on
the
lady's
face.
"What
can
I
tell
you
about
him?"
she
asked,
and
her
fingers
played
nervously
over
the
stops
of
her
typewriter.
"You
knew
him,
did
you
not?"
"I
have
already
said
that
I
owe
a
great
deal
to
his
kindness.
If
I
am
able
to
support
myself
it
is
largely
due
to
the
interest
which
he
took
in
my
unhappy
situation."
"Did
you
correspond
with
him?"
The
lady
looked
quickly
up
with
an
angry
gleam
in
her
hazel
eyes.
"What
is
the
object
of
these
questions?"
she
asked
sharply.
"The
object
is
to
avoid
a
public
scandal.
It
is
better
that
I
should
ask
them
here
than
that
the
matter
should
pass
outside
our
control."
She
was
silent
and
her
face
was
still
very
pale.
At
last
she
looked
up
with
something
reckless
and
defiant
in
her
manner.
"Well,
I'll
answer,"
she
said.
"What
are
your
questions?"
"Did
you
correspond
with
Sir
Charles?"
"I
certainly
wrote
to
him
once
or
twice
to
acknowledge
his
delicacy
and
his
generosity."
"Have
you
the
dates
of
those
letters?"
"No."
"Have
you
ever
met
him?"
"Yes,
once
or
twice,
when
he
came
into
Coombe
Tracey.
He
was
a
very
retiring
man,
and
he
preferred
to
do
good
by
stealth."
"But
if
you
saw
him
so
seldom
and
wrote
so
seldom,
how
did
he
know
enough
about
your
affairs
to
be
able
to
help
you,
as
you
say
that
he
has
done?"
She
met
my
difficulty
with
the
utmost
readiness.
"There
were
several
gentlemen
who
knew
my
sad
history
and
united
to
help
me.
One
was
Mr.
Stapleton,
a
neighbour
and
intimate
friend
of
Sir
Charles's.
He
was
exceedingly
kind,
and
it
was
through
him
that
Sir
Charles
learned
about
my
affairs."
I
knew
already
that
Sir
Charles
Baskerville
had
made
Stapleton
his
almoner
upon
several
occasions,
so
the
lady's
statement
bore
the
impress
of
truth
upon
it.
"Did
you
ever
write
to
Sir
Charles
asking
him
to
meet
you?"
I
continued.
Mrs.
Lyons
flushed
with
anger
again.
"Really,
sir,
this
is
a
very
extraordinary
question."
"I
am
sorry,
madam,
but
I
must
repeat
it."
"Then
I
answer,
certainly
not."
"Not
on
the
very
day
of
Sir
Charles's
death?"
The
flush
had
faded
in
an
instant,
and
a
deathly
face
was
before
me.
Her
dry
lips
could
not
speak
the
"No"
which
I
saw
rather
than
heard.
"Surely
your
memory
deceives
you,"
said
I.
"I
could
even
quote
a
passage
of
your
letter.
It
ran
'Please,
please,
as
you
are
a
gentleman,
burn
this
letter,
and
be
at
the
gate
by
ten
o'clock.'"
I
thought
that
she
had
fainted,
but
she
recovered
herself
by
a
supreme
effort.
"Is
there
no
such
thing
as
a
gentleman?"
she
gasped.
"You
do
Sir
Charles
an
injustice.
He
did
burn
the
letter.
But
sometimes
a
letter
may
be
legible
even
when
burned.
You
acknowledge
now
that
you
wrote
it?"
"Yes,
I
did
write
it,"
she
cried,
pouring
out
her
soul
in
a
torrent
of
words.
"I
did
write
it.
Why
should
I
deny
it?
I
have
no
reason
to
be
ashamed
of
it.
I
wished
him
to
help
me.
I
believed
that
if
I
had
an
interview
I
could
gain
his
help,
so
I
asked
him
to
meet
me."
"But
why
at
such
an
hour?"
"Because
I
had
only
just
learned
that
he
was
going
to
London
next
day
and
might
be
away
for
months.
There
were
reasons
why
I
could
not
get
there
earlier."
"But
why
a
rendezvous
in
the
garden
instead
of
a
visit
to
the
house?"
"Do
you
think
a
woman
could
go
alone
at
that
hour
to
a
bachelor's
house?"
"Well,
what
happened
when
you
did
get
there?"
"I
never
went."
"Mrs.
Lyons!"
"No,
I
swear
it
to
you
on
all
I
hold
sacred.
I
never
went.
Something
intervened
to
prevent
my
going."
"What
was
that?"
"That
is
a
private
matter.
I
cannot
tell
it."
"You
acknowledge
then
that
you
made
an
appointment
with
Sir
Charles
at
the
very
hour
and
place
at
which
he
met
his
death,
but
you
deny
that
you
kept
the
appointment."
"That
is
the
truth."
Again
and
again
I
cross-questioned
her,
but
I
could
never
get
past
that
point.
"Mrs.
Lyons,"
said
I
as
I
rose
from
this
long
and
inconclusive
interview,
"you
are
taking
a
very
great
responsibility
and
putting
yourself
in
a
very
false
position
by
not
making
an
absolutely
clean
breast
of
all
that
you
know.
If
I
have
to
call
in
the
aid
of
the
police
you
will
find
how
seriously
you
are
compromised.
If
your
position
is
innocent,
why
did
you
in
the
first
instance
deny
having
written
to
Sir
Charles
upon
that
date?"
"Because
I
feared
that
some
false
conclusion
might
be
drawn
from
it
and
that
I
might
find
myself
involved
in
a
scandal."
"And
why
were
you
so
pressing
that
Sir
Charles
should
destroy
your
letter?"
"If
you
have
read
the
letter
you
will
know."
"I
did
not
say
that
I
had
read
all
the
letter."
"You
quoted
some
of
it."
"I
quoted
the
postscript.
The
letter
had,
as
I
said,
been
burned
and
it
was
not
all
legible.
I
ask
you
once
again
why
it
was
that
you
were
so
pressing
that
Sir
Charles
should
destroy
this
letter
which
he
received
on
the
day
of
his
death."
"The
matter
is
a
very
private
one."
"The
more
reason
why
you
should
avoid
a
public
investigation."
"I
will
tell
you,
then.
If
you
have
heard
anything
of
my
unhappy
history
you
will
know
that
I
made
a
rash
marriage
and
had
reason
to
regret
it."
"I
have
heard
so
much."
"My
life
has
been
one
incessant
persecution
from
a
husband
whom
I
abhor.
The
law
is
upon
his
side,
and
every
day
I
am
faced
by
the
possibility
that
he
may
force
me
to
live
with
him.
At
the
time
that
I
wrote
this
letter
to
Sir
Charles
I
had
learned
that
there
was
a
prospect
of
my
regaining
my
freedom
if
certain
expenses
could
be
met.
It
meant
everything
to
me—peace
of
mind,
happiness,
self-respect—everything.
I
knew
Sir
Charles's
generosity,
and
I
thought
that
if
he
heard
the
story
from
my
own
lips
he
would
help
me."
"Then
how
is
it
that
you
did
not
go?"
"Because
I
received
help
in
the
interval
from
another
source."
"Why
then,
did
you
not
write
to
Sir
Charles
and
explain
this?"
"So
I
should
have
done
had
I
not
seen
his
death
in
the
paper
next
morning."
The
woman's
story
hung
coherently
together,
and
all
my
questions
were
unable
to
shake
it.
I
could
only
check
it
by
finding
if
she
had,
indeed,
instituted
divorce
proceedings
against
her
husband
at
or
about
the
time
of
the
tragedy.
It
was
unlikely
that
she
would
dare
to
say
that
she
had
not
been
to
Baskerville
Hall
if
she
really
had
been,
for
a
trap
would
be
necessary
to
take
her
there,
and
could
not
have
returned
to
Coombe
Tracey
until
the
early
hours
of
the
morning.
Such
an
excursion
could
not
be
kept
secret.
The
probability
was,
therefore,
that
she
was
telling
the
truth,
or,
at
least,
a
part
of
the
truth.
I
came
away
baffled
and
disheartened.
Once
again
I
had
reached
that
dead
wall
which
seemed
to
be
built
across
every
path
by
which
I
tried
to
get
at
the
object
of
my
mission.
And
yet
the
more
I
thought
of
the
lady's
face
and
of
her
manner
the
more
I
felt
that
something
was
being
held
back
from
me.
Why
should
she
turn
so
pale?
Why
should
she
fight
against
every
admission
until
it
was
forced
from
her?
Why
should
she
have
been
so
reticent
at
the
time
of
the
tragedy?
Surely
the
explanation
of
all
this
could
not
be
as
innocent
as
she
would
have
me
believe.
For
the
moment
I
could
proceed
no
farther
in
that
direction,
but
must
turn
back
to
that
other
clue
which
was
to
be
sought
for
among
the
stone
huts
upon
the
moor.
And
that
was
a
most
vague
direction.
I
realized
it
as
I
drove
back
and
noted
how
hill
after
hill
showed
traces
of
the
ancient
people.
Barrymore's
only
indication
had
been
that
the
stranger
lived
in
one
of
these
abandoned
huts,
and
many
hundreds
of
them
are
scattered
throughout
the
length
and
breadth
of
the
moor.
But
I
had
my
own
experience
for
a
guide
since
it
had
shown
me
the
man
himself
standing
upon
the
summit
of
the
Black
Tor.
That,
then,
should
be
the
centre
of
my
search.
From
there
I
should
explore
every
hut
upon
the
moor
until
I
lighted
upon
the
right
one.
If
this
man
were
inside
it
I
should
find
out
from
his
own
lips,
at
the
point
of
my
revolver
if
necessary,
who
he
was
and
why
he
had
dogged
us
so
long.
He
might
slip
away
from
us
in
the
crowd
of
Regent
Street,
but
it
would
puzzle
him
to
do
so
upon
the
lonely
moor.
On
the
other
hand,
if
I
should
find
the
hut
and
its
tenant
should
not
be
within
it
I
must
remain
there,
however
long
the
vigil,
until
he
returned.
Holmes
had
missed
him
in
London.
It
would
indeed
be
a
triumph
for
me
if
I
could
run
him
to
earth
where
my
master
had
failed.
Luck
had
been
against
us
again
and
again
in
this
inquiry,
but
now
at
last
it
came
to
my
aid.
And
the
messenger
of
good
fortune
was
none
other
than
Mr.
Frankland,
who
was
standing,
gray-whiskered
and
red-faced,
outside
the
gate
of
his
garden,
which
opened
on
to
the
highroad
along
which
I
travelled.
"Good-day,
Dr.
Watson,"
cried
he
with
unwonted
good
humour,
"you
must
really
give
your
horses
a
rest
and
come
in
to
have
a
glass
of
wine
and
to
congratulate
me."
My
feelings
towards
him
were
very
far
from
being
friendly
after
what
I
had
heard
of
his
treatment
of
his
daughter,
but
I
was
anxious
to
send
Perkins
and
the
wagonette
home,
and
the
opportunity
was
a
good
one.
I
alighted
and
sent
a
message
to
Sir
Henry
that
I
should
walk
over
in
time
for
dinner.
Then
I
followed
Frankland
into
his
dining-room.
"It
is
a
great
day
for
me,
sir—one
of
the
red-letter
days
of
my
life,"
he
cried
with
many
chuckles.
"I
have
brought
off
a
double
event.
I
mean
to
teach
them
in
these
parts
that
law
is
law,
and
that
there
is
a
man
here
who
does
not
fear
to
invoke
it.
I
have
established
a
right
of
way
through
the
centre
of
old
Middleton's
park,
slap
across
it,
sir,
within
a
hundred
yards
of
his
own
front
door.
What
do
you
think
of
that?
We'll
teach
these
magnates
that
they
cannot
ride
roughshod
over
the
rights
of
the
commoners,
confound
them!
And
I've
closed
the
wood
where
the
Fernworthy
folk
used
to
picnic.
These
infernal
people
seem
to
think
that
there
are
no
rights
of
property,
and
that
they
can
swarm
where
they
like
with
their
papers
and
their
bottles.
Both
cases
decided,
Dr.
Watson,
and
both
in
my
favour.
I
haven't
had
such
a
day
since
I
had
Sir
John
Morland
for
trespass
because
he
shot
in
his
own
warren."
"How
on
earth
did
you
do
that?"
"Look
it
up
in
the
books,
sir.
It
will
repay
reading—Frankland
v.
Morland,
Court
of
Queen's
Bench.
It
cost
me
200
pounds,
but
I
got
my
verdict."
"Did
it
do
you
any
good?"
"None,
sir,
none.
I
am
proud
to
say
that
I
had
no
interest
in
the
matter.
I
act
entirely
from
a
sense
of
public
duty.
I
have
no
doubt,
for
example,
that
the
Fernworthy
people
will
burn
me
in
effigy
tonight.
I
told
the
police
last
time
they
did
it
that
they
should
stop
these
disgraceful
exhibitions.
The
County
Constabulary
is
in
a
scandalous
state,
sir,
and
it
has
not
afforded
me
the
protection
to
which
I
am
entitled.
The
case
of
Frankland
v.
Regina
will
bring
the
matter
before
the
attention
of
the
public.
I
told
them
that
they
would
have
occasion
to
regret
their
treatment
of
me,
and
already
my
words
have
come
true."
"How
so?"
I
asked.
The
old
man
put
on
a
very
knowing
expression.
"Because
I
could
tell
them
what
they
are
dying
to
know;
but
nothing
would
induce
me
to
help
the
rascals
in
any
way."
I
had
been
casting
round
for
some
excuse
by
which
I
could
get
away
from
his
gossip,
but
now
I
began
to
wish
to
hear
more
of
it.
I
had
seen
enough
of
the
contrary
nature
of
the
old
sinner
to
understand
that
any
strong
sign
of
interest
would
be
the
surest
way
to
stop
his
confidences.
"Some
poaching
case,
no
doubt?"
said
I
with
an
indifferent
manner.
"Ha,
ha,
my
boy,
a
very
much
more
important
matter
than
that!
What
about
the
convict
on
the
moor?"
I
stared.
"You
don't
mean
that
you
know
where
he
is?"
said
I.
"I
may
not
know
exactly
where
he
is,
but
I
am
quite
sure
that
I
could
help
the
police
to
lay
their
hands
on
him.
Has
it
never
struck
you
that
the
way
to
catch
that
man
was
to
find
out
where
he
got
his
food
and
so
trace
it
to
him?"
He
certainly
seemed
to
be
getting
uncomfortably
near
the
truth.
"No
doubt,"
said
I;
"but
how
do
you
know
that
he
is
anywhere
upon
the
moor?"
"I
know
it
because
I
have
seen
with
my
own
eyes
the
messenger
who
takes
him
his
food."
My
heart
sank
for
Barrymore.
It
was
a
serious
thing
to
be
in
the
power
of
this
spiteful
old
busybody.
But
his
next
remark
took
a
weight
from
my
mind.
"You'll
be
surprised
to
hear
that
his
food
is
taken
to
him
by
a
child.
I
see
him
every
day
through
my
telescope
upon
the
roof.
He
passes
along
the
same
path
at
the
same
hour,
and
to
whom
should
he
be
going
except
to
the
convict?"
Here
was
luck
indeed!
And
yet
I
suppressed
all
appearance
of
interest.
A
child!
Barrymore
had
said
that
our
unknown
was
supplied
by
a
boy.
It
was
on
his
track,
and
not
upon
the
convict's,
that
Frankland
had
stumbled.
If
I
could
get
his
knowledge
it
might
save
me
a
long
and
weary
hunt.
But
incredulity
and
indifference
were
evidently
my
strongest
cards.
"I
should
say
that
it
was
much
more
likely
that
it
was
the
son
of
one
of
the
moorland
shepherds
taking
out
his
father's
dinner."
The
least
appearance
of
opposition
struck
fire
out
of
the
old
autocrat.
His
eyes
looked
malignantly
at
me,
and
his
gray
whiskers
bristled
like
those
of
an
angry
cat.
"Indeed,
sir!"
said
he,
pointing
out
over
the
wide-stretching
moor.
"Do
you
see
that
Black
Tor
over
yonder?
Well,
do
you
see
the
low
hill
beyond
with
the
thornbush
upon
it?
It
is
the
stoniest
part
of
the
whole
moor.
Is
that
a
place
where
a
shepherd
would
be
likely
to
take
his
station?
Your
suggestion,
sir,
is
a
most
absurd
one."
I
meekly
answered
that
I
had
spoken
without
knowing
all
the
facts.
My
submission
pleased
him
and
led
him
to
further
confidences.
"You
may
be
sure,
sir,
that
I
have
very
good
grounds
before
I
come
to
an
opinion.
I
have
seen
the
boy
again
and
again
with
his
bundle.
Every
day,
and
sometimes
twice
a
day,
I
have
been
able—but
wait
a
moment,
Dr.
Watson.
Do
my
eyes
deceive
me,
or
is
there
at
the
present
moment
something
moving
upon
that
hillside?"
It
was
several
miles
off,
but
I
could
distinctly
see
a
small
dark
dot
against
the
dull
green
and
gray.
"Come,
sir,
come!"
cried
Frankland,
rushing
upstairs.
"You
will
see
with
your
own
eyes
and
judge
for
yourself."
The
telescope,
a
formidable
instrument
mounted
upon
a
tripod,
stood
upon
the
flat
leads
of
the
house.
Frankland
clapped
his
eye
to
it
and
gave
a
cry
of
satisfaction.
"Quick,
Dr.
Watson,
quick,
before
he
passes
over
the
hill!"
There
he
was,
sure
enough,
a
small
urchin
with
a
little
bundle
upon
his
shoulder,
toiling
slowly
up
the
hill.
When
he
reached
the
crest
I
saw
the
ragged
uncouth
figure
outlined
for
an
instant
against
the
cold
blue
sky.
He
looked
round
him
with
a
furtive
and
stealthy
air,
as
one
who
dreads
pursuit.
Then
he
vanished
over
the
hill.
"Well!
Am
I
right?"
"Certainly,
there
is
a
boy
who
seems
to
have
some
secret
errand."
"And
what
the
errand
is
even
a
county
constable
could
guess.
But
not
one
word
shall
they
have
from
me,
and
I
bind
you
to
secrecy
also,
Dr.
Watson.
Not
a
word!
You
understand!"
"Just
as
you
wish."
"They
have
treated
me
shamefully—shamefully.
When
the
facts
come
out
in
Frankland
v.
Regina
I
venture
to
think
that
a
thrill
of
indignation
will
run
through
the
country.
Nothing
would
induce
me
to
help
the
police
in
any
way.
For
all
they
cared
it
might
have
been
me,
instead
of
my
effigy,
which
these
rascals
burned
at
the
stake.
Surely
you
are
not
going!
You
will
help
me
to
empty
the
decanter
in
honour
of
this
great
occasion!"
But
I
resisted
all
his
solicitations
and
succeeded
in
dissuading
him
from
his
announced
intention
of
walking
home
with
me.
I
kept
the
road
as
long
as
his
eye
was
on
me,
and
then
I
struck
off
across
the
moor
and
made
for
the
stony
hill
over
which
the
boy
had
disappeared.
Everything
was
working
in
my
favour,
and
I
swore
that
it
should
not
be
through
lack
of
energy
or
perseverance
that
I
should
miss
the
chance
which
fortune
had
thrown
in
my
way.
The
sun
was
already
sinking
when
I
reached
the
summit
of
the
hill,
and
the
long
slopes
beneath
me
were
all
golden-green
on
one
side
and
gray
shadow
on
the
other.
A
haze
lay
low
upon
the
farthest
sky-line,
out
of
which
jutted
the
fantastic
shapes
of
Belliver
and
Vixen
Tor.
Over
the
wide
expanse
there
was
no
sound
and
no
movement.
One
great
gray
bird,
a
gull
or
curlew,
soared
aloft
in
the
blue
heaven.
He
and
I
seemed
to
be
the
only
living
things
between
the
huge
arch
of
the
sky
and
the
desert
beneath
it.
The
barren
scene,
the
sense
of
loneliness,
and
the
mystery
and
urgency
of
my
task
all
struck
a
chill
into
my
heart.
The
boy
was
nowhere
to
be
seen.
But
down
beneath
me
in
a
cleft
of
the
hills
there
was
a
circle
of
the
old
stone
huts,
and
in
the
middle
of
them
there
was
one
which
retained
sufficient
roof
to
act
as
a
screen
against
the
weather.
My
heart
leaped
within
me
as
I
saw
it.
This
must
be
the
burrow
where
the
stranger
lurked.
At
last
my
foot
was
on
the
threshold
of
his
hiding
place—his
secret
was
within
my
grasp.
As
I
approached
the
hut,
walking
as
warily
as
Stapleton
would
do
when
with
poised
net
he
drew
near
the
settled
butterfly,
I
satisfied
myself
that
the
place
had
indeed
been
used
as
a
habitation.
A
vague
pathway
among
the
boulders
led
to
the
dilapidated
opening
which
served
as
a
door.
All
was
silent
within.
The
unknown
might
be
lurking
there,
or
he
might
be
prowling
on
the
moor.
My
nerves
tingled
with
the
sense
of
adventure.
Throwing
aside
my
cigarette,
I
closed
my
hand
upon
the
butt
of
my
revolver
and,
walking
swiftly
up
to
the
door,
I
looked
in.
The
place
was
empty.
But
there
were
ample
signs
that
I
had
not
come
upon
a
false
scent.
This
was
certainly
where
the
man
lived.
Some
blankets
rolled
in
a
waterproof
lay
upon
that
very
stone
slab
upon
which
Neolithic
man
had
once
slumbered.
The
ashes
of
a
fire
were
heaped
in
a
rude
grate.
Beside
it
lay
some
cooking
utensils
and
a
bucket
half-full
of
water.
A
litter
of
empty
tins
showed
that
the
place
had
been
occupied
for
some
time,
and
I
saw,
as
my
eyes
became
accustomed
to
the
checkered
light,
a
pannikin
and
a
half-full
bottle
of
spirits
standing
in
the
corner.
In
the
middle
of
the
hut
a
flat
stone
served
the
purpose
of
a
table,
and
upon
this
stood
a
small
cloth
bundle—the
same,
no
doubt,
which
I
had
seen
through
the
telescope
upon
the
shoulder
of
the
boy.
It
contained
a
loaf
of
bread,
a
tinned
tongue,
and
two
tins
of
preserved
peaches.
As
I
set
it
down
again,
after
having
examined
it,
my
heart
leaped
to
see
that
beneath
it
there
lay
a
sheet
of
paper
with
writing
upon
it.
I
raised
it,
and
this
was
what
I
read,
roughly
scrawled
in
pencil:
"Dr.
Watson
has
gone
to
Coombe
Tracey."
For
a
minute
I
stood
there
with
the
paper
in
my
hands
thinking
out
the
meaning
of
this
curt
message.
It
was
I,
then,
and
not
Sir
Henry,
who
was
being
dogged
by
this
secret
man.
He
had
not
followed
me
himself,
but
he
had
set
an
agent—the
boy,
perhaps—upon
my
track,
and
this
was
his
report.
Possibly
I
had
taken
no
step
since
I
had
been
upon
the
moor
which
had
not
been
observed
and
reported.
Always
there
was
this
feeling
of
an
unseen
force,
a
fine
net
drawn
round
us
with
infinite
skill
and
delicacy,
holding
us
so
lightly
that
it
was
only
at
some
supreme
moment
that
one
realized
that
one
was
indeed
entangled
in
its
meshes.
If
there
was
one
report
there
might
be
others,
so
I
looked
round
the
hut
in
search
of
them.
There
was
no
trace,
however,
of
anything
of
the
kind,
nor
could
I
discover
any
sign
which
might
indicate
the
character
or
intentions
of
the
man
who
lived
in
this
singular
place,
save
that
he
must
be
of
Spartan
habits
and
cared
little
for
the
comforts
of
life.
When
I
thought
of
the
heavy
rains
and
looked
at
the
gaping
roof
I
understood
how
strong
and
immutable
must
be
the
purpose
which
had
kept
him
in
that
inhospitable
abode.
Was
he
our
malignant
enemy,
or
was
he
by
chance
our
guardian
angel?
I
swore
that
I
would
not
leave
the
hut
until
I
knew.
Outside
the
sun
was
sinking
low
and
the
west
was
blazing
with
scarlet
and
gold.
Its
reflection
was
shot
back
in
ruddy
patches
by
the
distant
pools
which
lay
amid
the
great
Grimpen
Mire.
There
were
the
two
towers
of
Baskerville
Hall,
and
there
a
distant
blur
of
smoke
which
marked
the
village
of
Grimpen.
Between
the
two,
behind
the
hill,
was
the
house
of
the
Stapletons.
All
was
sweet
and
mellow
and
peaceful
in
the
golden
evening
light,
and
yet
as
I
looked
at
them
my
soul
shared
none
of
the
peace
of
Nature
but
quivered
at
the
vagueness
and
the
terror
of
that
interview
which
every
instant
was
bringing
nearer.
With
tingling
nerves
but
a
fixed
purpose,
I
sat
in
the
dark
recess
of
the
hut
and
waited
with
sombre
patience
for
the
coming
of
its
tenant.
And
then
at
last
I
heard
him.
Far
away
came
the
sharp
clink
of
a
boot
striking
upon
a
stone.
Then
another
and
yet
another,
coming
nearer
and
nearer.
I
shrank
back
into
the
darkest
corner
and
cocked
the
pistol
in
my
pocket,
determined
not
to
discover
myself
until
I
had
an
opportunity
of
seeing
something
of
the
stranger.
There
was
a
long
pause
which
showed
that
he
had
stopped.
Then
once
more
the
footsteps
approached
and
a
shadow
fell
across
the
opening
of
the
hut.
"It
is
a
lovely
evening,
my
dear
Watson,"
said
a
well-known
voice.
"I
really
think
that
you
will
be
more
comfortable
outside
than
in."
Chapter
12.
Death
on
the
Moor
For
a
moment
or
two
I
sat
breathless,
hardly
able
to
believe
my
ears.
Then
my
senses
and
my
voice
came
back
to
me,
while
a
crushing
weight
of
responsibility
seemed
in
an
instant
to
be
lifted
from
my
soul.
That
cold,
incisive,
ironical
voice
could
belong
to
but
one
man
in
all
the
world.
"Holmes!"
I
cried—"Holmes!"
"Come
out,"
said
he,
"and
please
be
careful
with
the
revolver."
I
stooped
under
the
rude
lintel,
and
there
he
sat
upon
a
stone
outside,
his
gray
eyes
dancing
with
amusement
as
they
fell
upon
my
astonished
features.
He
was
thin
and
worn,
but
clear
and
alert,
his
keen
face
bronzed
by
the
sun
and
roughened
by
the
wind.
In
his
tweed
suit
and
cloth
cap
he
looked
like
any
other
tourist
upon
the
moor,
and
he
had
contrived,
with
that
catlike
love
of
personal
cleanliness
which
was
one
of
his
characteristics,
that
his
chin
should
be
as
smooth
and
his
linen
as
perfect
as
if
he
were
in
Baker
Street.
"I
never
was
more
glad
to
see
anyone
in
my
life,"
said
I
as
I
wrung
him
by
the
hand.
"Or
more
astonished,
eh?"
"Well,
I
must
confess
to
it."
"The
surprise
was
not
all
on
one
side,
I
assure
you.
I
had
no
idea
that
you
had
found
my
occasional
retreat,
still
less
that
you
were
inside
it,
until
I
was
within
twenty
paces
of
the
door."
"My
footprint,
I
presume?"
"No,
Watson,
I
fear
that
I
could
not
undertake
to
recognize
your
footprint
amid
all
the
footprints
of
the
world.
If
you
seriously
desire
to
deceive
me
you
must
change
your
tobacconist;
for
when
I
see
the
stub
of
a
cigarette
marked
Bradley,
Oxford
Street,
I
know
that
my
friend
Watson
is
in
the
neighbourhood.
You
will
see
it
there
beside
the
path.
You
threw
it
down,
no
doubt,
at
that
supreme
moment
when
you
charged
into
the
empty
hut."
"Exactly."
"I
thought
as
much—and
knowing
your
admirable
tenacity
I
was
convinced
that
you
were
sitting
in
ambush,
a
weapon
within
reach,
waiting
for
the
tenant
to
return.
So
you
actually
thought
that
I
was
the
criminal?"
"I
did
not
know
who
you
were,
but
I
was
determined
to
find
out."
"Excellent,
Watson!
And
how
did
you
localize
me?
You
saw
me,
perhaps,
on
the
night
of
the
convict
hunt,
when
I
was
so
imprudent
as
to
allow
the
moon
to
rise
behind
me?"
"Yes,
I
saw
you
then."
"And
have
no
doubt
searched
all
the
huts
until
you
came
to
this
one?"
"No,
your
boy
had
been
observed,
and
that
gave
me
a
guide
where
to
look."
"The
old
gentleman
with
the
telescope,
no
doubt.
I
could
not
make
it
out
when
first
I
saw
the
light
flashing
upon
the
lens."
He
rose
and
peeped
into
the
hut.
"Ha,
I
see
that
Cartwright
has
brought
up
some
supplies.
What's
this
paper?
So
you
have
been
to
Coombe
Tracey,
have
you?"
"Yes."
"To
see
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons?"
"Exactly."
"Well
done!
Our
researches
have
evidently
been
running
on
parallel
lines,
and
when
we
unite
our
results
I
expect
we
shall
have
a
fairly
full
knowledge
of
the
case."
"Well,
I
am
glad
from
my
heart
that
you
are
here,
for
indeed
the
responsibility
and
the
mystery
were
both
becoming
too
much
for
my
nerves.
But
how
in
the
name
of
wonder
did
you
come
here,
and
what
have
you
been
doing?
I
thought
that
you
were
in
Baker
Street
working
out
that
case
of
blackmailing."
"That
was
what
I
wished
you
to
think."
"Then
you
use
me,
and
yet
do
not
trust
me!"
I
cried
with
some
bitterness.
"I
think
that
I
have
deserved
better
at
your
hands,
Holmes."
"My
dear
fellow,
you
have
been
invaluable
to
me
in
this
as
in
many
other
cases,
and
I
beg
that
you
will
forgive
me
if
I
have
seemed
to
play
a
trick
upon
you.
In
truth,
it
was
partly
for
your
own
sake
that
I
did
it,
and
it
was
my
appreciation
of
the
danger
which
you
ran
which
led
me
to
come
down
and
examine
the
matter
for
myself.
Had
I
been
with
Sir
Henry
and
you
it
is
confident
that
my
point
of
view
would
have
been
the
same
as
yours,
and
my
presence
would
have
warned
our
very
formidable
opponents
to
be
on
their
guard.
As
it
is,
I
have
been
able
to
get
about
as
I
could
not
possibly
have
done
had
I
been
living
in
the
Hall,
and
I
remain
an
unknown
factor
in
the
business,
ready
to
throw
in
all
my
weight
at
a
critical
moment."
"But
why
keep
me
in
the
dark?"
"For
you
to
know
could
not
have
helped
us
and
might
possibly
have
led
to
my
discovery.
You
would
have
wished
to
tell
me
something,
or
in
your
kindness
you
would
have
brought
me
out
some
comfort
or
other,
and
so
an
unnecessary
risk
would
be
run.
I
brought
Cartwright
down
with
me—you
remember
the
little
chap
at
the
express
office—and
he
has
seen
after
my
simple
wants:
a
loaf
of
bread
and
a
clean
collar.
What
does
man
want
more?
He
has
given
me
an
extra
pair
of
eyes
upon
a
very
active
pair
of
feet,
and
both
have
been
invaluable."
"Then
my
reports
have
all
been
wasted!"—My
voice
trembled
as
I
recalled
the
pains
and
the
pride
with
which
I
had
composed
them.
Holmes
took
a
bundle
of
papers
from
his
pocket.
"Here
are
your
reports,
my
dear
fellow,
and
very
well
thumbed,
I
assure
you.
I
made
excellent
arrangements,
and
they
are
only
delayed
one
day
upon
their
way.
I
must
compliment
you
exceedingly
upon
the
zeal
and
the
intelligence
which
you
have
shown
over
an
extraordinarily
difficult
case."
I
was
still
rather
raw
over
the
deception
which
had
been
practised
upon
me,
but
the
warmth
of
Holmes's
praise
drove
my
anger
from
my
mind.
I
felt
also
in
my
heart
that
he
was
right
in
what
he
said
and
that
it
was
really
best
for
our
purpose
that
I
should
not
have
known
that
he
was
upon
the
moor.
"That's
better,"
said
he,
seeing
the
shadow
rise
from
my
face.
"And
now
tell
me
the
result
of
your
visit
to
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons—it
was
not
difficult
for
me
to
guess
that
it
was
to
see
her
that
you
had
gone,
for
I
am
already
aware
that
she
is
the
one
person
in
Coombe
Tracey
who
might
be
of
service
to
us
in
the
matter.
In
fact,
if
you
had
not
gone
today
it
is
exceedingly
probable
that
I
should
have
gone
tomorrow."
The
sun
had
set
and
dusk
was
settling
over
the
moor.
The
air
had
turned
chill
and
we
withdrew
into
the
hut
for
warmth.
There,
sitting
together
in
the
twilight,
I
told
Holmes
of
my
conversation
with
the
lady.
So
interested
was
he
that
I
had
to
repeat
some
of
it
twice
before
he
was
satisfied.
"This
is
most
important,"
said
he
when
I
had
concluded.
"It
fills
up
a
gap
which
I
had
been
unable
to
bridge
in
this
most
complex
affair.
You
are
aware,
perhaps,
that
a
close
intimacy
exists
between
this
lady
and
the
man
Stapleton?"
"I
did
not
know
of
a
close
intimacy."
"There
can
be
no
doubt
about
the
matter.
They
meet,
they
write,
there
is
a
complete
understanding
between
them.
Now,
this
puts
a
very
powerful
weapon
into
our
hands.
If
I
could
only
use
it
to
detach
his
wife—"
"His
wife?"
"I
am
giving
you
some
information
now,
in
return
for
all
that
you
have
given
me.
The
lady
who
has
passed
here
as
Miss
Stapleton
is
in
reality
his
wife."
"Good
heavens,
Holmes!
Are
you
sure
of
what
you
say?
How
could
he
have
permitted
Sir
Henry
to
fall
in
love
with
her?"
"Sir
Henry's
falling
in
love
could
do
no
harm
to
anyone
except
Sir
Henry.
He
took
particular
care
that
Sir
Henry
did
not
make
love
to
her,
as
you
have
yourself
observed.
I
repeat
that
the
lady
is
his
wife
and
not
his
sister."
"But
why
this
elaborate
deception?"
"Because
he
foresaw
that
she
would
be
very
much
more
useful
to
him
in
the
character
of
a
free
woman."
All
my
unspoken
instincts,
my
vague
suspicions,
suddenly
took
shape
and
centred
upon
the
naturalist.
In
that
impassive
colourless
man,
with
his
straw
hat
and
his
butterfly-net,
I
seemed
to
see
something
terrible—a
creature
of
infinite
patience
and
craft,
with
a
smiling
face
and
a
murderous
heart.
"It
is
he,
then,
who
is
our
enemy—it
is
he
who
dogged
us
in
London?"
"So
I
read
the
riddle."
"And
the
warning—it
must
have
come
from
her!"
"Exactly."
The
shape
of
some
monstrous
villainy,
half
seen,
half
guessed,
loomed
through
the
darkness
which
had
girt
me
so
long.
"But
are
you
sure
of
this,
Holmes?
How
do
you
know
that
the
woman
is
his
wife?"
"Because
he
so
far
forgot
himself
as
to
tell
you
a
true
piece
of
autobiography
upon
the
occasion
when
he
first
met
you,
and
I
dare
say
he
has
many
a
time
regretted
it
since.
He
was
once
a
schoolmaster
in
the
north
of
England.
Now,
there
is
no
one
more
easy
to
trace
than
a
schoolmaster.
There
are
scholastic
agencies
by
which
one
may
identify
any
man
who
has
been
in
the
profession.
A
little
investigation
showed
me
that
a
school
had
come
to
grief
under
atrocious
circumstances,
and
that
the
man
who
had
owned
it—the
name
was
different—had
disappeared
with
his
wife.
The
descriptions
agreed.
When
I
learned
that
the
missing
man
was
devoted
to
entomology
the
identification
was
complete."
The
darkness
was
rising,
but
much
was
still
hidden
by
the
shadows.
"If
this
woman
is
in
truth
his
wife,
where
does
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons
come
in?"
I
asked.
"That
is
one
of
the
points
upon
which
your
own
researches
have
shed
a
light.
Your
interview
with
the
lady
has
cleared
the
situation
very
much.
I
did
not
know
about
a
projected
divorce
between
herself
and
her
husband.
In
that
case,
regarding
Stapleton
as
an
unmarried
man,
she
counted
no
doubt
upon
becoming
his
wife."
"And
when
she
is
undeceived?"
"Why,
then
we
may
find
the
lady
of
service.
It
must
be
our
first
duty
to
see
her—both
of
us—tomorrow.
Don't
you
think,
Watson,
that
you
are
away
from
your
charge
rather
long?
Your
place
should
be
at
Baskerville
Hall."
The
last
red
streaks
had
faded
away
in
the
west
and
night
had
settled
upon
the
moor.
A
few
faint
stars
were
gleaming
in
a
violet
sky.
"One
last
question,
Holmes,"
I
said
as
I
rose.
"Surely
there
is
no
need
of
secrecy
between
you
and
me.
What
is
the
meaning
of
it
all?
What
is
he
after?"
Holmes's
voice
sank
as
he
answered:
"It
is
murder,
Watson—refined,
cold-blooded,
deliberate
murder.
Do
not
ask
me
for
particulars.
My
nets
are
closing
upon
him,
even
as
his
are
upon
Sir
Henry,
and
with
your
help
he
is
already
almost
at
my
mercy.
There
is
but
one
danger
which
can
threaten
us.
It
is
that
he
should
strike
before
we
are
ready
to
do
so.
Another
day—two
at
the
most—and
I
have
my
case
complete,
but
until
then
guard
your
charge
as
closely
as
ever
a
fond
mother
watched
her
ailing
child.
Your
mission
today
has
justified
itself,
and
yet
I
could
almost
wish
that
you
had
not
left
his
side.
Hark!"
A
terrible
scream—a
prolonged
yell
of
horror
and
anguish—burst
out
of
the
silence
of
the
moor.
That
frightful
cry
turned
the
blood
to
ice
in
my
veins.
"Oh,
my
God!"
I
gasped.
"What
is
it?
What
does
it
mean?"
Holmes
had
sprung
to
his
feet,
and
I
saw
his
dark,
athletic
outline
at
the
door
of
the
hut,
his
shoulders
stooping,
his
head
thrust
forward,
his
face
peering
into
the
darkness.
"Hush!"
he
whispered.
"Hush!"
The
cry
had
been
loud
on
account
of
its
vehemence,
but
it
had
pealed
out
from
somewhere
far
off
on
the
shadowy
plain.
Now
it
burst
upon
our
ears,
nearer,
louder,
more
urgent
than
before.
"Where
is
it?"
Holmes
whispered;
and
I
knew
from
the
thrill
of
his
voice
that
he,
the
man
of
iron,
was
shaken
to
the
soul.
"Where
is
it,
Watson?"
"There,
I
think."
I
pointed
into
the
darkness.
"No,
there!"
Again
the
agonized
cry
swept
through
the
silent
night,
louder
and
much
nearer
than
ever.
And
a
new
sound
mingled
with
it,
a
deep,
muttered
rumble,
musical
and
yet
menacing,
rising
and
falling
like
the
low,
constant
murmur
of
the
sea.
"The
hound!"
cried
Holmes.
"Come,
Watson,
come!
Great
heavens,
if
we
are
too
late!"
He
had
started
running
swiftly
over
the
moor,
and
I
had
followed
at
his
heels.
But
now
from
somewhere
among
the
broken
ground
immediately
in
front
of
us
there
came
one
last
despairing
yell,
and
then
a
dull,
heavy
thud.
We
halted
and
listened.
Not
another
sound
broke
the
heavy
silence
of
the
windless
night.
I
saw
Holmes
put
his
hand
to
his
forehead
like
a
man
distracted.
He
stamped
his
feet
upon
the
ground.
"He
has
beaten
us,
Watson.
We
are
too
late."
"No,
no,
surely
not!"
"Fool
that
I
was
to
hold
my
hand.
And
you,
Watson,
see
what
comes
of
abandoning
your
charge!
But,
by
Heaven,
if
the
worst
has
happened
we'll
avenge
him!"
Blindly
we
ran
through
the
gloom,
blundering
against
boulders,
forcing
our
way
through
gorse
bushes,
panting
up
hills
and
rushing
down
slopes,
heading
always
in
the
direction
whence
those
dreadful
sounds
had
come.
At
every
rise
Holmes
looked
eagerly
round
him,
but
the
shadows
were
thick
upon
the
moor,
and
nothing
moved
upon
its
dreary
face.
"Can
you
see
anything?"
"Nothing."
"But,
hark,
what
is
that?"
A
low
moan
had
fallen
upon
our
ears.
There
it
was
again
upon
our
left!
On
that
side
a
ridge
of
rocks
ended
in
a
sheer
cliff
which
overlooked
a
stone-strewn
slope.
On
its
jagged
face
was
spread-eagled
some
dark,
irregular
object.
As
we
ran
towards
it
the
vague
outline
hardened
into
a
definite
shape.
It
was
a
prostrate
man
face
downward
upon
the
ground,
the
head
doubled
under
him
at
a
horrible
angle,
the
shoulders
rounded
and
the
body
hunched
together
as
if
in
the
act
of
throwing
a
somersault.
So
grotesque
was
the
attitude
that
I
could
not
for
the
instant
realize
that
that
moan
had
been
the
passing
of
his
soul.
Not
a
whisper,
not
a
rustle,
rose
now
from
the
dark
figure
over
which
we
stooped.
Holmes
laid
his
hand
upon
him
and
held
it
up
again
with
an
exclamation
of
horror.
The
gleam
of
the
match
which
he
struck
shone
upon
his
clotted
fingers
and
upon
the
ghastly
pool
which
widened
slowly
from
the
crushed
skull
of
the
victim.
And
it
shone
upon
something
else
which
turned
our
hearts
sick
and
faint
within
us—the
body
of
Sir
Henry
Baskerville!
There
was
no
chance
of
either
of
us
forgetting
that
peculiar
ruddy
tweed
suit—the
very
one
which
he
had
worn
on
the
first
morning
that
we
had
seen
him
in
Baker
Street.
We
caught
the
one
clear
glimpse
of
it,
and
then
the
match
flickered
and
went
out,
even
as
the
hope
had
gone
out
of
our
souls.
Holmes
groaned,
and
his
face
glimmered
white
through
the
darkness.
"The
brute!
The
brute!"
I
cried
with
clenched
hands.
"Oh
Holmes,
I
shall
never
forgive
myself
for
having
left
him
to
his
fate."
"I
am
more
to
blame
than
you,
Watson.
In
order
to
have
my
case
well
rounded
and
complete,
I
have
thrown
away
the
life
of
my
client.
It
is
the
greatest
blow
which
has
befallen
me
in
my
career.
But
how
could
I
know—how
could
I
know—that
he
would
risk
his
life
alone
upon
the
moor
in
the
face
of
all
my
warnings?"
"That
we
should
have
heard
his
screams—my
God,
those
screams!—and
yet
have
been
unable
to
save
him!
Where
is
this
brute
of
a
hound
which
drove
him
to
his
death?
It
may
be
lurking
among
these
rocks
at
this
instant.
And
Stapleton,
where
is
he?
He
shall
answer
for
this
deed."
"He
shall.
I
will
see
to
that.
Uncle
and
nephew
have
been
murdered—the
one
frightened
to
death
by
the
very
sight
of
a
beast
which
he
thought
to
be
supernatural,
the
other
driven
to
his
end
in
his
wild
flight
to
escape
from
it.
But
now
we
have
to
prove
the
connection
between
the
man
and
the
beast.
Save
from
what
we
heard,
we
cannot
even
swear
to
the
existence
of
the
latter,
since
Sir
Henry
has
evidently
died
from
the
fall.
But,
by
heavens,
cunning
as
he
is,
the
fellow
shall
be
in
my
power
before
another
day
is
past!"
We
stood
with
bitter
hearts
on
either
side
of
the
mangled
body,
overwhelmed
by
this
sudden
and
irrevocable
disaster
which
had
brought
all
our
long
and
weary
labours
to
so
piteous
an
end.
Then
as
the
moon
rose
we
climbed
to
the
top
of
the
rocks
over
which
our
poor
friend
had
fallen,
and
from
the
summit
we
gazed
out
over
the
shadowy
moor,
half
silver
and
half
gloom.
Far
away,
miles
off,
in
the
direction
of
Grimpen,
a
single
steady
yellow
light
was
shining.
It
could
only
come
from
the
lonely
abode
of
the
Stapletons.
With
a
bitter
curse
I
shook
my
fist
at
it
as
I
gazed.
"Why
should
we
not
seize
him
at
once?"
"Our
case
is
not
complete.
The
fellow
is
wary
and
cunning
to
the
last
degree.
It
is
not
what
we
know,
but
what
we
can
prove.
If
we
make
one
false
move
the
villain
may
escape
us
yet."
"What
can
we
do?"
"There
will
be
plenty
for
us
to
do
tomorrow.
Tonight
we
can
only
perform
the
last
offices
to
our
poor
friend."
Together
we
made
our
way
down
the
precipitous
slope
and
approached
the
body,
black
and
clear
against
the
silvered
stones.
The
agony
of
those
contorted
limbs
struck
me
with
a
spasm
of
pain
and
blurred
my
eyes
with
tears.
"We
must
send
for
help,
Holmes!
We
cannot
carry
him
all
the
way
to
the
Hall.
Good
heavens,
are
you
mad?"
He
had
uttered
a
cry
and
bent
over
the
body.
Now
he
was
dancing
and
laughing
and
wringing
my
hand.
Could
this
be
my
stern,
self-contained
friend?
These
were
hidden
fires,
indeed!
"A
beard!
A
beard!
The
man
has
a
beard!"
"A
beard?"
"It
is
not
the
baronet—it
is—why,
it
is
my
neighbour,
the
convict!"
With
feverish
haste
we
had
turned
the
body
over,
and
that
dripping
beard
was
pointing
up
to
the
cold,
clear
moon.
There
could
be
no
doubt
about
the
beetling
forehead,
the
sunken
animal
eyes.
It
was
indeed
the
same
face
which
had
glared
upon
me
in
the
light
of
the
candle
from
over
the
rock—the
face
of
Selden,
the
criminal.
Then
in
an
instant
it
was
all
clear
to
me.
I
remembered
how
the
baronet
had
told
me
that
he
had
handed
his
old
wardrobe
to
Barrymore.
Barrymore
had
passed
it
on
in
order
to
help
Selden
in
his
escape.
Boots,
shirt,
cap—it
was
all
Sir
Henry's.
The
tragedy
was
still
black
enough,
but
this
man
had
at
least
deserved
death
by
the
laws
of
his
country.
I
told
Holmes
how
the
matter
stood,
my
heart
bubbling
over
with
thankfulness
and
joy.
"Then
the
clothes
have
been
the
poor
devil's
death,"
said
he.
"It
is
clear
enough
that
the
hound
has
been
laid
on
from
some
article
of
Sir
Henry's—the
boot
which
was
abstracted
in
the
hotel,
in
all
probability—and
so
ran
this
man
down.
There
is
one
very
singular
thing,
however:
How
came
Selden,
in
the
darkness,
to
know
that
the
hound
was
on
his
trail?"
"He
heard
him."
"To
hear
a
hound
upon
the
moor
would
not
work
a
hard
man
like
this
convict
into
such
a
paroxysm
of
terror
that
he
would
risk
recapture
by
screaming
wildly
for
help.
By
his
cries
he
must
have
run
a
long
way
after
he
knew
the
animal
was
on
his
track.
How
did
he
know?"
"A
greater
mystery
to
me
is
why
this
hound,
presuming
that
all
our
conjectures
are
correct—"
"I
presume
nothing."
"Well,
then,
why
this
hound
should
be
loose
tonight.
I
suppose
that
it
does
not
always
run
loose
upon
the
moor.
Stapleton
would
not
let
it
go
unless
he
had
reason
to
think
that
Sir
Henry
would
be
there."
"My
difficulty
is
the
more
formidable
of
the
two,
for
I
think
that
we
shall
very
shortly
get
an
explanation
of
yours,
while
mine
may
remain
forever
a
mystery.
The
question
now
is,
what
shall
we
do
with
this
poor
wretch's
body?
We
cannot
leave
it
here
to
the
foxes
and
the
ravens."
"I
suggest
that
we
put
it
in
one
of
the
huts
until
we
can
communicate
with
the
police."
"Exactly.
I
have
no
doubt
that
you
and
I
could
carry
it
so
far.
Halloa,
Watson,
what's
this?
It's
the
man
himself,
by
all
that's
wonderful
and
audacious!
Not
a
word
to
show
your
suspicions—not
a
word,
or
my
plans
crumble
to
the
ground."
A
figure
was
approaching
us
over
the
moor,
and
I
saw
the
dull
red
glow
of
a
cigar.
The
moon
shone
upon
him,
and
I
could
distinguish
the
dapper
shape
and
jaunty
walk
of
the
naturalist.
He
stopped
when
he
saw
us,
and
then
came
on
again.
"Why,
Dr.
Watson,
that's
not
you,
is
it?
You
are
the
last
man
that
I
should
have
expected
to
see
out
on
the
moor
at
this
time
of
night.
But,
dear
me,
what's
this?
Somebody
hurt?
Not—don't
tell
me
that
it
is
our
friend
Sir
Henry!"
He
hurried
past
me
and
stooped
over
the
dead
man.
I
heard
a
sharp
intake
of
his
breath
and
the
cigar
fell
from
his
fingers.
"Who—who's
this?"
he
stammered.
"It
is
Selden,
the
man
who
escaped
from
Princetown."
Stapleton
turned
a
ghastly
face
upon
us,
but
by
a
supreme
effort
he
had
overcome
his
amazement
and
his
disappointment.
He
looked
sharply
from
Holmes
to
me.
"Dear
me!
What
a
very
shocking
affair!
How
did
he
die?"
"He
appears
to
have
broken
his
neck
by
falling
over
these
rocks.
My
friend
and
I
were
strolling
on
the
moor
when
we
heard
a
cry."
"I
heard
a
cry
also.
That
was
what
brought
me
out.
I
was
uneasy
about
Sir
Henry."
"Why
about
Sir
Henry
in
particular?"
I
could
not
help
asking.
"Because
I
had
suggested
that
he
should
come
over.
When
he
did
not
come
I
was
surprised,
and
I
naturally
became
alarmed
for
his
safety
when
I
heard
cries
upon
the
moor.
By
the
way"—his
eyes
darted
again
from
my
face
to
Holmes's—"did
you
hear
anything
else
besides
a
cry?"
"No,"
said
Holmes;
"did
you?"
"No."
"What
do
you
mean,
then?"
"Oh,
you
know
the
stories
that
the
peasants
tell
about
a
phantom
hound,
and
so
on.
It
is
said
to
be
heard
at
night
upon
the
moor.
I
was
wondering
if
there
were
any
evidence
of
such
a
sound
tonight."
"We
heard
nothing
of
the
kind,"
said
I.
"And
what
is
your
theory
of
this
poor
fellow's
death?"
"I
have
no
doubt
that
anxiety
and
exposure
have
driven
him
off
his
head.
He
has
rushed
about
the
moor
in
a
crazy
state
and
eventually
fallen
over
here
and
broken
his
neck."
"That
seems
the
most
reasonable
theory,"
said
Stapleton,
and
he
gave
a
sigh
which
I
took
to
indicate
his
relief.
"What
do
you
think
about
it,
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes?"
My
friend
bowed
his
compliments.
"You
are
quick
at
identification,"
said
he.
"We
have
been
expecting
you
in
these
parts
since
Dr.
Watson
came
down.
You
are
in
time
to
see
a
tragedy."
"Yes,
indeed.
I
have
no
doubt
that
my
friend's
explanation
will
cover
the
facts.
I
will
take
an
unpleasant
remembrance
back
to
London
with
me
tomorrow."
"Oh,
you
return
tomorrow?"
"That
is
my
intention."
"I
hope
your
visit
has
cast
some
light
upon
those
occurrences
which
have
puzzled
us?"
Holmes
shrugged
his
shoulders.
"One
cannot
always
have
the
success
for
which
one
hopes.
An
investigator
needs
facts
and
not
legends
or
rumours.
It
has
not
been
a
satisfactory
case."
My
friend
spoke
in
his
frankest
and
most
unconcerned
manner.
Stapleton
still
looked
hard
at
him.
Then
he
turned
to
me.
"I
would
suggest
carrying
this
poor
fellow
to
my
house,
but
it
would
give
my
sister
such
a
fright
that
I
do
not
feel
justified
in
doing
it.
I
think
that
if
we
put
something
over
his
face
he
will
be
safe
until
morning."
And
so
it
was
arranged.
Resisting
Stapleton's
offer
of
hospitality,
Holmes
and
I
set
off
to
Baskerville
Hall,
leaving
the
naturalist
to
return
alone.
Looking
back
we
saw
the
figure
moving
slowly
away
over
the
broad
moor,
and
behind
him
that
one
black
smudge
on
the
silvered
slope
which
showed
where
the
man
was
lying
who
had
come
so
horribly
to
his
end.
Chapter
13.
Fixing
the
Nets
"We're
at
close
grips
at
last,"
said
Holmes
as
we
walked
together
across
the
moor.
"What
a
nerve
the
fellow
has!
How
he
pulled
himself
together
in
the
face
of
what
must
have
been
a
paralyzing
shock
when
he
found
that
the
wrong
man
had
fallen
a
victim
to
his
plot.
I
told
you
in
London,
Watson,
and
I
tell
you
now
again,
that
we
have
never
had
a
foeman
more
worthy
of
our
steel."
"I
am
sorry
that
he
has
seen
you."
"And
so
was
I
at
first.
But
there
was
no
getting
out
of
it."
"What
effect
do
you
think
it
will
have
upon
his
plans
now
that
he
knows
you
are
here?"
"It
may
cause
him
to
be
more
cautious,
or
it
may
drive
him
to
desperate
measures
at
once.
Like
most
clever
criminals,
he
may
be
too
confident
in
his
own
cleverness
and
imagine
that
he
has
completely
deceived
us."
"Why
should
we
not
arrest
him
at
once?"
"My
dear
Watson,
you
were
born
to
be
a
man
of
action.
Your
instinct
is
always
to
do
something
energetic.
But
supposing,
for
argument's
sake,
that
we
had
him
arrested
tonight,
what
on
earth
the
better
off
should
we
be
for
that?
We
could
prove
nothing
against
him.
There's
the
devilish
cunning
of
it!
If
he
were
acting
through
a
human
agent
we
could
get
some
evidence,
but
if
we
were
to
drag
this
great
dog
to
the
light
of
day
it
would
not
help
us
in
putting
a
rope
round
the
neck
of
its
master."
"Surely
we
have
a
case."
"Not
a
shadow
of
one—only
surmise
and
conjecture.
We
should
be
laughed
out
of
court
if
we
came
with
such
a
story
and
such
evidence."
"There
is
Sir
Charles's
death."
"Found
dead
without
a
mark
upon
him.
You
and
I
know
that
he
died
of
sheer
fright,
and
we
know
also
what
frightened
him,
but
how
are
we
to
get
twelve
stolid
jurymen
to
know
it?
What
signs
are
there
of
a
hound?
Where
are
the
marks
of
its
fangs?
Of
course
we
know
that
a
hound
does
not
bite
a
dead
body
and
that
Sir
Charles
was
dead
before
ever
the
brute
overtook
him.
But
we
have
to
prove
all
this,
and
we
are
not
in
a
position
to
do
it."
"Well,
then,
tonight?"
"We
are
not
much
better
off
tonight.
Again,
there
was
no
direct
connection
between
the
hound
and
the
man's
death.
We
never
saw
the
hound.
We
heard
it,
but
we
could
not
prove
that
it
was
running
upon
this
man's
trail.
There
is
a
complete
absence
of
motive.
No,
my
dear
fellow;
we
must
reconcile
ourselves
to
the
fact
that
we
have
no
case
at
present,
and
that
it
is
worth
our
while
to
run
any
risk
in
order
to
establish
one."
"And
how
do
you
propose
to
do
so?"
"I
have
great
hopes
of
what
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons
may
do
for
us
when
the
position
of
affairs
is
made
clear
to
her.
And
I
have
my
own
plan
as
well.
Sufficient
for
tomorrow
is
the
evil
thereof;
but
I
hope
before
the
day
is
past
to
have
the
upper
hand
at
last."
I
could
draw
nothing
further
from
him,
and
he
walked,
lost
in
thought,
as
far
as
the
Baskerville
gates.
"Are
you
coming
up?"
"Yes;
I
see
no
reason
for
further
concealment.
But
one
last
word,
Watson.
Say
nothing
of
the
hound
to
Sir
Henry.
Let
him
think
that
Selden's
death
was
as
Stapleton
would
have
us
believe.
He
will
have
a
better
nerve
for
the
ordeal
which
he
will
have
to
undergo
tomorrow,
when
he
is
engaged,
if
I
remember
your
report
aright,
to
dine
with
these
people."
"And
so
am
I."
"Then
you
must
excuse
yourself
and
he
must
go
alone.
That
will
be
easily
arranged.
And
now,
if
we
are
too
late
for
dinner,
I
think
that
we
are
both
ready
for
our
suppers."
Sir
Henry
was
more
pleased
than
surprised
to
see
Sherlock
Holmes,
for
he
had
for
some
days
been
expecting
that
recent
events
would
bring
him
down
from
London.
He
did
raise
his
eyebrows,
however,
when
he
found
that
my
friend
had
neither
any
luggage
nor
any
explanations
for
its
absence.
Between
us
we
soon
supplied
his
wants,
and
then
over
a
belated
supper
we
explained
to
the
baronet
as
much
of
our
experience
as
it
seemed
desirable
that
he
should
know.
But
first
I
had
the
unpleasant
duty
of
breaking
the
news
to
Barrymore
and
his
wife.
To
him
it
may
have
been
an
unmitigated
relief,
but
she
wept
bitterly
in
her
apron.
To
all
the
world
he
was
the
man
of
violence,
half
animal
and
half
demon;
but
to
her
he
always
remained
the
little
wilful
boy
of
her
own
girlhood,
the
child
who
had
clung
to
her
hand.
Evil
indeed
is
the
man
who
has
not
one
woman
to
mourn
him.
"I've
been
moping
in
the
house
all
day
since
Watson
went
off
in
the
morning,"
said
the
baronet.
"I
guess
I
should
have
some
credit,
for
I
have
kept
my
promise.
If
I
hadn't
sworn
not
to
go
about
alone
I
might
have
had
a
more
lively
evening,
for
I
had
a
message
from
Stapleton
asking
me
over
there."
"I
have
no
doubt
that
you
would
have
had
a
more
lively
evening,"
said
Holmes
drily.
"By
the
way,
I
don't
suppose
you
appreciate
that
we
have
been
mourning
over
you
as
having
broken
your
neck?"
Sir
Henry
opened
his
eyes.
"How
was
that?"
"This
poor
wretch
was
dressed
in
your
clothes.
I
fear
your
servant
who
gave
them
to
him
may
get
into
trouble
with
the
police."
"That
is
unlikely.
There
was
no
mark
on
any
of
them,
as
far
as
I
know."
"That's
lucky
for
him—in
fact,
it's
lucky
for
all
of
you,
since
you
are
all
on
the
wrong
side
of
the
law
in
this
matter.
I
am
not
sure
that
as
a
conscientious
detective
my
first
duty
is
not
to
arrest
the
whole
household.
Watson's
reports
are
most
incriminating
documents."
"But
how
about
the
case?"
asked
the
baronet.
"Have
you
made
anything
out
of
the
tangle?
I
don't
know
that
Watson
and
I
are
much
the
wiser
since
we
came
down."
"I
think
that
I
shall
be
in
a
position
to
make
the
situation
rather
more
clear
to
you
before
long.
It
has
been
an
exceedingly
difficult
and
most
complicated
business.
There
are
several
points
upon
which
we
still
want
light—but
it
is
coming
all
the
same."
"We've
had
one
experience,
as
Watson
has
no
doubt
told
you.
We
heard
the
hound
on
the
moor,
so
I
can
swear
that
it
is
not
all
empty
superstition.
I
had
something
to
do
with
dogs
when
I
was
out
West,
and
I
know
one
when
I
hear
one.
If
you
can
muzzle
that
one
and
put
him
on
a
chain
I'll
be
ready
to
swear
you
are
the
greatest
detective
of
all
time."
"I
think
I
will
muzzle
him
and
chain
him
all
right
if
you
will
give
me
your
help."
"Whatever
you
tell
me
to
do
I
will
do."
"Very
good;
and
I
will
ask
you
also
to
do
it
blindly,
without
always
asking
the
reason."
"Just
as
you
like."
"If
you
will
do
this
I
think
the
chances
are
that
our
little
problem
will
soon
be
solved.
I
have
no
doubt—"
He
stopped
suddenly
and
stared
fixedly
up
over
my
head
into
the
air.
The
lamp
beat
upon
his
face,
and
so
intent
was
it
and
so
still
that
it
might
have
been
that
of
a
clear-cut
classical
statue,
a
personification
of
alertness
and
expectation.
"What
is
it?"
we
both
cried.
I
could
see
as
he
looked
down
that
he
was
repressing
some
internal
emotion.
His
features
were
still
composed,
but
his
eyes
shone
with
amused
exultation.
"Excuse
the
admiration
of
a
connoisseur,"
said
he
as
he
waved
his
hand
towards
the
line
of
portraits
which
covered
the
opposite
wall.
"Watson
won't
allow
that
I
know
anything
of
art
but
that
is
mere
jealousy
because
our
views
upon
the
subject
differ.
Now,
these
are
a
really
very
fine
series
of
portraits."
"Well,
I'm
glad
to
hear
you
say
so,"
said
Sir
Henry,
glancing
with
some
surprise
at
my
friend.
"I
don't
pretend
to
know
much
about
these
things,
and
I'd
be
a
better
judge
of
a
horse
or
a
steer
than
of
a
picture.
I
didn't
know
that
you
found
time
for
such
things."
"I
know
what
is
good
when
I
see
it,
and
I
see
it
now.
That's
a
Kneller,
I'll
swear,
that
lady
in
the
blue
silk
over
yonder,
and
the
stout
gentleman
with
the
wig
ought
to
be
a
Reynolds.
They
are
all
family
portraits,
I
presume?"
"Every
one."
"Do
you
know
the
names?"
"Barrymore
has
been
coaching
me
in
them,
and
I
think
I
can
say
my
lessons
fairly
well."
"Who
is
the
gentleman
with
the
telescope?"
"That
is
Rear-Admiral
Baskerville,
who
served
under
Rodney
in
the
West
Indies.
The
man
with
the
blue
coat
and
the
roll
of
paper
is
Sir
William
Baskerville,
who
was
Chairman
of
Committees
of
the
House
of
Commons
under
Pitt."
"And
this
Cavalier
opposite
to
me—the
one
with
the
black
velvet
and
the
lace?"
"Ah,
you
have
a
right
to
know
about
him.
That
is
the
cause
of
all
the
mischief,
the
wicked
Hugo,
who
started
the
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles.
We're
not
likely
to
forget
him."
I
gazed
with
interest
and
some
surprise
upon
the
portrait.
"Dear
me!"
said
Holmes,
"he
seems
a
quiet,
meek-mannered
man
enough,
but
I
dare
say
that
there
was
a
lurking
devil
in
his
eyes.
I
had
pictured
him
as
a
more
robust
and
ruffianly
person."
"There's
no
doubt
about
the
authenticity,
for
the
name
and
the
date,
1647,
are
on
the
back
of
the
canvas."
Holmes
said
little
more,
but
the
picture
of
the
old
roysterer
seemed
to
have
a
fascination
for
him,
and
his
eyes
were
continually
fixed
upon
it
during
supper.
It
was
not
until
later,
when
Sir
Henry
had
gone
to
his
room,
that
I
was
able
to
follow
the
trend
of
his
thoughts.
He
led
me
back
into
the
banqueting-hall,
his
bedroom
candle
in
his
hand,
and
he
held
it
up
against
the
time-stained
portrait
on
the
wall.
"Do
you
see
anything
there?"
I
looked
at
the
broad
plumed
hat,
the
curling
love-locks,
the
white
lace
collar,
and
the
straight,
severe
face
which
was
framed
between
them.
It
was
not
a
brutal
countenance,
but
it
was
prim,
hard,
and
stern,
with
a
firm-set,
thin-lipped
mouth,
and
a
coldly
intolerant
eye.
"Is
it
like
anyone
you
know?"
"There
is
something
of
Sir
Henry
about
the
jaw."
"Just
a
suggestion,
perhaps.
But
wait
an
instant!"
He
stood
upon
a
chair,
and,
holding
up
the
light
in
his
left
hand,
he
curved
his
right
arm
over
the
broad
hat
and
round
the
long
ringlets.
"Good
heavens!"
I
cried
in
amazement.
The
face
of
Stapleton
had
sprung
out
of
the
canvas.
"Ha,
you
see
it
now.
My
eyes
have
been
trained
to
examine
faces
and
not
their
trimmings.
It
is
the
first
quality
of
a
criminal
investigator
that
he
should
see
through
a
disguise."
"But
this
is
marvellous.
It
might
be
his
portrait."
"Yes,
it
is
an
interesting
instance
of
a
throwback,
which
appears
to
be
both
physical
and
spiritual.
A
study
of
family
portraits
is
enough
to
convert
a
man
to
the
doctrine
of
reincarnation.
The
fellow
is
a
Baskerville—that
is
evident."
"With
designs
upon
the
succession."
"Exactly.
This
chance
of
the
picture
has
supplied
us
with
one
of
our
most
obvious
missing
links.
We
have
him,
Watson,
we
have
him,
and
I
dare
swear
that
before
tomorrow
night
he
will
be
fluttering
in
our
net
as
helpless
as
one
of
his
own
butterflies.
A
pin,
a
cork,
and
a
card,
and
we
add
him
to
the
Baker
Street
collection!"
He
burst
into
one
of
his
rare
fits
of
laughter
as
he
turned
away
from
the
picture.
I
have
not
heard
him
laugh
often,
and
it
has
always
boded
ill
to
somebody.
I
was
up
betimes
in
the
morning,
but
Holmes
was
afoot
earlier
still,
for
I
saw
him
as
I
dressed,
coming
up
the
drive.
"Yes,
we
should
have
a
full
day
today,"
he
remarked,
and
he
rubbed
his
hands
with
the
joy
of
action.
"The
nets
are
all
in
place,
and
the
drag
is
about
to
begin.
We'll
know
before
the
day
is
out
whether
we
have
caught
our
big,
leanjawed
pike,
or
whether
he
has
got
through
the
meshes."
"Have
you
been
on
the
moor
already?"
"I
have
sent
a
report
from
Grimpen
to
Princetown
as
to
the
death
of
Selden.
I
think
I
can
promise
that
none
of
you
will
be
troubled
in
the
matter.
And
I
have
also
communicated
with
my
faithful
Cartwright,
who
would
certainly
have
pined
away
at
the
door
of
my
hut,
as
a
dog
does
at
his
master's
grave,
if
I
had
not
set
his
mind
at
rest
about
my
safety."
"What
is
the
next
move?"
"To
see
Sir
Henry.
Ah,
here
he
is!"
"Good-morning,
Holmes,"
said
the
baronet.
"You
look
like
a
general
who
is
planning
a
battle
with
his
chief
of
the
staff."
"That
is
the
exact
situation.
Watson
was
asking
for
orders."
"And
so
do
I."
"Very
good.
You
are
engaged,
as
I
understand,
to
dine
with
our
friends
the
Stapletons
tonight."
"I
hope
that
you
will
come
also.
They
are
very
hospitable
people,
and
I
am
sure
that
they
would
be
very
glad
to
see
you."
"I
fear
that
Watson
and
I
must
go
to
London."
"To
London?"
"Yes,
I
think
that
we
should
be
more
useful
there
at
the
present
juncture."
The
baronet's
face
perceptibly
lengthened.
"I
hoped
that
you
were
going
to
see
me
through
this
business.
The
Hall
and
the
moor
are
not
very
pleasant
places
when
one
is
alone."
"My
dear
fellow,
you
must
trust
me
implicitly
and
do
exactly
what
I
tell
you.
You
can
tell
your
friends
that
we
should
have
been
happy
to
have
come
with
you,
but
that
urgent
business
required
us
to
be
in
town.
We
hope
very
soon
to
return
to
Devonshire.
Will
you
remember
to
give
them
that
message?"
"If
you
insist
upon
it."
"There
is
no
alternative,
I
assure
you."
I
saw
by
the
baronet's
clouded
brow
that
he
was
deeply
hurt
by
what
he
regarded
as
our
desertion.
"When
do
you
desire
to
go?"
he
asked
coldly.
"Immediately
after
breakfast.
We
will
drive
in
to
Coombe
Tracey,
but
Watson
will
leave
his
things
as
a
pledge
that
he
will
come
back
to
you.
Watson,
you
will
send
a
note
to
Stapleton
to
tell
him
that
you
regret
that
you
cannot
come."
"I
have
a
good
mind
to
go
to
London
with
you,"
said
the
baronet.
"Why
should
I
stay
here
alone?"
"Because
it
is
your
post
of
duty.
Because
you
gave
me
your
word
that
you
would
do
as
you
were
told,
and
I
tell
you
to
stay."
"All
right,
then,
I'll
stay."
"One
more
direction!
I
wish
you
to
drive
to
Merripit
House.
Send
back
your
trap,
however,
and
let
them
know
that
you
intend
to
walk
home."
"To
walk
across
the
moor?"
"Yes."
"But
that
is
the
very
thing
which
you
have
so
often
cautioned
me
not
to
do."
"This
time
you
may
do
it
with
safety.
If
I
had
not
every
confidence
in
your
nerve
and
courage
I
would
not
suggest
it,
but
it
is
essential
that
you
should
do
it."
"Then
I
will
do
it."
"And
as
you
value
your
life
do
not
go
across
the
moor
in
any
direction
save
along
the
straight
path
which
leads
from
Merripit
House
to
the
Grimpen
Road,
and
is
your
natural
way
home."
"I
will
do
just
what
you
say."
"Very
good.
I
should
be
glad
to
get
away
as
soon
after
breakfast
as
possible,
so
as
to
reach
London
in
the
afternoon."
I
was
much
astounded
by
this
programme,
though
I
remembered
that
Holmes
had
said
to
Stapleton
on
the
night
before
that
his
visit
would
terminate
next
day.
It
had
not
crossed
my
mind
however,
that
he
would
wish
me
to
go
with
him,
nor
could
I
understand
how
we
could
both
be
absent
at
a
moment
which
he
himself
declared
to
be
critical.
There
was
nothing
for
it,
however,
but
implicit
obedience;
so
we
bade
good-bye
to
our
rueful
friend,
and
a
couple
of
hours
afterwards
we
were
at
the
station
of
Coombe
Tracey
and
had
dispatched
the
trap
upon
its
return
journey.
A
small
boy
was
waiting
upon
the
platform.
"Any
orders,
sir?"
"You
will
take
this
train
to
town,
Cartwright.
The
moment
you
arrive
you
will
send
a
wire
to
Sir
Henry
Baskerville,
in
my
name,
to
say
that
if
he
finds
the
pocketbook
which
I
have
dropped
he
is
to
send
it
by
registered
post
to
Baker
Street."
"Yes,
sir."
"And
ask
at
the
station
office
if
there
is
a
message
for
me."
The
boy
returned
with
a
telegram,
which
Holmes
handed
to
me.
It
ran:
Wire
received.
Coming
down
with
unsigned
warrant.
Arrive
five-forty.
Lestrade.
"That
is
in
answer
to
mine
of
this
morning.
He
is
the
best
of
the
professionals,
I
think,
and
we
may
need
his
assistance.
Now,
Watson,
I
think
that
we
cannot
employ
our
time
better
than
by
calling
upon
your
acquaintance,
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons."
His
plan
of
campaign
was
beginning
to
be
evident.
He
would
use
the
baronet
in
order
to
convince
the
Stapletons
that
we
were
really
gone,
while
we
should
actually
return
at
the
instant
when
we
were
likely
to
be
needed.
That
telegram
from
London,
if
mentioned
by
Sir
Henry
to
the
Stapletons,
must
remove
the
last
suspicions
from
their
minds.
Already
I
seemed
to
see
our
nets
drawing
closer
around
that
leanjawed
pike.
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons
was
in
her
office,
and
Sherlock
Holmes
opened
his
interview
with
a
frankness
and
directness
which
considerably
amazed
her.
"I
am
investigating
the
circumstances
which
attended
the
death
of
the
late
Sir
Charles
Baskerville,"
said
he.
"My
friend
here,
Dr.
Watson,
has
informed
me
of
what
you
have
communicated,
and
also
of
what
you
have
withheld
in
connection
with
that
matter."
"What
have
I
withheld?"
she
asked
defiantly.
"You
have
confessed
that
you
asked
Sir
Charles
to
be
at
the
gate
at
ten
o'clock.
We
know
that
that
was
the
place
and
hour
of
his
death.
You
have
withheld
what
the
connection
is
between
these
events."
"There
is
no
connection."
"In
that
case
the
coincidence
must
indeed
be
an
extraordinary
one.
But
I
think
that
we
shall
succeed
in
establishing
a
connection,
after
all.
I
wish
to
be
perfectly
frank
with
you,
Mrs.
Lyons.
We
regard
this
case
as
one
of
murder,
and
the
evidence
may
implicate
not
only
your
friend
Mr.
Stapleton
but
his
wife
as
well."
The
lady
sprang
from
her
chair.
"His
wife!"
she
cried.
"The
fact
is
no
longer
a
secret.
The
person
who
has
passed
for
his
sister
is
really
his
wife."
Mrs.
Lyons
had
resumed
her
seat.
Her
hands
were
grasping
the
arms
of
her
chair,
and
I
saw
that
the
pink
nails
had
turned
white
with
the
pressure
of
her
grip.
"His
wife!"
she
said
again.
"His
wife!
He
is
not
a
married
man."
Sherlock
Holmes
shrugged
his
shoulders.
"Prove
it
to
me!
Prove
it
to
me!
And
if
you
can
do
so—!"
The
fierce
flash
of
her
eyes
said
more
than
any
words.
"I
have
come
prepared
to
do
so,"
said
Holmes,
drawing
several
papers
from
his
pocket.
"Here
is
a
photograph
of
the
couple
taken
in
York
four
years
ago.
It
is
indorsed
'Mr.
and
Mrs.
Vandeleur,'
but
you
will
have
no
difficulty
in
recognizing
him,
and
her
also,
if
you
know
her
by
sight.
Here
are
three
written
descriptions
by
trustworthy
witnesses
of
Mr.
and
Mrs.
Vandeleur,
who
at
that
time
kept
St.
Oliver's
private
school.
Read
them
and
see
if
you
can
doubt
the
identity
of
these
people."
She
glanced
at
them,
and
then
looked
up
at
us
with
the
set,
rigid
face
of
a
desperate
woman.
"Mr.
Holmes,"
she
said,
"this
man
had
offered
me
marriage
on
condition
that
I
could
get
a
divorce
from
my
husband.
He
has
lied
to
me,
the
villain,
in
every
conceivable
way.
Not
one
word
of
truth
has
he
ever
told
me.
And
why—why?
I
imagined
that
all
was
for
my
own
sake.
But
now
I
see
that
I
was
never
anything
but
a
tool
in
his
hands.
Why
should
I
preserve
faith
with
him
who
never
kept
any
with
me?
Why
should
I
try
to
shield
him
from
the
consequences
of
his
own
wicked
acts?
Ask
me
what
you
like,
and
there
is
nothing
which
I
shall
hold
back.
One
thing
I
swear
to
you,
and
that
is
that
when
I
wrote
the
letter
I
never
dreamed
of
any
harm
to
the
old
gentleman,
who
had
been
my
kindest
friend."
"I
entirely
believe
you,
madam,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"The
recital
of
these
events
must
be
very
painful
to
you,
and
perhaps
it
will
make
it
easier
if
I
tell
you
what
occurred,
and
you
can
check
me
if
I
make
any
material
mistake.
The
sending
of
this
letter
was
suggested
to
you
by
Stapleton?"
"He
dictated
it."
"I
presume
that
the
reason
he
gave
was
that
you
would
receive
help
from
Sir
Charles
for
the
legal
expenses
connected
with
your
divorce?"
"Exactly."
"And
then
after
you
had
sent
the
letter
he
dissuaded
you
from
keeping
the
appointment?"
"He
told
me
that
it
would
hurt
his
self-respect
that
any
other
man
should
find
the
money
for
such
an
object,
and
that
though
he
was
a
poor
man
himself
he
would
devote
his
last
penny
to
removing
the
obstacles
which
divided
us."
"He
appears
to
be
a
very
consistent
character.
And
then
you
heard
nothing
until
you
read
the
reports
of
the
death
in
the
paper?"
"No."
"And
he
made
you
swear
to
say
nothing
about
your
appointment
with
Sir
Charles?"
"He
did.
He
said
that
the
death
was
a
very
mysterious
one,
and
that
I
should
certainly
be
suspected
if
the
facts
came
out.
He
frightened
me
into
remaining
silent."
"Quite
so.
But
you
had
your
suspicions?"
She
hesitated
and
looked
down.
"I
knew
him,"
she
said.
"But
if
he
had
kept
faith
with
me
I
should
always
have
done
so
with
him."
"I
think
that
on
the
whole
you
have
had
a
fortunate
escape,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"You
have
had
him
in
your
power
and
he
knew
it,
and
yet
you
are
alive.
You
have
been
walking
for
some
months
very
near
to
the
edge
of
a
precipice.
We
must
wish
you
good-morning
now,
Mrs.
Lyons,
and
it
is
probable
that
you
will
very
shortly
hear
from
us
again."
"Our
case
becomes
rounded
off,
and
difficulty
after
difficulty
thins
away
in
front
of
us,"
said
Holmes
as
we
stood
waiting
for
the
arrival
of
the
express
from
town.
"I
shall
soon
be
in
the
position
of
being
able
to
put
into
a
single
connected
narrative
one
of
the
most
singular
and
sensational
crimes
of
modern
times.
Students
of
criminology
will
remember
the
analogous
incidents
in
Godno,
in
Little
Russia,
in
the
year
'66,
and
of
course
there
are
the
Anderson
murders
in
North
Carolina,
but
this
case
possesses
some
features
which
are
entirely
its
own.
Even
now
we
have
no
clear
case
against
this
very
wily
man.
But
I
shall
be
very
much
surprised
if
it
is
not
clear
enough
before
we
go
to
bed
this
night."
The
London
express
came
roaring
into
the
station,
and
a
small,
wiry
bulldog
of
a
man
had
sprung
from
a
first-class
carriage.
We
all
three
shook
hands,
and
I
saw
at
once
from
the
reverential
way
in
which
Lestrade
gazed
at
my
companion
that
he
had
learned
a
good
deal
since
the
days
when
they
had
first
worked
together.
I
could
well
remember
the
scorn
which
the
theories
of
the
reasoner
used
then
to
excite
in
the
practical
man.
"Anything
good?"
he
asked.
"The
biggest
thing
for
years,"
said
Holmes.
"We
have
two
hours
before
we
need
think
of
starting.
I
think
we
might
employ
it
in
getting
some
dinner
and
then,
Lestrade,
we
will
take
the
London
fog
out
of
your
throat
by
giving
you
a
breath
of
the
pure
night
air
of
Dartmoor.
Never
been
there?
Ah,
well,
I
don't
suppose
you
will
forget
your
first
visit."
Chapter
14.
The
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles
One
of
Sherlock
Holmes's
defects—if,
indeed,
one
may
call
it
a
defect—was
that
he
was
exceedingly
loath
to
communicate
his
full
plans
to
any
other
person
until
the
instant
of
their
fulfilment.
Partly
it
came
no
doubt
from
his
own
masterful
nature,
which
loved
to
dominate
and
surprise
those
who
were
around
him.
Partly
also
from
his
professional
caution,
which
urged
him
never
to
take
any
chances.
The
result,
however,
was
very
trying
for
those
who
were
acting
as
his
agents
and
assistants.
I
had
often
suffered
under
it,
but
never
more
so
than
during
that
long
drive
in
the
darkness.
The
great
ordeal
was
in
front
of
us;
at
last
we
were
about
to
make
our
final
effort,
and
yet
Holmes
had
said
nothing,
and
I
could
only
surmise
what
his
course
of
action
would
be.
My
nerves
thrilled
with
anticipation
when
at
last
the
cold
wind
upon
our
faces
and
the
dark,
void
spaces
on
either
side
of
the
narrow
road
told
me
that
we
were
back
upon
the
moor
once
again.
Every
stride
of
the
horses
and
every
turn
of
the
wheels
was
taking
us
nearer
to
our
supreme
adventure.
Our
conversation
was
hampered
by
the
presence
of
the
driver
of
the
hired
wagonette,
so
that
we
were
forced
to
talk
of
trivial
matters
when
our
nerves
were
tense
with
emotion
and
anticipation.
It
was
a
relief
to
me,
after
that
unnatural
restraint,
when
we
at
last
passed
Frankland's
house
and
knew
that
we
were
drawing
near
to
the
Hall
and
to
the
scene
of
action.
We
did
not
drive
up
to
the
door
but
got
down
near
the
gate
of
the
avenue.
The
wagonette
was
paid
off
and
ordered
to
return
to
Coombe
Tracey
forthwith,
while
we
started
to
walk
to
Merripit
House.
"Are
you
armed,
Lestrade?"
The
little
detective
smiled.
"As
long
as
I
have
my
trousers
I
have
a
hip-pocket,
and
as
long
as
I
have
my
hip-pocket
I
have
something
in
it."
"Good!
My
friend
and
I
are
also
ready
for
emergencies."
"You're
mighty
close
about
this
affair,
Mr.
Holmes.
What's
the
game
now?"
"A
waiting
game."
"My
word,
it
does
not
seem
a
very
cheerful
place,"
said
the
detective
with
a
shiver,
glancing
round
him
at
the
gloomy
slopes
of
the
hill
and
at
the
huge
lake
of
fog
which
lay
over
the
Grimpen
Mire.
"I
see
the
lights
of
a
house
ahead
of
us."
"That
is
Merripit
House
and
the
end
of
our
journey.
I
must
request
you
to
walk
on
tiptoe
and
not
to
talk
above
a
whisper."
We
moved
cautiously
along
the
track
as
if
we
were
bound
for
the
house,
but
Holmes
halted
us
when
we
were
about
two
hundred
yards
from
it.
"This
will
do,"
said
he.
"These
rocks
upon
the
right
make
an
admirable
screen."
"We
are
to
wait
here?"
"Yes,
we
shall
make
our
little
ambush
here.
Get
into
this
hollow,
Lestrade.
You
have
been
inside
the
house,
have
you
not,
Watson?
Can
you
tell
the
position
of
the
rooms?
What
are
those
latticed
windows
at
this
end?"
"I
think
they
are
the
kitchen
windows."
"And
the
one
beyond,
which
shines
so
brightly?"
"That
is
certainly
the
dining-room."
"The
blinds
are
up.
You
know
the
lie
of
the
land
best.
Creep
forward
quietly
and
see
what
they
are
doing—but
for
heaven's
sake
don't
let
them
know
that
they
are
watched!"
I
tiptoed
down
the
path
and
stooped
behind
the
low
wall
which
surrounded
the
stunted
orchard.
Creeping
in
its
shadow
I
reached
a
point
whence
I
could
look
straight
through
the
uncurtained
window.
There
were
only
two
men
in
the
room,
Sir
Henry
and
Stapleton.
They
sat
with
their
profiles
towards
me
on
either
side
of
the
round
table.
Both
of
them
were
smoking
cigars,
and
coffee
and
wine
were
in
front
of
them.
Stapleton
was
talking
with
animation,
but
the
baronet
looked
pale
and
distrait.
Perhaps
the
thought
of
that
lonely
walk
across
the
ill-omened
moor
was
weighing
heavily
upon
his
mind.
As
I
watched
them
Stapleton
rose
and
left
the
room,
while
Sir
Henry
filled
his
glass
again
and
leaned
back
in
his
chair,
puffing
at
his
cigar.
I
heard
the
creak
of
a
door
and
the
crisp
sound
of
boots
upon
gravel.
The
steps
passed
along
the
path
on
the
other
side
of
the
wall
under
which
I
crouched.
Looking
over,
I
saw
the
naturalist
pause
at
the
door
of
an
out-house
in
the
corner
of
the
orchard.
A
key
turned
in
a
lock,
and
as
he
passed
in
there
was
a
curious
scuffling
noise
from
within.
He
was
only
a
minute
or
so
inside,
and
then
I
heard
the
key
turn
once
more
and
he
passed
me
and
reentered
the
house.
I
saw
him
rejoin
his
guest,
and
I
crept
quietly
back
to
where
my
companions
were
waiting
to
tell
them
what
I
had
seen.
"You
say,
Watson,
that
the
lady
is
not
there?"
Holmes
asked
when
I
had
finished
my
report.
"No."
"Where
can
she
be,
then,
since
there
is
no
light
in
any
other
room
except
the
kitchen?"
"I
cannot
think
where
she
is."
I
have
said
that
over
the
great
Grimpen
Mire
there
hung
a
dense,
white
fog.
It
was
drifting
slowly
in
our
direction
and
banked
itself
up
like
a
wall
on
that
side
of
us,
low
but
thick
and
well
defined.
The
moon
shone
on
it,
and
it
looked
like
a
great
shimmering
ice-field,
with
the
heads
of
the
distant
tors
as
rocks
borne
upon
its
surface.
Holmes's
face
was
turned
towards
it,
and
he
muttered
impatiently
as
he
watched
its
sluggish
drift.
"It's
moving
towards
us,
Watson."
"Is
that
serious?"
"Very
serious,
indeed—the
one
thing
upon
earth
which
could
have
disarranged
my
plans.
He
can't
be
very
long,
now.
It
is
already
ten
o'clock.
Our
success
and
even
his
life
may
depend
upon
his
coming
out
before
the
fog
is
over
the
path."
The
night
was
clear
and
fine
above
us.
The
stars
shone
cold
and
bright,
while
a
half-moon
bathed
the
whole
scene
in
a
soft,
uncertain
light.
Before
us
lay
the
dark
bulk
of
the
house,
its
serrated
roof
and
bristling
chimneys
hard
outlined
against
the
silver-spangled
sky.
Broad
bars
of
golden
light
from
the
lower
windows
stretched
across
the
orchard
and
the
moor.
One
of
them
was
suddenly
shut
off.
The
servants
had
left
the
kitchen.
There
only
remained
the
lamp
in
the
dining-room
where
the
two
men,
the
murderous
host
and
the
unconscious
guest,
still
chatted
over
their
cigars.
Every
minute
that
white
woolly
plain
which
covered
one-half
of
the
moor
was
drifting
closer
and
closer
to
the
house.
Already
the
first
thin
wisps
of
it
were
curling
across
the
golden
square
of
the
lighted
window.
The
farther
wall
of
the
orchard
was
already
invisible,
and
the
trees
were
standing
out
of
a
swirl
of
white
vapour.
As
we
watched
it
the
fog-wreaths
came
crawling
round
both
corners
of
the
house
and
rolled
slowly
into
one
dense
bank
on
which
the
upper
floor
and
the
roof
floated
like
a
strange
ship
upon
a
shadowy
sea.
Holmes
struck
his
hand
passionately
upon
the
rock
in
front
of
us
and
stamped
his
feet
in
his
impatience.
"If
he
isn't
out
in
a
quarter
of
an
hour
the
path
will
be
covered.
In
half
an
hour
we
won't
be
able
to
see
our
hands
in
front
of
us."
"Shall
we
move
farther
back
upon
higher
ground?"
"Yes,
I
think
it
would
be
as
well."
So
as
the
fog-bank
flowed
onward
we
fell
back
before
it
until
we
were
half
a
mile
from
the
house,
and
still
that
dense
white
sea,
with
the
moon
silvering
its
upper
edge,
swept
slowly
and
inexorably
on.
"We
are
going
too
far,"
said
Holmes.
"We
dare
not
take
the
chance
of
his
being
overtaken
before
he
can
reach
us.
At
all
costs
we
must
hold
our
ground
where
we
are."
He
dropped
on
his
knees
and
clapped
his
ear
to
the
ground.
"Thank
God,
I
think
that
I
hear
him
coming."
A
sound
of
quick
steps
broke
the
silence
of
the
moor.
Crouching
among
the
stones
we
stared
intently
at
the
silver-tipped
bank
in
front
of
us.
The
steps
grew
louder,
and
through
the
fog,
as
through
a
curtain,
there
stepped
the
man
whom
we
were
awaiting.
He
looked
round
him
in
surprise
as
he
emerged
into
the
clear,
starlit
night.
Then
he
came
swiftly
along
the
path,
passed
close
to
where
we
lay,
and
went
on
up
the
long
slope
behind
us.
As
he
walked
he
glanced
continually
over
either
shoulder,
like
a
man
who
is
ill
at
ease.
"Hist!"
cried
Holmes,
and
I
heard
the
sharp
click
of
a
cocking
pistol.
"Look
out!
It's
coming!"
There
was
a
thin,
crisp,
continuous
patter
from
somewhere
in
the
heart
of
that
crawling
bank.
The
cloud
was
within
fifty
yards
of
where
we
lay,
and
we
glared
at
it,
all
three,
uncertain
what
horror
was
about
to
break
from
the
heart
of
it.
I
was
at
Holmes's
elbow,
and
I
glanced
for
an
instant
at
his
face.
It
was
pale
and
exultant,
his
eyes
shining
brightly
in
the
moonlight.
But
suddenly
they
started
forward
in
a
rigid,
fixed
stare,
and
his
lips
parted
in
amazement.
At
the
same
instant
Lestrade
gave
a
yell
of
terror
and
threw
himself
face
downward
upon
the
ground.
I
sprang
to
my
feet,
my
inert
hand
grasping
my
pistol,
my
mind
paralyzed
by
the
dreadful
shape
which
had
sprung
out
upon
us
from
the
shadows
of
the
fog.
A
hound
it
was,
an
enormous
coal-black
hound,
but
not
such
a
hound
as
mortal
eyes
have
ever
seen.
Fire
burst
from
its
open
mouth,
its
eyes
glowed
with
a
smouldering
glare,
its
muzzle
and
hackles
and
dewlap
were
outlined
in
flickering
flame.
Never
in
the
delirious
dream
of
a
disordered
brain
could
anything
more
savage,
more
appalling,
more
hellish
be
conceived
than
that
dark
form
and
savage
face
which
broke
upon
us
out
of
the
wall
of
fog.
With
long
bounds
the
huge
black
creature
was
leaping
down
the
track,
following
hard
upon
the
footsteps
of
our
friend.
So
paralyzed
were
we
by
the
apparition
that
we
allowed
him
to
pass
before
we
had
recovered
our
nerve.
Then
Holmes
and
I
both
fired
together,
and
the
creature
gave
a
hideous
howl,
which
showed
that
one
at
least
had
hit
him.
He
did
not
pause,
however,
but
bounded
onward.
Far
away
on
the
path
we
saw
Sir
Henry
looking
back,
his
face
white
in
the
moonlight,
his
hands
raised
in
horror,
glaring
helplessly
at
the
frightful
thing
which
was
hunting
him
down.
But
that
cry
of
pain
from
the
hound
had
blown
all
our
fears
to
the
winds.
If
he
was
vulnerable
he
was
mortal,
and
if
we
could
wound
him
we
could
kill
him.
Never
have
I
seen
a
man
run
as
Holmes
ran
that
night.
I
am
reckoned
fleet
of
foot,
but
he
outpaced
me
as
much
as
I
outpaced
the
little
professional.
In
front
of
us
as
we
flew
up
the
track
we
heard
scream
after
scream
from
Sir
Henry
and
the
deep
roar
of
the
hound.
I
was
in
time
to
see
the
beast
spring
upon
its
victim,
hurl
him
to
the
ground,
and
worry
at
his
throat.
But
the
next
instant
Holmes
had
emptied
five
barrels
of
his
revolver
into
the
creature's
flank.
With
a
last
howl
of
agony
and
a
vicious
snap
in
the
air,
it
rolled
upon
its
back,
four
feet
pawing
furiously,
and
then
fell
limp
upon
its
side.
I
stooped,
panting,
and
pressed
my
pistol
to
the
dreadful,
shimmering
head,
but
it
was
useless
to
press
the
trigger.
The
giant
hound
was
dead.
Sir
Henry
lay
insensible
where
he
had
fallen.
We
tore
away
his
collar,
and
Holmes
breathed
a
prayer
of
gratitude
when
we
saw
that
there
was
no
sign
of
a
wound
and
that
the
rescue
had
been
in
time.
Already
our
friend's
eyelids
shivered
and
he
made
a
feeble
effort
to
move.
Lestrade
thrust
his
brandy-flask
between
the
baronet's
teeth,
and
two
frightened
eyes
were
looking
up
at
us.
"My
God!"
he
whispered.
"What
was
it?
What,
in
heaven's
name,
was
it?"
"It's
dead,
whatever
it
is,"
said
Holmes.
"We've
laid
the
family
ghost
once
and
forever."
In
mere
size
and
strength
it
was
a
terrible
creature
which
was
lying
stretched
before
us.
It
was
not
a
pure
bloodhound
and
it
was
not
a
pure
mastiff;
but
it
appeared
to
be
a
combination
of
the
two—gaunt,
savage,
and
as
large
as
a
small
lioness.
Even
now
in
the
stillness
of
death,
the
huge
jaws
seemed
to
be
dripping
with
a
bluish
flame
and
the
small,
deep-set,
cruel
eyes
were
ringed
with
fire.
I
placed
my
hand
upon
the
glowing
muzzle,
and
as
I
held
them
up
my
own
fingers
smouldered
and
gleamed
in
the
darkness.
"Phosphorus,"
I
said.
"A
cunning
preparation
of
it,"
said
Holmes,
sniffing
at
the
dead
animal.
"There
is
no
smell
which
might
have
interfered
with
his
power
of
scent.
We
owe
you
a
deep
apology,
Sir
Henry,
for
having
exposed
you
to
this
fright.
I
was
prepared
for
a
hound,
but
not
for
such
a
creature
as
this.
And
the
fog
gave
us
little
time
to
receive
him."
"You
have
saved
my
life."
"Having
first
endangered
it.
Are
you
strong
enough
to
stand?"
"Give
me
another
mouthful
of
that
brandy
and
I
shall
be
ready
for
anything.
So!
Now,
if
you
will
help
me
up.
What
do
you
propose
to
do?"
"To
leave
you
here.
You
are
not
fit
for
further
adventures
tonight.
If
you
will
wait,
one
or
other
of
us
will
go
back
with
you
to
the
Hall."
He
tried
to
stagger
to
his
feet;
but
he
was
still
ghastly
pale
and
trembling
in
every
limb.
We
helped
him
to
a
rock,
where
he
sat
shivering
with
his
face
buried
in
his
hands.
"We
must
leave
you
now,"
said
Holmes.
"The
rest
of
our
work
must
be
done,
and
every
moment
is
of
importance.
We
have
our
case,
and
now
we
only
want
our
man.
"It's
a
thousand
to
one
against
our
finding
him
at
the
house,"
he
continued
as
we
retraced
our
steps
swiftly
down
the
path.
"Those
shots
must
have
told
him
that
the
game
was
up."
"We
were
some
distance
off,
and
this
fog
may
have
deadened
them."
"He
followed
the
hound
to
call
him
off—of
that
you
may
be
certain.
No,
no,
he's
gone
by
this
time!
But
we'll
search
the
house
and
make
sure."
The
front
door
was
open,
so
we
rushed
in
and
hurried
from
room
to
room
to
the
amazement
of
a
doddering
old
manservant,
who
met
us
in
the
passage.
There
was
no
light
save
in
the
dining-room,
but
Holmes
caught
up
the
lamp
and
left
no
corner
of
the
house
unexplored.
No
sign
could
we
see
of
the
man
whom
we
were
chasing.
On
the
upper
floor,
however,
one
of
the
bedroom
doors
was
locked.
"There's
someone
in
here,"
cried
Lestrade.
"I
can
hear
a
movement.
Open
this
door!"
A
faint
moaning
and
rustling
came
from
within.
Holmes
struck
the
door
just
over
the
lock
with
the
flat
of
his
foot
and
it
flew
open.
Pistol
in
hand,
we
all
three
rushed
into
the
room.
But
there
was
no
sign
within
it
of
that
desperate
and
defiant
villain
whom
we
expected
to
see.
Instead
we
were
faced
by
an
object
so
strange
and
so
unexpected
that
we
stood
for
a
moment
staring
at
it
in
amazement.
The
room
had
been
fashioned
into
a
small
museum,
and
the
walls
were
lined
by
a
number
of
glass-topped
cases
full
of
that
collection
of
butterflies
and
moths
the
formation
of
which
had
been
the
relaxation
of
this
complex
and
dangerous
man.
In
the
centre
of
this
room
there
was
an
upright
beam,
which
had
been
placed
at
some
period
as
a
support
for
the
old
worm-eaten
baulk
of
timber
which
spanned
the
roof.
To
this
post
a
figure
was
tied,
so
swathed
and
muffled
in
the
sheets
which
had
been
used
to
secure
it
that
one
could
not
for
the
moment
tell
whether
it
was
that
of
a
man
or
a
woman.
One
towel
passed
round
the
throat
and
was
secured
at
the
back
of
the
pillar.
Another
covered
the
lower
part
of
the
face,
and
over
it
two
dark
eyes—eyes
full
of
grief
and
shame
and
a
dreadful
questioning—stared
back
at
us.
In
a
minute
we
had
torn
off
the
gag,
unswathed
the
bonds,
and
Mrs.
Stapleton
sank
upon
the
floor
in
front
of
us.
As
her
beautiful
head
fell
upon
her
chest
I
saw
the
clear
red
weal
of
a
whiplash
across
her
neck.
"The
brute!"
cried
Holmes.
"Here,
Lestrade,
your
brandy-bottle!
Put
her
in
the
chair!
She
has
fainted
from
ill-usage
and
exhaustion."
She
opened
her
eyes
again.
"Is
he
safe?"
she
asked.
"Has
he
escaped?"
"He
cannot
escape
us,
madam."
"No,
no,
I
did
not
mean
my
husband.
Sir
Henry?
Is
he
safe?"
"Yes."
"And
the
hound?"
"It
is
dead."
She
gave
a
long
sigh
of
satisfaction.
"Thank
God!
Thank
God!
Oh,
this
villain!
See
how
he
has
treated
me!"
She
shot
her
arms
out
from
her
sleeves,
and
we
saw
with
horror
that
they
were
all
mottled
with
bruises.
"But
this
is
nothing—nothing!
It
is
my
mind
and
soul
that
he
has
tortured
and
defiled.
I
could
endure
it
all,
ill-usage,
solitude,
a
life
of
deception,
everything,
as
long
as
I
could
still
cling
to
the
hope
that
I
had
his
love,
but
now
I
know
that
in
this
also
I
have
been
his
dupe
and
his
tool."
She
broke
into
passionate
sobbing
as
she
spoke.
"You
bear
him
no
good
will,
madam,"
said
Holmes.
"Tell
us
then
where
we
shall
find
him.
If
you
have
ever
aided
him
in
evil,
help
us
now
and
so
atone."
"There
is
but
one
place
where
he
can
have
fled,"
she
answered.
"There
is
an
old
tin
mine
on
an
island
in
the
heart
of
the
mire.
It
was
there
that
he
kept
his
hound
and
there
also
he
had
made
preparations
so
that
he
might
have
a
refuge.
That
is
where
he
would
fly."
The
fog-bank
lay
like
white
wool
against
the
window.
Holmes
held
the
lamp
towards
it.
"See,"
said
he.
"No
one
could
find
his
way
into
the
Grimpen
Mire
tonight."
She
laughed
and
clapped
her
hands.
Her
eyes
and
teeth
gleamed
with
fierce
merriment.
"He
may
find
his
way
in,
but
never
out,"
she
cried.
"How
can
he
see
the
guiding
wands
tonight?
We
planted
them
together,
he
and
I,
to
mark
the
pathway
through
the
mire.
Oh,
if
I
could
only
have
plucked
them
out
today.
Then
indeed
you
would
have
had
him
at
your
mercy!"
It
was
evident
to
us
that
all
pursuit
was
in
vain
until
the
fog
had
lifted.
Meanwhile
we
left
Lestrade
in
possession
of
the
house
while
Holmes
and
I
went
back
with
the
baronet
to
Baskerville
Hall.
The
story
of
the
Stapletons
could
no
longer
be
withheld
from
him,
but
he
took
the
blow
bravely
when
he
learned
the
truth
about
the
woman
whom
he
had
loved.
But
the
shock
of
the
night's
adventures
had
shattered
his
nerves,
and
before
morning
he
lay
delirious
in
a
high
fever
under
the
care
of
Dr.
Mortimer.
The
two
of
them
were
destined
to
travel
together
round
the
world
before
Sir
Henry
had
become
once
more
the
hale,
hearty
man
that
he
had
been
before
he
became
master
of
that
ill-omened
estate.
And
now
I
come
rapidly
to
the
conclusion
of
this
singular
narrative,
in
which
I
have
tried
to
make
the
reader
share
those
dark
fears
and
vague
surmises
which
clouded
our
lives
so
long
and
ended
in
so
tragic
a
manner.
On
the
morning
after
the
death
of
the
hound
the
fog
had
lifted
and
we
were
guided
by
Mrs.
Stapleton
to
the
point
where
they
had
found
a
pathway
through
the
bog.
It
helped
us
to
realize
the
horror
of
this
woman's
life
when
we
saw
the
eagerness
and
joy
with
which
she
laid
us
on
her
husband's
track.
We
left
her
standing
upon
the
thin
peninsula
of
firm,
peaty
soil
which
tapered
out
into
the
widespread
bog.
From
the
end
of
it
a
small
wand
planted
here
and
there
showed
where
the
path
zigzagged
from
tuft
to
tuft
of
rushes
among
those
green-scummed
pits
and
foul
quagmires
which
barred
the
way
to
the
stranger.
Rank
reeds
and
lush,
slimy
water-plants
sent
an
odour
of
decay
and
a
heavy
miasmatic
vapour
onto
our
faces,
while
a
false
step
plunged
us
more
than
once
thigh-deep
into
the
dark,
quivering
mire,
which
shook
for
yards
in
soft
undulations
around
our
feet.
Its
tenacious
grip
plucked
at
our
heels
as
we
walked,
and
when
we
sank
into
it
it
was
as
if
some
malignant
hand
was
tugging
us
down
into
those
obscene
depths,
so
grim
and
purposeful
was
the
clutch
in
which
it
held
us.
Once
only
we
saw
a
trace
that
someone
had
passed
that
perilous
way
before
us.
From
amid
a
tuft
of
cotton
grass
which
bore
it
up
out
of
the
slime
some
dark
thing
was
projecting.
Holmes
sank
to
his
waist
as
he
stepped
from
the
path
to
seize
it,
and
had
we
not
been
there
to
drag
him
out
he
could
never
have
set
his
foot
upon
firm
land
again.
He
held
an
old
black
boot
in
the
air.
"Meyers,
Toronto,"
was
printed
on
the
leather
inside.
"It
is
worth
a
mud
bath,"
said
he.
"It
is
our
friend
Sir
Henry's
missing
boot."
"Thrown
there
by
Stapleton
in
his
flight."
"Exactly.
He
retained
it
in
his
hand
after
using
it
to
set
the
hound
upon
the
track.
He
fled
when
he
knew
the
game
was
up,
still
clutching
it.
And
he
hurled
it
away
at
this
point
of
his
flight.
We
know
at
least
that
he
came
so
far
in
safety."
But
more
than
that
we
were
never
destined
to
know,
though
there
was
much
which
we
might
surmise.
There
was
no
chance
of
finding
footsteps
in
the
mire,
for
the
rising
mud
oozed
swiftly
in
upon
them,
but
as
we
at
last
reached
firmer
ground
beyond
the
morass
we
all
looked
eagerly
for
them.
But
no
slightest
sign
of
them
ever
met
our
eyes.
If
the
earth
told
a
true
story,
then
Stapleton
never
reached
that
island
of
refuge
towards
which
he
struggled
through
the
fog
upon
that
last
night.
Somewhere
in
the
heart
of
the
great
Grimpen
Mire,
down
in
the
foul
slime
of
the
huge
morass
which
had
sucked
him
in,
this
cold
and
cruel-hearted
man
is
forever
buried.
Many
traces
we
found
of
him
in
the
bog-girt
island
where
he
had
hid
his
savage
ally.
A
huge
driving-wheel
and
a
shaft
half-filled
with
rubbish
showed
the
position
of
an
abandoned
mine.
Beside
it
were
the
crumbling
remains
of
the
cottages
of
the
miners,
driven
away
no
doubt
by
the
foul
reek
of
the
surrounding
swamp.
In
one
of
these
a
staple
and
chain
with
a
quantity
of
gnawed
bones
showed
where
the
animal
had
been
confined.
A
skeleton
with
a
tangle
of
brown
hair
adhering
to
it
lay
among
the
debris.
"A
dog!"
said
Holmes.
"By
Jove,
a
curly-haired
spaniel.
Poor
Mortimer
will
never
see
his
pet
again.
Well,
I
do
not
know
that
this
place
contains
any
secret
which
we
have
not
already
fathomed.
He
could
hide
his
hound,
but
he
could
not
hush
its
voice,
and
hence
came
those
cries
which
even
in
daylight
were
not
pleasant
to
hear.
On
an
emergency
he
could
keep
the
hound
in
the
out-house
at
Merripit,
but
it
was
always
a
risk,
and
it
was
only
on
the
supreme
day,
which
he
regarded
as
the
end
of
all
his
efforts,
that
he
dared
do
it.
This
paste
in
the
tin
is
no
doubt
the
luminous
mixture
with
which
the
creature
was
daubed.
It
was
suggested,
of
course,
by
the
story
of
the
family
hell-hound,
and
by
the
desire
to
frighten
old
Sir
Charles
to
death.
No
wonder
the
poor
devil
of
a
convict
ran
and
screamed,
even
as
our
friend
did,
and
as
we
ourselves
might
have
done,
when
he
saw
such
a
creature
bounding
through
the
darkness
of
the
moor
upon
his
track.
It
was
a
cunning
device,
for,
apart
from
the
chance
of
driving
your
victim
to
his
death,
what
peasant
would
venture
to
inquire
too
closely
into
such
a
creature
should
he
get
sight
of
it,
as
many
have
done,
upon
the
moor?
I
said
it
in
London,
Watson,
and
I
say
it
again
now,
that
never
yet
have
we
helped
to
hunt
down
a
more
dangerous
man
than
he
who
is
lying
yonder"—he
swept
his
long
arm
towards
the
huge
mottled
expanse
of
green-splotched
bog
which
stretched
away
until
it
merged
into
the
russet
slopes
of
the
moor.
Chapter
15.
A
Retrospection
It
was
the
end
of
November,
and
Holmes
and
I
sat,
upon
a
raw
and
foggy
night,
on
either
side
of
a
blazing
fire
in
our
sitting-room
in
Baker
Street.
Since
the
tragic
upshot
of
our
visit
to
Devonshire
he
had
been
engaged
in
two
affairs
of
the
utmost
importance,
in
the
first
of
which
he
had
exposed
the
atrocious
conduct
of
Colonel
Upwood
in
connection
with
the
famous
card
scandal
of
the
Nonpareil
Club,
while
in
the
second
he
had
defended
the
unfortunate
Mme.
Montpensier
from
the
charge
of
murder
which
hung
over
her
in
connection
with
the
death
of
her
step-daughter,
Mlle.
Carere,
the
young
lady
who,
as
it
will
be
remembered,
was
found
six
months
later
alive
and
married
in
New
York.
My
friend
was
in
excellent
spirits
over
the
success
which
had
attended
a
succession
of
difficult
and
important
cases,
so
that
I
was
able
to
induce
him
to
discuss
the
details
of
the
Baskerville
mystery.
I
had
waited
patiently
for
the
opportunity
for
I
was
aware
that
he
would
never
permit
cases
to
overlap,
and
that
his
clear
and
logical
mind
would
not
be
drawn
from
its
present
work
to
dwell
upon
memories
of
the
past.
Sir
Henry
and
Dr.
Mortimer
were,
however,
in
London,
on
their
way
to
that
long
voyage
which
had
been
recommended
for
the
restoration
of
his
shattered
nerves.
They
had
called
upon
us
that
very
afternoon,
so
that
it
was
natural
that
the
subject
should
come
up
for
discussion.
"The
whole
course
of
events,"
said
Holmes,
"from
the
point
of
view
of
the
man
who
called
himself
Stapleton
was
simple
and
direct,
although
to
us,
who
had
no
means
in
the
beginning
of
knowing
the
motives
of
his
actions
and
could
only
learn
part
of
the
facts,
it
all
appeared
exceedingly
complex.
I
have
had
the
advantage
of
two
conversations
with
Mrs.
Stapleton,
and
the
case
has
now
been
so
entirely
cleared
up
that
I
am
not
aware
that
there
is
anything
which
has
remained
a
secret
to
us.
You
will
find
a
few
notes
upon
the
matter
under
the
heading
B
in
my
indexed
list
of
cases."
"Perhaps
you
would
kindly
give
me
a
sketch
of
the
course
of
events
from
memory."
"Certainly,
though
I
cannot
guarantee
that
I
carry
all
the
facts
in
my
mind.
Intense
mental
concentration
has
a
curious
way
of
blotting
out
what
has
passed.
The
barrister
who
has
his
case
at
his
fingers'
ends
and
is
able
to
argue
with
an
expert
upon
his
own
subject
finds
that
a
week
or
two
of
the
courts
will
drive
it
all
out
of
his
head
once
more.
So
each
of
my
cases
displaces
the
last,
and
Mlle.
Carere
has
blurred
my
recollection
of
Baskerville
Hall.
Tomorrow
some
other
little
problem
may
be
submitted
to
my
notice
which
will
in
turn
dispossess
the
fair
French
lady
and
the
infamous
Upwood.
So
far
as
the
case
of
the
hound
goes,
however,
I
will
give
you
the
course
of
events
as
nearly
as
I
can,
and
you
will
suggest
anything
which
I
may
have
forgotten.
"My
inquiries
show
beyond
all
question
that
the
family
portrait
did
not
lie,
and
that
this
fellow
was
indeed
a
Baskerville.
He
was
a
son
of
that
Rodger
Baskerville,
the
younger
brother
of
Sir
Charles,
who
fled
with
a
sinister
reputation
to
South
America,
where
he
was
said
to
have
died
unmarried.
He
did,
as
a
matter
of
fact,
marry,
and
had
one
child,
this
fellow,
whose
real
name
is
the
same
as
his
father's.
He
married
Beryl
Garcia,
one
of
the
beauties
of
Costa
Rica,
and,
having
purloined
a
considerable
sum
of
public
money,
he
changed
his
name
to
Vandeleur
and
fled
to
England,
where
he
established
a
school
in
the
east
of
Yorkshire.
His
reason
for
attempting
this
special
line
of
business
was
that
he
had
struck
up
an
acquaintance
with
a
consumptive
tutor
upon
the
voyage
home,
and
that
he
had
used
this
man's
ability
to
make
the
undertaking
a
success.
Fraser,
the
tutor,
died
however,
and
the
school
which
had
begun
well
sank
from
disrepute
into
infamy.
The
Vandeleurs
found
it
convenient
to
change
their
name
to
Stapleton,
and
he
brought
the
remains
of
his
fortune,
his
schemes
for
the
future,
and
his
taste
for
entomology
to
the
south
of
England.
I
learned
at
the
British
Museum
that
he
was
a
recognized
authority
upon
the
subject,
and
that
the
name
of
Vandeleur
has
been
permanently
attached
to
a
certain
moth
which
he
had,
in
his
Yorkshire
days,
been
the
first
to
describe.
"We
now
come
to
that
portion
of
his
life
which
has
proved
to
be
of
such
intense
interest
to
us.
The
fellow
had
evidently
made
inquiry
and
found
that
only
two
lives
intervened
between
him
and
a
valuable
estate.
When
he
went
to
Devonshire
his
plans
were,
I
believe,
exceedingly
hazy,
but
that
he
meant
mischief
from
the
first
is
evident
from
the
way
in
which
he
took
his
wife
with
him
in
the
character
of
his
sister.
The
idea
of
using
her
as
a
decoy
was
clearly
already
in
his
mind,
though
he
may
not
have
been
certain
how
the
details
of
his
plot
were
to
be
arranged.
He
meant
in
the
end
to
have
the
estate,
and
he
was
ready
to
use
any
tool
or
run
any
risk
for
that
end.
His
first
act
was
to
establish
himself
as
near
to
his
ancestral
home
as
he
could,
and
his
second
was
to
cultivate
a
friendship
with
Sir
Charles
Baskerville
and
with
the
neighbours.
"The
baronet
himself
told
him
about
the
family
hound,
and
so
prepared
the
way
for
his
own
death.
Stapleton,
as
I
will
continue
to
call
him,
knew
that
the
old
man's
heart
was
weak
and
that
a
shock
would
kill
him.
So
much
he
had
learned
from
Dr.
Mortimer.
He
had
heard
also
that
Sir
Charles
was
superstitious
and
had
taken
this
grim
legend
very
seriously.
His
ingenious
mind
instantly
suggested
a
way
by
which
the
baronet
could
be
done
to
death,
and
yet
it
would
be
hardly
possible
to
bring
home
the
guilt
to
the
real
murderer.
"Having
conceived
the
idea
he
proceeded
to
carry
it
out
with
considerable
finesse.
An
ordinary
schemer
would
have
been
content
to
work
with
a
savage
hound.
The
use
of
artificial
means
to
make
the
creature
diabolical
was
a
flash
of
genius
upon
his
part.
The
dog
he
bought
in
London
from
Ross
and
Mangles,
the
dealers
in
Fulham
Road.
It
was
the
strongest
and
most
savage
in
their
possession.
He
brought
it
down
by
the
North
Devon
line
and
walked
a
great
distance
over
the
moor
so
as
to
get
it
home
without
exciting
any
remarks.
He
had
already
on
his
insect
hunts
learned
to
penetrate
the
Grimpen
Mire,
and
so
had
found
a
safe
hiding-place
for
the
creature.
Here
he
kennelled
it
and
waited
his
chance.
"But
it
was
some
time
coming.
The
old
gentleman
could
not
be
decoyed
outside
of
his
grounds
at
night.
Several
times
Stapleton
lurked
about
with
his
hound,
but
without
avail.
It
was
during
these
fruitless
quests
that
he,
or
rather
his
ally,
was
seen
by
peasants,
and
that
the
legend
of
the
demon
dog
received
a
new
confirmation.
He
had
hoped
that
his
wife
might
lure
Sir
Charles
to
his
ruin,
but
here
she
proved
unexpectedly
independent.
She
would
not
endeavour
to
entangle
the
old
gentleman
in
a
sentimental
attachment
which
might
deliver
him
over
to
his
enemy.
Threats
and
even,
I
am
sorry
to
say,
blows
refused
to
move
her.
She
would
have
nothing
to
do
with
it,
and
for
a
time
Stapleton
was
at
a
deadlock.
"He
found
a
way
out
of
his
difficulties
through
the
chance
that
Sir
Charles,
who
had
conceived
a
friendship
for
him,
made
him
the
minister
of
his
charity
in
the
case
of
this
unfortunate
woman,
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons.
By
representing
himself
as
a
single
man
he
acquired
complete
influence
over
her,
and
he
gave
her
to
understand
that
in
the
event
of
her
obtaining
a
divorce
from
her
husband
he
would
marry
her.
His
plans
were
suddenly
brought
to
a
head
by
his
knowledge
that
Sir
Charles
was
about
to
leave
the
Hall
on
the
advice
of
Dr.
Mortimer,
with
whose
opinion
he
himself
pretended
to
coincide.
He
must
act
at
once,
or
his
victim
might
get
beyond
his
power.
He
therefore
put
pressure
upon
Mrs.
Lyons
to
write
this
letter,
imploring
the
old
man
to
give
her
an
interview
on
the
evening
before
his
departure
for
London.
He
then,
by
a
specious
argument,
prevented
her
from
going,
and
so
had
the
chance
for
which
he
had
waited.
"Driving
back
in
the
evening
from
Coombe
Tracey
he
was
in
time
to
get
his
hound,
to
treat
it
with
his
infernal
paint,
and
to
bring
the
beast
round
to
the
gate
at
which
he
had
reason
to
expect
that
he
would
find
the
old
gentleman
waiting.
The
dog,
incited
by
its
master,
sprang
over
the
wicket-gate
and
pursued
the
unfortunate
baronet,
who
fled
screaming
down
the
yew
alley.
In
that
gloomy
tunnel
it
must
indeed
have
been
a
dreadful
sight
to
see
that
huge
black
creature,
with
its
flaming
jaws
and
blazing
eyes,
bounding
after
its
victim.
He
fell
dead
at
the
end
of
the
alley
from
heart
disease
and
terror.
The
hound
had
kept
upon
the
grassy
border
while
the
baronet
had
run
down
the
path,
so
that
no
track
but
the
man's
was
visible.
On
seeing
him
lying
still
the
creature
had
probably
approached
to
sniff
at
him,
but
finding
him
dead
had
turned
away
again.
It
was
then
that
it
left
the
print
which
was
actually
observed
by
Dr.
Mortimer.
The
hound
was
called
off
and
hurried
away
to
its
lair
in
the
Grimpen
Mire,
and
a
mystery
was
left
which
puzzled
the
authorities,
alarmed
the
countryside,
and
finally
brought
the
case
within
the
scope
of
our
observation.
"So
much
for
the
death
of
Sir
Charles
Baskerville.
You
perceive
the
devilish
cunning
of
it,
for
really
it
would
be
almost
impossible
to
make
a
case
against
the
real
murderer.
His
only
accomplice
was
one
who
could
never
give
him
away,
and
the
grotesque,
inconceivable
nature
of
the
device
only
served
to
make
it
more
effective.
Both
of
the
women
concerned
in
the
case,
Mrs.
Stapleton
and
Mrs.
Laura
Lyons,
were
left
with
a
strong
suspicion
against
Stapleton.
Mrs.
Stapleton
knew
that
he
had
designs
upon
the
old
man,
and
also
of
the
existence
of
the
hound.
Mrs.
Lyons
knew
neither
of
these
things,
but
had
been
impressed
by
the
death
occurring
at
the
time
of
an
uncancelled
appointment
which
was
only
known
to
him.
However,
both
of
them
were
under
his
influence,
and
he
had
nothing
to
fear
from
them.
The
first
half
of
his
task
was
successfully
accomplished
but
the
more
difficult
still
remained.
"It
is
possible
that
Stapleton
did
not
know
of
the
existence
of
an
heir
in
Canada.
In
any
case
he
would
very
soon
learn
it
from
his
friend
Dr.
Mortimer,
and
he
was
told
by
the
latter
all
details
about
the
arrival
of
Henry
Baskerville.
Stapleton's
first
idea
was
that
this
young
stranger
from
Canada
might
possibly
be
done
to
death
in
London
without
coming
down
to
Devonshire
at
all.
He
distrusted
his
wife
ever
since
she
had
refused
to
help
him
in
laying
a
trap
for
the
old
man,
and
he
dared
not
leave
her
long
out
of
his
sight
for
fear
he
should
lose
his
influence
over
her.
It
was
for
this
reason
that
he
took
her
to
London
with
him.
They
lodged,
I
find,
at
the
Mexborough
Private
Hotel,
in
Craven
Street,
which
was
actually
one
of
those
called
upon
by
my
agent
in
search
of
evidence.
Here
he
kept
his
wife
imprisoned
in
her
room
while
he,
disguised
in
a
beard,
followed
Dr.
Mortimer
to
Baker
Street
and
afterwards
to
the
station
and
to
the
Northumberland
Hotel.
His
wife
had
some
inkling
of
his
plans;
but
she
had
such
a
fear
of
her
husband—a
fear
founded
upon
brutal
ill-treatment—that
she
dare
not
write
to
warn
the
man
whom
she
knew
to
be
in
danger.
If
the
letter
should
fall
into
Stapleton's
hands
her
own
life
would
not
be
safe.
Eventually,
as
we
know,
she
adopted
the
expedient
of
cutting
out
the
words
which
would
form
the
message,
and
addressing
the
letter
in
a
disguised
hand.
It
reached
the
baronet,
and
gave
him
the
first
warning
of
his
danger.
"It
was
very
essential
for
Stapleton
to
get
some
article
of
Sir
Henry's
attire
so
that,
in
case
he
was
driven
to
use
the
dog,
he
might
always
have
the
means
of
setting
him
upon
his
track.
With
characteristic
promptness
and
audacity
he
set
about
this
at
once,
and
we
cannot
doubt
that
the
boots
or
chamber-maid
of
the
hotel
was
well
bribed
to
help
him
in
his
design.
By
chance,
however,
the
first
boot
which
was
procured
for
him
was
a
new
one
and,
therefore,
useless
for
his
purpose.
He
then
had
it
returned
and
obtained
another—a
most
instructive
incident,
since
it
proved
conclusively
to
my
mind
that
we
were
dealing
with
a
real
hound,
as
no
other
supposition
could
explain
this
anxiety
to
obtain
an
old
boot
and
this
indifference
to
a
new
one.
The
more
outre
and
grotesque
an
incident
is
the
more
carefully
it
deserves
to
be
examined,
and
the
very
point
which
appears
to
complicate
a
case
is,
when
duly
considered
and
scientifically
handled,
the
one
which
is
most
likely
to
elucidate
it.
"Then
we
had
the
visit
from
our
friends
next
morning,
shadowed
always
by
Stapleton
in
the
cab.
From
his
knowledge
of
our
rooms
and
of
my
appearance,
as
well
as
from
his
general
conduct,
I
am
inclined
to
think
that
Stapleton's
career
of
crime
has
been
by
no
means
limited
to
this
single
Baskerville
affair.
It
is
suggestive
that
during
the
last
three
years
there
have
been
four
considerable
burglaries
in
the
west
country,
for
none
of
which
was
any
criminal
ever
arrested.
The
last
of
these,
at
Folkestone
Court,
in
May,
was
remarkable
for
the
cold-blooded
pistolling
of
the
page,
who
surprised
the
masked
and
solitary
burglar.
I
cannot
doubt
that
Stapleton
recruited
his
waning
resources
in
this
fashion,
and
that
for
years
he
has
been
a
desperate
and
dangerous
man.
"We
had
an
example
of
his
readiness
of
resource
that
morning
when
he
got
away
from
us
so
successfully,
and
also
of
his
audacity
in
sending
back
my
own
name
to
me
through
the
cabman.
From
that
moment
he
understood
that
I
had
taken
over
the
case
in
London,
and
that
therefore
there
was
no
chance
for
him
there.
He
returned
to
Dartmoor
and
awaited
the
arrival
of
the
baronet."
"One
moment!"
said
I.
"You
have,
no
doubt,
described
the
sequence
of
events
correctly,
but
there
is
one
point
which
you
have
left
unexplained.
What
became
of
the
hound
when
its
master
was
in
London?"
"I
have
given
some
attention
to
this
matter
and
it
is
undoubtedly
of
importance.
There
can
be
no
question
that
Stapleton
had
a
confidant,
though
it
is
unlikely
that
he
ever
placed
himself
in
his
power
by
sharing
all
his
plans
with
him.
There
was
an
old
manservant
at
Merripit
House,
whose
name
was
Anthony.
His
connection
with
the
Stapletons
can
be
traced
for
several
years,
as
far
back
as
the
school-mastering
days,
so
that
he
must
have
been
aware
that
his
master
and
mistress
were
really
husband
and
wife.
This
man
has
disappeared
and
has
escaped
from
the
country.
It
is
suggestive
that
Anthony
is
not
a
common
name
in
England,
while
Antonio
is
so
in
all
Spanish
or
Spanish-American
countries.
The
man,
like
Mrs.
Stapleton
herself,
spoke
good
English,
but
with
a
curious
lisping
accent.
I
have
myself
seen
this
old
man
cross
the
Grimpen
Mire
by
the
path
which
Stapleton
had
marked
out.
It
is
very
probable,
therefore,
that
in
the
absence
of
his
master
it
was
he
who
cared
for
the
hound,
though
he
may
never
have
known
the
purpose
for
which
the
beast
was
used.
"The
Stapletons
then
went
down
to
Devonshire,
whither
they
were
soon
followed
by
Sir
Henry
and
you.
One
word
now
as
to
how
I
stood
myself
at
that
time.
It
may
possibly
recur
to
your
memory
that
when
I
examined
the
paper
upon
which
the
printed
words
were
fastened
I
made
a
close
inspection
for
the
water-mark.
In
doing
so
I
held
it
within
a
few
inches
of
my
eyes,
and
was
conscious
of
a
faint
smell
of
the
scent
known
as
white
jessamine.
There
are
seventy-five
perfumes,
which
it
is
very
necessary
that
a
criminal
expert
should
be
able
to
distinguish
from
each
other,
and
cases
have
more
than
once
within
my
own
experience
depended
upon
their
prompt
recognition.
The
scent
suggested
the
presence
of
a
lady,
and
already
my
thoughts
began
to
turn
towards
the
Stapletons.
Thus
I
had
made
certain
of
the
hound,
and
had
guessed
at
the
criminal
before
ever
we
went
to
the
west
country.
"It
was
my
game
to
watch
Stapleton.
It
was
evident,
however,
that
I
could
not
do
this
if
I
were
with
you,
since
he
would
be
keenly
on
his
guard.
I
deceived
everybody,
therefore,
yourself
included,
and
I
came
down
secretly
when
I
was
supposed
to
be
in
London.
My
hardships
were
not
so
great
as
you
imagined,
though
such
trifling
details
must
never
interfere
with
the
investigation
of
a
case.
I
stayed
for
the
most
part
at
Coombe
Tracey,
and
only
used
the
hut
upon
the
moor
when
it
was
necessary
to
be
near
the
scene
of
action.
Cartwright
had
come
down
with
me,
and
in
his
disguise
as
a
country
boy
he
was
of
great
assistance
to
me.
I
was
dependent
upon
him
for
food
and
clean
linen.
When
I
was
watching
Stapleton,
Cartwright
was
frequently
watching
you,
so
that
I
was
able
to
keep
my
hand
upon
all
the
strings.
"I
have
already
told
you
that
your
reports
reached
me
rapidly,
being
forwarded
instantly
from
Baker
Street
to
Coombe
Tracey.
They
were
of
great
service
to
me,
and
especially
that
one
incidentally
truthful
piece
of
biography
of
Stapleton's.
I
was
able
to
establish
the
identity
of
the
man
and
the
woman
and
knew
at
last
exactly
how
I
stood.
The
case
had
been
considerably
complicated
through
the
incident
of
the
escaped
convict
and
the
relations
between
him
and
the
Barrymores.
This
also
you
cleared
up
in
a
very
effective
way,
though
I
had
already
come
to
the
same
conclusions
from
my
own
observations.
"By
the
time
that
you
discovered
me
upon
the
moor
I
had
a
complete
knowledge
of
the
whole
business,
but
I
had
not
a
case
which
could
go
to
a
jury.
Even
Stapleton's
attempt
upon
Sir
Henry
that
night
which
ended
in
the
death
of
the
unfortunate
convict
did
not
help
us
much
in
proving
murder
against
our
man.
There
seemed
to
be
no
alternative
but
to
catch
him
red-handed,
and
to
do
so
we
had
to
use
Sir
Henry,
alone
and
apparently
unprotected,
as
a
bait.
We
did
so,
and
at
the
cost
of
a
severe
shock
to
our
client
we
succeeded
in
completing
our
case
and
driving
Stapleton
to
his
destruction.
That
Sir
Henry
should
have
been
exposed
to
this
is,
I
must
confess,
a
reproach
to
my
management
of
the
case,
but
we
had
no
means
of
foreseeing
the
terrible
and
paralyzing
spectacle
which
the
beast
presented,
nor
could
we
predict
the
fog
which
enabled
him
to
burst
upon
us
at
such
short
notice.
We
succeeded
in
our
object
at
a
cost
which
both
the
specialist
and
Dr.
Mortimer
assure
me
will
be
a
temporary
one.
A
long
journey
may
enable
our
friend
to
recover
not
only
from
his
shattered
nerves
but
also
from
his
wounded
feelings.
His
love
for
the
lady
was
deep
and
sincere,
and
to
him
the
saddest
part
of
all
this
black
business
was
that
he
should
have
been
deceived
by
her.
"It
only
remains
to
indicate
the
part
which
she
had
played
throughout.
There
can
be
no
doubt
that
Stapleton
exercised
an
influence
over
her
which
may
have
been
love
or
may
have
been
fear,
or
very
possibly
both,
since
they
are
by
no
means
incompatible
emotions.
It
was,
at
least,
absolutely
effective.
At
his
command
she
consented
to
pass
as
his
sister,
though
he
found
the
limits
of
his
power
over
her
when
he
endeavoured
to
make
her
the
direct
accessory
to
murder.
She
was
ready
to
warn
Sir
Henry
so
far
as
she
could
without
implicating
her
husband,
and
again
and
again
she
tried
to
do
so.
Stapleton
himself
seems
to
have
been
capable
of
jealousy,
and
when
he
saw
the
baronet
paying
court
to
the
lady,
even
though
it
was
part
of
his
own
plan,
still
he
could
not
help
interrupting
with
a
passionate
outburst
which
revealed
the
fiery
soul
which
his
self-contained
manner
so
cleverly
concealed.
By
encouraging
the
intimacy
he
made
it
certain
that
Sir
Henry
would
frequently
come
to
Merripit
House
and
that
he
would
sooner
or
later
get
the
opportunity
which
he
desired.
On
the
day
of
the
crisis,
however,
his
wife
turned
suddenly
against
him.
She
had
learned
something
of
the
death
of
the
convict,
and
she
knew
that
the
hound
was
being
kept
in
the
outhouse
on
the
evening
that
Sir
Henry
was
coming
to
dinner.
She
taxed
her
husband
with
his
intended
crime,
and
a
furious
scene
followed
in
which
he
showed
her
for
the
first
time
that
she
had
a
rival
in
his
love.
Her
fidelity
turned
in
an
instant
to
bitter
hatred,
and
he
saw
that
she
would
betray
him.
He
tied
her
up,
therefore,
that
she
might
have
no
chance
of
warning
Sir
Henry,
and
he
hoped,
no
doubt,
that
when
the
whole
countryside
put
down
the
baronet's
death
to
the
curse
of
his
family,
as
they
certainly
would
do,
he
could
win
his
wife
back
to
accept
an
accomplished
fact
and
to
keep
silent
upon
what
she
knew.
In
this
I
fancy
that
in
any
case
he
made
a
miscalculation,
and
that,
if
we
had
not
been
there,
his
doom
would
none
the
less
have
been
sealed.
A
woman
of
Spanish
blood
does
not
condone
such
an
injury
so
lightly.
And
now,
my
dear
Watson,
without
referring
to
my
notes,
I
cannot
give
you
a
more
detailed
account
of
this
curious
case.
I
do
not
know
that
anything
essential
has
been
left
unexplained."
"He
could
not
hope
to
frighten
Sir
Henry
to
death
as
he
had
done
the
old
uncle
with
his
bogie
hound."
"The
beast
was
savage
and
half-starved.
If
its
appearance
did
not
frighten
its
victim
to
death,
at
least
it
would
paralyze
the
resistance
which
might
be
offered."
"No
doubt.
There
only
remains
one
difficulty.
If
Stapleton
came
into
the
succession,
how
could
he
explain
the
fact
that
he,
the
heir,
had
been
living
unannounced
under
another
name
so
close
to
the
property?
How
could
he
claim
it
without
causing
suspicion
and
inquiry?"
"It
is
a
formidable
difficulty,
and
I
fear
that
you
ask
too
much
when
you
expect
me
to
solve
it.
The
past
and
the
present
are
within
the
field
of
my
inquiry,
but
what
a
man
may
do
in
the
future
is
a
hard
question
to
answer.
Mrs.
Stapleton
has
heard
her
husband
discuss
the
problem
on
several
occasions.
There
were
three
possible
courses.
He
might
claim
the
property
from
South
America,
establish
his
identity
before
the
British
authorities
there
and
so
obtain
the
fortune
without
ever
coming
to
England
at
all,
or
he
might
adopt
an
elaborate
disguise
during
the
short
time
that
he
need
be
in
London;
or,
again,
he
might
furnish
an
accomplice
with
the
proofs
and
papers,
putting
him
in
as
heir,
and
retaining
a
claim
upon
some
proportion
of
his
income.
We
cannot
doubt
from
what
we
know
of
him
that
he
would
have
found
some
way
out
of
the
difficulty.
And
now,
my
dear
Watson,
we
have
had
some
weeks
of
severe
work,
and
for
one
evening,
I
think,
we
may
turn
our
thoughts
into
more
pleasant
channels.
I
have
a
box
for
'Les
Huguenots.'
Have
you
heard
the
De
Reszkes?
Might
I
trouble
you
then
to
be
ready
in
half
an
hour,
and
we
can
stop
at
Marcini's
for
a
little
dinner
on
the
way?"
%%%%%
The
Sign
of
the
Four
by
Sir
Arthur
Conan
Doyle,
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2097/2097-h/2097-h.htm
Sherlock
Holmes
took
his
bottle
from
the
corner
of
the
mantel-piece
and
his
hypodermic
syringe
from
its
neat
morocco
case.
With
his
long,
white,
nervous
fingers
he
adjusted
the
delicate
needle,
and
rolled
back
his
left
shirt-cuff.
For
some
little
time
his
eyes
rested
thoughtfully
upon
the
sinewy
forearm
and
wrist
all
dotted
and
scarred
with
innumerable
puncture-marks.
Finally
he
thrust
the
sharp
point
home,
pressed
down
the
tiny
piston,
and
sank
back
into
the
velvet-lined
arm-chair
with
a
long
sigh
of
satisfaction.
Three
times
a
day
for
many
months
I
had
witnessed
this
performance,
but
custom
had
not
reconciled
my
mind
to
it.
On
the
contrary,
from
day
to
day
I
had
become
more
irritable
at
the
sight,
and
my
conscience
swelled
nightly
within
me
at
the
thought
that
I
had
lacked
the
courage
to
protest.
Again
and
again
I
had
registered
a
vow
that
I
should
deliver
my
soul
upon
the
subject,
but
there
was
that
in
the
cool,
nonchalant
air
of
my
companion
which
made
him
the
last
man
with
whom
one
would
care
to
take
anything
approaching
to
a
liberty.
His
great
powers,
his
masterly
manner,
and
the
experience
which
I
had
had
of
his
many
extraordinary
qualities,
all
made
me
diffident
and
backward
in
crossing
him.
Yet
upon
that
afternoon,
whether
it
was
the
Beaune
which
I
had
taken
with
my
lunch,
or
the
additional
exasperation
produced
by
the
extreme
deliberation
of
his
manner,
I
suddenly
felt
that
I
could
hold
out
no
longer.
"Which
is
it
to-day?"
I
asked,—"morphine
or
cocaine?"
He
raised
his
eyes
languidly
from
the
old
black-letter
volume
which
he
had
opened.
"It
is
cocaine,"
he
said,—"a
seven-per-cent.
solution.
Would
you
care
to
try
it?"
"No,
indeed,"
I
answered,
brusquely.
"My
constitution
has
not
got
over
the
Afghan
campaign
yet.
I
cannot
afford
to
throw
any
extra
strain
upon
it."
He
smiled
at
my
vehemence.
"Perhaps
you
are
right,
Watson,"
he
said.
"I
suppose
that
its
influence
is
physically
a
bad
one.
I
find
it,
however,
so
transcendently
stimulating
and
clarifying
to
the
mind
that
its
secondary
action
is
a
matter
of
small
moment."
"But
consider!"
I
said,
earnestly.
"Count
the
cost!
Your
brain
may,
as
you
say,
be
roused
and
excited,
but
it
is
a
pathological
and
morbid
process,
which
involves
increased
tissue-change
and
may
at
last
leave
a
permanent
weakness.
You
know,
too,
what
a
black
reaction
comes
upon
you.
Surely
the
game
is
hardly
worth
the
candle.
Why
should
you,
for
a
mere
passing
pleasure,
risk
the
loss
of
those
great
powers
with
which
you
have
been
endowed?
Remember
that
I
speak
not
only
as
one
comrade
to
another,
but
as
a
medical
man
to
one
for
whose
constitution
he
is
to
some
extent
answerable."
He
did
not
seem
offended.
On
the
contrary,
he
put
his
finger-tips
together
and
leaned
his
elbows
on
the
arms
of
his
chair,
like
one
who
has
a
relish
for
conversation.
"My
mind,"
he
said,
"rebels
at
stagnation.
Give
me
problems,
give
me
work,
give
me
the
most
abstruse
cryptogram
or
the
most
intricate
analysis,
and
I
am
in
my
own
proper
atmosphere.
I
can
dispense
then
with
artificial
stimulants.
But
I
abhor
the
dull
routine
of
existence.
I
crave
for
mental
exaltation.
That
is
why
I
have
chosen
my
own
particular
profession,—or
rather
created
it,
for
I
am
the
only
one
in
the
world."
"The
only
unofficial
detective?"
I
said,
raising
my
eyebrows.
"The
only
unofficial
consulting
detective,"
he
answered.
"I
am
the
last
and
highest
court
of
appeal
in
detection.
When
Gregson
or
Lestrade
or
Athelney
Jones
are
out
of
their
depths—which,
by
the
way,
is
their
normal
state—the
matter
is
laid
before
me.
I
examine
the
data,
as
an
expert,
and
pronounce
a
specialist's
opinion.
I
claim
no
credit
in
such
cases.
My
name
figures
in
no
newspaper.
The
work
itself,
the
pleasure
of
finding
a
field
for
my
peculiar
powers,
is
my
highest
reward.
But
you
have
yourself
had
some
experience
of
my
methods
of
work
in
the
Jefferson
Hope
case."
"Yes,
indeed,"
said
I,
cordially.
"I
was
never
so
struck
by
anything
in
my
life.
I
even
embodied
it
in
a
small
brochure
with
the
somewhat
fantastic
title
of
'A
Study
in
Scarlet.'"
He
shook
his
head
sadly.
"I
glanced
over
it,"
said
he.
"Honestly,
I
cannot
congratulate
you
upon
it.
Detection
is,
or
ought
to
be,
an
exact
science,
and
should
be
treated
in
the
same
cold
and
unemotional
manner.
You
have
attempted
to
tinge
it
with
romanticism,
which
produces
much
the
same
effect
as
if
you
worked
a
love-story
or
an
elopement
into
the
fifth
proposition
of
Euclid."
"But
the
romance
was
there,"
I
remonstrated.
"I
could
not
tamper
with
the
facts."
"Some
facts
should
be
suppressed,
or
at
least
a
just
sense
of
proportion
should
be
observed
in
treating
them.
The
only
point
in
the
case
which
deserved
mention
was
the
curious
analytical
reasoning
from
effects
to
causes
by
which
I
succeeded
in
unraveling
it."
I
was
annoyed
at
this
criticism
of
a
work
which
had
been
specially
designed
to
please
him.
I
confess,
too,
that
I
was
irritated
by
the
egotism
which
seemed
to
demand
that
every
line
of
my
pamphlet
should
be
devoted
to
his
own
special
doings.
More
than
once
during
the
years
that
I
had
lived
with
him
in
Baker
Street
I
had
observed
that
a
small
vanity
underlay
my
companion's
quiet
and
didactic
manner.
I
made
no
remark,
however,
but
sat
nursing
my
wounded
leg.
I
had
a
Jezail
bullet
through
it
some
time
before,
and,
though
it
did
not
prevent
me
from
walking,
it
ached
wearily
at
every
change
of
the
weather.
"My
practice
has
extended
recently
to
the
Continent,"
said
Holmes,
after
a
while,
filling
up
his
old
brier-root
pipe.
"I
was
consulted
last
week
by
Francois
Le
Villard,
who,
as
you
probably
know,
has
come
rather
to
the
front
lately
in
the
French
detective
service.
He
has
all
the
Celtic
power
of
quick
intuition,
but
he
is
deficient
in
the
wide
range
of
exact
knowledge
which
is
essential
to
the
higher
developments
of
his
art.
The
case
was
concerned
with
a
will,
and
possessed
some
features
of
interest.
I
was
able
to
refer
him
to
two
parallel
cases,
the
one
at
Riga
in
1857,
and
the
other
at
St.
Louis
in
1871,
which
have
suggested
to
him
the
true
solution.
Here
is
the
letter
which
I
had
this
morning
acknowledging
my
assistance."
He
tossed
over,
as
he
spoke,
a
crumpled
sheet
of
foreign
notepaper.
I
glanced
my
eyes
down
it,
catching
a
profusion
of
notes
of
admiration,
with
stray
"magnifiques,"
"coup-de-maitres,"
and
"tours-de-force,"
all
testifying
to
the
ardent
admiration
of
the
Frenchman.
"He
speaks
as
a
pupil
to
his
master,"
said
I.
"Oh,
he
rates
my
assistance
too
highly,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
lightly.
"He
has
considerable
gifts
himself.
He
possesses
two
out
of
the
three
qualities
necessary
for
the
ideal
detective.
He
has
the
power
of
observation
and
that
of
deduction.
He
is
only
wanting
in
knowledge;
and
that
may
come
in
time.
He
is
now
translating
my
small
works
into
French."
"Your
works?"
"Oh,
didn't
you
know?"
he
cried,
laughing.
"Yes,
I
have
been
guilty
of
several
monographs.
They
are
all
upon
technical
subjects.
Here,
for
example,
is
one
'Upon
the
Distinction
between
the
Ashes
of
the
Various
Tobaccoes.'
In
it
I
enumerate
a
hundred
and
forty
forms
of
cigar-,
cigarette-,
and
pipe-tobacco,
with
colored
plates
illustrating
the
difference
in
the
ash.
It
is
a
point
which
is
continually
turning
up
in
criminal
trials,
and
which
is
sometimes
of
supreme
importance
as
a
clue.
If
you
can
say
definitely,
for
example,
that
some
murder
has
been
done
by
a
man
who
was
smoking
an
Indian
lunkah,
it
obviously
narrows
your
field
of
search.
To
the
trained
eye
there
is
as
much
difference
between
the
black
ash
of
a
Trichinopoly
and
the
white
fluff
of
bird's-eye
as
there
is
between
a
cabbage
and
a
potato."
"You
have
an
extraordinary
genius
for
minutiae,"
I
remarked.
"I
appreciate
their
importance.
Here
is
my
monograph
upon
the
tracing
of
footsteps,
with
some
remarks
upon
the
uses
of
plaster
of
Paris
as
a
preserver
of
impresses.
Here,
too,
is
a
curious
little
work
upon
the
influence
of
a
trade
upon
the
form
of
the
hand,
with
lithotypes
of
the
hands
of
slaters,
sailors,
corkcutters,
compositors,
weavers,
and
diamond-polishers.
That
is
a
matter
of
great
practical
interest
to
the
scientific
detective,—especially
in
cases
of
unclaimed
bodies,
or
in
discovering
the
antecedents
of
criminals.
But
I
weary
you
with
my
hobby."
"Not
at
all,"
I
answered,
earnestly.
"It
is
of
the
greatest
interest
to
me,
especially
since
I
have
had
the
opportunity
of
observing
your
practical
application
of
it.
But
you
spoke
just
now
of
observation
and
deduction.
Surely
the
one
to
some
extent
implies
the
other."
"Why,
hardly,"
he
answered,
leaning
back
luxuriously
in
his
arm-chair,
and
sending
up
thick
blue
wreaths
from
his
pipe.
"For
example,
observation
shows
me
that
you
have
been
to
the
Wigmore
Street
Post-Office
this
morning,
but
deduction
lets
me
know
that
when
there
you
dispatched
a
telegram."
"Right!"
said
I.
"Right
on
both
points!
But
I
confess
that
I
don't
see
how
you
arrived
at
it.
It
was
a
sudden
impulse
upon
my
part,
and
I
have
mentioned
it
to
no
one."
"It
is
simplicity
itself,"
he
remarked,
chuckling
at
my
surprise,—"so
absurdly
simple
that
an
explanation
is
superfluous;
and
yet
it
may
serve
to
define
the
limits
of
observation
and
of
deduction.
Observation
tells
me
that
you
have
a
little
reddish
mould
adhering
to
your
instep.
Just
opposite
the
Seymour
Street
Office
they
have
taken
up
the
pavement
and
thrown
up
some
earth
which
lies
in
such
a
way
that
it
is
difficult
to
avoid
treading
in
it
in
entering.
The
earth
is
of
this
peculiar
reddish
tint
which
is
found,
as
far
as
I
know,
nowhere
else
in
the
neighborhood.
So
much
is
observation.
The
rest
is
deduction."
"How,
then,
did
you
deduce
the
telegram?"
"Why,
of
course
I
knew
that
you
had
not
written
a
letter,
since
I
sat
opposite
to
you
all
morning.
I
see
also
in
your
open
desk
there
that
you
have
a
sheet
of
stamps
and
a
thick
bundle
of
post-cards.
What
could
you
go
into
the
post-office
for,
then,
but
to
send
a
wire?
Eliminate
all
other
factors,
and
the
one
which
remains
must
be
the
truth."
"In
this
case
it
certainly
is
so,"
I
replied,
after
a
little
thought.
"The
thing,
however,
is,
as
you
say,
of
the
simplest.
Would
you
think
me
impertinent
if
I
were
to
put
your
theories
to
a
more
severe
test?"
"On
the
contrary,"
he
answered,
"it
would
prevent
me
from
taking
a
second
dose
of
cocaine.
I
should
be
delighted
to
look
into
any
problem
which
you
might
submit
to
me."
"I
have
heard
you
say
that
it
is
difficult
for
a
man
to
have
any
object
in
daily
use
without
leaving
the
impress
of
his
individuality
upon
it
in
such
a
way
that
a
trained
observer
might
read
it.
Now,
I
have
here
a
watch
which
has
recently
come
into
my
possession.
Would
you
have
the
kindness
to
let
me
have
an
opinion
upon
the
character
or
habits
of
the
late
owner?"
I
handed
him
over
the
watch
with
some
slight
feeling
of
amusement
in
my
heart,
for
the
test
was,
as
I
thought,
an
impossible
one,
and
I
intended
it
as
a
lesson
against
the
somewhat
dogmatic
tone
which
he
occasionally
assumed.
He
balanced
the
watch
in
his
hand,
gazed
hard
at
the
dial,
opened
the
back,
and
examined
the
works,
first
with
his
naked
eyes
and
then
with
a
powerful
convex
lens.
I
could
hardly
keep
from
smiling
at
his
crestfallen
face
when
he
finally
snapped
the
case
to
and
handed
it
back.
"There
are
hardly
any
data,"
he
remarked.
"The
watch
has
been
recently
cleaned,
which
robs
me
of
my
most
suggestive
facts."
"You
are
right,"
I
answered.
"It
was
cleaned
before
being
sent
to
me."
In
my
heart
I
accused
my
companion
of
putting
forward
a
most
lame
and
impotent
excuse
to
cover
his
failure.
What
data
could
he
expect
from
an
uncleaned
watch?
"Though
unsatisfactory,
my
research
has
not
been
entirely
barren,"
he
observed,
staring
up
at
the
ceiling
with
dreamy,
lack-lustre
eyes.
"Subject
to
your
correction,
I
should
judge
that
the
watch
belonged
to
your
elder
brother,
who
inherited
it
from
your
father."
"That
you
gather,
no
doubt,
from
the
H.
W.
upon
the
back?"
"Quite
so.
The
W.
suggests
your
own
name.
The
date
of
the
watch
is
nearly
fifty
years
back,
and
the
initials
are
as
old
as
the
watch:
so
it
was
made
for
the
last
generation.
Jewelry
usually
descends
to
the
eldest
son,
and
he
is
most
likely
to
have
the
same
name
as
the
father.
Your
father
has,
if
I
remember
right,
been
dead
many
years.
It
has,
therefore,
been
in
the
hands
of
your
eldest
brother."
"Right,
so
far,"
said
I.
"Anything
else?"
"He
was
a
man
of
untidy
habits,—very
untidy
and
careless.
He
was
left
with
good
prospects,
but
he
threw
away
his
chances,
lived
for
some
time
in
poverty
with
occasional
short
intervals
of
prosperity,
and
finally,
taking
to
drink,
he
died.
That
is
all
I
can
gather."
I
sprang
from
my
chair
and
limped
impatiently
about
the
room
with
considerable
bitterness
in
my
heart.
"This
is
unworthy
of
you,
Holmes,"
I
said.
"I
could
not
have
believed
that
you
would
have
descended
to
this.
You
have
made
inquires
into
the
history
of
my
unhappy
brother,
and
you
now
pretend
to
deduce
this
knowledge
in
some
fanciful
way.
You
cannot
expect
me
to
believe
that
you
have
read
all
this
from
his
old
watch!
It
is
unkind,
and,
to
speak
plainly,
has
a
touch
of
charlatanism
in
it."
"My
dear
doctor,"
said
he,
kindly,
"pray
accept
my
apologies.
Viewing
the
matter
as
an
abstract
problem,
I
had
forgotten
how
personal
and
painful
a
thing
it
might
be
to
you.
I
assure
you,
however,
that
I
never
even
knew
that
you
had
a
brother
until
you
handed
me
the
watch."
"Then
how
in
the
name
of
all
that
is
wonderful
did
you
get
these
facts?
They
are
absolutely
correct
in
every
particular."
"Ah,
that
is
good
luck.
I
could
only
say
what
was
the
balance
of
probability.
I
did
not
at
all
expect
to
be
so
accurate."
"But
it
was
not
mere
guess-work?"
"No,
no:
I
never
guess.
It
is
a
shocking
habit,—destructive
to
the
logical
faculty.
What
seems
strange
to
you
is
only
so
because
you
do
not
follow
my
train
of
thought
or
observe
the
small
facts
upon
which
large
inferences
may
depend.
For
example,
I
began
by
stating
that
your
brother
was
careless.
When
you
observe
the
lower
part
of
that
watch-case
you
notice
that
it
is
not
only
dinted
in
two
places,
but
it
is
cut
and
marked
all
over
from
the
habit
of
keeping
other
hard
objects,
such
as
coins
or
keys,
in
the
same
pocket.
Surely
it
is
no
great
feat
to
assume
that
a
man
who
treats
a
fifty-guinea
watch
so
cavalierly
must
be
a
careless
man.
Neither
is
it
a
very
far-fetched
inference
that
a
man
who
inherits
one
article
of
such
value
is
pretty
well
provided
for
in
other
respects."
I
nodded,
to
show
that
I
followed
his
reasoning.
"It
is
very
customary
for
pawnbrokers
in
England,
when
they
take
a
watch,
to
scratch
the
number
of
the
ticket
with
a
pin-point
upon
the
inside
of
the
case.
It
is
more
handy
than
a
label,
as
there
is
no
risk
of
the
number
being
lost
or
transposed.
There
are
no
less
than
four
such
numbers
visible
to
my
lens
on
the
inside
of
this
case.
Inference,—that
your
brother
was
often
at
low
water.
Secondary
inference,—that
he
had
occasional
bursts
of
prosperity,
or
he
could
not
have
redeemed
the
pledge.
Finally,
I
ask
you
to
look
at
the
inner
plate,
which
contains
the
key-hole.
Look
at
the
thousands
of
scratches
all
round
the
hole,—marks
where
the
key
has
slipped.
What
sober
man's
key
could
have
scored
those
grooves?
But
you
will
never
see
a
drunkard's
watch
without
them.
He
winds
it
at
night,
and
he
leaves
these
traces
of
his
unsteady
hand.
Where
is
the
mystery
in
all
this?"
"It
is
as
clear
as
daylight,"
I
answered.
"I
regret
the
injustice
which
I
did
you.
I
should
have
had
more
faith
in
your
marvellous
faculty.
May
I
ask
whether
you
have
any
professional
inquiry
on
foot
at
present?"
"None.
Hence
the
cocaine.
I
cannot
live
without
brain-work.
What
else
is
there
to
live
for?
Stand
at
the
window
here.
Was
ever
such
a
dreary,
dismal,
unprofitable
world?
See
how
the
yellow
fog
swirls
down
the
street
and
drifts
across
the
dun-colored
houses.
What
could
be
more
hopelessly
prosaic
and
material?
What
is
the
use
of
having
powers,
doctor,
when
one
has
no
field
upon
which
to
exert
them?
Crime
is
commonplace,
existence
is
commonplace,
and
no
qualities
save
those
which
are
commonplace
have
any
function
upon
earth."
I
had
opened
my
mouth
to
reply
to
this
tirade,
when
with
a
crisp
knock
our
landlady
entered,
bearing
a
card
upon
the
brass
salver.
"A
young
lady
for
you,
sir,"
she
said,
addressing
my
companion.
"Miss
Mary
Morstan,"
he
read.
"Hum!
I
have
no
recollection
of
the
name.
Ask
the
young
lady
to
step
up,
Mrs.
Hudson.
Don't
go,
doctor.
I
should
prefer
that
you
remain."
Chapter
II
The
Statement
of
the
Case
Miss
Morstan
entered
the
room
with
a
firm
step
and
an
outward
composure
of
manner.
She
was
a
blonde
young
lady,
small,
dainty,
well
gloved,
and
dressed
in
the
most
perfect
taste.
There
was,
however,
a
plainness
and
simplicity
about
her
costume
which
bore
with
it
a
suggestion
of
limited
means.
The
dress
was
a
sombre
grayish
beige,
untrimmed
and
unbraided,
and
she
wore
a
small
turban
of
the
same
dull
hue,
relieved
only
by
a
suspicion
of
white
feather
in
the
side.
Her
face
had
neither
regularity
of
feature
nor
beauty
of
complexion,
but
her
expression
was
sweet
and
amiable,
and
her
large
blue
eyes
were
singularly
spiritual
and
sympathetic.
In
an
experience
of
women
which
extends
over
many
nations
and
three
separate
continents,
I
have
never
looked
upon
a
face
which
gave
a
clearer
promise
of
a
refined
and
sensitive
nature.
I
could
not
but
observe
that
as
she
took
the
seat
which
Sherlock
Holmes
placed
for
her,
her
lip
trembled,
her
hand
quivered,
and
she
showed
every
sign
of
intense
inward
agitation.
"I
have
come
to
you,
Mr.
Holmes,"
she
said,
"because
you
once
enabled
my
employer,
Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester,
to
unravel
a
little
domestic
complication.
She
was
much
impressed
by
your
kindness
and
skill."
"Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester,"
he
repeated
thoughtfully.
"I
believe
that
I
was
of
some
slight
service
to
her.
The
case,
however,
as
I
remember
it,
was
a
very
simple
one."
"She
did
not
think
so.
But
at
least
you
cannot
say
the
same
of
mine.
I
can
hardly
imagine
anything
more
strange,
more
utterly
inexplicable,
than
the
situation
in
which
I
find
myself."
Holmes
rubbed
his
hands,
and
his
eyes
glistened.
He
leaned
forward
in
his
chair
with
an
expression
of
extraordinary
concentration
upon
his
clear-cut,
hawklike
features.
"State
your
case,"
said
he,
in
brisk,
business
tones.
I
felt
that
my
position
was
an
embarrassing
one.
"You
will,
I
am
sure,
excuse
me,"
I
said,
rising
from
my
chair.
To
my
surprise,
the
young
lady
held
up
her
gloved
hand
to
detain
me.
"If
your
friend,"
she
said,
"would
be
good
enough
to
stop,
he
might
be
of
inestimable
service
to
me."
I
relapsed
into
my
chair.
"Briefly,"
she
continued,
"the
facts
are
these.
My
father
was
an
officer
in
an
Indian
regiment
who
sent
me
home
when
I
was
quite
a
child.
My
mother
was
dead,
and
I
had
no
relative
in
England.
I
was
placed,
however,
in
a
comfortable
boarding
establishment
at
Edinburgh,
and
there
I
remained
until
I
was
seventeen
years
of
age.
In
the
year
1878
my
father,
who
was
senior
captain
of
his
regiment,
obtained
twelve
months'
leave
and
came
home.
He
telegraphed
to
me
from
London
that
he
had
arrived
all
safe,
and
directed
me
to
come
down
at
once,
giving
the
Langham
Hotel
as
his
address.
His
message,
as
I
remember,
was
full
of
kindness
and
love.
On
reaching
London
I
drove
to
the
Langham,
and
was
informed
that
Captain
Morstan
was
staying
there,
but
that
he
had
gone
out
the
night
before
and
had
not
yet
returned.
I
waited
all
day
without
news
of
him.
That
night,
on
the
advice
of
the
manager
of
the
hotel,
I
communicated
with
the
police,
and
next
morning
we
advertised
in
all
the
papers.
Our
inquiries
led
to
no
result;
and
from
that
day
to
this
no
word
has
ever
been
heard
of
my
unfortunate
father.
He
came
home
with
his
heart
full
of
hope,
to
find
some
peace,
some
comfort,
and
instead—"
She
put
her
hand
to
her
throat,
and
a
choking
sob
cut
short
the
sentence.
"The
date?"
asked
Holmes,
opening
his
note-book.
"He
disappeared
upon
the
3d
of
December,
1878,—nearly
ten
years
ago."
"His
luggage?"
"Remained
at
the
hotel.
There
was
nothing
in
it
to
suggest
a
clue,—some
clothes,
some
books,
and
a
considerable
number
of
curiosities
from
the
Andaman
Islands.
He
had
been
one
of
the
officers
in
charge
of
the
convict-guard
there."
"Had
he
any
friends
in
town?"
"Only
one
that
we
know
of,—Major
Sholto,
of
his
own
regiment,
the
34th
Bombay
Infantry.
The
major
had
retired
some
little
time
before,
and
lived
at
Upper
Norwood.
We
communicated
with
him,
of
course,
but
he
did
not
even
know
that
his
brother
officer
was
in
England."
"A
singular
case,"
remarked
Holmes.
"I
have
not
yet
described
to
you
the
most
singular
part.
About
six
years
ago—to
be
exact,
upon
the
4th
of
May,
1882—an
advertisement
appeared
in
the
Times
asking
for
the
address
of
Miss
Mary
Morstan
and
stating
that
it
would
be
to
her
advantage
to
come
forward.
There
was
no
name
or
address
appended.
I
had
at
that
time
just
entered
the
family
of
Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester
in
the
capacity
of
governess.
By
her
advice
I
published
my
address
in
the
advertisement
column.
The
same
day
there
arrived
through
the
post
a
small
card-board
box
addressed
to
me,
which
I
found
to
contain
a
very
large
and
lustrous
pearl.
No
word
of
writing
was
enclosed.
Since
then
every
year
upon
the
same
date
there
has
always
appeared
a
similar
box,
containing
a
similar
pearl,
without
any
clue
as
to
the
sender.
They
have
been
pronounced
by
an
expert
to
be
of
a
rare
variety
and
of
considerable
value.
You
can
see
for
yourselves
that
they
are
very
handsome."
She
opened
a
flat
box
as
she
spoke,
and
showed
me
six
of
the
finest
pearls
that
I
had
ever
seen.
"Your
statement
is
most
interesting,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"Has
anything
else
occurred
to
you?"
"Yes,
and
no
later
than
to-day.
That
is
why
I
have
come
to
you.
This
morning
I
received
this
letter,
which
you
will
perhaps
read
for
yourself."
"Thank
you,"
said
Holmes.
"The
envelope
too,
please.
Postmark,
London,
S.W.
Date,
July
7.
Hum!
Man's
thumb-mark
on
corner,—probably
postman.
Best
quality
paper.
Envelopes
at
sixpence
a
packet.
Particular
man
in
his
stationery.
No
address.
'Be
at
the
third
pillar
from
the
left
outside
the
Lyceum
Theatre
to-night
at
seven
o'clock.
If
you
are
distrustful,
bring
two
friends.
You
are
a
wronged
woman,
and
shall
have
justice.
Do
not
bring
police.
If
you
do,
all
will
be
in
vain.
Your
unknown
friend.'
Well,
really,
this
is
a
very
pretty
little
mystery.
What
do
you
intend
to
do,
Miss
Morstan?"
"That
is
exactly
what
I
want
to
ask
you."
"Then
we
shall
most
certainly
go.
You
and
I
and—yes,
why,
Dr.
Watson
is
the
very
man.
Your
correspondent
says
two
friends.
He
and
I
have
worked
together
before."
"But
would
he
come?"
she
asked,
with
something
appealing
in
her
voice
and
expression.
"I
should
be
proud
and
happy,"
said
I,
fervently,
"if
I
can
be
of
any
service."
"You
are
both
very
kind,"
she
answered.
"I
have
led
a
retired
life,
and
have
no
friends
whom
I
could
appeal
to.
If
I
am
here
at
six
it
will
do,
I
suppose?"
"You
must
not
be
later,"
said
Holmes.
"There
is
one
other
point,
however.
Is
this
handwriting
the
same
as
that
upon
the
pearl-box
addresses?"
"I
have
them
here,"
she
answered,
producing
half
a
dozen
pieces
of
paper.
"You
are
certainly
a
model
client.
You
have
the
correct
intuition.
Let
us
see,
now."
He
spread
out
the
papers
upon
the
table,
and
gave
little
darting
glances
from
one
to
the
other.
"They
are
disguised
hands,
except
the
letter,"
he
said,
presently,
"but
there
can
be
no
question
as
to
the
authorship.
See
how
the
irrepressible
Greek
e
will
break
out,
and
see
the
twirl
of
the
final
s.
They
are
undoubtedly
by
the
same
person.
I
should
not
like
to
suggest
false
hopes,
Miss
Morstan,
but
is
there
any
resemblance
between
this
hand
and
that
of
your
father?"
"Nothing
could
be
more
unlike."
"I
expected
to
hear
you
say
so.
We
shall
look
out
for
you,
then,
at
six.
Pray
allow
me
to
keep
the
papers.
I
may
look
into
the
matter
before
then.
It
is
only
half-past
three.
Au
revoir,
then."
"Au
revoir,"
said
our
visitor,
and,
with
a
bright,
kindly
glance
from
one
to
the
other
of
us,
she
replaced
her
pearl-box
in
her
bosom
and
hurried
away.
Standing
at
the
window,
I
watched
her
walking
briskly
down
the
street,
until
the
gray
turban
and
white
feather
were
but
a
speck
in
the
sombre
crowd.
"What
a
very
attractive
woman!"
I
exclaimed,
turning
to
my
companion.
He
had
lit
his
pipe
again,
and
was
leaning
back
with
drooping
eyelids.
"Is
she?"
he
said,
languidly.
"I
did
not
observe."
"You
really
are
an
automaton,—a
calculating-machine!"
I
cried.
"There
is
something
positively
inhuman
in
you
at
times."
He
smiled
gently.
"It
is
of
the
first
importance,"
he
said,
"not
to
allow
your
judgment
to
be
biased
by
personal
qualities.
A
client
is
to
me
a
mere
unit,—a
factor
in
a
problem.
The
emotional
qualities
are
antagonistic
to
clear
reasoning.
I
assure
you
that
the
most
winning
woman
I
ever
knew
was
hanged
for
poisoning
three
little
children
for
their
insurance-money,
and
the
most
repellant
man
of
my
acquaintance
is
a
philanthropist
who
has
spent
nearly
a
quarter
of
a
million
upon
the
London
poor."
"In
this
case,
however—"
"I
never
make
exceptions.
An
exception
disproves
the
rule.
Have
you
ever
had
occasion
to
study
character
in
handwriting?
What
do
you
make
of
this
fellow's
scribble?"
"It
is
legible
and
regular,"
I
answered.
"A
man
of
business
habits
and
some
force
of
character."
Holmes
shook
his
head.
"Look
at
his
long
letters,"
he
said.
"They
hardly
rise
above
the
common
herd.
That
d
might
be
an
a,
and
that
l
an
e.
Men
of
character
always
differentiate
their
long
letters,
however
illegibly
they
may
write.
There
is
vacillation
in
his
k's
and
self-esteem
in
his
capitals.
I
am
going
out
now.
I
have
some
few
references
to
make.
Let
me
recommend
this
book,—one
of
the
most
remarkable
ever
penned.
It
is
Winwood
Reade's
'Martyrdom
of
Man.'
I
shall
be
back
in
an
hour."
I
sat
in
the
window
with
the
volume
in
my
hand,
but
my
thoughts
were
far
from
the
daring
speculations
of
the
writer.
My
mind
ran
upon
our
late
visitor,—her
smiles,
the
deep
rich
tones
of
her
voice,
the
strange
mystery
which
overhung
her
life.
If
she
were
seventeen
at
the
time
of
her
father's
disappearance
she
must
be
seven-and-twenty
now,—a
sweet
age,
when
youth
has
lost
its
self-consciousness
and
become
a
little
sobered
by
experience.
So
I
sat
and
mused,
until
such
dangerous
thoughts
came
into
my
head
that
I
hurried
away
to
my
desk
and
plunged
furiously
into
the
latest
treatise
upon
pathology.
What
was
I,
an
army
surgeon
with
a
weak
leg
and
a
weaker
banking-account,
that
I
should
dare
to
think
of
such
things?
She
was
a
unit,
a
factor,—nothing
more.
If
my
future
were
black,
it
was
better
surely
to
face
it
like
a
man
than
to
attempt
to
brighten
it
by
mere
will-o'-the-wisps
of
the
imagination.
Chapter
III
In
Quest
of
a
Solution
It
was
half-past
five
before
Holmes
returned.
He
was
bright,
eager,
and
in
excellent
spirits,—a
mood
which
in
his
case
alternated
with
fits
of
the
blackest
depression.
"There
is
no
great
mystery
in
this
matter,"
he
said,
taking
the
cup
of
tea
which
I
had
poured
out
for
him.
"The
facts
appear
to
admit
of
only
one
explanation."
"What!
you
have
solved
it
already?"
"Well,
that
would
be
too
much
to
say.
I
have
discovered
a
suggestive
fact,
that
is
all.
It
is,
however,
VERY
suggestive.
The
details
are
still
to
be
added.
I
have
just
found,
on
consulting
the
back
files
of
the
Times,
that
Major
Sholto,
of
Upper
Norword,
late
of
the
34th
Bombay
Infantry,
died
upon
the
28th
of
April,
1882."
"I
may
be
very
obtuse,
Holmes,
but
I
fail
to
see
what
this
suggests."
"No?
You
surprise
me.
Look
at
it
in
this
way,
then.
Captain
Morstan
disappears.
The
only
person
in
London
whom
he
could
have
visited
is
Major
Sholto.
Major
Sholto
denies
having
heard
that
he
was
in
London.
Four
years
later
Sholto
dies.
WITHIN
A
WEEK
OF
HIS
DEATH
Captain
Morstan's
daughter
receives
a
valuable
present,
which
is
repeated
from
year
to
year,
and
now
culminates
in
a
letter
which
describes
her
as
a
wronged
woman.
What
wrong
can
it
refer
to
except
this
deprivation
of
her
father?
And
why
should
the
presents
begin
immediately
after
Sholto's
death,
unless
it
is
that
Sholto's
heir
knows
something
of
the
mystery
and
desires
to
make
compensation?
Have
you
any
alternative
theory
which
will
meet
the
facts?"
"But
what
a
strange
compensation!
And
how
strangely
made!
Why,
too,
should
he
write
a
letter
now,
rather
than
six
years
ago?
Again,
the
letter
speaks
of
giving
her
justice.
What
justice
can
she
have?
It
is
too
much
to
suppose
that
her
father
is
still
alive.
There
is
no
other
injustice
in
her
case
that
you
know
of."
"There
are
difficulties;
there
are
certainly
difficulties,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
pensively.
"But
our
expedition
of
to-night
will
solve
them
all.
Ah,
here
is
a
four-wheeler,
and
Miss
Morstan
is
inside.
Are
you
all
ready?
Then
we
had
better
go
down,
for
it
is
a
little
past
the
hour."
I
picked
up
my
hat
and
my
heaviest
stick,
but
I
observed
that
Holmes
took
his
revolver
from
his
drawer
and
slipped
it
into
his
pocket.
It
was
clear
that
he
thought
that
our
night's
work
might
be
a
serious
one.
Miss
Morstan
was
muffled
in
a
dark
cloak,
and
her
sensitive
face
was
composed,
but
pale.
She
must
have
been
more
than
woman
if
she
did
not
feel
some
uneasiness
at
the
strange
enterprise
upon
which
we
were
embarking,
yet
her
self-control
was
perfect,
and
she
readily
answered
the
few
additional
questions
which
Sherlock
Holmes
put
to
her.
"Major
Sholto
was
a
very
particular
friend
of
papa's,"
she
said.
"His
letters
were
full
of
allusions
to
the
major.
He
and
papa
were
in
command
of
the
troops
at
the
Andaman
Islands,
so
they
were
thrown
a
great
deal
together.
By
the
way,
a
curious
paper
was
found
in
papa's
desk
which
no
one
could
understand.
I
don't
suppose
that
it
is
of
the
slightest
importance,
but
I
thought
you
might
care
to
see
it,
so
I
brought
it
with
me.
It
is
here."
Holmes
unfolded
the
paper
carefully
and
smoothed
it
out
upon
his
knee.
He
then
very
methodically
examined
it
all
over
with
his
double
lens.
"It
is
paper
of
native
Indian
manufacture,"
he
remarked.
"It
has
at
some
time
been
pinned
to
a
board.
The
diagram
upon
it
appears
to
be
a
plan
of
part
of
a
large
building
with
numerous
halls,
corridors,
and
passages.
At
one
point
is
a
small
cross
done
in
red
ink,
and
above
it
is
'3.37
from
left,'
in
faded
pencil-writing.
In
the
left-hand
corner
is
a
curious
hieroglyphic
like
four
crosses
in
a
line
with
their
arms
touching.
Beside
it
is
written,
in
very
rough
and
coarse
characters,
'The
sign
of
the
four,—Jonathan
Small,
Mahomet
Singh,
Abdullah
Khan,
Dost
Akbar.'
No,
I
confess
that
I
do
not
see
how
this
bears
upon
the
matter.
Yet
it
is
evidently
a
document
of
importance.
It
has
been
kept
carefully
in
a
pocket-book;
for
the
one
side
is
as
clean
as
the
other."
"It
was
in
his
pocket-book
that
we
found
it."
"Preserve
it
carefully,
then,
Miss
Morstan,
for
it
may
prove
to
be
of
use
to
us.
I
begin
to
suspect
that
this
matter
may
turn
out
to
be
much
deeper
and
more
subtle
than
I
at
first
supposed.
I
must
reconsider
my
ideas."
He
leaned
back
in
the
cab,
and
I
could
see
by
his
drawn
brow
and
his
vacant
eye
that
he
was
thinking
intently.
Miss
Morstan
and
I
chatted
in
an
undertone
about
our
present
expedition
and
its
possible
outcome,
but
our
companion
maintained
his
impenetrable
reserve
until
the
end
of
our
journey.
It
was
a
September
evening,
and
not
yet
seven
o'clock,
but
the
day
had
been
a
dreary
one,
and
a
dense
drizzly
fog
lay
low
upon
the
great
city.
Mud-colored
clouds
drooped
sadly
over
the
muddy
streets.
Down
the
Strand
the
lamps
were
but
misty
splotches
of
diffused
light
which
threw
a
feeble
circular
glimmer
upon
the
slimy
pavement.
The
yellow
glare
from
the
shop-windows
streamed
out
into
the
steamy,
vaporous
air,
and
threw
a
murky,
shifting
radiance
across
the
crowded
thoroughfare.
There
was,
to
my
mind,
something
eerie
and
ghost-like
in
the
endless
procession
of
faces
which
flitted
across
these
narrow
bars
of
light,—sad
faces
and
glad,
haggard
and
merry.
Like
all
human
kind,
they
flitted
from
the
gloom
into
the
light,
and
so
back
into
the
gloom
once
more.
I
am
not
subject
to
impressions,
but
the
dull,
heavy
evening,
with
the
strange
business
upon
which
we
were
engaged,
combined
to
make
me
nervous
and
depressed.
I
could
see
from
Miss
Morstan's
manner
that
she
was
suffering
from
the
same
feeling.
Holmes
alone
could
rise
superior
to
petty
influences.
He
held
his
open
note-book
upon
his
knee,
and
from
time
to
time
he
jotted
down
figures
and
memoranda
in
the
light
of
his
pocket-lantern.
At
the
Lyceum
Theatre
the
crowds
were
already
thick
at
the
side-entrances.
In
front
a
continuous
stream
of
hansoms
and
four-wheelers
were
rattling
up,
discharging
their
cargoes
of
shirt-fronted
men
and
beshawled,
bediamonded
women.
We
had
hardly
reached
the
third
pillar,
which
was
our
rendezvous,
before
a
small,
dark,
brisk
man
in
the
dress
of
a
coachman
accosted
us.
"Are
you
the
parties
who
come
with
Miss
Morstan?"
he
asked.
"I
am
Miss
Morstan,
and
these
two
gentlemen
are
my
friends,"
said
she.
He
bent
a
pair
of
wonderfully
penetrating
and
questioning
eyes
upon
us.
"You
will
excuse
me,
miss,"
he
said
with
a
certain
dogged
manner,
"but
I
was
to
ask
you
to
give
me
your
word
that
neither
of
your
companions
is
a
police-officer."
"I
give
you
my
word
on
that,"
she
answered.
He
gave
a
shrill
whistle,
on
which
a
street
Arab
led
across
a
four-wheeler
and
opened
the
door.
The
man
who
had
addressed
us
mounted
to
the
box,
while
we
took
our
places
inside.
We
had
hardly
done
so
before
the
driver
whipped
up
his
horse,
and
we
plunged
away
at
a
furious
pace
through
the
foggy
streets.
The
situation
was
a
curious
one.
We
were
driving
to
an
unknown
place,
on
an
unknown
errand.
Yet
our
invitation
was
either
a
complete
hoax,—which
was
an
inconceivable
hypothesis,—or
else
we
had
good
reason
to
think
that
important
issues
might
hang
upon
our
journey.
Miss
Morstan's
demeanor
was
as
resolute
and
collected
as
ever.
I
endeavored
to
cheer
and
amuse
her
by
reminiscences
of
my
adventures
in
Afghanistan;
but,
to
tell
the
truth,
I
was
myself
so
excited
at
our
situation
and
so
curious
as
to
our
destination
that
my
stories
were
slightly
involved.
To
this
day
she
declares
that
I
told
her
one
moving
anecdote
as
to
how
a
musket
looked
into
my
tent
at
the
dead
of
night,
and
how
I
fired
a
double-barrelled
tiger
cub
at
it.
At
first
I
had
some
idea
as
to
the
direction
in
which
we
were
driving;
but
soon,
what
with
our
pace,
the
fog,
and
my
own
limited
knowledge
of
London,
I
lost
my
bearings,
and
knew
nothing,
save
that
we
seemed
to
be
going
a
very
long
way.
Sherlock
Holmes
was
never
at
fault,
however,
and
he
muttered
the
names
as
the
cab
rattled
through
squares
and
in
and
out
by
tortuous
by-streets.
"Rochester
Row,"
said
he.
"Now
Vincent
Square.
Now
we
come
out
on
the
Vauxhall
Bridge
Road.
We
are
making
for
the
Surrey
side,
apparently.
Yes,
I
thought
so.
Now
we
are
on
the
bridge.
You
can
catch
glimpses
of
the
river."
We
did
indeed
get
a
fleeting
view
of
a
stretch
of
the
Thames
with
the
lamps
shining
upon
the
broad,
silent
water;
but
our
cab
dashed
on,
and
was
soon
involved
in
a
labyrinth
of
streets
upon
the
other
side.
"Wordsworth
Road,"
said
my
companion.
"Priory
Road.
Lark
Hall
Lane.
Stockwell
Place.
Robert
Street.
Cold
Harbor
Lane.
Our
quest
does
not
appear
to
take
us
to
very
fashionable
regions."
We
had,
indeed,
reached
a
questionable
and
forbidding
neighborhood.
Long
lines
of
dull
brick
houses
were
only
relieved
by
the
coarse
glare
and
tawdry
brilliancy
of
public
houses
at
the
corner.
Then
came
rows
of
two-storied
villas
each
with
a
fronting
of
miniature
garden,
and
then
again
interminable
lines
of
new
staring
brick
buildings,—the
monster
tentacles
which
the
giant
city
was
throwing
out
into
the
country.
At
last
the
cab
drew
up
at
the
third
house
in
a
new
terrace.
None
of
the
other
houses
were
inhabited,
and
that
at
which
we
stopped
was
as
dark
as
its
neighbors,
save
for
a
single
glimmer
in
the
kitchen
window.
On
our
knocking,
however,
the
door
was
instantly
thrown
open
by
a
Hindoo
servant
clad
in
a
yellow
turban,
white
loose-fitting
clothes,
and
a
yellow
sash.
There
was
something
strangely
incongruous
in
this
Oriental
figure
framed
in
the
commonplace
door-way
of
a
third-rate
suburban
dwelling-house.
"The
Sahib
awaits
you,"
said
he,
and
even
as
he
spoke
there
came
a
high
piping
voice
from
some
inner
room.
"Show
them
in
to
me,
khitmutgar,"
it
cried.
"Show
them
straight
in
to
me."
Chapter
IV
The
Story
of
the
Bald-Headed
Man
We
followed
the
Indian
down
a
sordid
and
common
passage,
ill
lit
and
worse
furnished,
until
he
came
to
a
door
upon
the
right,
which
he
threw
open.
A
blaze
of
yellow
light
streamed
out
upon
us,
and
in
the
centre
of
the
glare
there
stood
a
small
man
with
a
very
high
head,
a
bristle
of
red
hair
all
round
the
fringe
of
it,
and
a
bald,
shining
scalp
which
shot
out
from
among
it
like
a
mountain-peak
from
fir-trees.
He
writhed
his
hands
together
as
he
stood,
and
his
features
were
in
a
perpetual
jerk,
now
smiling,
now
scowling,
but
never
for
an
instant
in
repose.
Nature
had
given
him
a
pendulous
lip,
and
a
too
visible
line
of
yellow
and
irregular
teeth,
which
he
strove
feebly
to
conceal
by
constantly
passing
his
hand
over
the
lower
part
of
his
face.
In
spite
of
his
obtrusive
baldness,
he
gave
the
impression
of
youth.
In
point
of
fact
he
had
just
turned
his
thirtieth
year.
"Your
servant,
Miss
Morstan,"
he
kept
repeating,
in
a
thin,
high
voice.
"Your
servant,
gentlemen.
Pray
step
into
my
little
sanctum.
A
small
place,
miss,
but
furnished
to
my
own
liking.
An
oasis
of
art
in
the
howling
desert
of
South
London."
We
were
all
astonished
by
the
appearance
of
the
apartment
into
which
he
invited
us.
In
that
sorry
house
it
looked
as
out
of
place
as
a
diamond
of
the
first
water
in
a
setting
of
brass.
The
richest
and
glossiest
of
curtains
and
tapestries
draped
the
walls,
looped
back
here
and
there
to
expose
some
richly-mounted
painting
or
Oriental
vase.
The
carpet
was
of
amber-and-black,
so
soft
and
so
thick
that
the
foot
sank
pleasantly
into
it,
as
into
a
bed
of
moss.
Two
great
tiger-skins
thrown
athwart
it
increased
the
suggestion
of
Eastern
luxury,
as
did
a
huge
hookah
which
stood
upon
a
mat
in
the
corner.
A
lamp
in
the
fashion
of
a
silver
dove
was
hung
from
an
almost
invisible
golden
wire
in
the
centre
of
the
room.
As
it
burned
it
filled
the
air
with
a
subtle
and
aromatic
odor.
"Mr.
Thaddeus
Sholto,"
said
the
little
man,
still
jerking
and
smiling.
"That
is
my
name.
You
are
Miss
Morstan,
of
course.
And
these
gentlemen—"
"This
is
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,
and
this
is
Dr.
Watson."
"A
doctor,
eh?"
cried
he,
much
excited.
"Have
you
your
stethoscope?
Might
I
ask
you—would
you
have
the
kindness?
I
have
grave
doubts
as
to
my
mitral
valve,
if
you
would
be
so
very
good.
The
aortic
I
may
rely
upon,
but
I
should
value
your
opinion
upon
the
mitral."
I
listened
to
his
heart,
as
requested,
but
was
unable
to
find
anything
amiss,
save
indeed
that
he
was
in
an
ecstasy
of
fear,
for
he
shivered
from
head
to
foot.
"It
appears
to
be
normal,"
I
said.
"You
have
no
cause
for
uneasiness."
"You
will
excuse
my
anxiety,
Miss
Morstan,"
he
remarked,
airily.
"I
am
a
great
sufferer,
and
I
have
long
had
suspicions
as
to
that
valve.
I
am
delighted
to
hear
that
they
are
unwarranted.
Had
your
father,
Miss
Morstan,
refrained
from
throwing
a
strain
upon
his
heart,
he
might
have
been
alive
now."
I
could
have
struck
the
man
across
the
face,
so
hot
was
I
at
this
callous
and
off-hand
reference
to
so
delicate
a
matter.
Miss
Morstan
sat
down,
and
her
face
grew
white
to
the
lips.
"I
knew
in
my
heart
that
he
was
dead,"
said
she.
"I
can
give
you
every
information,"
said
he,
"and,
what
is
more,
I
can
do
you
justice;
and
I
will,
too,
whatever
Brother
Bartholomew
may
say.
I
am
so
glad
to
have
your
friends
here,
not
only
as
an
escort
to
you,
but
also
as
witnesses
to
what
I
am
about
to
do
and
say.
The
three
of
us
can
show
a
bold
front
to
Brother
Bartholomew.
But
let
us
have
no
outsiders,—no
police
or
officials.
We
can
settle
everything
satisfactorily
among
ourselves,
without
any
interference.
Nothing
would
annoy
Brother
Bartholomew
more
than
any
publicity."
He
sat
down
upon
a
low
settee
and
blinked
at
us
inquiringly
with
his
weak,
watery
blue
eyes.
"For
my
part,"
said
Holmes,
"whatever
you
may
choose
to
say
will
go
no
further."
I
nodded
to
show
my
agreement.
"That
is
well!
That
is
well!"
said
he.
"May
I
offer
you
a
glass
of
Chianti,
Miss
Morstan?
Or
of
Tokay?
I
keep
no
other
wines.
Shall
I
open
a
flask?
No?
Well,
then,
I
trust
that
you
have
no
objection
to
tobacco-smoke,
to
the
mild
balsamic
odor
of
the
Eastern
tobacco.
I
am
a
little
nervous,
and
I
find
my
hookah
an
invaluable
sedative."
He
applied
a
taper
to
the
great
bowl,
and
the
smoke
bubbled
merrily
through
the
rose-water.
We
sat
all
three
in
a
semicircle,
with
our
heads
advanced,
and
our
chins
upon
our
hands,
while
the
strange,
jerky
little
fellow,
with
his
high,
shining
head,
puffed
uneasily
in
the
centre.
"When
I
first
determined
to
make
this
communication
to
you,"
said
he,
"I
might
have
given
you
my
address,
but
I
feared
that
you
might
disregard
my
request
and
bring
unpleasant
people
with
you.
I
took
the
liberty,
therefore,
of
making
an
appointment
in
such
a
way
that
my
man
Williams
might
be
able
to
see
you
first.
I
have
complete
confidence
in
his
discretion,
and
he
had
orders,
if
he
were
dissatisfied,
to
proceed
no
further
in
the
matter.
You
will
excuse
these
precautions,
but
I
am
a
man
of
somewhat
retiring,
and
I
might
even
say
refined,
tastes,
and
there
is
nothing
more
unaesthetic
than
a
policeman.
I
have
a
natural
shrinking
from
all
forms
of
rough
materialism.
I
seldom
come
in
contact
with
the
rough
crowd.
I
live,
as
you
see,
with
some
little
atmosphere
of
elegance
around
me.
I
may
call
myself
a
patron
of
the
arts.
It
is
my
weakness.
The
landscape
is
a
genuine
Corot,
and,
though
a
connoisseur
might
perhaps
throw
a
doubt
upon
that
Salvator
Rosa,
there
cannot
be
the
least
question
about
the
Bouguereau.
I
am
partial
to
the
modern
French
school."
"You
will
excuse
me,
Mr.
Sholto,"
said
Miss
Morstan,
"but
I
am
here
at
your
request
to
learn
something
which
you
desire
to
tell
me.
It
is
very
late,
and
I
should
desire
the
interview
to
be
as
short
as
possible."
"At
the
best
it
must
take
some
time,"
he
answered;
"for
we
shall
certainly
have
to
go
to
Norwood
and
see
Brother
Bartholomew.
We
shall
all
go
and
try
if
we
can
get
the
better
of
Brother
Bartholomew.
He
is
very
angry
with
me
for
taking
the
course
which
has
seemed
right
to
me.
I
had
quite
high
words
with
him
last
night.
You
cannot
imagine
what
a
terrible
fellow
he
is
when
he
is
angry."
"If
we
are
to
go
to
Norwood
it
would
perhaps
be
as
well
to
start
at
once,"
I
ventured
to
remark.
He
laughed
until
his
ears
were
quite
red.
"That
would
hardly
do,"
he
cried.
"I
don't
know
what
he
would
say
if
I
brought
you
in
that
sudden
way.
No,
I
must
prepare
you
by
showing
you
how
we
all
stand
to
each
other.
In
the
first
place,
I
must
tell
you
that
there
are
several
points
in
the
story
of
which
I
am
myself
ignorant.
I
can
only
lay
the
facts
before
you
as
far
as
I
know
them
myself.
"My
father
was,
as
you
may
have
guessed,
Major
John
Sholto,
once
of
the
Indian
army.
He
retired
some
eleven
years
ago,
and
came
to
live
at
Pondicherry
Lodge
in
Upper
Norwood.
He
had
prospered
in
India,
and
brought
back
with
him
a
considerable
sum
of
money,
a
large
collection
of
valuable
curiosities,
and
a
staff
of
native
servants.
With
these
advantages
he
bought
himself
a
house,
and
lived
in
great
luxury.
My
twin-brother
Bartholomew
and
I
were
the
only
children.
"I
very
well
remember
the
sensation
which
was
caused
by
the
disappearance
of
Captain
Morstan.
We
read
the
details
in
the
papers,
and,
knowing
that
he
had
been
a
friend
of
our
father's,
we
discussed
the
case
freely
in
his
presence.
He
used
to
join
in
our
speculations
as
to
what
could
have
happened.
Never
for
an
instant
did
we
suspect
that
he
had
the
whole
secret
hidden
in
his
own
breast,—that
of
all
men
he
alone
knew
the
fate
of
Arthur
Morstan.
"We
did
know,
however,
that
some
mystery—some
positive
danger—overhung
our
father.
He
was
very
fearful
of
going
out
alone,
and
he
always
employed
two
prize-fighters
to
act
as
porters
at
Pondicherry
Lodge.
Williams,
who
drove
you
to-night,
was
one
of
them.
He
was
once
light-weight
champion
of
England.
Our
father
would
never
tell
us
what
it
was
he
feared,
but
he
had
a
most
marked
aversion
to
men
with
wooden
legs.
On
one
occasion
he
actually
fired
his
revolver
at
a
wooden-legged
man,
who
proved
to
be
a
harmless
tradesman
canvassing
for
orders.
We
had
to
pay
a
large
sum
to
hush
the
matter
up.
My
brother
and
I
used
to
think
this
a
mere
whim
of
my
father's,
but
events
have
since
led
us
to
change
our
opinion.
"Early
in
1882
my
father
received
a
letter
from
India
which
was
a
great
shock
to
him.
He
nearly
fainted
at
the
breakfast-table
when
he
opened
it,
and
from
that
day
he
sickened
to
his
death.
What
was
in
the
letter
we
could
never
discover,
but
I
could
see
as
he
held
it
that
it
was
short
and
written
in
a
scrawling
hand.
He
had
suffered
for
years
from
an
enlarged
spleen,
but
he
now
became
rapidly
worse,
and
towards
the
end
of
April
we
were
informed
that
he
was
beyond
all
hope,
and
that
he
wished
to
make
a
last
communication
to
us.
"When
we
entered
his
room
he
was
propped
up
with
pillows
and
breathing
heavily.
He
besought
us
to
lock
the
door
and
to
come
upon
either
side
of
the
bed.
Then,
grasping
our
hands,
he
made
a
remarkable
statement
to
us,
in
a
voice
which
was
broken
as
much
by
emotion
as
by
pain.
I
shall
try
and
give
it
to
you
in
his
own
very
words.
"'I
have
only
one
thing,'
he
said,
'which
weighs
upon
my
mind
at
this
supreme
moment.
It
is
my
treatment
of
poor
Morstan's
orphan.
The
cursed
greed
which
has
been
my
besetting
sin
through
life
has
withheld
from
her
the
treasure,
half
at
least
of
which
should
have
been
hers.
And
yet
I
have
made
no
use
of
it
myself,—so
blind
and
foolish
a
thing
is
avarice.
The
mere
feeling
of
possession
has
been
so
dear
to
me
that
I
could
not
bear
to
share
it
with
another.
See
that
chaplet
dipped
with
pearls
beside
the
quinine-bottle.
Even
that
I
could
not
bear
to
part
with,
although
I
had
got
it
out
with
the
design
of
sending
it
to
her.
You,
my
sons,
will
give
her
a
fair
share
of
the
Agra
treasure.
But
send
her
nothing—not
even
the
chaplet—until
I
am
gone.
After
all,
men
have
been
as
bad
as
this
and
have
recovered.
"'I
will
tell
you
how
Morstan
died,'
he
continued.
'He
had
suffered
for
years
from
a
weak
heart,
but
he
concealed
it
from
every
one.
I
alone
knew
it.
When
in
India,
he
and
I,
through
a
remarkable
chain
of
circumstances,
came
into
possession
of
a
considerable
treasure.
I
brought
it
over
to
England,
and
on
the
night
of
Morstan's
arrival
he
came
straight
over
here
to
claim
his
share.
He
walked
over
from
the
station,
and
was
admitted
by
my
faithful
Lal
Chowdar,
who
is
now
dead.
Morstan
and
I
had
a
difference
of
opinion
as
to
the
division
of
the
treasure,
and
we
came
to
heated
words.
Morstan
had
sprung
out
of
his
chair
in
a
paroxysm
of
anger,
when
he
suddenly
pressed
his
hand
to
his
side,
his
face
turned
a
dusky
hue,
and
he
fell
backwards,
cutting
his
head
against
the
corner
of
the
treasure-chest.
When
I
stooped
over
him
I
found,
to
my
horror,
that
he
was
dead.
"'For
a
long
time
I
sat
half
distracted,
wondering
what
I
should
do.
My
first
impulse
was,
of
course,
to
call
for
assistance;
but
I
could
not
but
recognize
that
there
was
every
chance
that
I
would
be
accused
of
his
murder.
His
death
at
the
moment
of
a
quarrel,
and
the
gash
in
his
head,
would
be
black
against
me.
Again,
an
official
inquiry
could
not
be
made
without
bringing
out
some
facts
about
the
treasure,
which
I
was
particularly
anxious
to
keep
secret.
He
had
told
me
that
no
soul
upon
earth
knew
where
he
had
gone.
There
seemed
to
be
no
necessity
why
any
soul
ever
should
know.
"'I
was
still
pondering
over
the
matter,
when,
looking
up,
I
saw
my
servant,
Lal
Chowdar,
in
the
doorway.
He
stole
in
and
bolted
the
door
behind
him.
"Do
not
fear,
Sahib,"
he
said.
"No
one
need
know
that
you
have
killed
him.
Let
us
hide
him
away,
and
who
is
the
wiser?"
"I
did
not
kill
him,"
said
I.
Lal
Chowdar
shook
his
head
and
smiled.
"I
heard
it
all,
Sahib,"
said
he.
"I
heard
you
quarrel,
and
I
heard
the
blow.
But
my
lips
are
sealed.
All
are
asleep
in
the
house.
Let
us
put
him
away
together."
That
was
enough
to
decide
me.
If
my
own
servant
could
not
believe
my
innocence,
how
could
I
hope
to
make
it
good
before
twelve
foolish
tradesmen
in
a
jury-box?
Lal
Chowdar
and
I
disposed
of
the
body
that
night,
and
within
a
few
days
the
London
papers
were
full
of
the
mysterious
disappearance
of
Captain
Morstan.
You
will
see
from
what
I
say
that
I
can
hardly
be
blamed
in
the
matter.
My
fault
lies
in
the
fact
that
we
concealed
not
only
the
body,
but
also
the
treasure,
and
that
I
have
clung
to
Morstan's
share
as
well
as
to
my
own.
I
wish
you,
therefore,
to
make
restitution.
Put
your
ears
down
to
my
mouth.
The
treasure
is
hidden
in—'
At
this
instant
a
horrible
change
came
over
his
expression;
his
eyes
stared
wildly,
his
jaw
dropped,
and
he
yelled,
in
a
voice
which
I
can
never
forget,
'Keep
him
out!
For
Christ's
sake
keep
him
out!'
We
both
stared
round
at
the
window
behind
us
upon
which
his
gaze
was
fixed.
A
face
was
looking
in
at
us
out
of
the
darkness.
We
could
see
the
whitening
of
the
nose
where
it
was
pressed
against
the
glass.
It
was
a
bearded,
hairy
face,
with
wild
cruel
eyes
and
an
expression
of
concentrated
malevolence.
My
brother
and
I
rushed
towards
the
window,
but
the
man
was
gone.
When
we
returned
to
my
father
his
head
had
dropped
and
his
pulse
had
ceased
to
beat.
"We
searched
the
garden
that
night,
but
found
no
sign
of
the
intruder,
save
that
just
under
the
window
a
single
footmark
was
visible
in
the
flower-bed.
But
for
that
one
trace,
we
might
have
thought
that
our
imaginations
had
conjured
up
that
wild,
fierce
face.
We
soon,
however,
had
another
and
a
more
striking
proof
that
there
were
secret
agencies
at
work
all
round
us.
The
window
of
my
father's
room
was
found
open
in
the
morning,
his
cupboards
and
boxes
had
been
rifled,
and
upon
his
chest
was
fixed
a
torn
piece
of
paper,
with
the
words
'The
sign
of
the
four'
scrawled
across
it.
What
the
phrase
meant,
or
who
our
secret
visitor
may
have
been,
we
never
knew.
As
far
as
we
can
judge,
none
of
my
father's
property
had
been
actually
stolen,
though
everything
had
been
turned
out.
My
brother
and
I
naturally
associated
this
peculiar
incident
with
the
fear
which
haunted
my
father
during
his
life;
but
it
is
still
a
complete
mystery
to
us."
The
little
man
stopped
to
relight
his
hookah
and
puffed
thoughtfully
for
a
few
moments.
We
had
all
sat
absorbed,
listening
to
his
extraordinary
narrative.
At
the
short
account
of
her
father's
death
Miss
Morstan
had
turned
deadly
white,
and
for
a
moment
I
feared
that
she
was
about
to
faint.
She
rallied
however,
on
drinking
a
glass
of
water
which
I
quietly
poured
out
for
her
from
a
Venetian
carafe
upon
the
side-table.
Sherlock
Holmes
leaned
back
in
his
chair
with
an
abstracted
expression
and
the
lids
drawn
low
over
his
glittering
eyes.
As
I
glanced
at
him
I
could
not
but
think
how
on
that
very
day
he
had
complained
bitterly
of
the
commonplaceness
of
life.
Here
at
least
was
a
problem
which
would
tax
his
sagacity
to
the
utmost.
Mr.
Thaddeus
Sholto
looked
from
one
to
the
other
of
us
with
an
obvious
pride
at
the
effect
which
his
story
had
produced,
and
then
continued
between
the
puffs
of
his
overgrown
pipe.
"My
brother
and
I,"
said
he,
"were,
as
you
may
imagine,
much
excited
as
to
the
treasure
which
my
father
had
spoken
of.
For
weeks
and
for
months
we
dug
and
delved
in
every
part
of
the
garden,
without
discovering
its
whereabouts.
It
was
maddening
to
think
that
the
hiding-place
was
on
his
very
lips
at
the
moment
that
he
died.
We
could
judge
the
splendor
of
the
missing
riches
by
the
chaplet
which
he
had
taken
out.
Over
this
chaplet
my
brother
Bartholomew
and
I
had
some
little
discussion.
The
pearls
were
evidently
of
great
value,
and
he
was
averse
to
part
with
them,
for,
between
friends,
my
brother
was
himself
a
little
inclined
to
my
father's
fault.
He
thought,
too,
that
if
we
parted
with
the
chaplet
it
might
give
rise
to
gossip
and
finally
bring
us
into
trouble.
It
was
all
that
I
could
do
to
persuade
him
to
let
me
find
out
Miss
Morstan's
address
and
send
her
a
detached
pearl
at
fixed
intervals,
so
that
at
least
she
might
never
feel
destitute."
"It
was
a
kindly
thought,"
said
our
companion,
earnestly.
"It
was
extremely
good
of
you."
The
little
man
waved
his
hand
deprecatingly.
"We
were
your
trustees,"
he
said.
"That
was
the
view
which
I
took
of
it,
though
Brother
Bartholomew
could
not
altogether
see
it
in
that
light.
We
had
plenty
of
money
ourselves.
I
desired
no
more.
Besides,
it
would
have
been
such
bad
taste
to
have
treated
a
young
lady
in
so
scurvy
a
fashion.
'Le
mauvais
gout
mene
au
crime.'
The
French
have
a
very
neat
way
of
putting
these
things.
Our
difference
of
opinion
on
this
subject
went
so
far
that
I
thought
it
best
to
set
up
rooms
for
myself:
so
I
left
Pondicherry
Lodge,
taking
the
old
khitmutgar
and
Williams
with
me.
Yesterday,
however,
I
learn
that
an
event
of
extreme
importance
has
occurred.
The
treasure
has
been
discovered.
I
instantly
communicated
with
Miss
Morstan,
and
it
only
remains
for
us
to
drive
out
to
Norwood
and
demand
our
share.
I
explained
my
views
last
night
to
Brother
Bartholomew:
so
we
shall
be
expected,
if
not
welcome,
visitors."
Mr.
Thaddeus
Sholto
ceased,
and
sat
twitching
on
his
luxurious
settee.
We
all
remained
silent,
with
our
thoughts
upon
the
new
development
which
the
mysterious
business
had
taken.
Holmes
was
the
first
to
spring
to
his
feet.
"You
have
done
well,
sir,
from
first
to
last,"
said
he.
"It
is
possible
that
we
may
be
able
to
make
you
some
small
return
by
throwing
some
light
upon
that
which
is
still
dark
to
you.
But,
as
Miss
Morstan
remarked
just
now,
it
is
late,
and
we
had
best
put
the
matter
through
without
delay."
Our
new
acquaintance
very
deliberately
coiled
up
the
tube
of
his
hookah,
and
produced
from
behind
a
curtain
a
very
long
befrogged
topcoat
with
Astrakhan
collar
and
cuffs.
This
he
buttoned
tightly
up,
in
spite
of
the
extreme
closeness
of
the
night,
and
finished
his
attire
by
putting
on
a
rabbit-skin
cap
with
hanging
lappets
which
covered
the
ears,
so
that
no
part
of
him
was
visible
save
his
mobile
and
peaky
face.
"My
health
is
somewhat
fragile,"
he
remarked,
as
he
led
the
way
down
the
passage.
"I
am
compelled
to
be
a
valetudinarian."
Our
cab
was
awaiting
us
outside,
and
our
programme
was
evidently
prearranged,
for
the
driver
started
off
at
once
at
a
rapid
pace.
Thaddeus
Sholto
talked
incessantly,
in
a
voice
which
rose
high
above
the
rattle
of
the
wheels.
"Bartholomew
is
a
clever
fellow,"
said
he.
"How
do
you
think
he
found
out
where
the
treasure
was?
He
had
come
to
the
conclusion
that
it
was
somewhere
indoors:
so
he
worked
out
all
the
cubic
space
of
the
house,
and
made
measurements
everywhere,
so
that
not
one
inch
should
be
unaccounted
for.
Among
other
things,
he
found
that
the
height
of
the
building
was
seventy-four
feet,
but
on
adding
together
the
heights
of
all
the
separate
rooms,
and
making
every
allowance
for
the
space
between,
which
he
ascertained
by
borings,
he
could
not
bring
the
total
to
more
than
seventy
feet.
There
were
four
feet
unaccounted
for.
These
could
only
be
at
the
top
of
the
building.
He
knocked
a
hole,
therefore,
in
the
lath-and-plaster
ceiling
of
the
highest
room,
and
there,
sure
enough,
he
came
upon
another
little
garret
above
it,
which
had
been
sealed
up
and
was
known
to
no
one.
In
the
centre
stood
the
treasure-chest,
resting
upon
two
rafters.
He
lowered
it
through
the
hole,
and
there
it
lies.
He
computes
the
value
of
the
jewels
at
not
less
than
half
a
million
sterling."
At
the
mention
of
this
gigantic
sum
we
all
stared
at
one
another
open-eyed.
Miss
Morstan,
could
we
secure
her
rights,
would
change
from
a
needy
governess
to
the
richest
heiress
in
England.
Surely
it
was
the
place
of
a
loyal
friend
to
rejoice
at
such
news;
yet
I
am
ashamed
to
say
that
selfishness
took
me
by
the
soul,
and
that
my
heart
turned
as
heavy
as
lead
within
me.
I
stammered
out
some
few
halting
words
of
congratulation,
and
then
sat
downcast,
with
my
head
drooped,
deaf
to
the
babble
of
our
new
acquaintance.
He
was
clearly
a
confirmed
hypochondriac,
and
I
was
dreamily
conscious
that
he
was
pouring
forth
interminable
trains
of
symptoms,
and
imploring
information
as
to
the
composition
and
action
of
innumerable
quack
nostrums,
some
of
which
he
bore
about
in
a
leather
case
in
his
pocket.
I
trust
that
he
may
not
remember
any
of
the
answers
which
I
gave
him
that
night.
Holmes
declares
that
he
overheard
me
caution
him
against
the
great
danger
of
taking
more
than
two
drops
of
castor
oil,
while
I
recommended
strychnine
in
large
doses
as
a
sedative.
However
that
may
be,
I
was
certainly
relieved
when
our
cab
pulled
up
with
a
jerk
and
the
coachman
sprang
down
to
open
the
door.
"This,
Miss
Morstan,
is
Pondicherry
Lodge,"
said
Mr.
Thaddeus
Sholto,
as
he
handed
her
out.
Chapter
V
The
Tragedy
of
Pondicherry
Lodge
It
was
nearly
eleven
o'clock
when
we
reached
this
final
stage
of
our
night's
adventures.
We
had
left
the
damp
fog
of
the
great
city
behind
us,
and
the
night
was
fairly
fine.
A
warm
wind
blew
from
the
westward,
and
heavy
clouds
moved
slowly
across
the
sky,
with
half
a
moon
peeping
occasionally
through
the
rifts.
It
was
clear
enough
to
see
for
some
distance,
but
Thaddeus
Sholto
took
down
one
of
the
side-lamps
from
the
carriage
to
give
us
a
better
light
upon
our
way.
Pondicherry
Lodge
stood
in
its
own
grounds,
and
was
girt
round
with
a
very
high
stone
wall
topped
with
broken
glass.
A
single
narrow
iron-clamped
door
formed
the
only
means
of
entrance.
On
this
our
guide
knocked
with
a
peculiar
postman-like
rat-tat.
"Who
is
there?"
cried
a
gruff
voice
from
within.
"It
is
I,
McMurdo.
You
surely
know
my
knock
by
this
time."
There
was
a
grumbling
sound
and
a
clanking
and
jarring
of
keys.
The
door
swung
heavily
back,
and
a
short,
deep-chested
man
stood
in
the
opening,
with
the
yellow
light
of
the
lantern
shining
upon
his
protruded
face
and
twinkling
distrustful
eyes.
"That
you,
Mr.
Thaddeus?
But
who
are
the
others?
I
had
no
orders
about
them
from
the
master."
"No,
McMurdo?
You
surprise
me!
I
told
my
brother
last
night
that
I
should
bring
some
friends."
"He
ain't
been
out
o'
his
room
to-day,
Mr.
Thaddeus,
and
I
have
no
orders.
You
know
very
well
that
I
must
stick
to
regulations.
I
can
let
you
in,
but
your
friends
must
just
stop
where
they
are."
This
was
an
unexpected
obstacle.
Thaddeus
Sholto
looked
about
him
in
a
perplexed
and
helpless
manner.
"This
is
too
bad
of
you,
McMurdo!"
he
said.
"If
I
guarantee
them,
that
is
enough
for
you.
There
is
the
young
lady,
too.
She
cannot
wait
on
the
public
road
at
this
hour."
"Very
sorry,
Mr.
Thaddeus,"
said
the
porter,
inexorably.
"Folk
may
be
friends
o'
yours,
and
yet
no
friends
o'
the
master's.
He
pays
me
well
to
do
my
duty,
and
my
duty
I'll
do.
I
don't
know
none
o'
your
friends."
"Oh,
yes
you
do,
McMurdo,"
cried
Sherlock
Holmes,
genially.
"I
don't
think
you
can
have
forgotten
me.
Don't
you
remember
the
amateur
who
fought
three
rounds
with
you
at
Alison's
rooms
on
the
night
of
your
benefit
four
years
back?"
"Not
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes!"
roared
the
prize-fighter.
"God's
truth!
how
could
I
have
mistook
you?
If
instead
o'
standin'
there
so
quiet
you
had
just
stepped
up
and
given
me
that
cross-hit
of
yours
under
the
jaw,
I'd
ha'
known
you
without
a
question.
Ah,
you're
one
that
has
wasted
your
gifts,
you
have!
You
might
have
aimed
high,
if
you
had
joined
the
fancy."
"You
see,
Watson,
if
all
else
fails
me
I
have
still
one
of
the
scientific
professions
open
to
me,"
said
Holmes,
laughing.
"Our
friend
won't
keep
us
out
in
the
cold
now,
I
am
sure."
"In
you
come,
sir,
in
you
come,—you
and
your
friends,"
he
answered.
"Very
sorry,
Mr.
Thaddeus,
but
orders
are
very
strict.
Had
to
be
certain
of
your
friends
before
I
let
them
in."
Inside,
a
gravel
path
wound
through
desolate
grounds
to
a
huge
clump
of
a
house,
square
and
prosaic,
all
plunged
in
shadow
save
where
a
moonbeam
struck
one
corner
and
glimmered
in
a
garret
window.
The
vast
size
of
the
building,
with
its
gloom
and
its
deathly
silence,
struck
a
chill
to
the
heart.
Even
Thaddeus
Sholto
seemed
ill
at
ease,
and
the
lantern
quivered
and
rattled
in
his
hand.
"I
cannot
understand
it,"
he
said.
"There
must
be
some
mistake.
I
distinctly
told
Bartholomew
that
we
should
be
here,
and
yet
there
is
no
light
in
his
window.
I
do
not
know
what
to
make
of
it."
"Does
he
always
guard
the
premises
in
this
way?"
asked
Holmes.
"Yes;
he
has
followed
my
father's
custom.
He
was
the
favorite
son,
you
know,
and
I
sometimes
think
that
my
father
may
have
told
him
more
than
he
ever
told
me.
That
is
Bartholomew's
window
up
there
where
the
moonshine
strikes.
It
is
quite
bright,
but
there
is
no
light
from
within,
I
think."
"None,"
said
Holmes.
"But
I
see
the
glint
of
a
light
in
that
little
window
beside
the
door."
"Ah,
that
is
the
housekeeper's
room.
That
is
where
old
Mrs.
Bernstone
sits.
She
can
tell
us
all
about
it.
But
perhaps
you
would
not
mind
waiting
here
for
a
minute
or
two,
for
if
we
all
go
in
together
and
she
has
no
word
of
our
coming
she
may
be
alarmed.
But
hush!
what
is
that?"
He
held
up
the
lantern,
and
his
hand
shook
until
the
circles
of
light
flickered
and
wavered
all
round
us.
Miss
Morstan
seized
my
wrist,
and
we
all
stood
with
thumping
hearts,
straining
our
ears.
From
the
great
black
house
there
sounded
through
the
silent
night
the
saddest
and
most
pitiful
of
sounds,—the
shrill,
broken
whimpering
of
a
frightened
woman.
"It
is
Mrs.
Bernstone,"
said
Sholto.
"She
is
the
only
woman
in
the
house.
Wait
here.
I
shall
be
back
in
a
moment."
He
hurried
for
the
door,
and
knocked
in
his
peculiar
way.
We
could
see
a
tall
old
woman
admit
him,
and
sway
with
pleasure
at
the
very
sight
of
him.
"Oh,
Mr.
Thaddeus,
sir,
I
am
so
glad
you
have
come!
I
am
so
glad
you
have
come,
Mr.
Thaddeus,
sir!"
We
heard
her
reiterated
rejoicings
until
the
door
was
closed
and
her
voice
died
away
into
a
muffled
monotone.
Our
guide
had
left
us
the
lantern.
Holmes
swung
it
slowly
round,
and
peered
keenly
at
the
house,
and
at
the
great
rubbish-heaps
which
cumbered
the
grounds.
Miss
Morstan
and
I
stood
together,
and
her
hand
was
in
mine.
A
wondrous
subtle
thing
is
love,
for
here
were
we
two
who
had
never
seen
each
other
before
that
day,
between
whom
no
word
or
even
look
of
affection
had
ever
passed,
and
yet
now
in
an
hour
of
trouble
our
hands
instinctively
sought
for
each
other.
I
have
marvelled
at
it
since,
but
at
the
time
it
seemed
the
most
natural
thing
that
I
should
go
out
to
her
so,
and,
as
she
has
often
told
me,
there
was
in
her
also
the
instinct
to
turn
to
me
for
comfort
and
protection.
So
we
stood
hand
in
hand,
like
two
children,
and
there
was
peace
in
our
hearts
for
all
the
dark
things
that
surrounded
us.
"What
a
strange
place!"
she
said,
looking
round.
"It
looks
as
though
all
the
moles
in
England
had
been
let
loose
in
it.
I
have
seen
something
of
the
sort
on
the
side
of
a
hill
near
Ballarat,
where
the
prospectors
had
been
at
work."
"And
from
the
same
cause,"
said
Holmes.
"These
are
the
traces
of
the
treasure-seekers.
You
must
remember
that
they
were
six
years
looking
for
it.
No
wonder
that
the
grounds
look
like
a
gravel-pit."
At
that
moment
the
door
of
the
house
burst
open,
and
Thaddeus
Sholto
came
running
out,
with
his
hands
thrown
forward
and
terror
in
his
eyes.
"There
is
something
amiss
with
Bartholomew!"
he
cried.
"I
am
frightened!
My
nerves
cannot
stand
it."
He
was,
indeed,
half
blubbering
with
fear,
and
his
twitching
feeble
face
peeping
out
from
the
great
Astrakhan
collar
had
the
helpless
appealing
expression
of
a
terrified
child.
"Come
into
the
house,"
said
Holmes,
in
his
crisp,
firm
way.
"Yes,
do!"
pleaded
Thaddeus
Sholto.
"I
really
do
not
feel
equal
to
giving
directions."
We
all
followed
him
into
the
housekeeper's
room,
which
stood
upon
the
left-hand
side
of
the
passage.
The
old
woman
was
pacing
up
and
down
with
a
scared
look
and
restless
picking
fingers,
but
the
sight
of
Miss
Morstan
appeared
to
have
a
soothing
effect
upon
her.
"God
bless
your
sweet
calm
face!"
she
cried,
with
an
hysterical
sob.
"It
does
me
good
to
see
you.
Oh,
but
I
have
been
sorely
tried
this
day!"
Our
companion
patted
her
thin,
work-worn
hand,
and
murmured
some
few
words
of
kindly
womanly
comfort
which
brought
the
color
back
into
the
others
bloodless
cheeks.
"Master
has
locked
himself
in
and
will
not
answer
me,"
she
explained.
"All
day
I
have
waited
to
hear
from
him,
for
he
often
likes
to
be
alone;
but
an
hour
ago
I
feared
that
something
was
amiss,
so
I
went
up
and
peeped
through
the
key-hole.
You
must
go
up,
Mr.
Thaddeus,—you
must
go
up
and
look
for
yourself.
I
have
seen
Mr.
Bartholomew
Sholto
in
joy
and
in
sorrow
for
ten
long
years,
but
I
never
saw
him
with
such
a
face
on
him
as
that."
Sherlock
Holmes
took
the
lamp
and
led
the
way,
for
Thaddeus
Sholto's
teeth
were
chattering
in
his
head.
So
shaken
was
he
that
I
had
to
pass
my
hand
under
his
arm
as
we
went
up
the
stairs,
for
his
knees
were
trembling
under
him.
Twice
as
we
ascended
Holmes
whipped
his
lens
out
of
his
pocket
and
carefully
examined
marks
which
appeared
to
me
to
be
mere
shapeless
smudges
of
dust
upon
the
cocoa-nut
matting
which
served
as
a
stair-carpet.
He
walked
slowly
from
step
to
step,
holding
the
lamp,
and
shooting
keen
glances
to
right
and
left.
Miss
Morstan
had
remained
behind
with
the
frightened
housekeeper.
The
third
flight
of
stairs
ended
in
a
straight
passage
of
some
length,
with
a
great
picture
in
Indian
tapestry
upon
the
right
of
it
and
three
doors
upon
the
left.
Holmes
advanced
along
it
in
the
same
slow
and
methodical
way,
while
we
kept
close
at
his
heels,
with
our
long
black
shadows
streaming
backwards
down
the
corridor.
The
third
door
was
that
which
we
were
seeking.
Holmes
knocked
without
receiving
any
answer,
and
then
tried
to
turn
the
handle
and
force
it
open.
It
was
locked
on
the
inside,
however,
and
by
a
broad
and
powerful
bolt,
as
we
could
see
when
we
set
our
lamp
up
against
it.
The
key
being
turned,
however,
the
hole
was
not
entirely
closed.
Sherlock
Holmes
bent
down
to
it,
and
instantly
rose
again
with
a
sharp
intaking
of
the
breath.
"There
is
something
devilish
in
this,
Watson,"
said
he,
more
moved
than
I
had
ever
before
seen
him.
"What
do
you
make
of
it?"
I
stooped
to
the
hole,
and
recoiled
in
horror.
Moonlight
was
streaming
into
the
room,
and
it
was
bright
with
a
vague
and
shifty
radiance.
Looking
straight
at
me,
and
suspended,
as
it
were,
in
the
air,
for
all
beneath
was
in
shadow,
there
hung
a
face,—the
very
face
of
our
companion
Thaddeus.
There
was
the
same
high,
shining
head,
the
same
circular
bristle
of
red
hair,
the
same
bloodless
countenance.
The
features
were
set,
however,
in
a
horrible
smile,
a
fixed
and
unnatural
grin,
which
in
that
still
and
moonlit
room
was
more
jarring
to
the
nerves
than
any
scowl
or
contortion.
So
like
was
the
face
to
that
of
our
little
friend
that
I
looked
round
at
him
to
make
sure
that
he
was
indeed
with
us.
Then
I
recalled
to
mind
that
he
had
mentioned
to
us
that
his
brother
and
he
were
twins.
"This
is
terrible!"
I
said
to
Holmes.
"What
is
to
be
done?"
"The
door
must
come
down,"
he
answered,
and,
springing
against
it,
he
put
all
his
weight
upon
the
lock.
It
creaked
and
groaned,
but
did
not
yield.
Together
we
flung
ourselves
upon
it
once
more,
and
this
time
it
gave
way
with
a
sudden
snap,
and
we
found
ourselves
within
Bartholomew
Sholto's
chamber.
It
appeared
to
have
been
fitted
up
as
a
chemical
laboratory.
A
double
line
of
glass-stoppered
bottles
was
drawn
up
upon
the
wall
opposite
the
door,
and
the
table
was
littered
over
with
Bunsen
burners,
test-tubes,
and
retorts.
In
the
corners
stood
carboys
of
acid
in
wicker
baskets.
One
of
these
appeared
to
leak
or
to
have
been
broken,
for
a
stream
of
dark-colored
liquid
had
trickled
out
from
it,
and
the
air
was
heavy
with
a
peculiarly
pungent,
tar-like
odor.
A
set
of
steps
stood
at
one
side
of
the
room,
in
the
midst
of
a
litter
of
lath
and
plaster,
and
above
them
there
was
an
opening
in
the
ceiling
large
enough
for
a
man
to
pass
through.
At
the
foot
of
the
steps
a
long
coil
of
rope
was
thrown
carelessly
together.
By
the
table,
in
a
wooden
arm-chair,
the
master
of
the
house
was
seated
all
in
a
heap,
with
his
head
sunk
upon
his
left
shoulder,
and
that
ghastly,
inscrutable
smile
upon
his
face.
He
was
stiff
and
cold,
and
had
clearly
been
dead
many
hours.
It
seemed
to
me
that
not
only
his
features
but
all
his
limbs
were
twisted
and
turned
in
the
most
fantastic
fashion.
By
his
hand
upon
the
table
there
lay
a
peculiar
instrument,—a
brown,
close-grained
stick,
with
a
stone
head
like
a
hammer,
rudely
lashed
on
with
coarse
twine.
Beside
it
was
a
torn
sheet
of
note-paper
with
some
words
scrawled
upon
it.
Holmes
glanced
at
it,
and
then
handed
it
to
me.
"You
see,"
he
said,
with
a
significant
raising
of
the
eyebrows.
In
the
light
of
the
lantern
I
read,
with
a
thrill
of
horror,
"The
sign
of
the
four."
"In
God's
name,
what
does
it
all
mean?"
I
asked.
"It
means
murder,"
said
he,
stooping
over
the
dead
man.
"Ah,
I
expected
it.
Look
here!"
He
pointed
to
what
looked
like
a
long,
dark
thorn
stuck
in
the
skin
just
above
the
ear.
"It
looks
like
a
thorn,"
said
I.
"It
is
a
thorn.
You
may
pick
it
out.
But
be
careful,
for
it
is
poisoned."
I
took
it
up
between
my
finger
and
thumb.
It
came
away
from
the
skin
so
readily
that
hardly
any
mark
was
left
behind.
One
tiny
speck
of
blood
showed
where
the
puncture
had
been.
"This
is
all
an
insoluble
mystery
to
me,"
said
I.
"It
grows
darker
instead
of
clearer."
"On
the
contrary,"
he
answered,
"it
clears
every
instant.
I
only
require
a
few
missing
links
to
have
an
entirely
connected
case."
We
had
almost
forgotten
our
companion's
presence
since
we
entered
the
chamber.
He
was
still
standing
in
the
door-way,
the
very
picture
of
terror,
wringing
his
hands
and
moaning
to
himself.
Suddenly,
however,
he
broke
out
into
a
sharp,
querulous
cry.
"The
treasure
is
gone!"
he
said.
"They
have
robbed
him
of
the
treasure!
There
is
the
hole
through
which
we
lowered
it.
I
helped
him
to
do
it!
I
was
the
last
person
who
saw
him!
I
left
him
here
last
night,
and
I
heard
him
lock
the
door
as
I
came
down-stairs."
"What
time
was
that?"
"It
was
ten
o'clock.
And
now
he
is
dead,
and
the
police
will
be
called
in,
and
I
shall
be
suspected
of
having
had
a
hand
in
it.
Oh,
yes,
I
am
sure
I
shall.
But
you
don't
think
so,
gentlemen?
Surely
you
don't
think
that
it
was
I?
Is
it
likely
that
I
would
have
brought
you
here
if
it
were
I?
Oh,
dear!
oh,
dear!
I
know
that
I
shall
go
mad!"
He
jerked
his
arms
and
stamped
his
feet
in
a
kind
of
convulsive
frenzy.
"You
have
no
reason
for
fear,
Mr.
Sholto,"
said
Holmes,
kindly,
putting
his
hand
upon
his
shoulder.
"Take
my
advice,
and
drive
down
to
the
station
to
report
this
matter
to
the
police.
Offer
to
assist
them
in
every
way.
We
shall
wait
here
until
your
return."
The
little
man
obeyed
in
a
half-stupefied
fashion,
and
we
heard
him
stumbling
down
the
stairs
in
the
dark.
Chapter
VI
Sherlock
Holmes
Gives
a
Demonstration
"Now,
Watson,"
said
Holmes,
rubbing
his
hands,
"we
have
half
an
hour
to
ourselves.
Let
us
make
good
use
of
it.
My
case
is,
as
I
have
told
you,
almost
complete;
but
we
must
not
err
on
the
side
of
over-confidence.
Simple
as
the
case
seems
now,
there
may
be
something
deeper
underlying
it."
"Simple!"
I
ejaculated.
"Surely,"
said
he,
with
something
of
the
air
of
a
clinical
professor
expounding
to
his
class.
"Just
sit
in
the
corner
there,
that
your
footprints
may
not
complicate
matters.
Now
to
work!
In
the
first
place,
how
did
these
folk
come,
and
how
did
they
go?
The
door
has
not
been
opened
since
last
night.
How
of
the
window?"
He
carried
the
lamp
across
to
it,
muttering
his
observations
aloud
the
while,
but
addressing
them
to
himself
rather
than
to
me.
"Window
is
snibbed
on
the
inner
side.
Framework
is
solid.
No
hinges
at
the
side.
Let
us
open
it.
No
water-pipe
near.
Roof
quite
out
of
reach.
Yet
a
man
has
mounted
by
the
window.
It
rained
a
little
last
night.
Here
is
the
print
of
a
foot
in
mould
upon
the
sill.
And
here
is
a
circular
muddy
mark,
and
here
again
upon
the
floor,
and
here
again
by
the
table.
See
here,
Watson!
This
is
really
a
very
pretty
demonstration."
I
looked
at
the
round,
well-defined
muddy
discs.
"This
is
not
a
footmark,"
said
I.
"It
is
something
much
more
valuable
to
us.
It
is
the
impression
of
a
wooden
stump.
You
see
here
on
the
sill
is
the
boot-mark,
a
heavy
boot
with
the
broad
metal
heel,
and
beside
it
is
the
mark
of
the
timber-toe."
"It
is
the
wooden-legged
man."
"Quite
so.
But
there
has
been
some
one
else,—a
very
able
and
efficient
ally.
Could
you
scale
that
wall,
doctor?"
I
looked
out
of
the
open
window.
The
moon
still
shone
brightly
on
that
angle
of
the
house.
We
were
a
good
sixty
feet
from
the
ground,
and,
look
where
I
would,
I
could
see
no
foothold,
nor
as
much
as
a
crevice
in
the
brick-work.
"It
is
absolutely
impossible,"
I
answered.
"Without
aid
it
is
so.
But
suppose
you
had
a
friend
up
here
who
lowered
you
this
good
stout
rope
which
I
see
in
the
corner,
securing
one
end
of
it
to
this
great
hook
in
the
wall.
Then,
I
think,
if
you
were
an
active
man,
You
might
swarm
up,
wooden
leg
and
all.
You
would
depart,
of
course,
in
the
same
fashion,
and
your
ally
would
draw
up
the
rope,
untie
it
from
the
hook,
shut
the
window,
snib
it
on
the
inside,
and
get
away
in
the
way
that
he
originally
came.
As
a
minor
point
it
may
be
noted,"
he
continued,
fingering
the
rope,
"that
our
wooden-legged
friend,
though
a
fair
climber,
was
not
a
professional
sailor.
His
hands
were
far
from
horny.
My
lens
discloses
more
than
one
blood-mark,
especially
towards
the
end
of
the
rope,
from
which
I
gather
that
he
slipped
down
with
such
velocity
that
he
took
the
skin
off
his
hand."
"This
is
all
very
well,"
said
I,
"but
the
thing
becomes
more
unintelligible
than
ever.
How
about
this
mysterious
ally?
How
came
he
into
the
room?"
"Yes,
the
ally!"
repeated
Holmes,
pensively.
"There
are
features
of
interest
about
this
ally.
He
lifts
the
case
from
the
regions
of
the
commonplace.
I
fancy
that
this
ally
breaks
fresh
ground
in
the
annals
of
crime
in
this
country,—though
parallel
cases
suggest
themselves
from
India,
and,
if
my
memory
serves
me,
from
Senegambia."
"How
came
he,
then?"
I
reiterated.
"The
door
is
locked,
the
window
is
inaccessible.
Was
it
through
the
chimney?"
"The
grate
is
much
too
small,"
he
answered.
"I
had
already
considered
that
possibility."
"How
then?"
I
persisted.
"You
will
not
apply
my
precept,"
he
said,
shaking
his
head.
"How
often
have
I
said
to
you
that
when
you
have
eliminated
the
impossible
whatever
remains,
HOWEVER
IMPROBABLE,
must
be
the
truth?
We
know
that
he
did
not
come
through
the
door,
the
window,
or
the
chimney.
We
also
know
that
he
could
not
have
been
concealed
in
the
room,
as
there
is
no
concealment
possible.
Whence,
then,
did
he
come?"
"He
came
through
the
hole
in
the
roof,"
I
cried.
"Of
course
he
did.
He
must
have
done
so.
If
you
will
have
the
kindness
to
hold
the
lamp
for
me,
we
shall
now
extend
our
researches
to
the
room
above,—the
secret
room
in
which
the
treasure
was
found."
He
mounted
the
steps,
and,
seizing
a
rafter
with
either
hand,
he
swung
himself
up
into
the
garret.
Then,
lying
on
his
face,
he
reached
down
for
the
lamp
and
held
it
while
I
followed
him.
The
chamber
in
which
we
found
ourselves
was
about
ten
feet
one
way
and
six
the
other.
The
floor
was
formed
by
the
rafters,
with
thin
lath-and-plaster
between,
so
that
in
walking
one
had
to
step
from
beam
to
beam.
The
roof
ran
up
to
an
apex,
and
was
evidently
the
inner
shell
of
the
true
roof
of
the
house.
There
was
no
furniture
of
any
sort,
and
the
accumulated
dust
of
years
lay
thick
upon
the
floor.
"Here
you
are,
you
see,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
putting
his
hand
against
the
sloping
wall.
"This
is
a
trap-door
which
leads
out
on
to
the
roof.
I
can
press
it
back,
and
here
is
the
roof
itself,
sloping
at
a
gentle
angle.
This,
then,
is
the
way
by
which
Number
One
entered.
Let
us
see
if
we
can
find
any
other
traces
of
his
individuality."
He
held
down
the
lamp
to
the
floor,
and
as
he
did
so
I
saw
for
the
second
time
that
night
a
startled,
surprised
look
come
over
his
face.
For
myself,
as
I
followed
his
gaze
my
skin
was
cold
under
my
clothes.
The
floor
was
covered
thickly
with
the
prints
of
a
naked
foot,—clear,
well
defined,
perfectly
formed,
but
scarce
half
the
size
of
those
of
an
ordinary
man.
"Holmes,"
I
said,
in
a
whisper,
"a
child
has
done
the
horrid
thing."
He
had
recovered
his
self-possession
in
an
instant.
"I
was
staggered
for
the
moment,"
he
said,
"but
the
thing
is
quite
natural.
My
memory
failed
me,
or
I
should
have
been
able
to
foretell
it.
There
is
nothing
more
to
be
learned
here.
Let
us
go
down."
"What
is
your
theory,
then,
as
to
those
footmarks?"
I
asked,
eagerly,
when
we
had
regained
the
lower
room
once
more.
"My
dear
Watson,
try
a
little
analysis
yourself,"
said
he,
with
a
touch
of
impatience.
"You
know
my
methods.
Apply
them,
and
it
will
be
instructive
to
compare
results."
"I
cannot
conceive
anything
which
will
cover
the
facts,"
I
answered.
"It
will
be
clear
enough
to
you
soon,"
he
said,
in
an
off-hand
way.
"I
think
that
there
is
nothing
else
of
importance
here,
but
I
will
look."
He
whipped
out
his
lens
and
a
tape
measure,
and
hurried
about
the
room
on
his
knees,
measuring,
comparing,
examining,
with
his
long
thin
nose
only
a
few
inches
from
the
planks,
and
his
beady
eyes
gleaming
and
deep-set
like
those
of
a
bird.
So
swift,
silent,
and
furtive
were
his
movements,
like
those
of
a
trained
blood-hound
picking
out
a
scent,
that
I
could
not
but
think
what
a
terrible
criminal
he
would
have
made
had
he
turned
his
energy
and
sagacity
against
the
law,
instead
of
exerting
them
in
its
defense.
As
he
hunted
about,
he
kept
muttering
to
himself,
and
finally
he
broke
out
into
a
loud
crow
of
delight.
"We
are
certainly
in
luck,"
said
he.
"We
ought
to
have
very
little
trouble
now.
Number
One
has
had
the
misfortune
to
tread
in
the
creosote.
You
can
see
the
outline
of
the
edge
of
his
small
foot
here
at
the
side
of
this
evil-smelling
mess.
The
carboy
has
been
cracked,
You
see,
and
the
stuff
has
leaked
out."
"What
then?"
I
asked.
"Why,
we
have
got
him,
that's
all,"
said
he.
"I
know
a
dog
that
would
follow
that
scent
to
the
world's
end.
If
a
pack
can
track
a
trailed
herring
across
a
shire,
how
far
can
a
specially-trained
hound
follow
so
pungent
a
smell
as
this?
It
sounds
like
a
sum
in
the
rule
of
three.
The
answer
should
give
us
the—But
halloo!
here
are
the
accredited
representatives
of
the
law."
Heavy
steps
and
the
clamor
of
loud
voices
were
audible
from
below,
and
the
hall
door
shut
with
a
loud
crash.
"Before
they
come,"
said
Holmes,
"just
put
your
hand
here
on
this
poor
fellow's
arm,
and
here
on
his
leg.
What
do
you
feel?"
"The
muscles
are
as
hard
as
a
board,"
I
answered.
"Quite
so.
They
are
in
a
state
of
extreme
contraction,
far
exceeding
the
usual
rigor
mortis.
Coupled
with
this
distortion
of
the
face,
this
Hippocratic
smile,
or
'risus
sardonicus,'
as
the
old
writers
called
it,
what
conclusion
would
it
suggest
to
your
mind?"
"Death
from
some
powerful
vegetable
alkaloid,"
I
answered,—"some
strychnine-like
substance
which
would
produce
tetanus."
"That
was
the
idea
which
occurred
to
me
the
instant
I
saw
the
drawn
muscles
of
the
face.
On
getting
into
the
room
I
at
once
looked
for
the
means
by
which
the
poison
had
entered
the
system.
As
you
saw,
I
discovered
a
thorn
which
had
been
driven
or
shot
with
no
great
force
into
the
scalp.
You
observe
that
the
part
struck
was
that
which
would
be
turned
towards
the
hole
in
the
ceiling
if
the
man
were
erect
in
his
chair.
Now
examine
the
thorn."
I
took
it
up
gingerly
and
held
it
in
the
light
of
the
lantern.
It
was
long,
sharp,
and
black,
with
a
glazed
look
near
the
point
as
though
some
gummy
substance
had
dried
upon
it.
The
blunt
end
had
been
trimmed
and
rounded
off
with
a
knife.
"Is
that
an
English
thorn?"
he
asked.
"No,
it
certainly
is
not."
"With
all
these
data
you
should
be
able
to
draw
some
just
inference.
But
here
are
the
regulars:
so
the
auxiliary
forces
may
beat
a
retreat."
As
he
spoke,
the
steps
which
had
been
coming
nearer
sounded
loudly
on
the
passage,
and
a
very
stout,
portly
man
in
a
gray
suit
strode
heavily
into
the
room.
He
was
red-faced,
burly
and
plethoric,
with
a
pair
of
very
small
twinkling
eyes
which
looked
keenly
out
from
between
swollen
and
puffy
pouches.
He
was
closely
followed
by
an
inspector
in
uniform,
and
by
the
still
palpitating
Thaddeus
Sholto.
"Here's
a
business!"
he
cried,
in
a
muffled,
husky
voice.
"Here's
a
pretty
business!
But
who
are
all
these?
Why,
the
house
seems
to
be
as
full
as
a
rabbit-warren!"
"I
think
you
must
recollect
me,
Mr.
Athelney
Jones,"
said
Holmes,
quietly.
"Why,
of
course
I
do!"
he
wheezed.
"It's
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes,
the
theorist.
Remember
you!
I'll
never
forget
how
you
lectured
us
all
on
causes
and
inferences
and
effects
in
the
Bishopgate
jewel
case.
It's
true
you
set
us
on
the
right
track;
but
you'll
own
now
that
it
was
more
by
good
luck
than
good
guidance."
"It
was
a
piece
of
very
simple
reasoning."
"Oh,
come,
now,
come!
Never
be
ashamed
to
own
up.
But
what
is
all
this?
Bad
business!
Bad
business!
Stern
facts
here,—no
room
for
theories.
How
lucky
that
I
happened
to
be
out
at
Norwood
over
another
case!
I
was
at
the
station
when
the
message
arrived.
What
d'you
think
the
man
died
of?"
"Oh,
this
is
hardly
a
case
for
me
to
theorize
over,"
said
Holmes,
dryly.
"No,
no.
Still,
we
can't
deny
that
you
hit
the
nail
on
the
head
sometimes.
Dear
me!
Door
locked,
I
understand.
Jewels
worth
half
a
million
missing.
How
was
the
window?"
"Fastened;
but
there
are
steps
on
the
sill."
"Well,
well,
if
it
was
fastened
the
steps
could
have
nothing
to
do
with
the
matter.
That's
common
sense.
Man
might
have
died
in
a
fit;
but
then
the
jewels
are
missing.
Ha!
I
have
a
theory.
These
flashes
come
upon
me
at
times.—Just
step
outside,
sergeant,
and
you,
Mr.
Sholto.
Your
friend
can
remain.—What
do
you
think
of
this,
Holmes?
Sholto
was,
on
his
own
confession,
with
his
brother
last
night.
The
brother
died
in
a
fit,
on
which
Sholto
walked
off
with
the
treasure.
How's
that?"
"On
which
the
dead
man
very
considerately
got
up
and
locked
the
door
on
the
inside."
"Hum!
There's
a
flaw
there.
Let
us
apply
common
sense
to
the
matter.
This
Thaddeus
Sholto
WAS
with
his
brother;
there
WAS
a
quarrel;
so
much
we
know.
The
brother
is
dead
and
the
jewels
are
gone.
So
much
also
we
know.
No
one
saw
the
brother
from
the
time
Thaddeus
left
him.
His
bed
had
not
been
slept
in.
Thaddeus
is
evidently
in
a
most
disturbed
state
of
mind.
His
appearance
is—well,
not
attractive.
You
see
that
I
am
weaving
my
web
round
Thaddeus.
The
net
begins
to
close
upon
him."
"You
are
not
quite
in
possession
of
the
facts
yet,"
said
Holmes.
"This
splinter
of
wood,
which
I
have
every
reason
to
believe
to
be
poisoned,
was
in
the
man's
scalp
where
you
still
see
the
mark;
this
card,
inscribed
as
you
see
it,
was
on
the
table;
and
beside
it
lay
this
rather
curious
stone-headed
instrument.
How
does
all
that
fit
into
your
theory?"
"Confirms
it
in
every
respect,"
said
the
fat
detective,
pompously.
"House
is
full
of
Indian
curiosities.
Thaddeus
brought
this
up,
and
if
this
splinter
be
poisonous
Thaddeus
may
as
well
have
made
murderous
use
of
it
as
any
other
man.
The
card
is
some
hocus-pocus,—a
blind,
as
like
as
not.
The
only
question
is,
how
did
he
depart?
Ah,
of
course,
here
is
a
hole
in
the
roof."
With
great
activity,
considering
his
bulk,
he
sprang
up
the
steps
and
squeezed
through
into
the
garret,
and
immediately
afterwards
we
heard
his
exulting
voice
proclaiming
that
he
had
found
the
trap-door.
"He
can
find
something,"
remarked
Holmes,
shrugging
his
shoulders.
"He
has
occasional
glimmerings
of
reason.
Il
n'y
a
pas
des
sots
si
incommodes
que
ceux
qui
ont
de
l'esprit!"
"You
see!"
said
Athelney
Jones,
reappearing
down
the
steps
again.
"Facts
are
better
than
mere
theories,
after
all.
My
view
of
the
case
is
confirmed.
There
is
a
trap-door
communicating
with
the
roof,
and
it
is
partly
open."
"It
was
I
who
opened
it."
"Oh,
indeed!
You
did
notice
it,
then?"
He
seemed
a
little
crestfallen
at
the
discovery.
"Well,
whoever
noticed
it,
it
shows
how
our
gentleman
got
away.
Inspector!"
"Yes,
sir,"
from
the
passage.
"Ask
Mr.
Sholto
to
step
this
way.—Mr.
Sholto,
it
is
my
duty
to
inform
you
that
anything
which
you
may
say
will
be
used
against
you.
I
arrest
you
in
the
queen's
name
as
being
concerned
in
the
death
of
your
brother."
"There,
now!
Didn't
I
tell
you!"
cried
the
poor
little
man,
throwing
out
his
hands,
and
looking
from
one
to
the
other
of
us.
"Don't
trouble
yourself
about
it,
Mr.
Sholto,"
said
Holmes.
"I
think
that
I
can
engage
to
clear
you
of
the
charge."
"Don't
promise
too
much,
Mr.
Theorist,—don't
promise
too
much!"
snapped
the
detective.
"You
may
find
it
a
harder
matter
than
you
think."
"Not
only
will
I
clear
him,
Mr.
Jones,
but
I
will
make
you
a
free
present
of
the
name
and
description
of
one
of
the
two
people
who
were
in
this
room
last
night.
His
name,
I
have
every
reason
to
believe,
is
Jonathan
Small.
He
is
a
poorly-educated
man,
small,
active,
with
his
right
leg
off,
and
wearing
a
wooden
stump
which
is
worn
away
upon
the
inner
side.
His
left
boot
has
a
coarse,
square-toed
sole,
with
an
iron
band
round
the
heel.
He
is
a
middle-aged
man,
much
sunburned,
and
has
been
a
convict.
These
few
indications
may
be
of
some
assistance
to
you,
coupled
with
the
fact
that
there
is
a
good
deal
of
skin
missing
from
the
palm
of
his
hand.
The
other
man—"
"Ah!
the
other
man—?"
asked
Athelney
Jones,
in
a
sneering
voice,
but
impressed
none
the
less,
as
I
could
easily
see,
by
the
precision
of
the
other's
manner.
"Is
a
rather
curious
person,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
turning
upon
his
heel.
"I
hope
before
very
long
to
be
able
to
introduce
you
to
the
pair
of
them.—A
word
with
you,
Watson."
He
led
me
out
to
the
head
of
the
stair.
"This
unexpected
occurrence,"
he
said,
"has
caused
us
rather
to
lose
sight
of
the
original
purpose
of
our
journey."
"I
have
just
been
thinking
so,"
I
answered.
"It
is
not
right
that
Miss
Morstan
should
remain
in
this
stricken
house."
"No.
You
must
escort
her
home.
She
lives
with
Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester,
in
Lower
Camberwell:
so
it
is
not
very
far.
I
will
wait
for
you
here
if
you
will
drive
out
again.
Or
perhaps
you
are
too
tired?"
"By
no
means.
I
don't
think
I
could
rest
until
I
know
more
of
this
fantastic
business.
I
have
seen
something
of
the
rough
side
of
life,
but
I
give
you
my
word
that
this
quick
succession
of
strange
surprises
to-night
has
shaken
my
nerve
completely.
I
should
like,
however,
to
see
the
matter
through
with
you,
now
that
I
have
got
so
far."
"Your
presence
will
be
of
great
service
to
me,"
he
answered.
"We
shall
work
the
case
out
independently,
and
leave
this
fellow
Jones
to
exult
over
any
mare's-nest
which
he
may
choose
to
construct.
When
you
have
dropped
Miss
Morstan
I
wish
you
to
go
on
to
No.
3
Pinchin
Lane,
down
near
the
water's
edge
at
Lambeth.
The
third
house
on
the
right-hand
side
is
a
bird-stuffer's:
Sherman
is
the
name.
You
will
see
a
weasel
holding
a
young
rabbit
in
the
window.
Knock
old
Sherman
up,
and
tell
him,
with
my
compliments,
that
I
want
Toby
at
once.
You
will
bring
Toby
back
in
the
cab
with
you."
"A
dog,
I
suppose."
"Yes,—a
queer
mongrel,
with
a
most
amazing
power
of
scent.
I
would
rather
have
Toby's
help
than
that
of
the
whole
detective
force
of
London."
"I
shall
bring
him,
then,"
said
I.
"It
is
one
now.
I
ought
to
be
back
before
three,
if
I
can
get
a
fresh
horse."
"And
I,"
said
Holmes,
"shall
see
what
I
can
learn
from
Mrs.
Bernstone,
and
from
the
Indian
servant,
who,
Mr.
Thaddeus
tell
me,
sleeps
in
the
next
garret.
Then
I
shall
study
the
great
Jones's
methods
and
listen
to
his
not
too
delicate
sarcasms.
'Wir
sind
gewohnt
das
die
Menschen
verhoehnen
was
sie
nicht
verstehen.'
Goethe
is
always
pithy."
Chapter
VII
The
Episode
of
the
Barrel
The
police
had
brought
a
cab
with
them,
and
in
this
I
escorted
Miss
Morstan
back
to
her
home.
After
the
angelic
fashion
of
women,
she
had
borne
trouble
with
a
calm
face
as
long
as
there
was
some
one
weaker
than
herself
to
support,
and
I
had
found
her
bright
and
placid
by
the
side
of
the
frightened
housekeeper.
In
the
cab,
however,
she
first
turned
faint,
and
then
burst
into
a
passion
of
weeping,—so
sorely
had
she
been
tried
by
the
adventures
of
the
night.
She
has
told
me
since
that
she
thought
me
cold
and
distant
upon
that
journey.
She
little
guessed
the
struggle
within
my
breast,
or
the
effort
of
self-restraint
which
held
me
back.
My
sympathies
and
my
love
went
out
to
her,
even
as
my
hand
had
in
the
garden.
I
felt
that
years
of
the
conventionalities
of
life
could
not
teach
me
to
know
her
sweet,
brave
nature
as
had
this
one
day
of
strange
experiences.
Yet
there
were
two
thoughts
which
sealed
the
words
of
affection
upon
my
lips.
She
was
weak
and
helpless,
shaken
in
mind
and
nerve.
It
was
to
take
her
at
a
disadvantage
to
obtrude
love
upon
her
at
such
a
time.
Worse
still,
she
was
rich.
If
Holmes's
researches
were
successful,
she
would
be
an
heiress.
Was
it
fair,
was
it
honorable,
that
a
half-pay
surgeon
should
take
such
advantage
of
an
intimacy
which
chance
had
brought
about?
Might
she
not
look
upon
me
as
a
mere
vulgar
fortune-seeker?
I
could
not
bear
to
risk
that
such
a
thought
should
cross
her
mind.
This
Agra
treasure
intervened
like
an
impassable
barrier
between
us.
It
was
nearly
two
o'clock
when
we
reached
Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester's.
The
servants
had
retired
hours
ago,
but
Mrs.
Forrester
had
been
so
interested
by
the
strange
message
which
Miss
Morstan
had
received
that
she
had
sat
up
in
the
hope
of
her
return.
She
opened
the
door
herself,
a
middle-aged,
graceful
woman,
and
it
gave
me
joy
to
see
how
tenderly
her
arm
stole
round
the
other's
waist
and
how
motherly
was
the
voice
in
which
she
greeted
her.
She
was
clearly
no
mere
paid
dependant,
but
an
honored
friend.
I
was
introduced,
and
Mrs.
Forrester
earnestly
begged
me
to
step
in
and
tell
her
our
adventures.
I
explained,
however,
the
importance
of
my
errand,
and
promised
faithfully
to
call
and
report
any
progress
which
we
might
make
with
the
case.
As
we
drove
away
I
stole
a
glance
back,
and
I
still
seem
to
see
that
little
group
on
the
step,
the
two
graceful,
clinging
figures,
the
half-opened
door,
the
hall
light
shining
through
stained
glass,
the
barometer,
and
the
bright
stair-rods.
It
was
soothing
to
catch
even
that
passing
glimpse
of
a
tranquil
English
home
in
the
midst
of
the
wild,
dark
business
which
had
absorbed
us.
And
the
more
I
thought
of
what
had
happened,
the
wilder
and
darker
it
grew.
I
reviewed
the
whole
extraordinary
sequence
of
events
as
I
rattled
on
through
the
silent
gas-lit
streets.
There
was
the
original
problem:
that
at
least
was
pretty
clear
now.
The
death
of
Captain
Morstan,
the
sending
of
the
pearls,
the
advertisement,
the
letter,—we
had
had
light
upon
all
those
events.
They
had
only
led
us,
however,
to
a
deeper
and
far
more
tragic
mystery.
The
Indian
treasure,
the
curious
plan
found
among
Morstan's
baggage,
the
strange
scene
at
Major
Sholto's
death,
the
rediscovery
of
the
treasure
immediately
followed
by
the
murder
of
the
discoverer,
the
very
singular
accompaniments
to
the
crime,
the
footsteps,
the
remarkable
weapons,
the
words
upon
the
card,
corresponding
with
those
upon
Captain
Morstan's
chart,—here
was
indeed
a
labyrinth
in
which
a
man
less
singularly
endowed
than
my
fellow-lodger
might
well
despair
of
ever
finding
the
clue.
Pinchin
Lane
was
a
row
of
shabby
two-storied
brick
houses
in
the
lower
quarter
of
Lambeth.
I
had
to
knock
for
some
time
at
No.
3
before
I
could
make
my
impression.
At
last,
however,
there
was
the
glint
of
a
candle
behind
the
blind,
and
a
face
looked
out
at
the
upper
window.
"Go
on,
you
drunken
vagabone,"
said
the
face.
"If
you
kick
up
any
more
row
I'll
open
the
kennels
and
let
out
forty-three
dogs
upon
you."
"If
you'll
let
one
out
it's
just
what
I
have
come
for,"
said
I.
"Go
on!"
yelled
the
voice.
"So
help
me
gracious,
I
have
a
wiper
in
the
bag,
an'
I'll
drop
it
on
your
'ead
if
you
don't
hook
it."
"But
I
want
a
dog,"
I
cried.
"I
won't
be
argued
with!"
shouted
Mr.
Sherman.
"Now
stand
clear,
for
when
I
say
'three,'
down
goes
the
wiper."
"Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes—"
I
began,
but
the
words
had
a
most
magical
effect,
for
the
window
instantly
slammed
down,
and
within
a
minute
the
door
was
unbarred
and
open.
Mr.
Sherman
was
a
lanky,
lean
old
man,
with
stooping
shoulders,
a
stringy
neck,
and
blue-tinted
glasses.
"A
friend
of
Mr.
Sherlock
is
always
welcome,"
said
he.
"Step
in,
sir.
Keep
clear
of
the
badger;
for
he
bites.
Ah,
naughty,
naughty,
would
you
take
a
nip
at
the
gentleman?"
This
to
a
stoat
which
thrust
its
wicked
head
and
red
eyes
between
the
bars
of
its
cage.
"Don't
mind
that,
sir:
it's
only
a
slow-worm.
It
hain't
got
no
fangs,
so
I
gives
it
the
run
o'
the
room,
for
it
keeps
the
beetles
down.
You
must
not
mind
my
bein'
just
a
little
short
wi'
you
at
first,
for
I'm
guyed
at
by
the
children,
and
there's
many
a
one
just
comes
down
this
lane
to
knock
me
up.
What
was
it
that
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
wanted,
sir?"
"He
wanted
a
dog
of
yours."
"Ah!
that
would
be
Toby."
"Yes,
Toby
was
the
name."
"Toby
lives
at
No.
7
on
the
left
here."
He
moved
slowly
forward
with
his
candle
among
the
queer
animal
family
which
he
had
gathered
round
him.
In
the
uncertain,
shadowy
light
I
could
see
dimly
that
there
were
glancing,
glimmering
eyes
peeping
down
at
us
from
every
cranny
and
corner.
Even
the
rafters
above
our
heads
were
lined
by
solemn
fowls,
who
lazily
shifted
their
weight
from
one
leg
to
the
other
as
our
voices
disturbed
their
slumbers.
Toby
proved
to
be
an
ugly,
long-haired,
lop-eared
creature,
half
spaniel
and
half
lurcher,
brown-and-white
in
color,
with
a
very
clumsy
waddling
gait.
It
accepted
after
some
hesitation
a
lump
of
sugar
which
the
old
naturalist
handed
to
me,
and,
having
thus
sealed
an
alliance,
it
followed
me
to
the
cab,
and
made
no
difficulties
about
accompanying
me.
It
had
just
struck
three
on
the
Palace
clock
when
I
found
myself
back
once
more
at
Pondicherry
Lodge.
The
ex-prize-fighter
McMurdo
had,
I
found,
been
arrested
as
an
accessory,
and
both
he
and
Mr.
Sholto
had
been
marched
off
to
the
station.
Two
constables
guarded
the
narrow
gate,
but
they
allowed
me
to
pass
with
the
dog
on
my
mentioning
the
detective's
name.
Holmes
was
standing
on
the
door-step,
with
his
hands
in
his
pockets,
smoking
his
pipe.
"Ah,
you
have
him
there!"
said
he.
"Good
dog,
then!
Atheney
Jones
has
gone.
We
have
had
an
immense
display
of
energy
since
you
left.
He
has
arrested
not
only
friend
Thaddeus,
but
the
gatekeeper,
the
housekeeper,
and
the
Indian
servant.
We
have
the
place
to
ourselves,
but
for
a
sergeant
up-stairs.
Leave
the
dog
here,
and
come
up."
We
tied
Toby
to
the
hall
table,
and
reascended
the
stairs.
The
room
was
as
he
had
left
it,
save
that
a
sheet
had
been
draped
over
the
central
figure.
A
weary-looking
police-sergeant
reclined
in
the
corner.
"Lend
me
your
bull's-eye,
sergeant,"
said
my
companion.
"Now
tie
this
bit
of
card
round
my
neck,
so
as
to
hang
it
in
front
of
me.
Thank
you.
Now
I
must
kick
off
my
boots
and
stockings.—Just
you
carry
them
down
with
you,
Watson.
I
am
going
to
do
a
little
climbing.
And
dip
my
handkerchief
into
the
creasote.
That
will
do.
Now
come
up
into
the
garret
with
me
for
a
moment."
We
clambered
up
through
the
hole.
Holmes
turned
his
light
once
more
upon
the
footsteps
in
the
dust.
"I
wish
you
particularly
to
notice
these
footmarks,"
he
said.
"Do
you
observe
anything
noteworthy
about
them?"
"They
belong,"
I
said,
"to
a
child
or
a
small
woman."
"Apart
from
their
size,
though.
Is
there
nothing
else?"
"They
appear
to
be
much
as
other
footmarks."
"Not
at
all.
Look
here!
This
is
the
print
of
a
right
foot
in
the
dust.
Now
I
make
one
with
my
naked
foot
beside
it.
What
is
the
chief
difference?"
"Your
toes
are
all
cramped
together.
The
other
print
has
each
toe
distinctly
divided."
"Quite
so.
That
is
the
point.
Bear
that
in
mind.
Now,
would
you
kindly
step
over
to
that
flap-window
and
smell
the
edge
of
the
wood-work?
I
shall
stay
here,
as
I
have
this
handkerchief
in
my
hand."
I
did
as
he
directed,
and
was
instantly
conscious
of
a
strong
tarry
smell.
"That
is
where
he
put
his
foot
in
getting
out.
If
YOU
can
trace
him,
I
should
think
that
Toby
will
have
no
difficulty.
Now
run
down-stairs,
loose
the
dog,
and
look
out
for
Blondin."
By
the
time
that
I
got
out
into
the
grounds
Sherlock
Holmes
was
on
the
roof,
and
I
could
see
him
like
an
enormous
glow-worm
crawling
very
slowly
along
the
ridge.
I
lost
sight
of
him
behind
a
stack
of
chimneys,
but
he
presently
reappeared,
and
then
vanished
once
more
upon
the
opposite
side.
When
I
made
my
way
round
there
I
found
him
seated
at
one
of
the
corner
eaves.
"That
you,
Watson?"
he
cried.
"Yes."
"This
is
the
place.
What
is
that
black
thing
down
there?"
"A
water-barrel."
"Top
on
it?"
"Yes."
"No
sign
of
a
ladder?"
"No."
"Confound
the
fellow!
It's
a
most
break-neck
place.
I
ought
to
be
able
to
come
down
where
he
could
climb
up.
The
water-pipe
feels
pretty
firm.
Here
goes,
anyhow."
There
was
a
scuffling
of
feet,
and
the
lantern
began
to
come
steadily
down
the
side
of
the
wall.
Then
with
a
light
spring
he
came
on
to
the
barrel,
and
from
there
to
the
earth.
"It
was
easy
to
follow
him,"
he
said,
drawing
on
his
stockings
and
boots.
"Tiles
were
loosened
the
whole
way
along,
and
in
his
hurry
he
had
dropped
this.
It
confirms
my
diagnosis,
as
you
doctors
express
it."
The
object
which
he
held
up
to
me
was
a
small
pocket
or
pouch
woven
out
of
colored
grasses
and
with
a
few
tawdry
beads
strung
round
it.
In
shape
and
size
it
was
not
unlike
a
cigarette-case.
Inside
were
half
a
dozen
spines
of
dark
wood,
sharp
at
one
end
and
rounded
at
the
other,
like
that
which
had
struck
Bartholomew
Sholto.
"They
are
hellish
things,"
said
he.
"Look
out
that
you
don't
prick
yourself.
I'm
delighted
to
have
them,
for
the
chances
are
that
they
are
all
he
has.
There
is
the
less
fear
of
you
or
me
finding
one
in
our
skin
before
long.
I
would
sooner
face
a
Martini
bullet,
myself.
Are
you
game
for
a
six-mile
trudge,
Watson?"
"Certainly,"
I
answered.
"Your
leg
will
stand
it?"
"Oh,
yes."
"Here
you
are,
doggy!
Good
old
Toby!
Smell
it,
Toby,
smell
it!"
He
pushed
the
creasote
handkerchief
under
the
dog's
nose,
while
the
creature
stood
with
its
fluffy
legs
separated,
and
with
a
most
comical
cock
to
its
head,
like
a
connoisseur
sniffing
the
bouquet
of
a
famous
vintage.
Holmes
then
threw
the
handkerchief
to
a
distance,
fastened
a
stout
cord
to
the
mongrel's
collar,
and
led
him
to
the
foot
of
the
water-barrel.
The
creature
instantly
broke
into
a
succession
of
high,
tremulous
yelps,
and,
with
his
nose
on
the
ground,
and
his
tail
in
the
air,
pattered
off
upon
the
trail
at
a
pace
which
strained
his
leash
and
kept
us
at
the
top
of
our
speed.
The
east
had
been
gradually
whitening,
and
we
could
now
see
some
distance
in
the
cold
gray
light.
The
square,
massive
house,
with
its
black,
empty
windows
and
high,
bare
walls,
towered
up,
sad
and
forlorn,
behind
us.
Our
course
led
right
across
the
grounds,
in
and
out
among
the
trenches
and
pits
with
which
they
were
scarred
and
intersected.
The
whole
place,
with
its
scattered
dirt-heaps
and
ill-grown
shrubs,
had
a
blighted,
ill-omened
look
which
harmonized
with
the
black
tragedy
which
hung
over
it.
On
reaching
the
boundary
wall
Toby
ran
along,
whining
eagerly,
underneath
its
shadow,
and
stopped
finally
in
a
corner
screened
by
a
young
beech.
Where
the
two
walls
joined,
several
bricks
had
been
loosened,
and
the
crevices
left
were
worn
down
and
rounded
upon
the
lower
side,
as
though
they
had
frequently
been
used
as
a
ladder.
Holmes
clambered
up,
and,
taking
the
dog
from
me,
he
dropped
it
over
upon
the
other
side.
"There's
the
print
of
wooden-leg's
hand,"
he
remarked,
as
I
mounted
up
beside
him.
"You
see
the
slight
smudge
of
blood
upon
the
white
plaster.
What
a
lucky
thing
it
is
that
we
have
had
no
very
heavy
rain
since
yesterday!
The
scent
will
lie
upon
the
road
in
spite
of
their
eight-and-twenty
hours'
start."
I
confess
that
I
had
my
doubts
myself
when
I
reflected
upon
the
great
traffic
which
had
passed
along
the
London
road
in
the
interval.
My
fears
were
soon
appeased,
however.
Toby
never
hesitated
or
swerved,
but
waddled
on
in
his
peculiar
rolling
fashion.
Clearly,
the
pungent
smell
of
the
creasote
rose
high
above
all
other
contending
scents.
"Do
not
imagine,"
said
Holmes,
"that
I
depend
for
my
success
in
this
case
upon
the
mere
chance
of
one
of
these
fellows
having
put
his
foot
in
the
chemical.
I
have
knowledge
now
which
would
enable
me
to
trace
them
in
many
different
ways.
This,
however,
is
the
readiest
and,
since
fortune
has
put
it
into
our
hands,
I
should
be
culpable
if
I
neglected
it.
It
has,
however,
prevented
the
case
from
becoming
the
pretty
little
intellectual
problem
which
it
at
one
time
promised
to
be.
There
might
have
been
some
credit
to
be
gained
out
of
it,
but
for
this
too
palpable
clue."
"There
is
credit,
and
to
spare,"
said
I.
"I
assure
you,
Holmes,
that
I
marvel
at
the
means
by
which
you
obtain
your
results
in
this
case,
even
more
than
I
did
in
the
Jefferson
Hope
Murder.
The
thing
seems
to
me
to
be
deeper
and
more
inexplicable.
How,
for
example,
could
you
describe
with
such
confidence
the
wooden-legged
man?"
"Pshaw,
my
dear
boy!
it
was
simplicity
itself.
I
don't
wish
to
be
theatrical.
It
is
all
patent
and
above-board.
Two
officers
who
are
in
command
of
a
convict-guard
learn
an
important
secret
as
to
buried
treasure.
A
map
is
drawn
for
them
by
an
Englishman
named
Jonathan
Small.
You
remember
that
we
saw
the
name
upon
the
chart
in
Captain
Morstan's
possession.
He
had
signed
it
in
behalf
of
himself
and
his
associates,—the
sign
of
the
four,
as
he
somewhat
dramatically
called
it.
Aided
by
this
chart,
the
officers—or
one
of
them—gets
the
treasure
and
brings
it
to
England,
leaving,
we
will
suppose,
some
condition
under
which
he
received
it
unfulfilled.
Now,
then,
why
did
not
Jonathan
Small
get
the
treasure
himself?
The
answer
is
obvious.
The
chart
is
dated
at
a
time
when
Morstan
was
brought
into
close
association
with
convicts.
Jonathan
Small
did
not
get
the
treasure
because
he
and
his
associates
were
themselves
convicts
and
could
not
get
away."
"But
that
is
mere
speculation,"
said
I.
"It
is
more
than
that.
It
is
the
only
hypothesis
which
covers
the
facts.
Let
us
see
how
it
fits
in
with
the
sequel.
Major
Sholto
remains
at
peace
for
some
years,
happy
in
the
possession
of
his
treasure.
Then
he
receives
a
letter
from
India
which
gives
him
a
great
fright.
What
was
that?"
"A
letter
to
say
that
the
men
whom
he
had
wronged
had
been
set
free."
"Or
had
escaped.
That
is
much
more
likely,
for
he
would
have
known
what
their
term
of
imprisonment
was.
It
would
not
have
been
a
surprise
to
him.
What
does
he
do
then?
He
guards
himself
against
a
wooden-legged
man,—a
white
man,
mark
you,
for
he
mistakes
a
white
tradesman
for
him,
and
actually
fires
a
pistol
at
him.
Now,
only
one
white
man's
name
is
on
the
chart.
The
others
are
Hindoos
or
Mohammedans.
There
is
no
other
white
man.
Therefore
we
may
say
with
confidence
that
the
wooden-legged
man
is
identical
with
Jonathan
Small.
Does
the
reasoning
strike
you
as
being
faulty?"
"No:
it
is
clear
and
concise."
"Well,
now,
let
us
put
ourselves
in
the
place
of
Jonathan
Small.
Let
us
look
at
it
from
his
point
of
view.
He
comes
to
England
with
the
double
idea
of
regaining
what
he
would
consider
to
be
his
rights
and
of
having
his
revenge
upon
the
man
who
had
wronged
him.
He
found
out
where
Sholto
lived,
and
very
possibly
he
established
communications
with
some
one
inside
the
house.
There
is
this
butler,
Lal
Rao,
whom
we
have
not
seen.
Mrs.
Bernstone
gives
him
far
from
a
good
character.
Small
could
not
find
out,
however,
where
the
treasure
was
hid,
for
no
one
ever
knew,
save
the
major
and
one
faithful
servant
who
had
died.
Suddenly
Small
learns
that
the
major
is
on
his
death-bed.
In
a
frenzy
lest
the
secret
of
the
treasure
die
with
him,
he
runs
the
gauntlet
of
the
guards,
makes
his
way
to
the
dying
man's
window,
and
is
only
deterred
from
entering
by
the
presence
of
his
two
sons.
Mad
with
hate,
however,
against
the
dead
man,
he
enters
the
room
that
night,
searches
his
private
papers
in
the
hope
of
discovering
some
memorandum
relating
to
the
treasure,
and
finally
leaves
a
momento
of
his
visit
in
the
short
inscription
upon
the
card.
He
had
doubtless
planned
beforehand
that
should
he
slay
the
major
he
would
leave
some
such
record
upon
the
body
as
a
sign
that
it
was
not
a
common
murder,
but,
from
the
point
of
view
of
the
four
associates,
something
in
the
nature
of
an
act
of
justice.
Whimsical
and
bizarre
conceits
of
this
kind
are
common
enough
in
the
annals
of
crime,
and
usually
afford
valuable
indications
as
to
the
criminal.
Do
you
follow
all
this?"
"Very
clearly."
"Now,
what
could
Jonathan
Small
do?
He
could
only
continue
to
keep
a
secret
watch
upon
the
efforts
made
to
find
the
treasure.
Possibly
he
leaves
England
and
only
comes
back
at
intervals.
Then
comes
the
discovery
of
the
garret,
and
he
is
instantly
informed
of
it.
We
again
trace
the
presence
of
some
confederate
in
the
household.
Jonathan,
with
his
wooden
leg,
is
utterly
unable
to
reach
the
lofty
room
of
Bartholomew
Sholto.
He
takes
with
him,
however,
a
rather
curious
associate,
who
gets
over
this
difficulty,
but
dips
his
naked
foot
into
creasote,
whence
comes
Toby,
and
a
six-mile
limp
for
a
half-pay
officer
with
a
damaged
tendo
Achillis."
"But
it
was
the
associate,
and
not
Jonathan,
who
committed
the
crime."
"Quite
so.
And
rather
to
Jonathan's
disgust,
to
judge
by
the
way
he
stamped
about
when
he
got
into
the
room.
He
bore
no
grudge
against
Bartholomew
Sholto,
and
would
have
preferred
if
he
could
have
been
simply
bound
and
gagged.
He
did
not
wish
to
put
his
head
in
a
halter.
There
was
no
help
for
it,
however:
the
savage
instincts
of
his
companion
had
broken
out,
and
the
poison
had
done
its
work:
so
Jonathan
Small
left
his
record,
lowered
the
treasure-box
to
the
ground,
and
followed
it
himself.
That
was
the
train
of
events
as
far
as
I
can
decipher
them.
Of
course
as
to
his
personal
appearance
he
must
be
middle-aged,
and
must
be
sunburned
after
serving
his
time
in
such
an
oven
as
the
Andamans.
His
height
is
readily
calculated
from
the
length
of
his
stride,
and
we
know
that
he
was
bearded.
His
hairiness
was
the
one
point
which
impressed
itself
upon
Thaddeus
Sholto
when
he
saw
him
at
the
window.
I
don't
know
that
there
is
anything
else."
"The
associate?"
"Ah,
well,
there
is
no
great
mystery
in
that.
But
you
will
know
all
about
it
soon
enough.
How
sweet
the
morning
air
is!
See
how
that
one
little
cloud
floats
like
a
pink
feather
from
some
gigantic
flamingo.
Now
the
red
rim
of
the
sun
pushes
itself
over
the
London
cloud-bank.
It
shines
on
a
good
many
folk,
but
on
none,
I
dare
bet,
who
are
on
a
stranger
errand
than
you
and
I.
How
small
we
feel
with
our
petty
ambitions
and
strivings
in
the
presence
of
the
great
elemental
forces
of
nature!
Are
you
well
up
in
your
Jean
Paul?"
"Fairly
so.
I
worked
back
to
him
through
Carlyle."
"That
was
like
following
the
brook
to
the
parent
lake.
He
makes
one
curious
but
profound
remark.
It
is
that
the
chief
proof
of
man's
real
greatness
lies
in
his
perception
of
his
own
smallness.
It
argues,
you
see,
a
power
of
comparison
and
of
appreciation
which
is
in
itself
a
proof
of
nobility.
There
is
much
food
for
thought
in
Richter.
You
have
not
a
pistol,
have
you?"
"I
have
my
stick."
"It
is
just
possible
that
we
may
need
something
of
the
sort
if
we
get
to
their
lair.
Jonathan
I
shall
leave
to
you,
but
if
the
other
turns
nasty
I
shall
shoot
him
dead."
He
took
out
his
revolver
as
he
spoke,
and,
having
loaded
two
of
the
chambers,
he
put
it
back
into
the
right-hand
pocket
of
his
jacket.
We
had
during
this
time
been
following
the
guidance
of
Toby
down
the
half-rural
villa-lined
roads
which
lead
to
the
metropolis.
Now,
however,
we
were
beginning
to
come
among
continuous
streets,
where
laborers
and
dockmen
were
already
astir,
and
slatternly
women
were
taking
down
shutters
and
brushing
door-steps.
At
the
square-topped
corner
public
houses
business
was
just
beginning,
and
rough-looking
men
were
emerging,
rubbing
their
sleeves
across
their
beards
after
their
morning
wet.
Strange
dogs
sauntered
up
and
stared
wonderingly
at
us
as
we
passed,
but
our
inimitable
Toby
looked
neither
to
the
right
nor
to
the
left,
but
trotted
onwards
with
his
nose
to
the
ground
and
an
occasional
eager
whine
which
spoke
of
a
hot
scent.
We
had
traversed
Streatham,
Brixton,
Camberwell,
and
now
found
ourselves
in
Kennington
Lane,
having
borne
away
through
the
side-streets
to
the
east
of
the
Oval.
The
men
whom
we
pursued
seemed
to
have
taken
a
curiously
zigzag
road,
with
the
idea
probably
of
escaping
observation.
They
had
never
kept
to
the
main
road
if
a
parallel
side-street
would
serve
their
turn.
At
the
foot
of
Kennington
Lane
they
had
edged
away
to
the
left
through
Bond
Street
and
Miles
Street.
Where
the
latter
street
turns
into
Knight's
Place,
Toby
ceased
to
advance,
but
began
to
run
backwards
and
forwards
with
one
ear
cocked
and
the
other
drooping,
the
very
picture
of
canine
indecision.
Then
he
waddled
round
in
circles,
looking
up
to
us
from
time
to
time,
as
if
to
ask
for
sympathy
in
his
embarrassment.
"What
the
deuce
is
the
matter
with
the
dog?"
growled
Holmes.
"They
surely
would
not
take
a
cab,
or
go
off
in
a
balloon."
"Perhaps
they
stood
here
for
some
time,"
I
suggested.
"Ah!
it's
all
right.
He's
off
again,"
said
my
companion,
in
a
tone
of
relief.
He
was
indeed
off,
for
after
sniffing
round
again
he
suddenly
made
up
his
mind,
and
darted
away
with
an
energy
and
determination
such
as
he
had
not
yet
shown.
The
scent
appeared
to
be
much
hotter
than
before,
for
he
had
not
even
to
put
his
nose
on
the
ground,
but
tugged
at
his
leash
and
tried
to
break
into
a
run.
I
cold
see
by
the
gleam
in
Holmes's
eyes
that
he
thought
we
were
nearing
the
end
of
our
journey.
Our
course
now
ran
down
Nine
Elms
until
we
came
to
Broderick
and
Nelson's
large
timber-yard,
just
past
the
White
Eagle
tavern.
Here
the
dog,
frantic
with
excitement,
turned
down
through
the
side-gate
into
the
enclosure,
where
the
sawyers
were
already
at
work.
On
the
dog
raced
through
sawdust
and
shavings,
down
an
alley,
round
a
passage,
between
two
wood-piles,
and
finally,
with
a
triumphant
yelp,
sprang
upon
a
large
barrel
which
still
stood
upon
the
hand-trolley
on
which
it
had
been
brought.
With
lolling
tongue
and
blinking
eyes,
Toby
stood
upon
the
cask,
looking
from
one
to
the
other
of
us
for
some
sign
of
appreciation.
The
staves
of
the
barrel
and
the
wheels
of
the
trolley
were
smeared
with
a
dark
liquid,
and
the
whole
air
was
heavy
with
the
smell
of
creasote.
Sherlock
Holmes
and
I
looked
blankly
at
each
other,
and
then
burst
simultaneously
into
an
uncontrollable
fit
of
laughter.
Chapter
VIII
The
Baker
Street
Irregulars
"What
now?"
I
asked.
"Toby
has
lost
his
character
for
infallibility."
"He
acted
according
to
his
lights,"
said
Holmes,
lifting
him
down
from
the
barrel
and
walking
him
out
of
the
timber-yard.
"If
you
consider
how
much
creasote
is
carted
about
London
in
one
day,
it
is
no
great
wonder
that
our
trail
should
have
been
crossed.
It
is
much
used
now,
especially
for
the
seasoning
of
wood.
Poor
Toby
is
not
to
blame."
"We
must
get
on
the
main
scent
again,
I
suppose."
"Yes.
And,
fortunately,
we
have
no
distance
to
go.
Evidently
what
puzzled
the
dog
at
the
corner
of
Knight's
Place
was
that
there
were
two
different
trails
running
in
opposite
directions.
We
took
the
wrong
one.
It
only
remains
to
follow
the
other."
There
was
no
difficulty
about
this.
On
leading
Toby
to
the
place
where
he
had
committed
his
fault,
he
cast
about
in
a
wide
circle
and
finally
dashed
off
in
a
fresh
direction.
"We
must
take
care
that
he
does
not
now
bring
us
to
the
place
where
the
creasote-barrel
came
from,"
I
observed.
"I
had
thought
of
that.
But
you
notice
that
he
keeps
on
the
pavement,
whereas
the
barrel
passed
down
the
roadway.
No,
we
are
on
the
true
scent
now."
It
tended
down
towards
the
river-side,
running
through
Belmont
Place
and
Prince's
Street.
At
the
end
of
Broad
Street
it
ran
right
down
to
the
water's
edge,
where
there
was
a
small
wooden
wharf.
Toby
led
us
to
the
very
edge
of
this,
and
there
stood
whining,
looking
out
on
the
dark
current
beyond.
"We
are
out
of
luck,"
said
Holmes.
"They
have
taken
to
a
boat
here."
Several
small
punts
and
skiffs
were
lying
about
in
the
water
and
on
the
edge
of
the
wharf.
We
took
Toby
round
to
each
in
turn,
but,
though
he
sniffed
earnestly,
he
made
no
sign.
Close
to
the
rude
landing-stage
was
a
small
brick
house,
with
a
wooden
placard
slung
out
through
the
second
window.
"Mordecai
Smith"
was
printed
across
it
in
large
letters,
and,
underneath,
"Boats
to
hire
by
the
hour
or
day."
A
second
inscription
above
the
door
informed
us
that
a
steam
launch
was
kept,—a
statement
which
was
confirmed
by
a
great
pile
of
coke
upon
the
jetty.
Sherlock
Holmes
looked
slowly
round,
and
his
face
assumed
an
ominous
expression.
"This
looks
bad,"
said
he.
"These
fellows
are
sharper
than
I
expected.
They
seem
to
have
covered
their
tracks.
There
has,
I
fear,
been
preconcerted
management
here."
He
was
approaching
the
door
of
the
house,
when
it
opened,
and
a
little,
curly-headed
lad
of
six
came
running
out,
followed
by
a
stoutish,
red-faced
woman
with
a
large
sponge
in
her
hand.
"You
come
back
and
be
washed,
Jack,"
she
shouted.
"Come
back,
you
young
imp;
for
if
your
father
comes
home
and
finds
you
like
that,
he'll
let
us
hear
of
it."
"Dear
little
chap!"
said
Holmes,
strategically.
"What
a
rosy-cheeked
young
rascal!
Now,
Jack,
is
there
anything
you
would
like?"
The
youth
pondered
for
a
moment.
"I'd
like
a
shillin',"
said
he.
"Nothing
you
would
like
better?"
"I'd
like
two
shillin'
better,"
the
prodigy
answered,
after
some
thought.
"Here
you
are,
then!
Catch!—A
fine
child,
Mrs.
Smith!"
"Lor'
bless
you,
sir,
he
is
that,
and
forward.
He
gets
a'most
too
much
for
me
to
manage,
'specially
when
my
man
is
away
days
at
a
time."
"Away,
is
he?"
said
Holmes,
in
a
disappointed
voice.
"I
am
sorry
for
that,
for
I
wanted
to
speak
to
Mr.
Smith."
"He's
been
away
since
yesterday
mornin',
sir,
and,
truth
to
tell,
I
am
beginnin'
to
feel
frightened
about
him.
But
if
it
was
about
a
boat,
sir,
maybe
I
could
serve
as
well."
"I
wanted
to
hire
his
steam
launch."
"Why,
bless
you,
sir,
it
is
in
the
steam
launch
that
he
has
gone.
That's
what
puzzles
me;
for
I
know
there
ain't
more
coals
in
her
than
would
take
her
to
about
Woolwich
and
back.
If
he'd
been
away
in
the
barge
I'd
ha'
thought
nothin';
for
many
a
time
a
job
has
taken
him
as
far
as
Gravesend,
and
then
if
there
was
much
doin'
there
he
might
ha'
stayed
over.
But
what
good
is
a
steam
launch
without
coals?"
"He
might
have
bought
some
at
a
wharf
down
the
river."
"He
might,
sir,
but
it
weren't
his
way.
Many
a
time
I've
heard
him
call
out
at
the
prices
they
charge
for
a
few
odd
bags.
Besides,
I
don't
like
that
wooden-legged
man,
wi'
his
ugly
face
and
outlandish
talk.
What
did
he
want
always
knockin'
about
here
for?"
"A
wooden-legged
man?"
said
Holmes,
with
bland
surprise.
"Yes,
sir,
a
brown,
monkey-faced
chap
that's
called
more'n
once
for
my
old
man.
It
was
him
that
roused
him
up
yesternight,
and,
what's
more,
my
man
knew
he
was
comin',
for
he
had
steam
up
in
the
launch.
I
tell
you
straight,
sir,
I
don't
feel
easy
in
my
mind
about
it."
"But,
my
dear
Mrs.
Smith,"
said
Holmes,
shrugging
his
shoulders,
"You
are
frightening
yourself
about
nothing.
How
could
you
possibly
tell
that
it
was
the
wooden-legged
man
who
came
in
the
night?
I
don't
quite
understand
how
you
can
be
so
sure."
"His
voice,
sir.
I
knew
his
voice,
which
is
kind
o'
thick
and
foggy.
He
tapped
at
the
winder,—about
three
it
would
be.
'Show
a
leg,
matey,'
says
he:
'time
to
turn
out
guard.'
My
old
man
woke
up
Jim,—that's
my
eldest,—and
away
they
went,
without
so
much
as
a
word
to
me.
I
could
hear
the
wooden
leg
clackin'
on
the
stones."
"And
was
this
wooden-legged
man
alone?"
"Couldn't
say,
I
am
sure,
sir.
I
didn't
hear
no
one
else."
"I
am
sorry,
Mrs.
Smith,
for
I
wanted
a
steam
launch,
and
I
have
heard
good
reports
of
the—Let
me
see,
what
is
her
name?"
"The
Aurora,
sir."
"Ah!
She's
not
that
old
green
launch
with
a
yellow
line,
very
broad
in
the
beam?"
"No,
indeed.
She's
as
trim
a
little
thing
as
any
on
the
river.
She's
been
fresh
painted,
black
with
two
red
streaks."
"Thanks.
I
hope
that
you
will
hear
soon
from
Mr.
Smith.
I
am
going
down
the
river;
and
if
I
should
see
anything
of
the
Aurora
I
shall
let
him
know
that
you
are
uneasy.
A
black
funnel,
you
say?"
"No,
sir.
Black
with
a
white
band."
"Ah,
of
course.
It
was
the
sides
which
were
black.
Good-morning,
Mrs.
Smith.—There
is
a
boatman
here
with
a
wherry,
Watson.
We
shall
take
it
and
cross
the
river.
"The
main
thing
with
people
of
that
sort,"
said
Holmes,
as
we
sat
in
the
sheets
of
the
wherry,
"is
never
to
let
them
think
that
their
information
can
be
of
the
slightest
importance
to
you.
If
you
do,
they
will
instantly
shut
up
like
an
oyster.
If
you
listen
to
them
under
protest,
as
it
were,
you
are
very
likely
to
get
what
you
want."
"Our
course
now
seems
pretty
clear,"
said
I.
"What
would
you
do,
then?"
"I
would
engage
a
launch
and
go
down
the
river
on
the
track
of
the
Aurora."
"My
dear
fellow,
it
would
be
a
colossal
task.
She
may
have
touched
at
any
wharf
on
either
side
of
the
stream
between
here
and
Greenwich.
Below
the
bridge
there
is
a
perfect
labyrinth
of
landing-places
for
miles.
It
would
take
you
days
and
days
to
exhaust
them,
if
you
set
about
it
alone."
"Employ
the
police,
then."
"No.
I
shall
probably
call
Athelney
Jones
in
at
the
last
moment.
He
is
not
a
bad
fellow,
and
I
should
not
like
to
do
anything
which
would
injure
him
professionally.
But
I
have
a
fancy
for
working
it
out
myself,
now
that
we
have
gone
so
far."
"Could
we
advertise,
then,
asking
for
information
from
wharfingers?"
"Worse
and
worse!
Our
men
would
know
that
the
chase
was
hot
at
their
heels,
and
they
would
be
off
out
of
the
country.
As
it
is,
they
are
likely
enough
to
leave,
but
as
long
as
they
think
they
are
perfectly
safe
they
will
be
in
no
hurry.
Jones's
energy
will
be
of
use
to
us
there,
for
his
view
of
the
case
is
sure
to
push
itself
into
the
daily
press,
and
the
runaways
will
think
that
every
one
is
off
on
the
wrong
scent."
"What
are
we
to
do,
then?"
I
asked,
as
we
landed
near
Millbank
Penitentiary.
"Take
this
hansom,
drive
home,
have
some
breakfast,
and
get
an
hour's
sleep.
It
is
quite
on
the
cards
that
we
may
be
afoot
to-night
again.
Stop
at
a
telegraph-office,
cabby!
We
will
keep
Toby,
for
he
may
be
of
use
to
us
yet."
We
pulled
up
at
the
Great
Peter
Street
post-office,
and
Holmes
despatched
his
wire.
"Whom
do
you
think
that
is
to?"
he
asked,
as
we
resumed
our
journey.
"I
am
sure
I
don't
know."
"You
remember
the
Baker
Street
division
of
the
detective
police
force
whom
I
employed
in
the
Jefferson
Hope
case?"
"Well,"
said
I,
laughing.
"This
is
just
the
case
where
they
might
be
invaluable.
If
they
fail,
I
have
other
resources;
but
I
shall
try
them
first.
That
wire
was
to
my
dirty
little
lieutenant,
Wiggins,
and
I
expect
that
he
and
his
gang
will
be
with
us
before
we
have
finished
our
breakfast."
It
was
between
eight
and
nine
o'clock
now,
and
I
was
conscious
of
a
strong
reaction
after
the
successive
excitements
of
the
night.
I
was
limp
and
weary,
befogged
in
mind
and
fatigued
in
body.
I
had
not
the
professional
enthusiasm
which
carried
my
companion
on,
nor
could
I
look
at
the
matter
as
a
mere
abstract
intellectual
problem.
As
far
as
the
death
of
Bartholomew
Sholto
went,
I
had
heard
little
good
of
him,
and
could
feel
no
intense
antipathy
to
his
murderers.
The
treasure,
however,
was
a
different
matter.
That,
or
part
of
it,
belonged
rightfully
to
Miss
Morstan.
While
there
was
a
chance
of
recovering
it
I
was
ready
to
devote
my
life
to
the
one
object.
True,
if
I
found
it
it
would
probably
put
her
forever
beyond
my
reach.
Yet
it
would
be
a
petty
and
selfish
love
which
would
be
influenced
by
such
a
thought
as
that.
If
Holmes
could
work
to
find
the
criminals,
I
had
a
tenfold
stronger
reason
to
urge
me
on
to
find
the
treasure.
A
bath
at
Baker
Street
and
a
complete
change
freshened
me
up
wonderfully.
When
I
came
down
to
our
room
I
found
the
breakfast
laid
and
Homes
pouring
out
the
coffee.
"Here
it
is,"
said
he,
laughing,
and
pointing
to
an
open
newspaper.
"The
energetic
Jones
and
the
ubiquitous
reporter
have
fixed
it
up
between
them.
But
you
have
had
enough
of
the
case.
Better
have
your
ham
and
eggs
first."
I
took
the
paper
from
him
and
read
the
short
notice,
which
was
headed
"Mysterious
Business
at
Upper
Norwood."
"About
twelve
o'clock
last
night,"
said
the
Standard,
"Mr.
Bartholomew
Sholto,
of
Pondicherry
Lodge,
Upper
Norwood,
was
found
dead
in
his
room
under
circumstances
which
point
to
foul
play.
As
far
as
we
can
learn,
no
actual
traces
of
violence
were
found
upon
Mr.
Sholto's
person,
but
a
valuable
collection
of
Indian
gems
which
the
deceased
gentleman
had
inherited
from
his
father
has
been
carried
off.
The
discovery
was
first
made
by
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
and
Dr.
Watson,
who
had
called
at
the
house
with
Mr.
Thaddeus
Sholto,
brother
of
the
deceased.
By
a
singular
piece
of
good
fortune,
Mr.
Athelney
Jones,
the
well-known
member
of
the
detective
police
force,
happened
to
be
at
the
Norwood
Police
Station,
and
was
on
the
ground
within
half
an
hour
of
the
first
alarm.
His
trained
and
experienced
faculties
were
at
once
directed
towards
the
detection
of
the
criminals,
with
the
gratifying
result
that
the
brother,
Thaddeus
Sholto,
has
already
been
arrested,
together
with
the
housekeeper,
Mrs.
Bernstone,
an
Indian
butler
named
Lal
Rao,
and
a
porter,
or
gatekeeper,
named
McMurdo.
It
is
quite
certain
that
the
thief
or
thieves
were
well
acquainted
with
the
house,
for
Mr.
Jones's
well-known
technical
knowledge
and
his
powers
of
minute
observation
have
enabled
him
to
prove
conclusively
that
the
miscreants
could
not
have
entered
by
the
door
or
by
the
window,
but
must
have
made
their
way
across
the
roof
of
the
building,
and
so
through
a
trap-door
into
a
room
which
communicated
with
that
in
which
the
body
was
found.
This
fact,
which
has
been
very
clearly
made
out,
proves
conclusively
that
it
was
no
mere
haphazard
burglary.
The
prompt
and
energetic
action
of
the
officers
of
the
law
shows
the
great
advantage
of
the
presence
on
such
occasions
of
a
single
vigorous
and
masterful
mind.
We
cannot
but
think
that
it
supplies
an
argument
to
those
who
would
wish
to
see
our
detectives
more
decentralized,
and
so
brought
into
closer
and
more
effective
touch
with
the
cases
which
it
is
their
duty
to
investigate."
"Isn't
it
gorgeous!"
said
Holmes,
grinning
over
his
coffee-cup.
"What
do
you
think
of
it?"
"I
think
that
we
have
had
a
close
shave
ourselves
of
being
arrested
for
the
crime."
"So
do
I.
I
wouldn't
answer
for
our
safety
now,
if
he
should
happen
to
have
another
of
his
attacks
of
energy."
At
this
moment
there
was
a
loud
ring
at
the
bell,
and
I
could
hear
Mrs.
Hudson,
our
landlady,
raising
her
voice
in
a
wail
of
expostulation
and
dismay.
"By
heaven,
Holmes,"
I
said,
half
rising,
"I
believe
that
they
are
really
after
us."
"No,
it's
not
quite
so
bad
as
that.
It
is
the
unofficial
force,—the
Baker
Street
irregulars."
As
he
spoke,
there
came
a
swift
pattering
of
naked
feet
upon
the
stairs,
a
clatter
of
high
voices,
and
in
rushed
a
dozen
dirty
and
ragged
little
street-Arabs.
There
was
some
show
of
discipline
among
them,
despite
their
tumultuous
entry,
for
they
instantly
drew
up
in
line
and
stood
facing
us
with
expectant
faces.
One
of
their
number,
taller
and
older
than
the
others,
stood
forward
with
an
air
of
lounging
superiority
which
was
very
funny
in
such
a
disreputable
little
scarecrow.
"Got
your
message,
sir,"
said
he,
"and
brought
'em
on
sharp.
Three
bob
and
a
tanner
for
tickets."
"Here
you
are,"
said
Holmes,
producing
some
silver.
"In
future
they
can
report
to
you,
Wiggins,
and
you
to
me.
I
cannot
have
the
house
invaded
in
this
way.
However,
it
is
just
as
well
that
you
should
all
hear
the
instructions.
I
want
to
find
the
whereabouts
of
a
steam
launch
called
the
Aurora,
owner
Mordecai
Smith,
black
with
two
red
streaks,
funnel
black
with
a
white
band.
She
is
down
the
river
somewhere.
I
want
one
boy
to
be
at
Mordecai
Smith's
landing-stage
opposite
Millbank
to
say
if
the
boat
comes
back.
You
must
divide
it
out
among
yourselves,
and
do
both
banks
thoroughly.
Let
me
know
the
moment
you
have
news.
Is
that
all
clear?"
"Yes,
guv'nor,"
said
Wiggins.
"The
old
scale
of
pay,
and
a
guinea
to
the
boy
who
finds
the
boat.
Here's
a
day
in
advance.
Now
off
you
go!"
He
handed
them
a
shilling
each,
and
away
they
buzzed
down
the
stairs,
and
I
saw
them
a
moment
later
streaming
down
the
street.
"If
the
launch
is
above
water
they
will
find
her,"
said
Holmes,
as
he
rose
from
the
table
and
lit
his
pipe.
"They
can
go
everywhere,
see
everything,
overhear
every
one.
I
expect
to
hear
before
evening
that
they
have
spotted
her.
In
the
mean
while,
we
can
do
nothing
but
await
results.
We
cannot
pick
up
the
broken
trail
until
we
find
either
the
Aurora
or
Mr.
Mordecai
Smith."
"Toby
could
eat
these
scraps,
I
dare
say.
Are
you
going
to
bed,
Holmes?"
"No:
I
am
not
tired.
I
have
a
curious
constitution.
I
never
remember
feeling
tired
by
work,
though
idleness
exhausts
me
completely.
I
am
going
to
smoke
and
to
think
over
this
queer
business
to
which
my
fair
client
has
introduced
us.
If
ever
man
had
an
easy
task,
this
of
ours
ought
to
be.
Wooden-legged
men
are
not
so
common,
but
the
other
man
must,
I
should
think,
be
absolutely
unique."
"That
other
man
again!"
"I
have
no
wish
to
make
a
mystery
of
him,—to
you,
anyway.
But
you
must
have
formed
your
own
opinion.
Now,
do
consider
the
data.
Diminutive
footmarks,
toes
never
fettered
by
boots,
naked
feet,
stone-headed
wooden
mace,
great
agility,
small
poisoned
darts.
What
do
you
make
of
all
this?"
"A
savage!"
I
exclaimed.
"Perhaps
one
of
those
Indians
who
were
the
associates
of
Jonathan
Small."
"Hardly
that,"
said
he.
"When
first
I
saw
signs
of
strange
weapons
I
was
inclined
to
think
so;
but
the
remarkable
character
of
the
footmarks
caused
me
to
reconsider
my
views.
Some
of
the
inhabitants
of
the
Indian
Peninsula
are
small
men,
but
none
could
have
left
such
marks
as
that.
The
Hindoo
proper
has
long
and
thin
feet.
The
sandal-wearing
Mohammedan
has
the
great
toe
well
separated
from
the
others,
because
the
thong
is
commonly
passed
between.
These
little
darts,
too,
could
only
be
shot
in
one
way.
They
are
from
a
blow-pipe.
Now,
then,
where
are
we
to
find
our
savage?"
"South
American,"
I
hazarded.
He
stretched
his
hand
up,
and
took
down
a
bulky
volume
from
the
shelf.
"This
is
the
first
volume
of
a
gazetteer
which
is
now
being
published.
It
may
be
looked
upon
as
the
very
latest
authority.
What
have
we
here?
'Andaman
Islands,
situated
340
miles
to
the
north
of
Sumatra,
in
the
Bay
of
Bengal.'
Hum!
hum!
What's
all
this?
Moist
climate,
coral
reefs,
sharks,
Port
Blair,
convict-barracks,
Rutland
Island,
cottonwoods—Ah,
here
we
are.
'The
aborigines
of
the
Andaman
Islands
may
perhaps
claim
the
distinction
of
being
the
smallest
race
upon
this
earth,
though
some
anthropologists
prefer
the
Bushmen
of
Africa,
the
Digger
Indians
of
America,
and
the
Terra
del
Fuegians.
The
average
height
is
rather
below
four
feet,
although
many
full-grown
adults
may
be
found
who
are
very
much
smaller
than
this.
They
are
a
fierce,
morose,
and
intractable
people,
though
capable
of
forming
most
devoted
friendships
when
their
confidence
has
once
been
gained.'
Mark
that,
Watson.
Now,
then,
listen
to
this.
'They
are
naturally
hideous,
having
large,
misshapen
heads,
small,
fierce
eyes,
and
distorted
features.
Their
feet
and
hands,
however,
are
remarkably
small.
So
intractable
and
fierce
are
they
that
all
the
efforts
of
the
British
official
have
failed
to
win
them
over
in
any
degree.
They
have
always
been
a
terror
to
shipwrecked
crews,
braining
the
survivors
with
their
stone-headed
clubs,
or
shooting
them
with
their
poisoned
arrows.
These
massacres
are
invariably
concluded
by
a
cannibal
feast.'
Nice,
amiable
people,
Watson!
If
this
fellow
had
been
left
to
his
own
unaided
devices
this
affair
might
have
taken
an
even
more
ghastly
turn.
I
fancy
that,
even
as
it
is,
Jonathan
Small
would
give
a
good
deal
not
to
have
employed
him."
"But
how
came
he
to
have
so
singular
a
companion?"
"Ah,
that
is
more
than
I
can
tell.
Since,
however,
we
had
already
determined
that
Small
had
come
from
the
Andamans,
it
is
not
so
very
wonderful
that
this
islander
should
be
with
him.
No
doubt
we
shall
know
all
about
it
in
time.
Look
here,
Watson;
you
look
regularly
done.
Lie
down
there
on
the
sofa,
and
see
if
I
can
put
you
to
sleep."
He
took
up
his
violin
from
the
corner,
and
as
I
stretched
myself
out
he
began
to
play
some
low,
dreamy,
melodious
air,—his
own,
no
doubt,
for
he
had
a
remarkable
gift
for
improvisation.
I
have
a
vague
remembrance
of
his
gaunt
limbs,
his
earnest
face,
and
the
rise
and
fall
of
his
bow.
Then
I
seemed
to
be
floated
peacefully
away
upon
a
soft
sea
of
sound,
until
I
found
myself
in
dream-land,
with
the
sweet
face
of
Mary
Morstan
looking
down
upon
me.
Chapter
IX
A
Break
in
the
Chain
It
was
late
in
the
afternoon
before
I
woke,
strengthened
and
refreshed.
Sherlock
Holmes
still
sat
exactly
as
I
had
left
him,
save
that
he
had
laid
aside
his
violin
and
was
deep
in
a
book.
He
looked
across
at
me,
as
I
stirred,
and
I
noticed
that
his
face
was
dark
and
troubled.
"You
have
slept
soundly,"
he
said.
"I
feared
that
our
talk
would
wake
you."
"I
heard
nothing,"
I
answered.
"Have
you
had
fresh
news,
then?"
"Unfortunately,
no.
I
confess
that
I
am
surprised
and
disappointed.
I
expected
something
definite
by
this
time.
Wiggins
has
just
been
up
to
report.
He
says
that
no
trace
can
be
found
of
the
launch.
It
is
a
provoking
check,
for
every
hour
is
of
importance."
"Can
I
do
anything?
I
am
perfectly
fresh
now,
and
quite
ready
for
another
night's
outing."
"No,
we
can
do
nothing.
We
can
only
wait.
If
we
go
ourselves,
the
message
might
come
in
our
absence,
and
delay
be
caused.
You
can
do
what
you
will,
but
I
must
remain
on
guard."
"Then
I
shall
run
over
to
Camberwell
and
call
upon
Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester.
She
asked
me
to,
yesterday."
"On
Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester?"
asked
Holmes,
with
the
twinkle
of
a
smile
in
his
eyes.
"Well,
of
course
Miss
Morstan
too.
They
were
anxious
to
hear
what
happened."
"I
would
not
tell
them
too
much,"
said
Holmes.
"Women
are
never
to
be
entirely
trusted,—not
the
best
of
them."
I
did
not
pause
to
argue
over
this
atrocious
sentiment.
"I
shall
be
back
in
an
hour
or
two,"
I
remarked.
"All
right!
Good
luck!
But,
I
say,
if
you
are
crossing
the
river
you
may
as
well
return
Toby,
for
I
don't
think
it
is
at
all
likely
that
we
shall
have
any
use
for
him
now."
I
took
our
mongrel
accordingly,
and
left
him,
together
with
a
half-sovereign,
at
the
old
naturalist's
in
Pinchin
Lane.
At
Camberwell
I
found
Miss
Morstan
a
little
weary
after
her
night's
adventures,
but
very
eager
to
hear
the
news.
Mrs.
Forrester,
too,
was
full
of
curiosity.
I
told
them
all
that
we
had
done,
suppressing,
however,
the
more
dreadful
parts
of
the
tragedy.
Thus,
although
I
spoke
of
Mr.
Sholto's
death,
I
said
nothing
of
the
exact
manner
and
method
of
it.
With
all
my
omissions,
however,
there
was
enough
to
startle
and
amaze
them.
"It
is
a
romance!"
cried
Mrs.
Forrester.
"An
injured
lady,
half
a
million
in
treasure,
a
black
cannibal,
and
a
wooden-legged
ruffian.
They
take
the
place
of
the
conventional
dragon
or
wicked
earl."
"And
two
knight-errants
to
the
rescue,"
added
Miss
Morstan,
with
a
bright
glance
at
me.
"Why,
Mary,
your
fortune
depends
upon
the
issue
of
this
search.
I
don't
think
that
you
are
nearly
excited
enough.
Just
imagine
what
it
must
be
to
be
so
rich,
and
to
have
the
world
at
your
feet!"
It
sent
a
little
thrill
of
joy
to
my
heart
to
notice
that
she
showed
no
sign
of
elation
at
the
prospect.
On
the
contrary,
she
gave
a
toss
of
her
proud
head,
as
though
the
matter
were
one
in
which
she
took
small
interest.
"It
is
for
Mr.
Thaddeus
Sholto
that
I
am
anxious,"
she
said.
"Nothing
else
is
of
any
consequence;
but
I
think
that
he
has
behaved
most
kindly
and
honorably
throughout.
It
is
our
duty
to
clear
him
of
this
dreadful
and
unfounded
charge."
It
was
evening
before
I
left
Camberwell,
and
quite
dark
by
the
time
I
reached
home.
My
companion's
book
and
pipe
lay
by
his
chair,
but
he
had
disappeared.
I
looked
about
in
the
hope
of
seeing
a
note,
but
there
was
none.
"I
suppose
that
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
has
gone
out,"
I
said
to
Mrs.
Hudson
as
she
came
up
to
lower
the
blinds.
"No,
sir.
He
has
gone
to
his
room,
sir.
Do
you
know,
sir,"
sinking
her
voice
into
an
impressive
whisper,
"I
am
afraid
for
his
health?"
"Why
so,
Mrs.
Hudson?"
"Well,
he's
that
strange,
sir.
After
you
was
gone
he
walked
and
he
walked,
up
and
down,
and
up
and
down,
until
I
was
weary
of
the
sound
of
his
footstep.
Then
I
heard
him
talking
to
himself
and
muttering,
and
every
time
the
bell
rang
out
he
came
on
the
stairhead,
with
'What
is
that,
Mrs.
Hudson?'
And
now
he
has
slammed
off
to
his
room,
but
I
can
hear
him
walking
away
the
same
as
ever.
I
hope
he's
not
going
to
be
ill,
sir.
I
ventured
to
say
something
to
him
about
cooling
medicine,
but
he
turned
on
me,
sir,
with
such
a
look
that
I
don't
know
how
ever
I
got
out
of
the
room."
"I
don't
think
that
you
have
any
cause
to
be
uneasy,
Mrs.
Hudson,"
I
answered.
"I
have
seen
him
like
this
before.
He
has
some
small
matter
upon
his
mind
which
makes
him
restless."
I
tried
to
speak
lightly
to
our
worthy
landlady,
but
I
was
myself
somewhat
uneasy
when
through
the
long
night
I
still
from
time
to
time
heard
the
dull
sound
of
his
tread,
and
knew
how
his
keen
spirit
was
chafing
against
this
involuntary
inaction.
At
breakfast-time
he
looked
worn
and
haggard,
with
a
little
fleck
of
feverish
color
upon
either
cheek.
"You
are
knocking
yourself
up,
old
man,"
I
remarked.
"I
heard
you
marching
about
in
the
night."
"No,
I
could
not
sleep,"
he
answered.
"This
infernal
problem
is
consuming
me.
It
is
too
much
to
be
balked
by
so
petty
an
obstacle,
when
all
else
had
been
overcome.
I
know
the
men,
the
launch,
everything;
and
yet
I
can
get
no
news.
I
have
set
other
agencies
at
work,
and
used
every
means
at
my
disposal.
The
whole
river
has
been
searched
on
either
side,
but
there
is
no
news,
nor
has
Mrs.
Smith
heard
of
her
husband.
I
shall
come
to
the
conclusion
soon
that
they
have
scuttled
the
craft.
But
there
are
objections
to
that."
"Or
that
Mrs.
Smith
has
put
us
on
a
wrong
scent."
"No,
I
think
that
may
be
dismissed.
I
had
inquiries
made,
and
there
is
a
launch
of
that
description."
"Could
it
have
gone
up
the
river?"
"I
have
considered
that
possibility
too,
and
there
is
a
search-party
who
will
work
up
as
far
as
Richmond.
If
no
news
comes
to-day,
I
shall
start
off
myself
to-morrow,
and
go
for
the
men
rather
than
the
boat.
But
surely,
surely,
we
shall
hear
something."
We
did
not,
however.
Not
a
word
came
to
us
either
from
Wiggins
or
from
the
other
agencies.
There
were
articles
in
most
of
the
papers
upon
the
Norwood
tragedy.
They
all
appeared
to
be
rather
hostile
to
the
unfortunate
Thaddeus
Sholto.
No
fresh
details
were
to
be
found,
however,
in
any
of
them,
save
that
an
inquest
was
to
be
held
upon
the
following
day.
I
walked
over
to
Camberwell
in
the
evening
to
report
our
ill
success
to
the
ladies,
and
on
my
return
I
found
Holmes
dejected
and
somewhat
morose.
He
would
hardly
reply
to
my
questions,
and
busied
himself
all
evening
in
an
abstruse
chemical
analysis
which
involved
much
heating
of
retorts
and
distilling
of
vapors,
ending
at
last
in
a
smell
which
fairly
drove
me
out
of
the
apartment.
Up
to
the
small
hours
of
the
morning
I
could
hear
the
clinking
of
his
test-tubes
which
told
me
that
he
was
still
engaged
in
his
malodorous
experiment.
In
the
early
dawn
I
woke
with
a
start,
and
was
surprised
to
find
him
standing
by
my
bedside,
clad
in
a
rude
sailor
dress
with
a
pea-jacket,
and
a
coarse
red
scarf
round
his
neck.
"I
am
off
down
the
river,
Watson,"
said
he.
"I
have
been
turning
it
over
in
my
mind,
and
I
can
see
only
one
way
out
of
it.
It
is
worth
trying,
at
all
events."
"Surely
I
can
come
with
you,
then?"
said
I.
"No;
you
can
be
much
more
useful
if
you
will
remain
here
as
my
representative.
I
am
loath
to
go,
for
it
is
quite
on
the
cards
that
some
message
may
come
during
the
day,
though
Wiggins
was
despondent
about
it
last
night.
I
want
you
to
open
all
notes
and
telegrams,
and
to
act
on
your
own
judgment
if
any
news
should
come.
Can
I
rely
upon
you?"
"Most
certainly."
"I
am
afraid
that
you
will
not
be
able
to
wire
to
me,
for
I
can
hardly
tell
yet
where
I
may
find
myself.
If
I
am
in
luck,
however,
I
may
not
be
gone
so
very
long.
I
shall
have
news
of
some
sort
or
other
before
I
get
back."
I
had
heard
nothing
of
him
by
breakfast-time.
On
opening
the
Standard,
however,
I
found
that
there
was
a
fresh
allusion
to
the
business.
"With
reference
to
the
Upper
Norwood
tragedy,"
it
remarked,
"we
have
reason
to
believe
that
the
matter
promises
to
be
even
more
complex
and
mysterious
than
was
originally
supposed.
Fresh
evidence
has
shown
that
it
is
quite
impossible
that
Mr.
Thaddeus
Sholto
could
have
been
in
any
way
concerned
in
the
matter.
He
and
the
housekeeper,
Mrs.
Bernstone,
were
both
released
yesterday
evening.
It
is
believed,
however,
that
the
police
have
a
clue
as
to
the
real
culprits,
and
that
it
is
being
prosecuted
by
Mr.
Athelney
Jones,
of
Scotland
Yard,
with
all
his
well-known
energy
and
sagacity.
Further
arrests
may
be
expected
at
any
moment."
"That
is
satisfactory
so
far
as
it
goes,"
thought
I.
"Friend
Sholto
is
safe,
at
any
rate.
I
wonder
what
the
fresh
clue
may
be;
though
it
seems
to
be
a
stereotyped
form
whenever
the
police
have
made
a
blunder."
I
tossed
the
paper
down
upon
the
table,
but
at
that
moment
my
eye
caught
an
advertisement
in
the
agony
column.
It
ran
in
this
way:
"Lost.—Whereas
Mordecai
Smith,
boatman,
and
his
son,
Jim,
left
Smith's
Wharf
at
or
about
three
o'clock
last
Tuesday
morning
in
the
steam
launch
Aurora,
black
with
two
red
stripes,
funnel
black
with
a
white
band,
the
sum
of
five
pounds
will
be
paid
to
any
one
who
can
give
information
to
Mrs.
Smith,
at
Smith's
Wharf,
or
at
221b
Baker
Street,
as
to
the
whereabouts
of
the
said
Mordecai
Smith
and
the
launch
Aurora."
This
was
clearly
Holmes's
doing.
The
Baker
Street
address
was
enough
to
prove
that.
It
struck
me
as
rather
ingenious,
because
it
might
be
read
by
the
fugitives
without
their
seeing
in
it
more
than
the
natural
anxiety
of
a
wife
for
her
missing
husband.
It
was
a
long
day.
Every
time
that
a
knock
came
to
the
door,
or
a
sharp
step
passed
in
the
street,
I
imagined
that
it
was
either
Holmes
returning
or
an
answer
to
his
advertisement.
I
tried
to
read,
but
my
thoughts
would
wander
off
to
our
strange
quest
and
to
the
ill-assorted
and
villainous
pair
whom
we
were
pursuing.
Could
there
be,
I
wondered,
some
radical
flaw
in
my
companion's
reasoning.
Might
he
be
suffering
from
some
huge
self-deception?
Was
it
not
possible
that
his
nimble
and
speculative
mind
had
built
up
this
wild
theory
upon
faulty
premises?
I
had
never
known
him
to
be
wrong;
and
yet
the
keenest
reasoner
may
occasionally
be
deceived.
He
was
likely,
I
thought,
to
fall
into
error
through
the
over-refinement
of
his
logic,—his
preference
for
a
subtle
and
bizarre
explanation
when
a
plainer
and
more
commonplace
one
lay
ready
to
his
hand.
Yet,
on
the
other
hand,
I
had
myself
seen
the
evidence,
and
I
had
heard
the
reasons
for
his
deductions.
When
I
looked
back
on
the
long
chain
of
curious
circumstances,
many
of
them
trivial
in
themselves,
but
all
tending
in
the
same
direction,
I
could
not
disguise
from
myself
that
even
if
Holmes's
explanation
were
incorrect
the
true
theory
must
be
equally
outre
and
startling.
At
three
o'clock
in
the
afternoon
there
was
a
loud
peal
at
the
bell,
an
authoritative
voice
in
the
hall,
and,
to
my
surprise,
no
less
a
person
than
Mr.
Athelney
Jones
was
shown
up
to
me.
Very
different
was
he,
however,
from
the
brusque
and
masterful
professor
of
common
sense
who
had
taken
over
the
case
so
confidently
at
Upper
Norwood.
His
expression
was
downcast,
and
his
bearing
meek
and
even
apologetic.
"Good-day,
sir;
good-day,"
said
he.
"Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
is
out,
I
understand."
"Yes,
and
I
cannot
be
sure
when
he
will
be
back.
But
perhaps
you
would
care
to
wait.
Take
that
chair
and
try
one
of
these
cigars."
"Thank
you;
I
don't
mind
if
I
do,"
said
he,
mopping
his
face
with
a
red
bandanna
handkerchief.
"And
a
whiskey-and-soda?"
"Well,
half
a
glass.
It
is
very
hot
for
the
time
of
year;
and
I
have
had
a
good
deal
to
worry
and
try
me.
You
know
my
theory
about
this
Norwood
case?"
"I
remember
that
you
expressed
one."
"Well,
I
have
been
obliged
to
reconsider
it.
I
had
my
net
drawn
tightly
round
Mr.
Sholto,
sir,
when
pop
he
went
through
a
hole
in
the
middle
of
it.
He
was
able
to
prove
an
alibi
which
could
not
be
shaken.
From
the
time
that
he
left
his
brother's
room
he
was
never
out
of
sight
of
some
one
or
other.
So
it
could
not
be
he
who
climbed
over
roofs
and
through
trap-doors.
It's
a
very
dark
case,
and
my
professional
credit
is
at
stake.
I
should
be
very
glad
of
a
little
assistance."
"We
all
need
help
sometimes,"
said
I.
"Your
friend
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
is
a
wonderful
man,
sir,"
said
he,
in
a
husky
and
confidential
voice.
"He's
a
man
who
is
not
to
be
beat.
I
have
known
that
young
man
go
into
a
good
many
cases,
but
I
never
saw
the
case
yet
that
he
could
not
throw
a
light
upon.
He
is
irregular
in
his
methods,
and
a
little
quick
perhaps
in
jumping
at
theories,
but,
on
the
whole,
I
think
he
would
have
made
a
most
promising
officer,
and
I
don't
care
who
knows
it.
I
have
had
a
wire
from
him
this
morning,
by
which
I
understand
that
he
has
got
some
clue
to
this
Sholto
business.
Here
is
the
message."
He
took
the
telegram
out
of
his
pocket,
and
handed
it
to
me.
It
was
dated
from
Poplar
at
twelve
o'clock.
"Go
to
Baker
Street
at
once,"
it
said.
"If
I
have
not
returned,
wait
for
me.
I
am
close
on
the
track
of
the
Sholto
gang.
You
can
come
with
us
to-night
if
you
want
to
be
in
at
the
finish."
"This
sounds
well.
He
has
evidently
picked
up
the
scent
again,"
said
I.
"Ah,
then
he
has
been
at
fault
too,"
exclaimed
Jones,
with
evident
satisfaction.
"Even
the
best
of
us
are
thrown
off
sometimes.
Of
course
this
may
prove
to
be
a
false
alarm;
but
it
is
my
duty
as
an
officer
of
the
law
to
allow
no
chance
to
slip.
But
there
is
some
one
at
the
door.
Perhaps
this
is
he."
A
heavy
step
was
heard
ascending
the
stair,
with
a
great
wheezing
and
rattling
as
from
a
man
who
was
sorely
put
to
it
for
breath.
Once
or
twice
he
stopped,
as
though
the
climb
were
too
much
for
him,
but
at
last
he
made
his
way
to
our
door
and
entered.
His
appearance
corresponded
to
the
sounds
which
we
had
heard.
He
was
an
aged
man,
clad
in
seafaring
garb,
with
an
old
pea-jacket
buttoned
up
to
his
throat.
His
back
was
bowed,
his
knees
were
shaky,
and
his
breathing
was
painfully
asthmatic.
As
he
leaned
upon
a
thick
oaken
cudgel
his
shoulders
heaved
in
the
effort
to
draw
the
air
into
his
lungs.
He
had
a
colored
scarf
round
his
chin,
and
I
could
see
little
of
his
face
save
a
pair
of
keen
dark
eyes,
overhung
by
bushy
white
brows,
and
long
gray
side-whiskers.
Altogether
he
gave
me
the
impression
of
a
respectable
master
mariner
who
had
fallen
into
years
and
poverty.
"What
is
it,
my
man?"
I
asked.
He
looked
about
him
in
the
slow
methodical
fashion
of
old
age.
"Is
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
here?"
said
he.
"No;
but
I
am
acting
for
him.
You
can
tell
me
any
message
you
have
for
him."
"It
was
to
him
himself
I
was
to
tell
it,"
said
he.
"But
I
tell
you
that
I
am
acting
for
him.
Was
it
about
Mordecai
Smith's
boat?"
"Yes.
I
knows
well
where
it
is.
An'
I
knows
where
the
men
he
is
after
are.
An'
I
knows
where
the
treasure
is.
I
knows
all
about
it."
"Then
tell
me,
and
I
shall
let
him
know."
"It
was
to
him
I
was
to
tell
it,"
he
repeated,
with
the
petulant
obstinacy
of
a
very
old
man.
"Well,
you
must
wait
for
him."
"No,
no;
I
ain't
goin'
to
lose
a
whole
day
to
please
no
one.
If
Mr.
Holmes
ain't
here,
then
Mr.
Holmes
must
find
it
all
out
for
himself.
I
don't
care
about
the
look
of
either
of
you,
and
I
won't
tell
a
word."
He
shuffled
towards
the
door,
but
Athelney
Jones
got
in
front
of
him.
"Wait
a
bit,
my
friend,"
said
he.
"You
have
important
information,
and
you
must
not
walk
off.
We
shall
keep
you,
whether
you
like
or
not,
until
our
friend
returns."
The
old
man
made
a
little
run
towards
the
door,
but,
as
Athelney
Jones
put
his
broad
back
up
against
it,
he
recognized
the
uselessness
of
resistance.
"Pretty
sort
o'
treatment
this!"
he
cried,
stamping
his
stick.
"I
come
here
to
see
a
gentleman,
and
you
two,
who
I
never
saw
in
my
life,
seize
me
and
treat
me
in
this
fashion!"
"You
will
be
none
the
worse,"
I
said.
"We
shall
recompense
you
for
the
loss
of
your
time.
Sit
over
here
on
the
sofa,
and
you
will
not
have
long
to
wait."
He
came
across
sullenly
enough,
and
seated
himself
with
his
face
resting
on
his
hands.
Jones
and
I
resumed
our
cigars
and
our
talk.
Suddenly,
however,
Holmes's
voice
broke
in
upon
us.
"I
think
that
you
might
offer
me
a
cigar
too,"
he
said.
We
both
started
in
our
chairs.
There
was
Holmes
sitting
close
to
us
with
an
air
of
quiet
amusement.
"Holmes!"
I
exclaimed.
"You
here!
But
where
is
the
old
man?"
"Here
is
the
old
man,"
said
he,
holding
out
a
heap
of
white
hair.
"Here
he
is,—wig,
whiskers,
eyebrows,
and
all.
I
thought
my
disguise
was
pretty
good,
but
I
hardly
expected
that
it
would
stand
that
test."
"Ah,
You
rogue!"
cried
Jones,
highly
delighted.
"You
would
have
made
an
actor,
and
a
rare
one.
You
had
the
proper
workhouse
cough,
and
those
weak
legs
of
yours
are
worth
ten
pound
a
week.
I
thought
I
knew
the
glint
of
your
eye,
though.
You
didn't
get
away
from
us
so
easily,
You
see."
"I
have
been
working
in
that
get-up
all
day,"
said
he,
lighting
his
cigar.
"You
see,
a
good
many
of
the
criminal
classes
begin
to
know
me,—especially
since
our
friend
here
took
to
publishing
some
of
my
cases:
so
I
can
only
go
on
the
war-path
under
some
simple
disguise
like
this.
You
got
my
wire?"
"Yes;
that
was
what
brought
me
here."
"How
has
your
case
prospered?"
"It
has
all
come
to
nothing.
I
have
had
to
release
two
of
my
prisoners,
and
there
is
no
evidence
against
the
other
two."
"Never
mind.
We
shall
give
you
two
others
in
the
place
of
them.
But
you
must
put
yourself
under
my
orders.
You
are
welcome
to
all
the
official
credit,
but
you
must
act
on
the
line
that
I
point
out.
Is
that
agreed?"
"Entirely,
if
you
will
help
me
to
the
men."
"Well,
then,
in
the
first
place
I
shall
want
a
fast
police-boat—a
steam
launch—to
be
at
the
Westminster
Stairs
at
seven
o'clock."
"That
is
easily
managed.
There
is
always
one
about
there;
but
I
can
step
across
the
road
and
telephone
to
make
sure."
"Then
I
shall
want
two
stanch
men,
in
case
of
resistance."
"There
will
be
two
or
three
in
the
boat.
What
else?"
"When
we
secure
the
men
we
shall
get
the
treasure.
I
think
that
it
would
be
a
pleasure
to
my
friend
here
to
take
the
box
round
to
the
young
lady
to
whom
half
of
it
rightfully
belongs.
Let
her
be
the
first
to
open
it.—Eh,
Watson?"
"It
would
be
a
great
pleasure
to
me."
"Rather
an
irregular
proceeding,"
said
Jones,
shaking
his
head.
"However,
the
whole
thing
is
irregular,
and
I
suppose
we
must
wink
at
it.
The
treasure
must
afterwards
be
handed
over
to
the
authorities
until
after
the
official
investigation."
"Certainly.
That
is
easily
managed.
One
other
point.
I
should
much
like
to
have
a
few
details
about
this
matter
from
the
lips
of
Jonathan
Small
himself.
You
know
I
like
to
work
the
detail
of
my
cases
out.
There
is
no
objection
to
my
having
an
unofficial
interview
with
him,
either
here
in
my
rooms
or
elsewhere,
as
long
as
he
is
efficiently
guarded?"
"Well,
you
are
master
of
the
situation.
I
have
had
no
proof
yet
of
the
existence
of
this
Jonathan
Small.
However,
if
you
can
catch
him
I
don't
see
how
I
can
refuse
you
an
interview
with
him."
"That
is
understood,
then?"
"Perfectly.
Is
there
anything
else?"
"Only
that
I
insist
upon
your
dining
with
us.
It
will
be
ready
in
half
an
hour.
I
have
oysters
and
a
brace
of
grouse,
with
something
a
little
choice
in
white
wines.—Watson,
you
have
never
yet
recognized
my
merits
as
a
housekeeper."
Chapter
X
The
End
of
the
Islander
Our
meal
was
a
merry
one.
Holmes
could
talk
exceedingly
well
when
he
chose,
and
that
night
he
did
choose.
He
appeared
to
be
in
a
state
of
nervous
exaltation.
I
have
never
known
him
so
brilliant.
He
spoke
on
a
quick
succession
of
subjects,—on
miracle-plays,
on
medieval
pottery,
on
Stradivarius
violins,
on
the
Buddhism
of
Ceylon,
and
on
the
war-ships
of
the
future,—handling
each
as
though
he
had
made
a
special
study
of
it.
His
bright
humor
marked
the
reaction
from
his
black
depression
of
the
preceding
days.
Athelney
Jones
proved
to
be
a
sociable
soul
in
his
hours
of
relaxation,
and
faced
his
dinner
with
the
air
of
a
bon
vivant.
For
myself,
I
felt
elated
at
the
thought
that
we
were
nearing
the
end
of
our
task,
and
I
caught
something
of
Holmes's
gaiety.
None
of
us
alluded
during
dinner
to
the
cause
which
had
brought
us
together.
When
the
cloth
was
cleared,
Holmes
glanced
at
his
watch,
and
filled
up
three
glasses
with
port.
"One
bumper,"
said
he,
"to
the
success
of
our
little
expedition.
And
now
it
is
high
time
we
were
off.
Have
you
a
pistol,
Watson?"
"I
have
my
old
service-revolver
in
my
desk."
"You
had
best
take
it,
then.
It
is
well
to
be
prepared.
I
see
that
the
cab
is
at
the
door.
I
ordered
it
for
half-past
six."
It
was
a
little
past
seven
before
we
reached
the
Westminster
wharf,
and
found
our
launch
awaiting
us.
Holmes
eyed
it
critically.
"Is
there
anything
to
mark
it
as
a
police-boat?"
"Yes,—that
green
lamp
at
the
side."
"Then
take
it
off."
The
small
change
was
made,
we
stepped
on
board,
and
the
ropes
were
cast
off.
Jones,
Holmes,
and
I
sat
in
the
stern.
There
was
one
man
at
the
rudder,
one
to
tend
the
engines,
and
two
burly
police-inspectors
forward.
"Where
to?"
asked
Jones.
"To
the
Tower.
Tell
them
to
stop
opposite
Jacobson's
Yard."
Our
craft
was
evidently
a
very
fast
one.
We
shot
past
the
long
lines
of
loaded
barges
as
though
they
were
stationary.
Holmes
smiled
with
satisfaction
as
we
overhauled
a
river
steamer
and
left
her
behind
us.
"We
ought
to
be
able
to
catch
anything
on
the
river,"
he
said.
"Well,
hardly
that.
But
there
are
not
many
launches
to
beat
us."
"We
shall
have
to
catch
the
Aurora,
and
she
has
a
name
for
being
a
clipper.
I
will
tell
you
how
the
land
lies,
Watson.
You
recollect
how
annoyed
I
was
at
being
balked
by
so
small
a
thing?"
"Yes."
"Well,
I
gave
my
mind
a
thorough
rest
by
plunging
into
a
chemical
analysis.
One
of
our
greatest
statesmen
has
said
that
a
change
of
work
is
the
best
rest.
So
it
is.
When
I
had
succeeded
in
dissolving
the
hydrocarbon
which
I
was
at
work
at,
I
came
back
to
our
problem
of
the
Sholtos,
and
thought
the
whole
matter
out
again.
My
boys
had
been
up
the
river
and
down
the
river
without
result.
The
launch
was
not
at
any
landing-stage
or
wharf,
nor
had
it
returned.
Yet
it
could
hardly
have
been
scuttled
to
hide
their
traces,—though
that
always
remained
as
a
possible
hypothesis
if
all
else
failed.
I
knew
this
man
Small
had
a
certain
degree
of
low
cunning,
but
I
did
not
think
him
capable
of
anything
in
the
nature
of
delicate
finesse.
That
is
usually
a
product
of
higher
education.
I
then
reflected
that
since
he
had
certainly
been
in
London
some
time—as
we
had
evidence
that
he
maintained
a
continual
watch
over
Pondicherry
Lodge—he
could
hardly
leave
at
a
moment's
notice,
but
would
need
some
little
time,
if
it
were
only
a
day,
to
arrange
his
affairs.
That
was
the
balance
of
probability,
at
any
rate."
"It
seems
to
me
to
be
a
little
weak,"
said
I.
"It
is
more
probable
that
he
had
arranged
his
affairs
before
ever
he
set
out
upon
his
expedition."
"No,
I
hardly
think
so.
This
lair
of
his
would
be
too
valuable
a
retreat
in
case
of
need
for
him
to
give
it
up
until
he
was
sure
that
he
could
do
without
it.
But
a
second
consideration
struck
me.
Jonathan
Small
must
have
felt
that
the
peculiar
appearance
of
his
companion,
however
much
he
may
have
top-coated
him,
would
give
rise
to
gossip,
and
possibly
be
associated
with
this
Norwood
tragedy.
He
was
quite
sharp
enough
to
see
that.
They
had
started
from
their
head-quarters
under
cover
of
darkness,
and
he
would
wish
to
get
back
before
it
was
broad
light.
Now,
it
was
past
three
o'clock,
according
to
Mrs.
Smith,
when
they
got
the
boat.
It
would
be
quite
bright,
and
people
would
be
about
in
an
hour
or
so.
Therefore,
I
argued,
they
did
not
go
very
far.
They
paid
Smith
well
to
hold
his
tongue,
reserved
his
launch
for
the
final
escape,
and
hurried
to
their
lodgings
with
the
treasure-box.
In
a
couple
of
nights,
when
they
had
time
to
see
what
view
the
papers
took,
and
whether
there
was
any
suspicion,
they
would
make
their
way
under
cover
of
darkness
to
some
ship
at
Gravesend
or
in
the
Downs,
where
no
doubt
they
had
already
arranged
for
passages
to
America
or
the
Colonies."
"But
the
launch?
They
could
not
have
taken
that
to
their
lodgings."
"Quite
so.
I
argued
that
the
launch
must
be
no
great
way
off,
in
spite
of
its
invisibility.
I
then
put
myself
in
the
place
of
Small,
and
looked
at
it
as
a
man
of
his
capacity
would.
He
would
probably
consider
that
to
send
back
the
launch
or
to
keep
it
at
a
wharf
would
make
pursuit
easy
if
the
police
did
happen
to
get
on
his
track.
How,
then,
could
he
conceal
the
launch
and
yet
have
her
at
hand
when
wanted?
I
wondered
what
I
should
do
myself
if
I
were
in
his
shoes.
I
could
only
think
of
one
way
of
doing
it.
I
might
land
the
launch
over
to
some
boat-builder
or
repairer,
with
directions
to
make
a
trifling
change
in
her.
She
would
then
be
removed
to
his
shed
or
yard,
and
so
be
effectually
concealed,
while
at
the
same
time
I
could
have
her
at
a
few
hours'
notice."
"That
seems
simple
enough."
"It
is
just
these
very
simple
things
which
are
extremely
liable
to
be
overlooked.
However,
I
determined
to
act
on
the
idea.
I
started
at
once
in
this
harmless
seaman's
rig
and
inquired
at
all
the
yards
down
the
river.
I
drew
blank
at
fifteen,
but
at
the
sixteenth—Jacobson's—I
learned
that
the
Aurora
had
been
handed
over
to
them
two
days
ago
by
a
wooden-legged
man,
with
some
trivial
directions
as
to
her
rudder.
'There
ain't
naught
amiss
with
her
rudder,'
said
the
foreman.
'There
she
lies,
with
the
red
streaks.'
At
that
moment
who
should
come
down
but
Mordecai
Smith,
the
missing
owner?
He
was
rather
the
worse
for
liquor.
I
should
not,
of
course,
have
known
him,
but
he
bellowed
out
his
name
and
the
name
of
his
launch.
'I
want
her
to-night
at
eight
o'clock,'
said
he,—'eight
o'clock
sharp,
mind,
for
I
have
two
gentlemen
who
won't
be
kept
waiting.'
They
had
evidently
paid
him
well,
for
he
was
very
flush
of
money,
chucking
shillings
about
to
the
men.
I
followed
him
some
distance,
but
he
subsided
into
an
ale-house:
so
I
went
back
to
the
yard,
and,
happening
to
pick
up
one
of
my
boys
on
the
way,
I
stationed
him
as
a
sentry
over
the
launch.
He
is
to
stand
at
water's
edge
and
wave
his
handkerchief
to
us
when
they
start.
We
shall
be
lying
off
in
the
stream,
and
it
will
be
a
strange
thing
if
we
do
not
take
men,
treasure,
and
all."
"You
have
planned
it
all
very
neatly,
whether
they
are
the
right
men
or
not,"
said
Jones;
"but
if
the
affair
were
in
my
hands
I
should
have
had
a
body
of
police
in
Jacobson's
Yard,
and
arrested
them
when
they
came
down."
"Which
would
have
been
never.
This
man
Small
is
a
pretty
shrewd
fellow.
He
would
send
a
scout
on
ahead,
and
if
anything
made
him
suspicious
lie
snug
for
another
week."
"But
you
might
have
stuck
to
Mordecai
Smith,
and
so
been
led
to
their
hiding-place,"
said
I.
"In
that
case
I
should
have
wasted
my
day.
I
think
that
it
is
a
hundred
to
one
against
Smith
knowing
where
they
live.
As
long
as
he
has
liquor
and
good
pay,
why
should
he
ask
questions?
They
send
him
messages
what
to
do.
No,
I
thought
over
every
possible
course,
and
this
is
the
best."
While
this
conversation
had
been
proceeding,
we
had
been
shooting
the
long
series
of
bridges
which
span
the
Thames.
As
we
passed
the
City
the
last
rays
of
the
sun
were
gilding
the
cross
upon
the
summit
of
St.
Paul's.
It
was
twilight
before
we
reached
the
Tower.
"That
is
Jacobson's
Yard,"
said
Holmes,
pointing
to
a
bristle
of
masts
and
rigging
on
the
Surrey
side.
"Cruise
gently
up
and
down
here
under
cover
of
this
string
of
lighters."
He
took
a
pair
of
night-glasses
from
his
pocket
and
gazed
some
time
at
the
shore.
"I
see
my
sentry
at
his
post,"
he
remarked,
"but
no
sign
of
a
handkerchief."
"Suppose
we
go
down-stream
a
short
way
and
lie
in
wait
for
them,"
said
Jones,
eagerly.
We
were
all
eager
by
this
time,
even
the
policemen
and
stokers,
who
had
a
very
vague
idea
of
what
was
going
forward.
"We
have
no
right
to
take
anything
for
granted,"
Holmes
answered.
"It
is
certainly
ten
to
one
that
they
go
down-stream,
but
we
cannot
be
certain.
From
this
point
we
can
see
the
entrance
of
the
yard,
and
they
can
hardly
see
us.
It
will
be
a
clear
night
and
plenty
of
light.
We
must
stay
where
we
are.
See
how
the
folk
swarm
over
yonder
in
the
gaslight."
"They
are
coming
from
work
in
the
yard."
"Dirty-looking
rascals,
but
I
suppose
every
one
has
some
little
immortal
spark
concealed
about
him.
You
would
not
think
it,
to
look
at
them.
There
is
no
a
priori
probability
about
it.
A
strange
enigma
is
man!"
"Some
one
calls
him
a
soul
concealed
in
an
animal,"
I
suggested.
"Winwood
Reade
is
good
upon
the
subject,"
said
Holmes.
"He
remarks
that,
while
the
individual
man
is
an
insoluble
puzzle,
in
the
aggregate
he
becomes
a
mathematical
certainty.
You
can,
for
example,
never
foretell
what
any
one
man
will
do,
but
you
can
say
with
precision
what
an
average
number
will
be
up
to.
Individuals
vary,
but
percentages
remain
constant.
So
says
the
statistician.
But
do
I
see
a
handkerchief?
Surely
there
is
a
white
flutter
over
yonder."
"Yes,
it
is
your
boy,"
I
cried.
"I
can
see
him
plainly."
"And
there
is
the
Aurora,"
exclaimed
Holmes,
"and
going
like
the
devil!
Full
speed
ahead,
engineer.
Make
after
that
launch
with
the
yellow
light.
By
heaven,
I
shall
never
forgive
myself
if
she
proves
to
have
the
heels
of
us!"
She
had
slipped
unseen
through
the
yard-entrance
and
passed
behind
two
or
three
small
craft,
so
that
she
had
fairly
got
her
speed
up
before
we
saw
her.
Now
she
was
flying
down
the
stream,
near
in
to
the
shore,
going
at
a
tremendous
rate.
Jones
looked
gravely
at
her
and
shook
his
head.
"She
is
very
fast,"
he
said.
"I
doubt
if
we
shall
catch
her."
"We
MUST
catch
her!"
cried
Holmes,
between
his
teeth.
"Heap
it
on,
stokers!
Make
her
do
all
she
can!
If
we
burn
the
boat
we
must
have
them!"
We
were
fairly
after
her
now.
The
furnaces
roared,
and
the
powerful
engines
whizzed
and
clanked,
like
a
great
metallic
heart.
Her
sharp,
steep
prow
cut
through
the
river-water
and
sent
two
rolling
waves
to
right
and
to
left
of
us.
With
every
throb
of
the
engines
we
sprang
and
quivered
like
a
living
thing.
One
great
yellow
lantern
in
our
bows
threw
a
long,
flickering
funnel
of
light
in
front
of
us.
Right
ahead
a
dark
blur
upon
the
water
showed
where
the
Aurora
lay,
and
the
swirl
of
white
foam
behind
her
spoke
of
the
pace
at
which
she
was
going.
We
flashed
past
barges,
steamers,
merchant-vessels,
in
and
out,
behind
this
one
and
round
the
other.
Voices
hailed
us
out
of
the
darkness,
but
still
the
Aurora
thundered
on,
and
still
we
followed
close
upon
her
track.
"Pile
it
on,
men,
pile
it
on!"
cried
Holmes,
looking
down
into
the
engine-room,
while
the
fierce
glow
from
below
beat
upon
his
eager,
aquiline
face.
"Get
every
pound
of
steam
you
can."
"I
think
we
gain
a
little,"
said
Jones,
with
his
eyes
on
the
Aurora.
"I
am
sure
of
it,"
said
I.
"We
shall
be
up
with
her
in
a
very
few
minutes."
At
that
moment,
however,
as
our
evil
fate
would
have
it,
a
tug
with
three
barges
in
tow
blundered
in
between
us.
It
was
only
by
putting
our
helm
hard
down
that
we
avoided
a
collision,
and
before
we
could
round
them
and
recover
our
way
the
Aurora
had
gained
a
good
two
hundred
yards.
She
was
still,
however,
well
in
view,
and
the
murky
uncertain
twilight
was
setting
into
a
clear
starlit
night.
Our
boilers
were
strained
to
their
utmost,
and
the
frail
shell
vibrated
and
creaked
with
the
fierce
energy
which
was
driving
us
along.
We
had
shot
through
the
Pool,
past
the
West
India
Docks,
down
the
long
Deptford
Reach,
and
up
again
after
rounding
the
Isle
of
Dogs.
The
dull
blur
in
front
of
us
resolved
itself
now
clearly
enough
into
the
dainty
Aurora.
Jones
turned
our
search-light
upon
her,
so
that
we
could
plainly
see
the
figures
upon
her
deck.
One
man
sat
by
the
stern,
with
something
black
between
his
knees
over
which
he
stooped.
Beside
him
lay
a
dark
mass
which
looked
like
a
Newfoundland
dog.
The
boy
held
the
tiller,
while
against
the
red
glare
of
the
furnace
I
could
see
old
Smith,
stripped
to
the
waist,
and
shovelling
coals
for
dear
life.
They
may
have
had
some
doubt
at
first
as
to
whether
we
were
really
pursuing
them,
but
now
as
we
followed
every
winding
and
turning
which
they
took
there
could
no
longer
be
any
question
about
it.
At
Greenwich
we
were
about
three
hundred
paces
behind
them.
At
Blackwall
we
could
not
have
been
more
than
two
hundred
and
fifty.
I
have
coursed
many
creatures
in
many
countries
during
my
checkered
career,
but
never
did
sport
give
me
such
a
wild
thrill
as
this
mad,
flying
man-hunt
down
the
Thames.
Steadily
we
drew
in
upon
them,
yard
by
yard.
In
the
silence
of
the
night
we
could
hear
the
panting
and
clanking
of
their
machinery.
The
man
in
the
stern
still
crouched
upon
the
deck,
and
his
arms
were
moving
as
though
he
were
busy,
while
every
now
and
then
he
would
look
up
and
measure
with
a
glance
the
distance
which
still
separated
us.
Nearer
we
came
and
nearer.
Jones
yelled
to
them
to
stop.
We
were
not
more
than
four
boat's
lengths
behind
them,
both
boats
flying
at
a
tremendous
pace.
It
was
a
clear
reach
of
the
river,
with
Barking
Level
upon
one
side
and
the
melancholy
Plumstead
Marshes
upon
the
other.
At
our
hail
the
man
in
the
stern
sprang
up
from
the
deck
and
shook
his
two
clinched
fists
at
us,
cursing
the
while
in
a
high,
cracked
voice.
He
was
a
good-sized,
powerful
man,
and
as
he
stood
poising
himself
with
legs
astride
I
could
see
that
from
the
thigh
downwards
there
was
but
a
wooden
stump
upon
the
right
side.
At
the
sound
of
his
strident,
angry
cries
there
was
movement
in
the
huddled
bundle
upon
the
deck.
It
straightened
itself
into
a
little
black
man—the
smallest
I
have
ever
seen—with
a
great,
misshapen
head
and
a
shock
of
tangled,
dishevelled
hair.
Holmes
had
already
drawn
his
revolver,
and
I
whipped
out
mine
at
the
sight
of
this
savage,
distorted
creature.
He
was
wrapped
in
some
sort
of
dark
ulster
or
blanket,
which
left
only
his
face
exposed;
but
that
face
was
enough
to
give
a
man
a
sleepless
night.
Never
have
I
seen
features
so
deeply
marked
with
all
bestiality
and
cruelty.
His
small
eyes
glowed
and
burned
with
a
sombre
light,
and
his
thick
lips
were
writhed
back
from
his
teeth,
which
grinned
and
chattered
at
us
with
a
half
animal
fury.
"Fire
if
he
raises
his
hand,"
said
Holmes,
quietly.
We
were
within
a
boat's-length
by
this
time,
and
almost
within
touch
of
our
quarry.
I
can
see
the
two
of
them
now
as
they
stood,
the
white
man
with
his
legs
far
apart,
shrieking
out
curses,
and
the
unhallowed
dwarf
with
his
hideous
face,
and
his
strong
yellow
teeth
gnashing
at
us
in
the
light
of
our
lantern.
It
was
well
that
we
had
so
clear
a
view
of
him.
Even
as
we
looked
he
plucked
out
from
under
his
covering
a
short,
round
piece
of
wood,
like
a
school-ruler,
and
clapped
it
to
his
lips.
Our
pistols
rang
out
together.
He
whirled
round,
threw
up
his
arms,
and
with
a
kind
of
choking
cough
fell
sideways
into
the
stream.
I
caught
one
glimpse
of
his
venomous,
menacing
eyes
amid
the
white
swirl
of
the
waters.
At
the
same
moment
the
wooden-legged
man
threw
himself
upon
the
rudder
and
put
it
hard
down,
so
that
his
boat
made
straight
in
for
the
southern
bank,
while
we
shot
past
her
stern,
only
clearing
her
by
a
few
feet.
We
were
round
after
her
in
an
instant,
but
she
was
already
nearly
at
the
bank.
It
was
a
wild
and
desolate
place,
where
the
moon
glimmered
upon
a
wide
expanse
of
marsh-land,
with
pools
of
stagnant
water
and
beds
of
decaying
vegetation.
The
launch
with
a
dull
thud
ran
up
upon
the
mud-bank,
with
her
bow
in
the
air
and
her
stern
flush
with
the
water.
The
fugitive
sprang
out,
but
his
stump
instantly
sank
its
whole
length
into
the
sodden
soil.
In
vain
he
struggled
and
writhed.
Not
one
step
could
he
possibly
take
either
forwards
or
backwards.
He
yelled
in
impotent
rage,
and
kicked
frantically
into
the
mud
with
his
other
foot,
but
his
struggles
only
bored
his
wooden
pin
the
deeper
into
the
sticky
bank.
When
we
brought
our
launch
alongside
he
was
so
firmly
anchored
that
it
was
only
by
throwing
the
end
of
a
rope
over
his
shoulders
that
we
were
able
to
haul
him
out,
and
to
drag
him,
like
some
evil
fish,
over
our
side.
The
two
Smiths,
father
and
son,
sat
sullenly
in
their
launch,
but
came
aboard
meekly
enough
when
commanded.
The
Aurora
herself
we
hauled
off
and
made
fast
to
our
stern.
A
solid
iron
chest
of
Indian
workmanship
stood
upon
the
deck.
This,
there
could
be
no
question,
was
the
same
that
had
contained
the
ill-omened
treasure
of
the
Sholtos.
There
was
no
key,
but
it
was
of
considerable
weight,
so
we
transferred
it
carefully
to
our
own
little
cabin.
As
we
steamed
slowly
up-stream
again,
we
flashed
our
search-light
in
every
direction,
but
there
was
no
sign
of
the
Islander.
Somewhere
in
the
dark
ooze
at
the
bottom
of
the
Thames
lie
the
bones
of
that
strange
visitor
to
our
shores.
"See
here,"
said
Holmes,
pointing
to
the
wooden
hatchway.
"We
were
hardly
quick
enough
with
our
pistols."
There,
sure
enough,
just
behind
where
we
had
been
standing,
stuck
one
of
those
murderous
darts
which
we
knew
so
well.
It
must
have
whizzed
between
us
at
the
instant
that
we
fired.
Holmes
smiled
at
it
and
shrugged
his
shoulders
in
his
easy
fashion,
but
I
confess
that
it
turned
me
sick
to
think
of
the
horrible
death
which
had
passed
so
close
to
us
that
night.
Chapter
XI
The
Great
Agra
Treasure
Our
captive
sat
in
the
cabin
opposite
to
the
iron
box
which
he
had
done
so
much
and
waited
so
long
to
gain.
He
was
a
sunburned,
reckless-eyed
fellow,
with
a
net-work
of
lines
and
wrinkles
all
over
his
mahogany
features,
which
told
of
a
hard,
open-air
life.
There
was
a
singular
prominence
about
his
bearded
chin
which
marked
a
man
who
was
not
to
be
easily
turned
from
his
purpose.
His
age
may
have
been
fifty
or
thereabouts,
for
his
black,
curly
hair
was
thickly
shot
with
gray.
His
face
in
repose
was
not
an
unpleasing
one,
though
his
heavy
brows
and
aggressive
chin
gave
him,
as
I
had
lately
seen,
a
terrible
expression
when
moved
to
anger.
He
sat
now
with
his
handcuffed
hands
upon
his
lap,
and
his
head
sunk
upon
his
breast,
while
he
looked
with
his
keen,
twinkling
eyes
at
the
box
which
had
been
the
cause
of
his
ill-doings.
It
seemed
to
me
that
there
was
more
sorrow
than
anger
in
his
rigid
and
contained
countenance.
Once
he
looked
up
at
me
with
a
gleam
of
something
like
humor
in
his
eyes.
"Well,
Jonathan
Small,"
said
Holmes,
lighting
a
cigar,
"I
am
sorry
that
it
has
come
to
this."
"And
so
am
I,
sir,"
he
answered,
frankly.
"I
don't
believe
that
I
can
swing
over
the
job.
I
give
you
my
word
on
the
book
that
I
never
raised
hand
against
Mr.
Sholto.
It
was
that
little
hell-hound
Tonga
who
shot
one
of
his
cursed
darts
into
him.
I
had
no
part
in
it,
sir.
I
was
as
grieved
as
if
it
had
been
my
blood-relation.
I
welted
the
little
devil
with
the
slack
end
of
the
rope
for
it,
but
it
was
done,
and
I
could
not
undo
it
again."
"Have
a
cigar,"
said
Holmes;
"and
you
had
best
take
a
pull
out
of
my
flask,
for
you
are
very
wet.
How
could
you
expect
so
small
and
weak
a
man
as
this
black
fellow
to
overpower
Mr.
Sholto
and
hold
him
while
you
were
climbing
the
rope?"
"You
seem
to
know
as
much
about
it
as
if
you
were
there,
sir.
The
truth
is
that
I
hoped
to
find
the
room
clear.
I
knew
the
habits
of
the
house
pretty
well,
and
it
was
the
time
when
Mr.
Sholto
usually
went
down
to
his
supper.
I
shall
make
no
secret
of
the
business.
The
best
defence
that
I
can
make
is
just
the
simple
truth.
Now,
if
it
had
been
the
old
major
I
would
have
swung
for
him
with
a
light
heart.
I
would
have
thought
no
more
of
knifing
him
than
of
smoking
this
cigar.
But
it's
cursed
hard
that
I
should
be
lagged
over
this
young
Sholto,
with
whom
I
had
no
quarrel
whatever."
"You
are
under
the
charge
of
Mr.
Athelney
Jones,
of
Scotland
Yard.
He
is
going
to
bring
you
up
to
my
rooms,
and
I
shall
ask
you
for
a
true
account
of
the
matter.
You
must
make
a
clean
breast
of
it,
for
if
you
do
I
hope
that
I
may
be
of
use
to
you.
I
think
I
can
prove
that
the
poison
acts
so
quickly
that
the
man
was
dead
before
ever
you
reached
the
room."
"That
he
was,
sir.
I
never
got
such
a
turn
in
my
life
as
when
I
saw
him
grinning
at
me
with
his
head
on
his
shoulder
as
I
climbed
through
the
window.
It
fairly
shook
me,
sir.
I'd
have
half
killed
Tonga
for
it
if
he
had
not
scrambled
off.
That
was
how
he
came
to
leave
his
club,
and
some
of
his
darts
too,
as
he
tells
me,
which
I
dare
say
helped
to
put
you
on
our
track;
though
how
you
kept
on
it
is
more
than
I
can
tell.
I
don't
feel
no
malice
against
you
for
it.
But
it
does
seem
a
queer
thing,"
he
added,
with
a
bitter
smile,
"that
I
who
have
a
fair
claim
to
nigh
upon
half
a
million
of
money
should
spend
the
first
half
of
my
life
building
a
breakwater
in
the
Andamans,
and
am
like
to
spend
the
other
half
digging
drains
at
Dartmoor.
It
was
an
evil
day
for
me
when
first
I
clapped
eyes
upon
the
merchant
Achmet
and
had
to
do
with
the
Agra
treasure,
which
never
brought
anything
but
a
curse
yet
upon
the
man
who
owned
it.
To
him
it
brought
murder,
to
Major
Sholto
it
brought
fear
and
guilt,
to
me
it
has
meant
slavery
for
life."
At
this
moment
Athelney
Jones
thrust
his
broad
face
and
heavy
shoulders
into
the
tiny
cabin.
"Quite
a
family
party,"
he
remarked.
"I
think
I
shall
have
a
pull
at
that
flask,
Holmes.
Well,
I
think
we
may
all
congratulate
each
other.
Pity
we
didn't
take
the
other
alive;
but
there
was
no
choice.
I
say,
Holmes,
you
must
confess
that
you
cut
it
rather
fine.
It
was
all
we
could
do
to
overhaul
her."
"All
is
well
that
ends
well,"
said
Holmes.
"But
I
certainly
did
not
know
that
the
Aurora
was
such
a
clipper."
"Smith
says
she
is
one
of
the
fastest
launches
on
the
river,
and
that
if
he
had
had
another
man
to
help
him
with
the
engines
we
should
never
have
caught
her.
He
swears
he
knew
nothing
of
this
Norwood
business."
"Neither
he
did,"
cried
our
prisoner,—"not
a
word.
I
chose
his
launch
because
I
heard
that
she
was
a
flier.
We
told
him
nothing,
but
we
paid
him
well,
and
he
was
to
get
something
handsome
if
we
reached
our
vessel,
the
Esmeralda,
at
Gravesend,
outward
bound
for
the
Brazils."
"Well,
if
he
has
done
no
wrong
we
shall
see
that
no
wrong
comes
to
him.
If
we
are
pretty
quick
in
catching
our
men,
we
are
not
so
quick
in
condemning
them."
It
was
amusing
to
notice
how
the
consequential
Jones
was
already
beginning
to
give
himself
airs
on
the
strength
of
the
capture.
From
the
slight
smile
which
played
over
Sherlock
Holmes's
face,
I
could
see
that
the
speech
had
not
been
lost
upon
him.
"We
will
be
at
Vauxhall
Bridge
presently,"
said
Jones,
"and
shall
land
you,
Dr.
Watson,
with
the
treasure-box.
I
need
hardly
tell
you
that
I
am
taking
a
very
grave
responsibility
upon
myself
in
doing
this.
It
is
most
irregular;
but
of
course
an
agreement
is
an
agreement.
I
must,
however,
as
a
matter
of
duty,
send
an
inspector
with
you,
since
you
have
so
valuable
a
charge.
You
will
drive,
no
doubt?"
"Yes,
I
shall
drive."
"It
is
a
pity
there
is
no
key,
that
we
may
make
an
inventory
first.
You
will
have
to
break
it
open.
Where
is
the
key,
my
man?"
"At
the
bottom
of
the
river,"
said
Small,
shortly.
"Hum!
There
was
no
use
your
giving
this
unnecessary
trouble.
We
have
had
work
enough
already
through
you.
However,
doctor,
I
need
not
warn
you
to
be
careful.
Bring
the
box
back
with
you
to
the
Baker
Street
rooms.
You
will
find
us
there,
on
our
way
to
the
station."
They
landed
me
at
Vauxhall,
with
my
heavy
iron
box,
and
with
a
bluff,
genial
inspector
as
my
companion.
A
quarter
of
an
hour's
drive
brought
us
to
Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester's.
The
servant
seemed
surprised
at
so
late
a
visitor.
Mrs.
Cecil
Forrester
was
out
for
the
evening,
she
explained,
and
likely
to
be
very
late.
Miss
Morstan,
however,
was
in
the
drawing-room:
so
to
the
drawing-room
I
went,
box
in
hand,
leaving
the
obliging
inspector
in
the
cab.
She
was
seated
by
the
open
window,
dressed
in
some
sort
of
white
diaphanous
material,
with
a
little
touch
of
scarlet
at
the
neck
and
waist.
The
soft
light
of
a
shaded
lamp
fell
upon
her
as
she
leaned
back
in
the
basket
chair,
playing
over
her
sweet,
grave
face,
and
tinting
with
a
dull,
metallic
sparkle
the
rich
coils
of
her
luxuriant
hair.
One
white
arm
and
hand
drooped
over
the
side
of
the
chair,
and
her
whole
pose
and
figure
spoke
of
an
absorbing
melancholy.
At
the
sound
of
my
foot-fall
she
sprang
to
her
feet,
however,
and
a
bright
flush
of
surprise
and
of
pleasure
colored
her
pale
cheeks.
"I
heard
a
cab
drive
up,"
she
said.
"I
thought
that
Mrs.
Forrester
had
come
back
very
early,
but
I
never
dreamed
that
it
might
be
you.
What
news
have
you
brought
me?"
"I
have
brought
something
better
than
news,"
said
I,
putting
down
the
box
upon
the
table
and
speaking
jovially
and
boisterously,
though
my
heart
was
heavy
within
me.
"I
have
brought
you
something
which
is
worth
all
the
news
in
the
world.
I
have
brought
you
a
fortune."
She
glanced
at
the
iron
box.
"Is
that
the
treasure,
then?"
she
asked,
coolly
enough.
"Yes,
this
is
the
great
Agra
treasure.
Half
of
it
is
yours
and
half
is
Thaddeus
Sholto's.
You
will
have
a
couple
of
hundred
thousand
each.
Think
of
that!
An
annuity
of
ten
thousand
pounds.
There
will
be
few
richer
young
ladies
in
England.
Is
it
not
glorious?"
I
think
that
I
must
have
been
rather
overacting
my
delight,
and
that
she
detected
a
hollow
ring
in
my
congratulations,
for
I
saw
her
eyebrows
rise
a
little,
and
she
glanced
at
me
curiously.
"If
I
have
it,"
said
she,
"I
owe
it
to
you."
"No,
no,"
I
answered,
"not
to
me,
but
to
my
friend
Sherlock
Holmes.
With
all
the
will
in
the
world,
I
could
never
have
followed
up
a
clue
which
has
taxed
even
his
analytical
genius.
As
it
was,
we
very
nearly
lost
it
at
the
last
moment."
"Pray
sit
down
and
tell
me
all
about
it,
Dr.
Watson,"
said
she.
I
narrated
briefly
what
had
occurred
since
I
had
seen
her
last,—Holmes's
new
method
of
search,
the
discovery
of
the
Aurora,
the
appearance
of
Athelney
Jones,
our
expedition
in
the
evening,
and
the
wild
chase
down
the
Thames.
She
listened
with
parted
lips
and
shining
eyes
to
my
recital
of
our
adventures.
When
I
spoke
of
the
dart
which
had
so
narrowly
missed
us,
she
turned
so
white
that
I
feared
that
she
was
about
to
faint.
"It
is
nothing,"
she
said,
as
I
hastened
to
pour
her
out
some
water.
"I
am
all
right
again.
It
was
a
shock
to
me
to
hear
that
I
had
placed
my
friends
in
such
horrible
peril."
"That
is
all
over,"
I
answered.
"It
was
nothing.
I
will
tell
you
no
more
gloomy
details.
Let
us
turn
to
something
brighter.
There
is
the
treasure.
What
could
be
brighter
than
that?
I
got
leave
to
bring
it
with
me,
thinking
that
it
would
interest
you
to
be
the
first
to
see
it."
"It
would
be
of
the
greatest
interest
to
me,"
she
said.
There
was
no
eagerness
in
her
voice,
however.
It
had
struck
her,
doubtless,
that
it
might
seem
ungracious
upon
her
part
to
be
indifferent
to
a
prize
which
had
cost
so
much
to
win.
"What
a
pretty
box!"
she
said,
stooping
over
it.
"This
is
Indian
work,
I
suppose?"
"Yes;
it
is
Benares
metal-work."
"And
so
heavy!"
she
exclaimed,
trying
to
raise
it.
"The
box
alone
must
be
of
some
value.
Where
is
the
key?"
"Small
threw
it
into
the
Thames,"
I
answered.
"I
must
borrow
Mrs.
Forrester's
poker."
There
was
in
the
front
a
thick
and
broad
hasp,
wrought
in
the
image
of
a
sitting
Buddha.
Under
this
I
thrust
the
end
of
the
poker
and
twisted
it
outward
as
a
lever.
The
hasp
sprang
open
with
a
loud
snap.
With
trembling
fingers
I
flung
back
the
lid.
We
both
stood
gazing
in
astonishment.
The
box
was
empty!
No
wonder
that
it
was
heavy.
The
iron-work
was
two-thirds
of
an
inch
thick
all
round.
It
was
massive,
well
made,
and
solid,
like
a
chest
constructed
to
carry
things
of
great
price,
but
not
one
shred
or
crumb
of
metal
or
jewelry
lay
within
it.
It
was
absolutely
and
completely
empty.
"The
treasure
is
lost,"
said
Miss
Morstan,
calmly.
As
I
listened
to
the
words
and
realized
what
they
meant,
a
great
shadow
seemed
to
pass
from
my
soul.
I
did
not
know
how
this
Agra
treasure
had
weighed
me
down,
until
now
that
it
was
finally
removed.
It
was
selfish,
no
doubt,
disloyal,
wrong,
but
I
could
realize
nothing
save
that
the
golden
barrier
was
gone
from
between
us.
"Thank
God!"
I
ejaculated
from
my
very
heart.
She
looked
at
me
with
a
quick,
questioning
smile.
"Why
do
you
say
that?"
she
asked.
"Because
you
are
within
my
reach
again,"
I
said,
taking
her
hand.
She
did
not
withdraw
it.
"Because
I
love
you,
Mary,
as
truly
as
ever
a
man
loved
a
woman.
Because
this
treasure,
these
riches,
sealed
my
lips.
Now
that
they
are
gone
I
can
tell
you
how
I
love
you.
That
is
why
I
said,
'Thank
God.'"
"Then
I
say,
'Thank
God,'
too,"
she
whispered,
as
I
drew
her
to
my
side.
Whoever
had
lost
a
treasure,
I
knew
that
night
that
I
had
gained
one.
Chapter
XII
The
Strange
Story
of
Jonathan
Small
A
very
patient
man
was
that
inspector
in
the
cab,
for
it
was
a
weary
time
before
I
rejoined
him.
His
face
clouded
over
when
I
showed
him
the
empty
box.
"There
goes
the
reward!"
said
he,
gloomily.
"Where
there
is
no
money
there
is
no
pay.
This
night's
work
would
have
been
worth
a
tenner
each
to
Sam
Brown
and
me
if
the
treasure
had
been
there."
"Mr.
Thaddeus
Sholto
is
a
rich
man,"
I
said.
"He
will
see
that
you
are
rewarded,
treasure
or
no."
The
inspector
shook
his
head
despondently,
however.
"It's
a
bad
job,"
he
repeated;
"and
so
Mr.
Athelney
Jones
will
think."
His
forecast
proved
to
be
correct,
for
the
detective
looked
blank
enough
when
I
got
to
Baker
Street
and
showed
him
the
empty
box.
They
had
only
just
arrived,
Holmes,
the
prisoner,
and
he,
for
they
had
changed
their
plans
so
far
as
to
report
themselves
at
a
station
upon
the
way.
My
companion
lounged
in
his
arm-chair
with
his
usual
listless
expression,
while
Small
sat
stolidly
opposite
to
him
with
his
wooden
leg
cocked
over
his
sound
one.
As
I
exhibited
the
empty
box
he
leaned
back
in
his
chair
and
laughed
aloud.
"This
is
your
doing,
Small,"
said
Athelney
Jones,
angrily.
"Yes,
I
have
put
it
away
where
you
shall
never
lay
hand
upon
it,"
he
cried,
exultantly.
"It
is
my
treasure;
and
if
I
can't
have
the
loot
I'll
take
darned
good
care
that
no
one
else
does.
I
tell
you
that
no
living
man
has
any
right
to
it,
unless
it
is
three
men
who
are
in
the
Andaman
convict-barracks
and
myself.
I
know
now
that
I
cannot
have
the
use
of
it,
and
I
know
that
they
cannot.
I
have
acted
all
through
for
them
as
much
as
for
myself.
It's
been
the
sign
of
four
with
us
always.
Well
I
know
that
they
would
have
had
me
do
just
what
I
have
done,
and
throw
the
treasure
into
the
Thames
rather
than
let
it
go
to
kith
or
kin
of
Sholto
or
of
Morstan.
It
was
not
to
make
them
rich
that
we
did
for
Achmet.
You'll
find
the
treasure
where
the
key
is,
and
where
little
Tonga
is.
When
I
saw
that
your
launch
must
catch
us,
I
put
the
loot
away
in
a
safe
place.
There
are
no
rupees
for
you
this
journey."
"You
are
deceiving
us,
Small,"
said
Athelney
Jones,
sternly.
"If
you
had
wished
to
throw
the
treasure
into
the
Thames
it
would
have
been
easier
for
you
to
have
thrown
box
and
all."
"Easier
for
me
to
throw,
and
easier
for
you
to
recover,"
he
answered,
with
a
shrewd,
sidelong
look.
"The
man
that
was
clever
enough
to
hunt
me
down
is
clever
enough
to
pick
an
iron
box
from
the
bottom
of
a
river.
Now
that
they
are
scattered
over
five
miles
or
so,
it
may
be
a
harder
job.
It
went
to
my
heart
to
do
it,
though.
I
was
half
mad
when
you
came
up
with
us.
However,
there's
no
good
grieving
over
it.
I've
had
ups
in
my
life,
and
I've
had
downs,
but
I've
learned
not
to
cry
over
spilled
milk."
"This
is
a
very
serious
matter,
Small,"
said
the
detective.
"If
you
had
helped
justice,
instead
of
thwarting
it
in
this
way,
you
would
have
had
a
better
chance
at
your
trial."
"Justice!"
snarled
the
ex-convict.
"A
pretty
justice!
Whose
loot
is
this,
if
it
is
not
ours?
Where
is
the
justice
that
I
should
give
it
up
to
those
who
have
never
earned
it?
Look
how
I
have
earned
it!
Twenty
long
years
in
that
fever-ridden
swamp,
all
day
at
work
under
the
mangrove-tree,
all
night
chained
up
in
the
filthy
convict-huts,
bitten
by
mosquitoes,
racked
with
ague,
bullied
by
every
cursed
black-faced
policeman
who
loved
to
take
it
out
of
a
white
man.
That
was
how
I
earned
the
Agra
treasure;
and
you
talk
to
me
of
justice
because
I
cannot
bear
to
feel
that
I
have
paid
this
price
only
that
another
may
enjoy
it!
I
would
rather
swing
a
score
of
times,
or
have
one
of
Tonga's
darts
in
my
hide,
than
live
in
a
convict's
cell
and
feel
that
another
man
is
at
his
ease
in
a
palace
with
the
money
that
should
be
mine."
Small
had
dropped
his
mask
of
stoicism,
and
all
this
came
out
in
a
wild
whirl
of
words,
while
his
eyes
blazed,
and
the
handcuffs
clanked
together
with
the
impassioned
movement
of
his
hands.
I
could
understand,
as
I
saw
the
fury
and
the
passion
of
the
man,
that
it
was
no
groundless
or
unnatural
terror
which
had
possessed
Major
Sholto
when
he
first
learned
that
the
injured
convict
was
upon
his
track.
"You
forget
that
we
know
nothing
of
all
this,"
said
Holmes
quietly.
"We
have
not
heard
your
story,
and
we
cannot
tell
how
far
justice
may
originally
have
been
on
your
side."
"Well,
sir,
you
have
been
very
fair-spoken
to
me,
though
I
can
see
that
I
have
you
to
thank
that
I
have
these
bracelets
upon
my
wrists.
Still,
I
bear
no
grudge
for
that.
It
is
all
fair
and
above-board.
If
you
want
to
hear
my
story
I
have
no
wish
to
hold
it
back.
What
I
say
to
you
is
God's
truth,
every
word
of
it.
Thank
you;
you
can
put
the
glass
beside
me
here,
and
I'll
put
my
lips
to
it
if
I
am
dry.
"I
am
a
Worcestershire
man
myself,—born
near
Pershore.
I
dare
say
you
would
find
a
heap
of
Smalls
living
there
now
if
you
were
to
look.
I
have
often
thought
of
taking
a
look
round
there,
but
the
truth
is
that
I
was
never
much
of
a
credit
to
the
family,
and
I
doubt
if
they
would
be
so
very
glad
to
see
me.
They
were
all
steady,
chapel-going
folk,
small
farmers,
well
known
and
respected
over
the
country-side,
while
I
was
always
a
bit
of
a
rover.
At
last,
however,
when
I
was
about
eighteen,
I
gave
them
no
more
trouble,
for
I
got
into
a
mess
over
a
girl,
and
could
only
get
out
of
it
again
by
taking
the
queen's
shilling
and
joining
the
3d
Buffs,
which
was
just
starting
for
India.
"I
wasn't
destined
to
do
much
soldiering,
however.
I
had
just
got
past
the
goose-step,
and
learned
to
handle
my
musket,
when
I
was
fool
enough
to
go
swimming
in
the
Ganges.
Luckily
for
me,
my
company
sergeant,
John
Holder,
was
in
the
water
at
the
same
time,
and
he
was
one
of
the
finest
swimmers
in
the
service.
A
crocodile
took
me,
just
as
I
was
half-way
across,
and
nipped
off
my
right
leg
as
clean
as
a
surgeon
could
have
done
it,
just
above
the
knee.
What
with
the
shock
and
the
loss
of
blood,
I
fainted,
and
should
have
drowned
if
Holder
had
not
caught
hold
of
me
and
paddled
for
the
bank.
I
was
five
months
in
hospital
over
it,
and
when
at
last
I
was
able
to
limp
out
of
it
with
this
timber
toe
strapped
to
my
stump
I
found
myself
invalided
out
of
the
army
and
unfitted
for
any
active
occupation.
"I
was,
as
you
can
imagine,
pretty
down
on
my
luck
at
this
time,
for
I
was
a
useless
cripple
though
not
yet
in
my
twentieth
year.
However,
my
misfortune
soon
proved
to
be
a
blessing
in
disguise.
A
man
named
Abelwhite,
who
had
come
out
there
as
an
indigo-planter,
wanted
an
overseer
to
look
after
his
coolies
and
keep
them
up
to
their
work.
He
happened
to
be
a
friend
of
our
colonel's,
who
had
taken
an
interest
in
me
since
the
accident.
To
make
a
long
story
short,
the
colonel
recommended
me
strongly
for
the
post
and,
as
the
work
was
mostly
to
be
done
on
horseback,
my
leg
was
no
great
obstacle,
for
I
had
enough
knee
left
to
keep
good
grip
on
the
saddle.
What
I
had
to
do
was
to
ride
over
the
plantation,
to
keep
an
eye
on
the
men
as
they
worked,
and
to
report
the
idlers.
The
pay
was
fair,
I
had
comfortable
quarters,
and
altogether
I
was
content
to
spend
the
remainder
of
my
life
in
indigo-planting.
Mr.
Abelwhite
was
a
kind
man,
and
he
would
often
drop
into
my
little
shanty
and
smoke
a
pipe
with
me,
for
white
folk
out
there
feel
their
hearts
warm
to
each
other
as
they
never
do
here
at
home.
"Well,
I
was
never
in
luck's
way
long.
Suddenly,
without
a
note
of
warning,
the
great
mutiny
broke
upon
us.
One
month
India
lay
as
still
and
peaceful,
to
all
appearance,
as
Surrey
or
Kent;
the
next
there
were
two
hundred
thousand
black
devils
let
loose,
and
the
country
was
a
perfect
hell.
Of
course
you
know
all
about
it,
gentlemen,—a
deal
more
than
I
do,
very
like,
since
reading
is
not
in
my
line.
I
only
know
what
I
saw
with
my
own
eyes.
Our
plantation
was
at
a
place
called
Muttra,
near
the
border
of
the
Northwest
Provinces.
Night
after
night
the
whole
sky
was
alight
with
the
burning
bungalows,
and
day
after
day
we
had
small
companies
of
Europeans
passing
through
our
estate
with
their
wives
and
children,
on
their
way
to
Agra,
where
were
the
nearest
troops.
Mr.
Abelwhite
was
an
obstinate
man.
He
had
it
in
his
head
that
the
affair
had
been
exaggerated,
and
that
it
would
blow
over
as
suddenly
as
it
had
sprung
up.
There
he
sat
on
his
veranda,
drinking
whiskey-pegs
and
smoking
cheroots,
while
the
country
was
in
a
blaze
about
him.
Of
course
we
stuck
by
him,
I
and
Dawson,
who,
with
his
wife,
used
to
do
the
book-work
and
the
managing.
Well,
one
fine
day
the
crash
came.
I
had
been
away
on
a
distant
plantation,
and
was
riding
slowly
home
in
the
evening,
when
my
eye
fell
upon
something
all
huddled
together
at
the
bottom
of
a
steep
nullah.
I
rode
down
to
see
what
it
was,
and
the
cold
struck
through
my
heart
when
I
found
it
was
Dawson's
wife,
all
cut
into
ribbons,
and
half
eaten
by
jackals
and
native
dogs.
A
little
further
up
the
road
Dawson
himself
was
lying
on
his
face,
quite
dead,
with
an
empty
revolver
in
his
hand
and
four
Sepoys
lying
across
each
other
in
front
of
him.
I
reined
up
my
horse,
wondering
which
way
I
should
turn,
but
at
that
moment
I
saw
thick
smoke
curling
up
from
Abelwhite's
bungalow
and
the
flames
beginning
to
burst
through
the
roof.
I
knew
then
that
I
could
do
my
employer
no
good,
but
would
only
throw
my
own
life
away
if
I
meddled
in
the
matter.
From
where
I
stood
I
could
see
hundreds
of
the
black
fiends,
with
their
red
coats
still
on
their
backs,
dancing
and
howling
round
the
burning
house.
Some
of
them
pointed
at
me,
and
a
couple
of
bullets
sang
past
my
head;
so
I
broke
away
across
the
paddy-fields,
and
found
myself
late
at
night
safe
within
the
walls
at
Agra.
"As
it
proved,
however,
there
was
no
great
safety
there,
either.
The
whole
country
was
up
like
a
swarm
of
bees.
Wherever
the
English
could
collect
in
little
bands
they
held
just
the
ground
that
their
guns
commanded.
Everywhere
else
they
were
helpless
fugitives.
It
was
a
fight
of
the
millions
against
the
hundreds;
and
the
cruellest
part
of
it
was
that
these
men
that
we
fought
against,
foot,
horse,
and
gunners,
were
our
own
picked
troops,
whom
we
had
taught
and
trained,
handling
our
own
weapons,
and
blowing
our
own
bugle-calls.
At
Agra
there
were
the
3d
Bengal
Fusiliers,
some
Sikhs,
two
troops
of
horse,
and
a
battery
of
artillery.
A
volunteer
corps
of
clerks
and
merchants
had
been
formed,
and
this
I
joined,
wooden
leg
and
all.
We
went
out
to
meet
the
rebels
at
Shahgunge
early
in
July,
and
we
beat
them
back
for
a
time,
but
our
powder
gave
out,
and
we
had
to
fall
back
upon
the
city.
Nothing
but
the
worst
news
came
to
us
from
every
side,—which
is
not
to
be
wondered
at,
for
if
you
look
at
the
map
you
will
see
that
we
were
right
in
the
heart
of
it.
Lucknow
is
rather
better
than
a
hundred
miles
to
the
east,
and
Cawnpore
about
as
far
to
the
south.
From
every
point
on
the
compass
there
was
nothing
but
torture
and
murder
and
outrage.
"The
city
of
Agra
is
a
great
place,
swarming
with
fanatics
and
fierce
devil-worshippers
of
all
sorts.
Our
handful
of
men
were
lost
among
the
narrow,
winding
streets.
Our
leader
moved
across
the
river,
therefore,
and
took
up
his
position
in
the
old
fort
at
Agra.
I
don't
know
if
any
of
you
gentlemen
have
ever
read
or
heard
anything
of
that
old
fort.
It
is
a
very
queer
place,—the
queerest
that
ever
I
was
in,
and
I
have
been
in
some
rum
corners,
too.
First
of
all,
it
is
enormous
in
size.
I
should
think
that
the
enclosure
must
be
acres
and
acres.
There
is
a
modern
part,
which
took
all
our
garrison,
women,
children,
stores,
and
everything
else,
with
plenty
of
room
over.
But
the
modern
part
is
nothing
like
the
size
of
the
old
quarter,
where
nobody
goes,
and
which
is
given
over
to
the
scorpions
and
the
centipedes.
It
is
all
full
of
great
deserted
halls,
and
winding
passages,
and
long
corridors
twisting
in
and
out,
so
that
it
is
easy
enough
for
folk
to
get
lost
in
it.
For
this
reason
it
was
seldom
that
any
one
went
into
it,
though
now
and
again
a
party
with
torches
might
go
exploring.
"The
river
washes
along
the
front
of
the
old
fort,
and
so
protects
it,
but
on
the
sides
and
behind
there
are
many
doors,
and
these
had
to
be
guarded,
of
course,
in
the
old
quarter
as
well
as
in
that
which
was
actually
held
by
our
troops.
We
were
short-handed,
with
hardly
men
enough
to
man
the
angles
of
the
building
and
to
serve
the
guns.
It
was
impossible
for
us,
therefore,
to
station
a
strong
guard
at
every
one
of
the
innumerable
gates.
What
we
did
was
to
organize
a
central
guard-house
in
the
middle
of
the
fort,
and
to
leave
each
gate
under
the
charge
of
one
white
man
and
two
or
three
natives.
I
was
selected
to
take
charge
during
certain
hours
of
the
night
of
a
small
isolated
door
upon
the
southwest
side
of
the
building.
Two
Sikh
troopers
were
placed
under
my
command,
and
I
was
instructed
if
anything
went
wrong
to
fire
my
musket,
when
I
might
rely
upon
help
coming
at
once
from
the
central
guard.
As
the
guard
was
a
good
two
hundred
paces
away,
however,
and
as
the
space
between
was
cut
up
into
a
labyrinth
of
passages
and
corridors,
I
had
great
doubts
as
to
whether
they
could
arrive
in
time
to
be
of
any
use
in
case
of
an
actual
attack.
"Well,
I
was
pretty
proud
at
having
this
small
command
given
me,
since
I
was
a
raw
recruit,
and
a
game-legged
one
at
that.
For
two
nights
I
kept
the
watch
with
my
Punjaubees.
They
were
tall,
fierce-looking
chaps,
Mahomet
Singh
and
Abdullah
Khan
by
name,
both
old
fighting-men
who
had
borne
arms
against
us
at
Chilian-wallah.
They
could
talk
English
pretty
well,
but
I
could
get
little
out
of
them.
They
preferred
to
stand
together
and
jabber
all
night
in
their
queer
Sikh
lingo.
For
myself,
I
used
to
stand
outside
the
gate-way,
looking
down
on
the
broad,
winding
river
and
on
the
twinkling
lights
of
the
great
city.
The
beating
of
drums,
the
rattle
of
tomtoms,
and
the
yells
and
howls
of
the
rebels,
drunk
with
opium
and
with
bang,
were
enough
to
remind
us
all
night
of
our
dangerous
neighbors
across
the
stream.
Every
two
hours
the
officer
of
the
night
used
to
come
round
to
all
the
posts,
to
make
sure
that
all
was
well.
"The
third
night
of
my
watch
was
dark
and
dirty,
with
a
small,
driving
rain.
It
was
dreary
work
standing
in
the
gate-way
hour
after
hour
in
such
weather.
I
tried
again
and
again
to
make
my
Sikhs
talk,
but
without
much
success.
At
two
in
the
morning
the
rounds
passed,
and
broke
for
a
moment
the
weariness
of
the
night.
Finding
that
my
companions
would
not
be
led
into
conversation,
I
took
out
my
pipe,
and
laid
down
my
musket
to
strike
the
match.
In
an
instant
the
two
Sikhs
were
upon
me.
One
of
them
snatched
my
firelock
up
and
levelled
it
at
my
head,
while
the
other
held
a
great
knife
to
my
throat
and
swore
between
his
teeth
that
he
would
plunge
it
into
me
if
I
moved
a
step.
"My
first
thought
was
that
these
fellows
were
in
league
with
the
rebels,
and
that
this
was
the
beginning
of
an
assault.
If
our
door
were
in
the
hands
of
the
Sepoys
the
place
must
fall,
and
the
women
and
children
be
treated
as
they
were
in
Cawnpore.
Maybe
you
gentlemen
think
that
I
am
just
making
out
a
case
for
myself,
but
I
give
you
my
word
that
when
I
thought
of
that,
though
I
felt
the
point
of
the
knife
at
my
throat,
I
opened
my
mouth
with
the
intention
of
giving
a
scream,
if
it
was
my
last
one,
which
might
alarm
the
main
guard.
The
man
who
held
me
seemed
to
know
my
thoughts;
for,
even
as
I
braced
myself
to
it,
he
whispered,
'Don't
make
a
noise.
The
fort
is
safe
enough.
There
are
no
rebel
dogs
on
this
side
of
the
river.'
There
was
the
ring
of
truth
in
what
he
said,
and
I
knew
that
if
I
raised
my
voice
I
was
a
dead
man.
I
could
read
it
in
the
fellow's
brown
eyes.
I
waited,
therefore,
in
silence,
to
see
what
it
was
that
they
wanted
from
me.
"'Listen
to
me,
Sahib,'
said
the
taller
and
fiercer
of
the
pair,
the
one
whom
they
called
Abdullah
Khan.
'You
must
either
be
with
us
now
or
you
must
be
silenced
forever.
The
thing
is
too
great
a
one
for
us
to
hesitate.
Either
you
are
heart
and
soul
with
us
on
your
oath
on
the
cross
of
the
Christians,
or
your
body
this
night
shall
be
thrown
into
the
ditch
and
we
shall
pass
over
to
our
brothers
in
the
rebel
army.
There
is
no
middle
way.
Which
is
it
to
be,
death
or
life?
We
can
only
give
you
three
minutes
to
decide,
for
the
time
is
passing,
and
all
must
be
done
before
the
rounds
come
again.'
"'How
can
I
decide?'
said
I.
'You
have
not
told
me
what
you
want
of
me.
But
I
tell
you
now
that
if
it
is
anything
against
the
safety
of
the
fort
I
will
have
no
truck
with
it,
so
you
can
drive
home
your
knife
and
welcome.'
"'It
is
nothing
against
the
fort,'
said
he.
'We
only
ask
you
to
do
that
which
your
countrymen
come
to
this
land
for.
We
ask
you
to
be
rich.
If
you
will
be
one
of
us
this
night,
we
will
swear
to
you
upon
the
naked
knife,
and
by
the
threefold
oath
which
no
Sikh
was
ever
known
to
break,
that
you
shall
have
your
fair
share
of
the
loot.
A
quarter
of
the
treasure
shall
be
yours.
We
can
say
no
fairer.'
"'But
what
is
the
treasure,
then?'
I
asked.
'I
am
as
ready
to
be
rich
as
you
can
be,
if
you
will
but
show
me
how
it
can
be
done.'
"'You
will
swear,
then,'
said
he,
'by
the
bones
of
your
father,
by
the
honor
of
your
mother,
by
the
cross
of
your
faith,
to
raise
no
hand
and
speak
no
word
against
us,
either
now
or
afterwards?'
"'I
will
swear
it,'
I
answered,
'provided
that
the
fort
is
not
endangered.'
"'Then
my
comrade
and
I
will
swear
that
you
shall
have
a
quarter
of
the
treasure
which
shall
be
equally
divided
among
the
four
of
us.'
"'There
are
but
three,'
said
I.
"'No;
Dost
Akbar
must
have
his
share.
We
can
tell
the
tale
to
you
while
we
await
them.
Do
you
stand
at
the
gate,
Mahomet
Singh,
and
give
notice
of
their
coming.
The
thing
stands
thus,
Sahib,
and
I
tell
it
to
you
because
I
know
that
an
oath
is
binding
upon
a
Feringhee,
and
that
we
may
trust
you.
Had
you
been
a
lying
Hindoo,
though
you
had
sworn
by
all
the
gods
in
their
false
temples,
your
blood
would
have
been
upon
the
knife,
and
your
body
in
the
water.
But
the
Sikh
knows
the
Englishman,
and
the
Englishman
knows
the
Sikh.
Hearken,
then,
to
what
I
have
to
say.
"'There
is
a
rajah
in
the
northern
provinces
who
has
much
wealth,
though
his
lands
are
small.
Much
has
come
to
him
from
his
father,
and
more
still
he
has
set
by
himself,
for
he
is
of
a
low
nature
and
hoards
his
gold
rather
than
spend
it.
When
the
troubles
broke
out
he
would
be
friends
both
with
the
lion
and
the
tiger,—with
the
Sepoy
and
with
the
Company's
Raj.
Soon,
however,
it
seemed
to
him
that
the
white
men's
day
was
come,
for
through
all
the
land
he
could
hear
of
nothing
but
of
their
death
and
their
overthrow.
Yet,
being
a
careful
man,
he
made
such
plans
that,
come
what
might,
half
at
least
of
his
treasure
should
be
left
to
him.
That
which
was
in
gold
and
silver
he
kept
by
him
in
the
vaults
of
his
palace,
but
the
most
precious
stones
and
the
choicest
pearls
that
he
had
he
put
in
an
iron
box,
and
sent
it
by
a
trusty
servant
who,
under
the
guise
of
a
merchant,
should
take
it
to
the
fort
at
Agra,
there
to
lie
until
the
land
is
at
peace.
Thus,
if
the
rebels
won
he
would
have
his
money,
but
if
the
Company
conquered
his
jewels
would
be
saved
to
him.
Having
thus
divided
his
hoard,
he
threw
himself
into
the
cause
of
the
Sepoys,
since
they
were
strong
upon
his
borders.
By
doing
this,
mark
you,
Sahib,
his
property
becomes
the
due
of
those
who
have
been
true
to
their
salt.
"'This
pretended
merchant,
who
travels
under
the
name
of
Achmet,
is
now
in
the
city
of
Agra,
and
desires
to
gain
his
way
into
the
fort.
He
has
with
him
as
travelling-companion
my
foster-brother
Dost
Akbar,
who
knows
his
secret.
Dost
Akbar
has
promised
this
night
to
lead
him
to
a
side-postern
of
the
fort,
and
has
chosen
this
one
for
his
purpose.
Here
he
will
come
presently,
and
here
he
will
find
Mahomet
Singh
and
myself
awaiting
him.
The
place
is
lonely,
and
none
shall
know
of
his
coming.
The
world
shall
know
of
the
merchant
Achmet
no
more,
but
the
great
treasure
of
the
rajah
shall
be
divided
among
us.
What
say
you
to
it,
Sahib?'
"In
Worcestershire
the
life
of
a
man
seems
a
great
and
a
sacred
thing;
but
it
is
very
different
when
there
is
fire
and
blood
all
round
you
and
you
have
been
used
to
meeting
death
at
every
turn.
Whether
Achmet
the
merchant
lived
or
died
was
a
thing
as
light
as
air
to
me,
but
at
the
talk
about
the
treasure
my
heart
turned
to
it,
and
I
thought
of
what
I
might
do
in
the
old
country
with
it,
and
how
my
folk
would
stare
when
they
saw
their
ne'er-do-well
coming
back
with
his
pockets
full
of
gold
moidores.
I
had,
therefore,
already
made
up
my
mind.
Abdullah
Khan,
however,
thinking
that
I
hesitated,
pressed
the
matter
more
closely.
"'Consider,
Sahib,'
said
he,
'that
if
this
man
is
taken
by
the
commandant
he
will
be
hung
or
shot,
and
his
jewels
taken
by
the
government,
so
that
no
man
will
be
a
rupee
the
better
for
them.
Now,
since
we
do
the
taking
of
him,
why
should
we
not
do
the
rest
as
well?
The
jewels
will
be
as
well
with
us
as
in
the
Company's
coffers.
There
will
be
enough
to
make
every
one
of
us
rich
men
and
great
chiefs.
No
one
can
know
about
the
matter,
for
here
we
are
cut
off
from
all
men.
What
could
be
better
for
the
purpose?
Say
again,
then,
Sahib,
whether
you
are
with
us,
or
if
we
must
look
upon
you
as
an
enemy.'
"'I
am
with
you
heart
and
soul,'
said
I.
"'It
is
well,'
he
answered,
handing
me
back
my
firelock.
'You
see
that
we
trust
you,
for
your
word,
like
ours,
is
not
to
be
broken.
We
have
now
only
to
wait
for
my
brother
and
the
merchant.'
"'Does
your
brother
know,
then,
of
what
you
will
do?'
I
asked.
"'The
plan
is
his.
He
has
devised
it.
We
will
go
to
the
gate
and
share
the
watch
with
Mahomet
Singh.'
"The
rain
was
still
falling
steadily,
for
it
was
just
the
beginning
of
the
wet
season.
Brown,
heavy
clouds
were
drifting
across
the
sky,
and
it
was
hard
to
see
more
than
a
stone-cast.
A
deep
moat
lay
in
front
of
our
door,
but
the
water
was
in
places
nearly
dried
up,
and
it
could
easily
be
crossed.
It
was
strange
to
me
to
be
standing
there
with
those
two
wild
Punjaubees
waiting
for
the
man
who
was
coming
to
his
death.
"Suddenly
my
eye
caught
the
glint
of
a
shaded
lantern
at
the
other
side
of
the
moat.
It
vanished
among
the
mound-heaps,
and
then
appeared
again
coming
slowly
in
our
direction.
"'Here
they
are!'
I
exclaimed.
"'You
will
challenge
him,
Sahib,
as
usual,'
whispered
Abdullah.
'Give
him
no
cause
for
fear.
Send
us
in
with
him,
and
we
shall
do
the
rest
while
you
stay
here
on
guard.
Have
the
lantern
ready
to
uncover,
that
we
may
be
sure
that
it
is
indeed
the
man.'
"The
light
had
flickered
onwards,
now
stopping
and
now
advancing,
until
I
could
see
two
dark
figures
upon
the
other
side
of
the
moat.
I
let
them
scramble
down
the
sloping
bank,
splash
through
the
mire,
and
climb
half-way
up
to
the
gate,
before
I
challenged
them.
"'Who
goes
there?'
said
I,
in
a
subdued
voice.
"'Friends,'
came
the
answer.
I
uncovered
my
lantern
and
threw
a
flood
of
light
upon
them.
The
first
was
an
enormous
Sikh,
with
a
black
beard
which
swept
nearly
down
to
his
cummerbund.
Outside
of
a
show
I
have
never
seen
so
tall
a
man.
The
other
was
a
little,
fat,
round
fellow,
with
a
great
yellow
turban,
and
a
bundle
in
his
hand,
done
up
in
a
shawl.
He
seemed
to
be
all
in
a
quiver
with
fear,
for
his
hands
twitched
as
if
he
had
the
ague,
and
his
head
kept
turning
to
left
and
right
with
two
bright
little
twinkling
eyes,
like
a
mouse
when
he
ventures
out
from
his
hole.
It
gave
me
the
chills
to
think
of
killing
him,
but
I
thought
of
the
treasure,
and
my
heart
set
as
hard
as
a
flint
within
me.
When
he
saw
my
white
face
he
gave
a
little
chirrup
of
joy
and
came
running
up
towards
me.
"'Your
protection,
Sahib,'
he
panted,—'your
protection
for
the
unhappy
merchant
Achmet.
I
have
travelled
across
Rajpootana
that
I
might
seek
the
shelter
of
the
fort
at
Agra.
I
have
been
robbed
and
beaten
and
abused
because
I
have
been
the
friend
of
the
Company.
It
is
a
blessed
night
this
when
I
am
once
more
in
safety,—I
and
my
poor
possessions.'
"'What
have
you
in
the
bundle?'
I
asked.
"'An
iron
box,'
he
answered,
'which
contains
one
or
two
little
family
matters
which
are
of
no
value
to
others,
but
which
I
should
be
sorry
to
lose.
Yet
I
am
not
a
beggar;
and
I
shall
reward
you,
young
Sahib,
and
your
governor
also,
if
he
will
give
me
the
shelter
I
ask.'
"I
could
not
trust
myself
to
speak
longer
with
the
man.
The
more
I
looked
at
his
fat,
frightened
face,
the
harder
did
it
seem
that
we
should
slay
him
in
cold
blood.
It
was
best
to
get
it
over.
"'Take
him
to
the
main
guard,'
said
I.
The
two
Sikhs
closed
in
upon
him
on
each
side,
and
the
giant
walked
behind,
while
they
marched
in
through
the
dark
gate-way.
Never
was
a
man
so
compassed
round
with
death.
I
remained
at
the
gate-way
with
the
lantern.
"I
could
hear
the
measured
tramp
of
their
footsteps
sounding
through
the
lonely
corridors.
Suddenly
it
ceased,
and
I
heard
voices,
and
a
scuffle,
with
the
sound
of
blows.
A
moment
later
there
came,
to
my
horror,
a
rush
of
footsteps
coming
in
my
direction,
with
the
loud
breathing
of
a
running
man.
I
turned
my
lantern
down
the
long,
straight
passage,
and
there
was
the
fat
man,
running
like
the
wind,
with
a
smear
of
blood
across
his
face,
and
close
at
his
heels,
bounding
like
a
tiger,
the
great
black-bearded
Sikh,
with
a
knife
flashing
in
his
hand.
I
have
never
seen
a
man
run
so
fast
as
that
little
merchant.
He
was
gaining
on
the
Sikh,
and
I
could
see
that
if
he
once
passed
me
and
got
to
the
open
air
he
would
save
himself
yet.
My
heart
softened
to
him,
but
again
the
thought
of
his
treasure
turned
me
hard
and
bitter.
I
cast
my
firelock
between
his
legs
as
he
raced
past,
and
he
rolled
twice
over
like
a
shot
rabbit.
Ere
he
could
stagger
to
his
feet
the
Sikh
was
upon
him,
and
buried
his
knife
twice
in
his
side.
The
man
never
uttered
moan
nor
moved
muscle,
but
lay
were
he
had
fallen.
I
think
myself
that
he
may
have
broken
his
neck
with
the
fall.
You
see,
gentlemen,
that
I
am
keeping
my
promise.
I
am
telling
you
every
work
of
the
business
just
exactly
as
it
happened,
whether
it
is
in
my
favor
or
not."
He
stopped,
and
held
out
his
manacled
hands
for
the
whiskey-and-water
which
Holmes
had
brewed
for
him.
For
myself,
I
confess
that
I
had
now
conceived
the
utmost
horror
of
the
man,
not
only
for
this
cold-blooded
business
in
which
he
had
been
concerned,
but
even
more
for
the
somewhat
flippant
and
careless
way
in
which
he
narrated
it.
Whatever
punishment
was
in
store
for
him,
I
felt
that
he
might
expect
no
sympathy
from
me.
Sherlock
Holmes
and
Jones
sat
with
their
hands
upon
their
knees,
deeply
interested
in
the
story,
but
with
the
same
disgust
written
upon
their
faces.
He
may
have
observed
it,
for
there
was
a
touch
of
defiance
in
his
voice
and
manner
as
he
proceeded.
"It
was
all
very
bad,
no
doubt,"
said
he.
"I
should
like
to
know
how
many
fellows
in
my
shoes
would
have
refused
a
share
of
this
loot
when
they
knew
that
they
would
have
their
throats
cut
for
their
pains.
Besides,
it
was
my
life
or
his
when
once
he
was
in
the
fort.
If
he
had
got
out,
the
whole
business
would
come
to
light,
and
I
should
have
been
court-martialled
and
shot
as
likely
as
not;
for
people
were
not
very
lenient
at
a
time
like
that."
"Go
on
with
your
story,"
said
Holmes,
shortly.
"Well,
we
carried
him
in,
Abdullah,
Akbar,
and
I.
A
fine
weight
he
was,
too,
for
all
that
he
was
so
short.
Mahomet
Singh
was
left
to
guard
the
door.
We
took
him
to
a
place
which
the
Sikhs
had
already
prepared.
It
was
some
distance
off,
where
a
winding
passage
leads
to
a
great
empty
hall,
the
brick
walls
of
which
were
all
crumbling
to
pieces.
The
earth
floor
had
sunk
in
at
one
place,
making
a
natural
grave,
so
we
left
Achmet
the
merchant
there,
having
first
covered
him
over
with
loose
bricks.
This
done,
we
all
went
back
to
the
treasure.
"It
lay
where
he
had
dropped
it
when
he
was
first
attacked.
The
box
was
the
same
which
now
lies
open
upon
your
table.
A
key
was
hung
by
a
silken
cord
to
that
carved
handle
upon
the
top.
We
opened
it,
and
the
light
of
the
lantern
gleamed
upon
a
collection
of
gems
such
as
I
have
read
of
and
thought
about
when
I
was
a
little
lad
at
Pershore.
It
was
blinding
to
look
upon
them.
When
we
had
feasted
our
eyes
we
took
them
all
out
and
made
a
list
of
them.
There
were
one
hundred
and
forty-three
diamonds
of
the
first
water,
including
one
which
has
been
called,
I
believe,
'the
Great
Mogul'
and
is
said
to
be
the
second
largest
stone
in
existence.
Then
there
were
ninety-seven
very
fine
emeralds,
and
one
hundred
and
seventy
rubies,
some
of
which,
however,
were
small.
There
were
forty
carbuncles,
two
hundred
and
ten
sapphires,
sixty-one
agates,
and
a
great
quantity
of
beryls,
onyxes,
cats'-eyes,
turquoises,
and
other
stones,
the
very
names
of
which
I
did
not
know
at
the
time,
though
I
have
become
more
familiar
with
them
since.
Besides
this,
there
were
nearly
three
hundred
very
fine
pearls,
twelve
of
which
were
set
in
a
gold
coronet.
By
the
way,
these
last
had
been
taken
out
of
the
chest
and
were
not
there
when
I
recovered
it.
"After
we
had
counted
our
treasures
we
put
them
back
into
the
chest
and
carried
them
to
the
gate-way
to
show
them
to
Mahomet
Singh.
Then
we
solemnly
renewed
our
oath
to
stand
by
each
other
and
be
true
to
our
secret.
We
agreed
to
conceal
our
loot
in
a
safe
place
until
the
country
should
be
at
peace
again,
and
then
to
divide
it
equally
among
ourselves.
There
was
no
use
dividing
it
at
present,
for
if
gems
of
such
value
were
found
upon
us
it
would
cause
suspicion,
and
there
was
no
privacy
in
the
fort
nor
any
place
where
we
could
keep
them.
We
carried
the
box,
therefore,
into
the
same
hall
where
we
had
buried
the
body,
and
there,
under
certain
bricks
in
the
best-preserved
wall,
we
made
a
hollow
and
put
our
treasure.
We
made
careful
note
of
the
place,
and
next
day
I
drew
four
plans,
one
for
each
of
us,
and
put
the
sign
of
the
four
of
us
at
the
bottom,
for
we
had
sworn
that
we
should
each
always
act
for
all,
so
that
none
might
take
advantage.
That
is
an
oath
that
I
can
put
my
hand
to
my
heart
and
swear
that
I
have
never
broken.
"Well,
there's
no
use
my
telling
you
gentlemen
what
came
of
the
Indian
mutiny.
After
Wilson
took
Delhi
and
Sir
Colin
relieved
Lucknow
the
back
of
the
business
was
broken.
Fresh
troops
came
pouring
in,
and
Nana
Sahib
made
himself
scarce
over
the
frontier.
A
flying
column
under
Colonel
Greathed
came
round
to
Agra
and
cleared
the
Pandies
away
from
it.
Peace
seemed
to
be
settling
upon
the
country,
and
we
four
were
beginning
to
hope
that
the
time
was
at
hand
when
we
might
safely
go
off
with
our
shares
of
the
plunder.
In
a
moment,
however,
our
hopes
were
shattered
by
our
being
arrested
as
the
murderers
of
Achmet.
"It
came
about
in
this
way.
When
the
rajah
put
his
jewels
into
the
hands
of
Achmet
he
did
it
because
he
knew
that
he
was
a
trusty
man.
They
are
suspicious
folk
in
the
East,
however:
so
what
does
this
rajah
do
but
take
a
second
even
more
trusty
servant
and
set
him
to
play
the
spy
upon
the
first?
This
second
man
was
ordered
never
to
let
Achmet
out
of
his
sight,
and
he
followed
him
like
his
shadow.
He
went
after
him
that
night
and
saw
him
pass
through
the
doorway.
Of
course
he
thought
he
had
taken
refuge
in
the
fort,
and
applied
for
admission
there
himself
next
day,
but
could
find
no
trace
of
Achmet.
This
seemed
to
him
so
strange
that
he
spoke
about
it
to
a
sergeant
of
guides,
who
brought
it
to
the
ears
of
the
commandant.
A
thorough
search
was
quickly
made,
and
the
body
was
discovered.
Thus
at
the
very
moment
that
we
thought
that
all
was
safe
we
were
all
four
seized
and
brought
to
trial
on
a
charge
of
murder,—three
of
us
because
we
had
held
the
gate
that
night,
and
the
fourth
because
he
was
known
to
have
been
in
the
company
of
the
murdered
man.
Not
a
word
about
the
jewels
came
out
at
the
trial,
for
the
rajah
had
been
deposed
and
driven
out
of
India:
so
no
one
had
any
particular
interest
in
them.
The
murder,
however,
was
clearly
made
out,
and
it
was
certain
that
we
must
all
have
been
concerned
in
it.
The
three
Sikhs
got
penal
servitude
for
life,
and
I
was
condemned
to
death,
though
my
sentence
was
afterwards
commuted
into
the
same
as
the
others.
"It
was
rather
a
queer
position
that
we
found
ourselves
in
then.
There
we
were
all
four
tied
by
the
leg
and
with
precious
little
chance
of
ever
getting
out
again,
while
we
each
held
a
secret
which
might
have
put
each
of
us
in
a
palace
if
we
could
only
have
made
use
of
it.
It
was
enough
to
make
a
man
eat
his
heart
out
to
have
to
stand
the
kick
and
the
cuff
of
every
petty
jack-in-office,
to
have
rice
to
eat
and
water
to
drink,
when
that
gorgeous
fortune
was
ready
for
him
outside,
just
waiting
to
be
picked
up.
It
might
have
driven
me
mad;
but
I
was
always
a
pretty
stubborn
one,
so
I
just
held
on
and
bided
my
time.
"At
last
it
seemed
to
me
to
have
come.
I
was
changed
from
Agra
to
Madras,
and
from
there
to
Blair
Island
in
the
Andamans.
There
are
very
few
white
convicts
at
this
settlement,
and,
as
I
had
behaved
well
from
the
first,
I
soon
found
myself
a
sort
of
privileged
person.
I
was
given
a
hut
in
Hope
Town,
which
is
a
small
place
on
the
slopes
of
Mount
Harriet,
and
I
was
left
pretty
much
to
myself.
It
is
a
dreary,
fever-stricken
place,
and
all
beyond
our
little
clearings
was
infested
with
wild
cannibal
natives,
who
were
ready
enough
to
blow
a
poisoned
dart
at
us
if
they
saw
a
chance.
There
was
digging,
and
ditching,
and
yam-planting,
and
a
dozen
other
things
to
be
done,
so
we
were
busy
enough
all
day;
though
in
the
evening
we
had
a
little
time
to
ourselves.
Among
other
things,
I
learned
to
dispense
drugs
for
the
surgeon,
and
picked
up
a
smattering
of
his
knowledge.
All
the
time
I
was
on
the
lookout
for
a
chance
of
escape;
but
it
is
hundreds
of
miles
from
any
other
land,
and
there
is
little
or
no
wind
in
those
seas:
so
it
was
a
terribly
difficult
job
to
get
away.
"The
surgeon,
Dr.
Somerton,
was
a
fast,
sporting
young
chap,
and
the
other
young
officers
would
meet
in
his
rooms
of
an
evening
and
play
cards.
The
surgery,
where
I
used
to
make
up
my
drugs,
was
next
to
his
sitting-room,
with
a
small
window
between
us.
Often,
if
I
felt
lonesome,
I
used
to
turn
out
the
lamp
in
the
surgery,
and
then,
standing
there,
I
could
hear
their
talk
and
watch
their
play.
I
am
fond
of
a
hand
at
cards
myself,
and
it
was
almost
as
good
as
having
one
to
watch
the
others.
There
was
Major
Sholto,
Captain
Morstan,
and
Lieutenant
Bromley
Brown,
who
were
in
command
of
the
native
troops,
and
there
was
the
surgeon
himself,
and
two
or
three
prison-officials,
crafty
old
hands
who
played
a
nice
sly
safe
game.
A
very
snug
little
party
they
used
to
make.
"Well,
there
was
one
thing
which
very
soon
struck
me,
and
that
was
that
the
soldiers
used
always
to
lose
and
the
civilians
to
win.
Mind,
I
don't
say
that
there
was
anything
unfair,
but
so
it
was.
These
prison-chaps
had
done
little
else
than
play
cards
ever
since
they
had
been
at
the
Andamans,
and
they
knew
each
other's
game
to
a
point,
while
the
others
just
played
to
pass
the
time
and
threw
their
cards
down
anyhow.
Night
after
night
the
soldiers
got
up
poorer
men,
and
the
poorer
they
got
the
more
keen
they
were
to
play.
Major
Sholto
was
the
hardest
hit.
He
used
to
pay
in
notes
and
gold
at
first,
but
soon
it
came
to
notes
of
hand
and
for
big
sums.
He
sometimes
would
win
for
a
few
deals,
just
to
give
him
heart,
and
then
the
luck
would
set
in
against
him
worse
than
ever.
All
day
he
would
wander
about
as
black
as
thunder,
and
he
took
to
drinking
a
deal
more
than
was
good
for
him.
"One
night
he
lost
even
more
heavily
than
usual.
I
was
sitting
in
my
hut
when
he
and
Captain
Morstan
came
stumbling
along
on
the
way
to
their
quarters.
They
were
bosom
friends,
those
two,
and
never
far
apart.
The
major
was
raving
about
his
losses.
"'It's
all
up,
Morstan,'
he
was
saying,
as
they
passed
my
hut.
'I
shall
have
to
send
in
my
papers.
I
am
a
ruined
man.'
"'Nonsense,
old
chap!'
said
the
other,
slapping
him
upon
the
shoulder.
'I've
had
a
nasty
facer
myself,
but—'
That
was
all
I
could
hear,
but
it
was
enough
to
set
me
thinking.
"A
couple
of
days
later
Major
Sholto
was
strolling
on
the
beach:
so
I
took
the
chance
of
speaking
to
him.
"'I
wish
to
have
your
advice,
major,'
said
I.
"'Well,
Small,
what
is
it?'
he
asked,
taking
his
cheroot
from
his
lips.
"'I
wanted
to
ask
you,
sir,'
said
I,
'who
is
the
proper
person
to
whom
hidden
treasure
should
be
handed
over.
I
know
where
half
a
million
worth
lies,
and,
as
I
cannot
use
it
myself,
I
thought
perhaps
the
best
thing
that
I
could
do
would
be
to
hand
it
over
to
the
proper
authorities,
and
then
perhaps
they
would
get
my
sentence
shortened
for
me.'
"'Half
a
million,
Small?'
he
gasped,
looking
hard
at
me
to
see
if
I
was
in
earnest.
"'Quite
that,
sir,—in
jewels
and
pearls.
It
lies
there
ready
for
any
one.
And
the
queer
thing
about
it
is
that
the
real
owner
is
outlawed
and
cannot
hold
property,
so
that
it
belongs
to
the
first
comer.'
"'To
government,
Small,'
he
stammered,—'to
government.'
But
he
said
it
in
a
halting
fashion,
and
I
knew
in
my
heart
that
I
had
got
him.
"'You
think,
then,
sir,
that
I
should
give
the
information
to
the
Governor-General?'
said
I,
quietly.
"'Well,
well,
you
must
not
do
anything
rash,
or
that
you
might
repent.
Let
me
hear
all
about
it,
Small.
Give
me
the
facts.'
"I
told
him
the
whole
story,
with
small
changes
so
that
he
could
not
identify
the
places.
When
I
had
finished
he
stood
stock
still
and
full
of
thought.
I
could
see
by
the
twitch
of
his
lip
that
there
was
a
struggle
going
on
within
him.
"'This
is
a
very
important
matter,
Small,'
he
said,
at
last.
'You
must
not
say
a
word
to
any
one
about
it,
and
I
shall
see
you
again
soon.'
"Two
nights
later
he
and
his
friend
Captain
Morstan
came
to
my
hut
in
the
dead
of
the
night
with
a
lantern.
"'I
want
you
just
to
let
Captain
Morstan
hear
that
story
from
your
own
lips,
Small,'
said
he.
"I
repeated
it
as
I
had
told
it
before.
"'It
rings
true,
eh?'
said
he.
'It's
good
enough
to
act
upon?'
"Captain
Morstan
nodded.
"'Look
here,
Small,'
said
the
major.
'We
have
been
talking
it
over,
my
friend
here
and
I,
and
we
have
come
to
the
conclusion
that
this
secret
of
yours
is
hardly
a
government
matter,
after
all,
but
is
a
private
concern
of
your
own,
which
of
course
you
have
the
power
of
disposing
of
as
you
think
best.
Now,
the
question
is,
what
price
would
you
ask
for
it?
We
might
be
inclined
to
take
it
up,
and
at
least
look
into
it,
if
we
could
agree
as
to
terms.'
He
tried
to
speak
in
a
cool,
careless
way,
but
his
eyes
were
shining
with
excitement
and
greed.
"'Why,
as
to
that,
gentlemen,'
I
answered,
trying
also
to
be
cool,
but
feeling
as
excited
as
he
did,
'there
is
only
one
bargain
which
a
man
in
my
position
can
make.
I
shall
want
you
to
help
me
to
my
freedom,
and
to
help
my
three
companions
to
theirs.
We
shall
then
take
you
into
partnership,
and
give
you
a
fifth
share
to
divide
between
you.'
"'Hum!'
said
he.
'A
fifth
share!
That
is
not
very
tempting.'
"'It
would
come
to
fifty
thousand
apiece,'
said
I.
"'But
how
can
we
gain
your
freedom?
You
know
very
well
that
you
ask
an
impossibility.'
"'Nothing
of
the
sort,'
I
answered.
'I
have
thought
it
all
out
to
the
last
detail.
The
only
bar
to
our
escape
is
that
we
can
get
no
boat
fit
for
the
voyage,
and
no
provisions
to
last
us
for
so
long
a
time.
There
are
plenty
of
little
yachts
and
yawls
at
Calcutta
or
Madras
which
would
serve
our
turn
well.
Do
you
bring
one
over.
We
shall
engage
to
get
aboard
her
by
night,
and
if
you
will
drop
us
on
any
part
of
the
Indian
coast
you
will
have
done
your
part
of
the
bargain.'
"'If
there
were
only
one,'
he
said.
"'None
or
all,'
I
answered.
'We
have
sworn
it.
The
four
of
us
must
always
act
together.'
"'You
see,
Morstan,'
said
he,
'Small
is
a
man
of
his
word.
He
does
not
flinch
from
his
friend.
I
think
we
may
very
well
trust
him.'
"'It's
a
dirty
business,'
the
other
answered.
'Yet,
as
you
say,
the
money
would
save
our
commissions
handsomely.'
"'Well,
Small,'
said
the
major,
'we
must,
I
suppose,
try
and
meet
you.
We
must
first,
of
course,
test
the
truth
of
your
story.
Tell
me
where
the
box
is
hid,
and
I
shall
get
leave
of
absence
and
go
back
to
India
in
the
monthly
relief-boat
to
inquire
into
the
affair.'
"'Not
so
fast,'
said
I,
growing
colder
as
he
got
hot.
'I
must
have
the
consent
of
my
three
comrades.
I
tell
you
that
it
is
four
or
none
with
us.'
"'Nonsense!'
he
broke
in.
'What
have
three
black
fellows
to
do
with
our
agreement?'
"'Black
or
blue,'
said
I,
'they
are
in
with
me,
and
we
all
go
together.'
"Well,
the
matter
ended
by
a
second
meeting,
at
which
Mahomet
Singh,
Abdullah
Khan,
and
Dost
Akbar
were
all
present.
We
talked
the
matter
over
again,
and
at
last
we
came
to
an
arrangement.
We
were
to
provide
both
the
officers
with
charts
of
the
part
of
the
Agra
fort
and
mark
the
place
in
the
wall
where
the
treasure
was
hid.
Major
Sholto
was
to
go
to
India
to
test
our
story.
If
he
found
the
box
he
was
to
leave
it
there,
to
send
out
a
small
yacht
provisioned
for
a
voyage,
which
was
to
lie
off
Rutland
Island,
and
to
which
we
were
to
make
our
way,
and
finally
to
return
to
his
duties.
Captain
Morstan
was
then
to
apply
for
leave
of
absence,
to
meet
us
at
Agra,
and
there
we
were
to
have
a
final
division
of
the
treasure,
he
taking
the
major's
share
as
well
as
his
own.
All
this
we
sealed
by
the
most
solemn
oaths
that
the
mind
could
think
or
the
lips
utter.
I
sat
up
all
night
with
paper
and
ink,
and
by
the
morning
I
had
the
two
charts
all
ready,
signed
with
the
sign
of
four,—that
is,
of
Abdullah,
Akbar,
Mahomet,
and
myself.
"Well,
gentlemen,
I
weary
you
with
my
long
story,
and
I
know
that
my
friend
Mr.
Jones
is
impatient
to
get
me
safely
stowed
in
chokey.
I'll
make
it
as
short
as
I
can.
The
villain
Sholto
went
off
to
India,
but
he
never
came
back
again.
Captain
Morstan
showed
me
his
name
among
a
list
of
passengers
in
one
of
the
mail-boats
very
shortly
afterwards.
His
uncle
had
died,
leaving
him
a
fortune,
and
he
had
left
the
army,
yet
he
could
stoop
to
treat
five
men
as
he
had
treated
us.
Morstan
went
over
to
Agra
shortly
afterwards,
and
found,
as
we
expected,
that
the
treasure
was
indeed
gone.
The
scoundrel
had
stolen
it
all,
without
carrying
out
one
of
the
conditions
on
which
we
had
sold
him
the
secret.
From
that
day
I
lived
only
for
vengeance.
I
thought
of
it
by
day
and
I
nursed
it
by
night.
It
became
an
overpowering,
absorbing
passion
with
me.
I
cared
nothing
for
the
law,—nothing
for
the
gallows.
To
escape,
to
track
down
Sholto,
to
have
my
hand
upon
his
throat,—that
was
my
one
thought.
Even
the
Agra
treasure
had
come
to
be
a
smaller
thing
in
my
mind
than
the
slaying
of
Sholto.
"Well,
I
have
set
my
mind
on
many
things
in
this
life,
and
never
one
which
I
did
not
carry
out.
But
it
was
weary
years
before
my
time
came.
I
have
told
you
that
I
had
picked
up
something
of
medicine.
One
day
when
Dr.
Somerton
was
down
with
a
fever
a
little
Andaman
Islander
was
picked
up
by
a
convict-gang
in
the
woods.
He
was
sick
to
death,
and
had
gone
to
a
lonely
place
to
die.
I
took
him
in
hand,
though
he
was
as
venomous
as
a
young
snake,
and
after
a
couple
of
months
I
got
him
all
right
and
able
to
walk.
He
took
a
kind
of
fancy
to
me
then,
and
would
hardly
go
back
to
his
woods,
but
was
always
hanging
about
my
hut.
I
learned
a
little
of
his
lingo
from
him,
and
this
made
him
all
the
fonder
of
me.
"Tonga—for
that
was
his
name—was
a
fine
boatman,
and
owned
a
big,
roomy
canoe
of
his
own.
When
I
found
that
he
was
devoted
to
me
and
would
do
anything
to
serve
me,
I
saw
my
chance
of
escape.
I
talked
it
over
with
him.
He
was
to
bring
his
boat
round
on
a
certain
night
to
an
old
wharf
which
was
never
guarded,
and
there
he
was
to
pick
me
up.
I
gave
him
directions
to
have
several
gourds
of
water
and
a
lot
of
yams,
cocoa-nuts,
and
sweet
potatoes.
"He
was
stanch
and
true,
was
little
Tonga.
No
man
ever
had
a
more
faithful
mate.
At
the
night
named
he
had
his
boat
at
the
wharf.
As
it
chanced,
however,
there
was
one
of
the
convict-guard
down
there,—a
vile
Pathan
who
had
never
missed
a
chance
of
insulting
and
injuring
me.
I
had
always
vowed
vengeance,
and
now
I
had
my
chance.
It
was
as
if
fate
had
placed
him
in
my
way
that
I
might
pay
my
debt
before
I
left
the
island.
He
stood
on
the
bank
with
his
back
to
me,
and
his
carbine
on
his
shoulder.
I
looked
about
for
a
stone
to
beat
out
his
brains
with,
but
none
could
I
see.
Then
a
queer
thought
came
into
my
head
and
showed
me
where
I
could
lay
my
hand
on
a
weapon.
I
sat
down
in
the
darkness
and
unstrapped
my
wooden
leg.
With
three
long
hops
I
was
on
him.
He
put
his
carbine
to
his
shoulder,
but
I
struck
him
full,
and
knocked
the
whole
front
of
his
skull
in.
You
can
see
the
split
in
the
wood
now
where
I
hit
him.
We
both
went
down
together,
for
I
could
not
keep
my
balance,
but
when
I
got
up
I
found
him
still
lying
quiet
enough.
I
made
for
the
boat,
and
in
an
hour
we
were
well
out
at
sea.
Tonga
had
brought
all
his
earthly
possessions
with
him,
his
arms
and
his
gods.
Among
other
things,
he
had
a
long
bamboo
spear,
and
some
Andaman
cocoa-nut
matting,
with
which
I
made
a
sort
of
sail.
For
ten
days
we
were
beating
about,
trusting
to
luck,
and
on
the
eleventh
we
were
picked
up
by
a
trader
which
was
going
from
Singapore
to
Jiddah
with
a
cargo
of
Malay
pilgrims.
They
were
a
rum
crowd,
and
Tonga
and
I
soon
managed
to
settle
down
among
them.
They
had
one
very
good
quality:
they
let
you
alone
and
asked
no
questions.
"Well,
if
I
were
to
tell
you
all
the
adventures
that
my
little
chum
and
I
went
through,
you
would
not
thank
me,
for
I
would
have
you
here
until
the
sun
was
shining.
Here
and
there
we
drifted
about
the
world,
something
always
turning
up
to
keep
us
from
London.
All
the
time,
however,
I
never
lost
sight
of
my
purpose.
I
would
dream
of
Sholto
at
night.
A
hundred
times
I
have
killed
him
in
my
sleep.
At
last,
however,
some
three
or
four
years
ago,
we
found
ourselves
in
England.
I
had
no
great
difficulty
in
finding
where
Sholto
lived,
and
I
set
to
work
to
discover
whether
he
had
realized
the
treasure,
or
if
he
still
had
it.
I
made
friends
with
someone
who
could
help
me,—I
name
no
names,
for
I
don't
want
to
get
any
one
else
in
a
hole,—and
I
soon
found
that
he
still
had
the
jewels.
Then
I
tried
to
get
at
him
in
many
ways;
but
he
was
pretty
sly,
and
had
always
two
prize-fighters,
besides
his
sons
and
his
khitmutgar,
on
guard
over
him.
"One
day,
however,
I
got
word
that
he
was
dying.
I
hurried
at
once
to
the
garden,
mad
that
he
should
slip
out
of
my
clutches
like
that,
and,
looking
through
the
window,
I
saw
him
lying
in
his
bed,
with
his
sons
on
each
side
of
him.
I'd
have
come
through
and
taken
my
chance
with
the
three
of
them,
only
even
as
I
looked
at
him
his
jaw
dropped,
and
I
knew
that
he
was
gone.
I
got
into
his
room
that
same
night,
though,
and
I
searched
his
papers
to
see
if
there
was
any
record
of
where
he
had
hidden
our
jewels.
There
was
not
a
line,
however:
so
I
came
away,
bitter
and
savage
as
a
man
could
be.
Before
I
left
I
bethought
me
that
if
I
ever
met
my
Sikh
friends
again
it
would
be
a
satisfaction
to
know
that
I
had
left
some
mark
of
our
hatred:
so
I
scrawled
down
the
sign
of
the
four
of
us,
as
it
had
been
on
the
chart,
and
I
pinned
it
on
his
bosom.
It
was
too
much
that
he
should
be
taken
to
the
grave
without
some
token
from
the
men
whom
he
had
robbed
and
befooled.
"We
earned
a
living
at
this
time
by
my
exhibiting
poor
Tonga
at
fairs
and
other
such
places
as
the
black
cannibal.
He
would
eat
raw
meat
and
dance
his
war-dance:
so
we
always
had
a
hatful
of
pennies
after
a
day's
work.
I
still
heard
all
the
news
from
Pondicherry
Lodge,
and
for
some
years
there
was
no
news
to
hear,
except
that
they
were
hunting
for
the
treasure.
At
last,
however,
came
what
we
had
waited
for
so
long.
The
treasure
had
been
found.
It
was
up
at
the
top
of
the
house,
in
Mr.
Bartholomew
Sholto's
chemical
laboratory.
I
came
at
once
and
had
a
look
at
the
place,
but
I
could
not
see
how
with
my
wooden
leg
I
was
to
make
my
way
up
to
it.
I
learned,
however,
about
a
trap-door
in
the
roof,
and
also
about
Mr.
Sholto's
supper-hour.
It
seemed
to
me
that
I
could
manage
the
thing
easily
through
Tonga.
I
brought
him
out
with
me
with
a
long
rope
wound
round
his
waist.
He
could
climb
like
a
cat,
and
he
soon
made
his
way
through
the
roof,
but,
as
ill
luck
would
have
it,
Bartholomew
Sholto
was
still
in
the
room,
to
his
cost.
Tonga
thought
he
had
done
something
very
clever
in
killing
him,
for
when
I
came
up
by
the
rope
I
found
him
strutting
about
as
proud
as
a
peacock.
Very
much
surprised
was
he
when
I
made
at
him
with
the
rope's
end
and
cursed
him
for
a
little
blood-thirsty
imp.
I
took
the
treasure-box
and
let
it
down,
and
then
slid
down
myself,
having
first
left
the
sign
of
the
four
upon
the
table,
to
show
that
the
jewels
had
come
back
at
last
to
those
who
had
most
right
to
them.
Tonga
then
pulled
up
the
rope,
closed
the
window,
and
made
off
the
way
that
he
had
come.
"I
don't
know
that
I
have
anything
else
to
tell
you.
I
had
heard
a
waterman
speak
of
the
speed
of
Smith's
launch
the
Aurora,
so
I
thought
she
would
be
a
handy
craft
for
our
escape.
I
engaged
with
old
Smith,
and
was
to
give
him
a
big
sum
if
he
got
us
safe
to
our
ship.
He
knew,
no
doubt,
that
there
was
some
screw
loose,
but
he
was
not
in
our
secrets.
All
this
is
the
truth,
and
if
I
tell
it
to
you,
gentlemen,
it
is
not
to
amuse
you,—for
you
have
not
done
me
a
very
good
turn,—but
it
is
because
I
believe
the
best
defence
I
can
make
is
just
to
hold
back
nothing,
but
let
all
the
world
know
how
badly
I
have
myself
been
served
by
Major
Sholto,
and
how
innocent
I
am
of
the
death
of
his
son."
"A
very
remarkable
account,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes.
"A
fitting
wind-up
to
an
extremely
interesting
case.
There
is
nothing
at
all
new
to
me
in
the
latter
part
of
your
narrative,
except
that
you
brought
your
own
rope.
That
I
did
not
know.
By
the
way,
I
had
hoped
that
Tonga
had
lost
all
his
darts;
yet
he
managed
to
shoot
one
at
us
in
the
boat."
"He
had
lost
them
all,
sir,
except
the
one
which
was
in
his
blow-pipe
at
the
time."
"Ah,
of
course,"
said
Holmes.
"I
had
not
thought
of
that."
"Is
there
any
other
point
which
you
would
like
to
ask
about?"
asked
the
convict,
affably.
"I
think
not,
thank
you,"
my
companion
answered.
"Well,
Holmes,"
said
Athelney
Jones,
"You
are
a
man
to
be
humored,
and
we
all
know
that
you
are
a
connoisseur
of
crime,
but
duty
is
duty,
and
I
have
gone
rather
far
in
doing
what
you
and
your
friend
asked
me.
I
shall
feel
more
at
ease
when
we
have
our
story-teller
here
safe
under
lock
and
key.
The
cab
still
waits,
and
there
are
two
inspectors
down-stairs.
I
am
much
obliged
to
you
both
for
your
assistance.
Of
course
you
will
be
wanted
at
the
trial.
Good-night
to
you."
"Good-night,
gentlemen
both,"
said
Jonathan
Small.
"You
first,
Small,"
remarked
the
wary
Jones
as
they
left
the
room.
"I'll
take
particular
care
that
you
don't
club
me
with
your
wooden
leg,
whatever
you
may
have
done
to
the
gentleman
at
the
Andaman
Isles."
"Well,
and
there
is
the
end
of
our
little
drama,"
I
remarked,
after
we
had
set
some
time
smoking
in
silence.
"I
fear
that
it
may
be
the
last
investigation
in
which
I
shall
have
the
chance
of
studying
your
methods.
Miss
Morstan
has
done
me
the
honor
to
accept
me
as
a
husband
in
prospective."
He
gave
a
most
dismal
groan.
"I
feared
as
much,"
said
he.
"I
really
cannot
congratulate
you."
I
was
a
little
hurt.
"Have
you
any
reason
to
be
dissatisfied
with
my
choice?"
I
asked.
"Not
at
all.
I
think
she
is
one
of
the
most
charming
young
ladies
I
ever
met,
and
might
have
been
most
useful
in
such
work
as
we
have
been
doing.
She
had
a
decided
genius
that
way:
witness
the
way
in
which
she
preserved
that
Agra
plan
from
all
the
other
papers
of
her
father.
But
love
is
an
emotional
thing,
and
whatever
is
emotional
is
opposed
to
that
true
cold
reason
which
I
place
above
all
things.
I
should
never
marry
myself,
lest
I
bias
my
judgment."
"I
trust,"
said
I,
laughing,
"that
my
judgment
may
survive
the
ordeal.
But
you
look
weary."
"Yes,
the
reaction
is
already
upon
me.
I
shall
be
as
limp
as
a
rag
for
a
week."
"Strange,"
said
I,
"how
terms
of
what
in
another
man
I
should
call
laziness
alternate
with
your
fits
of
splendid
energy
and
vigor."
"Yes,"
he
answered,
"there
are
in
me
the
makings
of
a
very
fine
loafer
and
also
of
a
pretty
spry
sort
of
fellow.
I
often
think
of
those
lines
of
old
Goethe,—
Schade
dass
die
Natur
nur
EINEN
Mensch
aus
Dir
schuf,
Denn
zum
wuerdigen
Mann
war
und
zum
Schelmen
der
Stoff.
"By
the
way,
a
propos
of
this
Norwood
business,
you
see
that
they
had,
as
I
surmised,
a
confederate
in
the
house,
who
could
be
none
other
than
Lal
Rao,
the
butler:
so
Jones
actually
has
the
undivided
honor
of
having
caught
one
fish
in
his
great
haul."
"The
division
seems
rather
unfair,"
I
remarked.
"You
have
done
all
the
work
in
this
business.
I
get
a
wife
out
of
it,
Jones
gets
the
credit,
pray
what
remains
for
you?"
"For
me,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
"there
still
remains
the
cocaine-bottle."
And
he
stretched
his
long
white
hand
up
for
it.
%%%%%
THE
VALLEY
OF
FEAR
by
Sir
Arthur
Conan
Doyle,
http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3289/pg3289.txt
"I
am
inclined
to
think--"
said
I.
"I
should
do
so,"
Sherlock
Holmes
remarked
impatiently.
I
believe
that
I
am
one
of
the
most
long-suffering
of
mortals;
but
I'll
admit
that
I
was
annoyed
at
the
sardonic
interruption.
"Really,
Holmes,"
said
I
severely,
"you
are
a
little
trying
at
times."
He
was
too
much
absorbed
with
his
own
thoughts
to
give
any
immediate
answer
to
my
remonstrance.
He
leaned
upon
his
hand,
with
his
untasted
breakfast
before
him,
and
he
stared
at
the
slip
of
paper
which
he
had
just
drawn
from
its
envelope.
Then
he
took
the
envelope
itself,
held
it
up
to
the
light,
and
very
carefully
studied
both
the
exterior
and
the
flap.
"It
is
Porlock's
writing,"
said
he
thoughtfully.
"I
can
hardly
doubt
that
it
is
Porlock's
writing,
though
I
have
seen
it
only
twice
before.
The
Greek
e
with
the
peculiar
top
flourish
is
distinctive.
But
if
it
is
Porlock,
then
it
must
be
something
of
the
very
first
importance."
He
was
speaking
to
himself
rather
than
to
me;
but
my
vexation
disappeared
in
the
interest
which
the
words
awakened.
"Who
then
is
Porlock?"
I
asked.
"Porlock,
Watson,
is
a
nom-de-plume,
a
mere
identification
mark;
but
behind
it
lies
a
shifty
and
evasive
personality.
In
a
former
letter
he
frankly
informed
me
that
the
name
was
not
his
own,
and
defied
me
ever
to
trace
him
among
the
teeming
millions
of
this
great
city.
Porlock
is
important,
not
for
himself,
but
for
the
great
man
with
whom
he
is
in
touch.
Picture
to
yourself
the
pilot
fish
with
the
shark,
the
jackal
with
the
lion--anything
that
is
insignificant
in
companionship
with
what
is
formidable:
not
only
formidable,
Watson,
but
sinister--in
the
highest
degree
sinister.
That
is
where
he
comes
within
my
purview.
You
have
heard
me
speak
of
Professor
Moriarty?"
"The
famous
scientific
criminal,
as
famous
among
crooks
as--"
"My
blushes,
Watson!"
Holmes
murmured
in
a
deprecating
voice.
"I
was
about
to
say,
as
he
is
unknown
to
the
public."
"A
touch!
A
distinct
touch!"
cried
Holmes.
"You
are
developing
a
certain
unexpected
vein
of
pawky
humour,
Watson,
against
which
I
must
learn
to
guard
myself.
But
in
calling
Moriarty
a
criminal
you
are
uttering
libel
in
the
eyes
of
the
law--and
there
lie
the
glory
and
the
wonder
of
it!
The
greatest
schemer
of
all
time,
the
organizer
of
every
deviltry,
the
controlling
brain
of
the
underworld,
a
brain
which
might
have
made
or
marred
the
destiny
of
nations--that's
the
man!
But
so
aloof
is
he
from
general
suspicion,
so
immune
from
criticism,
so
admirable
in
his
management
and
self-effacement,
that
for
those
very
words
that
you
have
uttered
he
could
hale
you
to
a
court
and
emerge
with
your
year's
pension
as
a
solatium
for
his
wounded
character.
Is
he
not
the
celebrated
author
of
The
Dynamics
of
an
Asteroid,
a
book
which
ascends
to
such
rarefied
heights
of
pure
mathematics
that
it
is
said
that
there
was
no
man
in
the
scientific
press
capable
of
criticizing
it?
Is
this
a
man
to
traduce?
Foul-mouthed
doctor
and
slandered
professor--such
would
be
your
respective
roles!
That's
genius,
Watson.
But
if
I
am
spared
by
lesser
men,
our
day
will
surely
come."
"May
I
be
there
to
see!"
I
exclaimed
devoutly.
"But
you
were
speaking
of
this
man
Porlock."
"Ah,
yes--the
so-called
Porlock
is
a
link
in
the
chain
some
little
way
from
its
great
attachment.
Porlock
is
not
quite
a
sound
link--between
ourselves.
He
is
the
only
flaw
in
that
chain
so
far
as
I
have
been
able
to
test
it."
"But
no
chain
is
stronger
than
its
weakest
link."
"Exactly,
my
dear
Watson!
Hence
the
extreme
importance
of
Porlock.
Led
on
by
some
rudimentary
aspirations
towards
right,
and
encouraged
by
the
judicious
stimulation
of
an
occasional
ten-pound
note
sent
to
him
by
devious
methods,
he
has
once
or
twice
given
me
advance
information
which
has
been
of
value--that
highest
value
which
anticipates
and
prevents
rather
than
avenges
crime.
I
cannot
doubt
that,
if
we
had
the
cipher,
we
should
find
that
this
communication
is
of
the
nature
that
I
indicate."
Again
Holmes
flattened
out
the
paper
upon
his
unused
plate.
I
rose
and,
leaning
over
him,
stared
down
at
the
curious
inscription,
which
ran
as
follows:
534
C2
13
127
36
31
4
17
21
41
DOUGLAS
109
293
5
37
BIRLSTONE
26
BIRLSTONE
9
47
171
"What
do
you
make
of
it,
Holmes?"
"It
is
obviously
an
attempt
to
convey
secret
information."
"But
what
is
the
use
of
a
cipher
message
without
the
cipher?"
"In
this
instance,
none
at
all."
"Why
do
you
say
'in
this
instance'?"
"Because
there
are
many
ciphers
which
I
would
read
as
easily
as
I
do
the
apocrypha
of
the
agony
column:
such
crude
devices
amuse
the
intelligence
without
fatiguing
it.
But
this
is
different.
It
is
clearly
a
reference
to
the
words
in
a
page
of
some
book.
Until
I
am
told
which
page
and
which
book
I
am
powerless."
"But
why
'Douglas'
and
'Birlstone'?"
"Clearly
because
those
are
words
which
were
not
contained
in
the
page
in
question."
"Then
why
has
he
not
indicated
the
book?"
"Your
native
shrewdness,
my
dear
Watson,
that
innate
cunning
which
is
the
delight
of
your
friends,
would
surely
prevent
you
from
inclosing
cipher
and
message
in
the
same
envelope.
Should
it
miscarry,
you
are
undone.
As
it
is,
both
have
to
go
wrong
before
any
harm
comes
from
it.
Our
second
post
is
now
overdue,
and
I
shall
be
surprised
if
it
does
not
bring
us
either
a
further
letter
of
explanation,
or,
as
is
more
probable,
the
very
volume
to
which
these
figures
refer."
Holmes's
calculation
was
fulfilled
within
a
very
few
minutes
by
the
appearance
of
Billy,
the
page,
with
the
very
letter
which
we
were
expecting.
"The
same
writing,"
remarked
Holmes,
as
he
opened
the
envelope,
"and
actually
signed,"
he
added
in
an
exultant
voice
as
he
unfolded
the
epistle.
"Come,
we
are
getting
on,
Watson."
His
brow
clouded,
however,
as
he
glanced
over
the
contents.
"Dear
me,
this
is
very
disappointing!
I
fear,
Watson,
that
all
our
expectations
come
to
nothing.
I
trust
that
the
man
Porlock
will
come
to
no
harm.
"DEAR
MR.
HOLMES
[he
says]:
"I
will
go
no
further
in
this
matter.
It
is
too
dangerous--he
suspects
me.
I
can
see
that
he
suspects
me.
He
came
to
me
quite
unexpectedly
after
I
had
actually
addressed
this
envelope
with
the
intention
of
sending
you
the
key
to
the
cipher.
I
was
able
to
cover
it
up.
If
he
had
seen
it,
it
would
have
gone
hard
with
me.
But
I
read
suspicion
in
his
eyes.
Please
burn
the
cipher
message,
which
can
now
be
of
no
use
to
you.
"FRED
PORLOCK."
Holmes
sat
for
some
little
time
twisting
this
letter
between
his
fingers,
and
frowning,
as
he
stared
into
the
fire.
"After
all,"
he
said
at
last,
"there
may
be
nothing
in
it.
It
may
be
only
his
guilty
conscience.
Knowing
himself
to
be
a
traitor,
he
may
have
read
the
accusation
in
the
other's
eyes."
"The
other
being,
I
presume,
Professor
Moriarty."
"No
less!
When
any
of
that
party
talk
about
'He'
you
know
whom
they
mean.
There
is
one
predominant
'He'
for
all
of
them."
"But
what
can
he
do?"
"Hum!
That's
a
large
question.
When
you
have
one
of
the
first
brains
of
Europe
up
against
you,
and
all
the
powers
of
darkness
at
his
back,
there
are
infinite
possibilities.
Anyhow,
Friend
Porlock
is
evidently
scared
out
of
his
senses--kindly
compare
the
writing
in
the
note
to
that
upon
its
envelope;
which
was
done,
he
tells
us,
before
this
ill-omened
visit.
The
one
is
clear
and
firm.
The
other
hardly
legible."
"Why
did
he
write
at
all?
Why
did
he
not
simply
drop
it?"
"Because
he
feared
I
would
make
some
inquiry
after
him
in
that
case,
and
possibly
bring
trouble
on
him."
"No
doubt,"
said
I.
"Of
course."
I
had
picked
up
the
original
cipher
message
and
was
bending
my
brows
over
it.
"It's
pretty
maddening
to
think
that
an
important
secret
may
lie
here
on
this
slip
of
paper,
and
that
it
is
beyond
human
power
to
penetrate
it."
Sherlock
Holmes
had
pushed
away
his
untasted
breakfast
and
lit
the
unsavoury
pipe
which
was
the
companion
of
his
deepest
meditations.
"I
wonder!"
said
he,
leaning
back
and
staring
at
the
ceiling.
"Perhaps
there
are
points
which
have
escaped
your
Machiavellian
intellect.
Let
us
consider
the
problem
in
the
light
of
pure
reason.
This
man's
reference
is
to
a
book.
That
is
our
point
of
departure."
"A
somewhat
vague
one."
"Let
us
see
then
if
we
can
narrow
it
down.
As
I
focus
my
mind
upon
it,
it
seems
rather
less
impenetrable.
What
indications
have
we
as
to
this
book?"
"None."
"Well,
well,
it
is
surely
not
quite
so
bad
as
that.
The
cipher
message
begins
with
a
large
534,
does
it
not?
We
may
take
it
as
a
working
hypothesis
that
534
is
the
particular
page
to
which
the
cipher
refers.
So
our
book
has
already
become
a
LARGE
book,
which
is
surely
something
gained.
What
other
indications
have
we
as
to
the
nature
of
this
large
book?
The
next
sign
is
C2.
What
do
you
make
of
that,
Watson?"
"Chapter
the
second,
no
doubt."
"Hardly
that,
Watson.
You
will,
I
am
sure,
agree
with
me
that
if
the
page
be
given,
the
number
of
the
chapter
is
immaterial.
Also
that
if
page
534
finds
us
only
in
the
second
chapter,
the
length
of
the
first
one
must
have
been
really
intolerable."
"Column!"
I
cried.
"Brilliant,
Watson.
You
are
scintillating
this
morning.
If
it
is
not
column,
then
I
am
very
much
deceived.
So
now,
you
see,
we
begin
to
visualize
a
large
book
printed
in
double
columns
which
are
each
of
a
considerable
length,
since
one
of
the
words
is
numbered
in
the
document
as
the
two
hundred
and
ninety-third.
Have
we
reached
the
limits
of
what
reason
can
supply?"
"I
fear
that
we
have."
"Surely
you
do
yourself
an
injustice.
One
more
coruscation,
my
dear
Watson--yet
another
brain-wave!
Had
the
volume
been
an
unusual
one,
he
would
have
sent
it
to
me.
Instead
of
that,
he
had
intended,
before
his
plans
were
nipped,
to
send
me
the
clue
in
this
envelope.
He
says
so
in
his
note.
This
would
seem
to
indicate
that
the
book
is
one
which
he
thought
I
would
have
no
difficulty
in
finding
for
myself.
He
had
it--and
he
imagined
that
I
would
have
it,
too.
In
short,
Watson,
it
is
a
very
common
book."
"What
you
say
certainly
sounds
plausible."
"So
we
have
contracted
our
field
of
search
to
a
large
book,
printed
in
double
columns
and
in
common
use."
"The
Bible!"
I
cried
triumphantly.
"Good,
Watson,
good!
But
not,
if
I
may
say
so,
quite
good
enough!
Even
if
I
accepted
the
compliment
for
myself
I
could
hardly
name
any
volume
which
would
be
less
likely
to
lie
at
the
elbow
of
one
of
Moriarty's
associates.
Besides,
the
editions
of
Holy
Writ
are
so
numerous
that
he
could
hardly
suppose
that
two
copies
would
have
the
same
pagination.
This
is
clearly
a
book
which
is
standardized.
He
knows
for
certain
that
his
page
534
will
exactly
agree
with
my
page
534."
"But
very
few
books
would
correspond
with
that."
"Exactly.
Therein
lies
our
salvation.
Our
search
is
narrowed
down
to
standardized
books
which
anyone
may
be
supposed
to
possess."
"Bradshaw!"
"There
are
difficulties,
Watson.
The
vocabulary
of
Bradshaw
is
nervous
and
terse,
but
limited.
The
selection
of
words
would
hardly
lend
itself
to
the
sending
of
general
messages.
We
will
eliminate
Bradshaw.
The
dictionary
is,
I
fear,
inadmissible
for
the
same
reason.
What
then
is
left?"
"An
almanac!"
"Excellent,
Watson!
I
am
very
much
mistaken
if
you
have
not
touched
the
spot.
An
almanac!
Let
us
consider
the
claims
of
Whitaker's
Almanac.
It
is
in
common
use.
It
has
the
requisite
number
of
pages.
It
is
in
double
column.
Though
reserved
in
its
earlier
vocabulary,
it
becomes,
if
I
remember
right,
quite
garrulous
towards
the
end."
He
picked
the
volume
from
his
desk.
"Here
is
page
534,
column
two,
a
substantial
block
of
print
dealing,
I
perceive,
with
the
trade
and
resources
of
British
India.
Jot
down
the
words,
Watson!
Number
thirteen
is
'Mahratta.'
Not,
I
fear,
a
very
auspicious
beginning.
Number
one
hundred
and
twenty-seven
is
'Government';
which
at
least
makes
sense,
though
somewhat
irrelevant
to
ourselves
and
Professor
Moriarty.
Now
let
us
try
again.
What
does
the
Mahratta
government
do?
Alas!
the
next
word
is
'pig's-bristles.'
We
are
undone,
my
good
Watson!
It
is
finished!"
He
had
spoken
in
jesting
vein,
but
the
twitching
of
his
bushy
eyebrows
bespoke
his
disappointment
and
irritation.
I
sat
helpless
and
unhappy,
staring
into
the
fire.
A
long
silence
was
broken
by
a
sudden
exclamation
from
Holmes,
who
dashed
at
a
cupboard,
from
which
he
emerged
with
a
second
yellow-covered
volume
in
his
hand.
"We
pay
the
price,
Watson,
for
being
too
up-to-date!"
he
cried.
"We
are
before
our
time,
and
suffer
the
usual
penalties.
Being
the
seventh
of
January,
we
have
very
properly
laid
in
the
new
almanac.
It
is
more
than
likely
that
Porlock
took
his
message
from
the
old
one.
No
doubt
he
would
have
told
us
so
had
his
letter
of
explanation
been
written.
Now
let
us
see
what
page
534
has
in
store
for
us.
Number
thirteen
is
'There,'
which
is
much
more
promising.
Number
one
hundred
and
twenty-seven
is
'is'--'There
is'
"--Holmes's
eyes
were
gleaming
with
excitement,
and
his
thin,
nervous
fingers
twitched
as
he
counted
the
words--"'danger.'
Ha!
Ha!
Capital!
Put
that
down,
Watson.
'There
is
danger--may--come--very
soon--one.'
Then
we
have
the
name
'Douglas'--'rich--country--now--at
Birlstone--House--Birlstone--confidence--is--pressing.'
There,
Watson!
What
do
you
think
of
pure
reason
and
its
fruit?
If
the
green-grocer
had
such
a
thing
as
a
laurel
wreath,
I
should
send
Billy
round
for
it."
I
was
staring
at
the
strange
message
which
I
had
scrawled,
as
he
deciphered
it,
upon
a
sheet
of
foolscap
on
my
knee.
"What
a
queer,
scrambling
way
of
expressing
his
meaning!"
said
I.
"On
the
contrary,
he
has
done
quite
remarkably
well,"
said
Holmes.
"When
you
search
a
single
column
for
words
with
which
to
express
your
meaning,
you
can
hardly
expect
to
get
everything
you
want.
You
are
bound
to
leave
something
to
the
intelligence
of
your
correspondent.
The
purport
is
perfectly
clear.
Some
deviltry
is
intended
against
one
Douglas,
whoever
he
may
be,
residing
as
stated,
a
rich
country
gentleman.
He
is
sure--'confidence'
was
as
near
as
he
could
get
to
'confident'--that
it
is
pressing.
There
is
our
result--and
a
very
workmanlike
little
bit
of
analysis
it
was!"
Holmes
had
the
impersonal
joy
of
the
true
artist
in
his
better
work,
even
as
he
mourned
darkly
when
it
fell
below
the
high
level
to
which
he
aspired.
He
was
still
chuckling
over
his
success
when
Billy
swung
open
the
door
and
Inspector
MacDonald
of
Scotland
Yard
was
ushered
into
the
room.
Those
were
the
early
days
at
the
end
of
the
'80's,
when
Alec
MacDonald
was
far
from
having
attained
the
national
fame
which
he
has
now
achieved.
He
was
a
young
but
trusted
member
of
the
detective
force,
who
had
distinguished
himself
in
several
cases
which
had
been
intrusted
to
him.
His
tall,
bony
figure
gave
promise
of
exceptional
physical
strength,
while
his
great
cranium
and
deep-set,
lustrous
eyes
spoke
no
less
clearly
of
the
keen
intelligence
which
twinkled
out
from
behind
his
bushy
eyebrows.
He
was
a
silent,
precise
man
with
a
dour
nature
and
a
hard
Aberdonian
accent.
Twice
already
in
his
career
had
Holmes
helped
him
to
attain
success,
his
own
sole
reward
being
the
intellectual
joy
of
the
problem.
For
this
reason
the
affection
and
respect
of
the
Scotchman
for
his
amateur
colleague
were
profound,
and
he
showed
them
by
the
frankness
with
which
he
consulted
Holmes
in
every
difficulty.
Mediocrity
knows
nothing
higher
than
itself;
but
talent
instantly
recognizes
genius,
and
MacDonald
had
talent
enough
for
his
profession
to
enable
him
to
perceive
that
there
was
no
humiliation
in
seeking
the
assistance
of
one
who
already
stood
alone
in
Europe,
both
in
his
gifts
and
in
his
experience.
Holmes
was
not
prone
to
friendship,
but
he
was
tolerant
of
the
big
Scotchman,
and
smiled
at
the
sight
of
him.
"You
are
an
early
bird,
Mr.
Mac,"
said
he.
"I
wish
you
luck
with
your
worm.
I
fear
this
means
that
there
is
some
mischief
afoot."
"If
you
said
'hope'
instead
of
'fear,'
it
would
be
nearer
the
truth,
I'm
thinking,
Mr.
Holmes,"
the
inspector
answered,
with
a
knowing
grin.
"Well,
maybe
a
wee
nip
would
keep
out
the
raw
morning
chill.
No,
I
won't
smoke,
I
thank
you.
I'll
have
to
be
pushing
on
my
way;
for
the
early
hours
of
a
case
are
the
precious
ones,
as
no
man
knows
better
than
your
own
self.
But--but--"
The
inspector
had
stopped
suddenly,
and
was
staring
with
a
look
of
absolute
amazement
at
a
paper
upon
the
table.
It
was
the
sheet
upon
which
I
had
scrawled
the
enigmatic
message.
"Douglas!"
he
stammered.
"Birlstone!
What's
this,
Mr.
Holmes?
Man,
it's
witchcraft!
Where
in
the
name
of
all
that
is
wonderful
did
you
get
those
names?"
"It
is
a
cipher
that
Dr.
Watson
and
I
have
had
occasion
to
solve.
But
why--what's
amiss
with
the
names?"
The
inspector
looked
from
one
to
the
other
of
us
in
dazed
astonishment.
"Just
this,"
said
he,
"that
Mr.
Douglas
of
Birlstone
Manor
House
was
horribly
murdered
last
night!"
Chapter
2--Sherlock
Holmes
Discourses
It
was
one
of
those
dramatic
moments
for
which
my
friend
existed.
It
would
be
an
overstatement
to
say
that
he
was
shocked
or
even
excited
by
the
amazing
announcement.
Without
having
a
tinge
of
cruelty
in
his
singular
composition,
he
was
undoubtedly
callous
from
long
overstimulation.
Yet,
if
his
emotions
were
dulled,
his
intellectual
perceptions
were
exceedingly
active.
There
was
no
trace
then
of
the
horror
which
I
had
myself
felt
at
this
curt
declaration;
but
his
face
showed
rather
the
quiet
and
interested
composure
of
the
chemist
who
sees
the
crystals
falling
into
position
from
his
oversaturated
solution.
"Remarkable!"
said
he.
"Remarkable!"
"You
don't
seem
surprised."
"Interested,
Mr.
Mac,
but
hardly
surprised.
Why
should
I
be
surprised?
I
receive
an
anonymous
communication
from
a
quarter
which
I
know
to
be
important,
warning
me
that
danger
threatens
a
certain
person.
Within
an
hour
I
learn
that
this
danger
has
actually
materialized
and
that
the
person
is
dead.
I
am
interested;
but,
as
you
observe,
I
am
not
surprised."
In
a
few
short
sentences
he
explained
to
the
inspector
the
facts
about
the
letter
and
the
cipher.
MacDonald
sat
with
his
chin
on
his
hands
and
his
great
sandy
eyebrows
bunched
into
a
yellow
tangle.
"I
was
going
down
to
Birlstone
this
morning,"
said
he.
"I
had
come
to
ask
you
if
you
cared
to
come
with
me--you
and
your
friend
here.
But
from
what
you
say
we
might
perhaps
be
doing
better
work
in
London."
"I
rather
think
not,"
said
Holmes.
"Hang
it
all,
Mr.
Holmes!"
cried
the
inspector.
"The
papers
will
be
full
of
the
Birlstone
mystery
in
a
day
or
two;
but
where's
the
mystery
if
there
is
a
man
in
London
who
prophesied
the
crime
before
ever
it
occurred?
We
have
only
to
lay
our
hands
on
that
man,
and
the
rest
will
follow."
"No
doubt,
Mr.
Mac.
But
how
do
you
propose
to
lay
your
hands
on
the
so-called
Porlock?"
MacDonald
turned
over
the
letter
which
Holmes
had
handed
him.
"Posted
in
Camberwell--that
doesn't
help
us
much.
Name,
you
say,
is
assumed.
Not
much
to
go
on,
certainly.
Didn't
you
say
that
you
have
sent
him
money?"
"Twice."
"And
how?"
"In
notes
to
Camberwell
post
office."
"Did
you
ever
trouble
to
see
who
called
for
them?"
"No."
The
inspector
looked
surprised
and
a
little
shocked.
"Why
not?"
"Because
I
always
keep
faith.
I
had
promised
when
he
first
wrote
that
I
would
not
try
to
trace
him."
"You
think
there
is
someone
behind
him?"
"I
know
there
is."
"This
professor
that
I've
heard
you
mention?"
"Exactly!"
Inspector
MacDonald
smiled,
and
his
eyelid
quivered
as
he
glanced
towards
me.
"I
won't
conceal
from
you,
Mr.
Holmes,
that
we
think
in
the
C.I.D.
that
you
have
a
wee
bit
of
a
bee
in
your
bonnet
over
this
professor.
I
made
some
inquiries
myself
about
the
matter.
He
seems
to
be
a
very
respectable,
learned,
and
talented
sort
of
man."
"I'm
glad
you've
got
so
far
as
to
recognize
the
talent."
"Man,
you
can't
but
recognize
it!
After
I
heard
your
view
I
made
it
my
business
to
see
him.
I
had
a
chat
with
him
on
eclipses.
How
the
talk
got
that
way
I
canna
think;
but
he
had
out
a
reflector
lantern
and
a
globe,
and
made
it
all
clear
in
a
minute.
He
lent
me
a
book;
but
I
don't
mind
saying
that
it
was
a
bit
above
my
head,
though
I
had
a
good
Aberdeen
upbringing.
He'd
have
made
a
grand
meenister
with
his
thin
face
and
gray
hair
and
solemn-like
way
of
talking.
When
he
put
his
hand
on
my
shoulder
as
we
were
parting,
it
was
like
a
father's
blessing
before
you
go
out
into
the
cold,
cruel
world."
Holmes
chuckled
and
rubbed
his
hands.
"Great!"
he
said.
"Great!
Tell
me,
Friend
MacDonald,
this
pleasing
and
touching
interview
was,
I
suppose,
in
the
professor's
study?"
"That's
so."
"A
fine
room,
is
it
not?"
"Very
fine--very
handsome
indeed,
Mr.
Holmes."
"You
sat
in
front
of
his
writing
desk?"
"Just
so."
"Sun
in
your
eyes
and
his
face
in
the
shadow?"
"Well,
it
was
evening;
but
I
mind
that
the
lamp
was
turned
on
my
face."
"It
would
be.
Did
you
happen
to
observe
a
picture
over
the
professor's
head?"
"I
don't
miss
much,
Mr.
Holmes.
Maybe
I
learned
that
from
you.
Yes,
I
saw
the
picture--a
young
woman
with
her
head
on
her
hands,
peeping
at
you
sideways."
"That
painting
was
by
Jean
Baptiste
Greuze."
The
inspector
endeavoured
to
look
interested.
"Jean
Baptiste
Greuze,"
Holmes
continued,
joining
his
finger
tips
and
leaning
well
back
in
his
chair,
"was
a
French
artist
who
flourished
between
the
years
1750
and
1800.
I
allude,
of
course
to
his
working
career.
Modern
criticism
has
more
than
indorsed
the
high
opinion
formed
of
him
by
his
contemporaries."
The
inspector's
eyes
grew
abstracted.
"Hadn't
we
better--"
he
said.
"We
are
doing
so,"
Holmes
interrupted.
"All
that
I
am
saying
has
a
very
direct
and
vital
bearing
upon
what
you
have
called
the
Birlstone
Mystery.
In
fact,
it
may
in
a
sense
be
called
the
very
centre
of
it."
MacDonald
smiled
feebly,
and
looked
appealingly
to
me.
"Your
thoughts
move
a
bit
too
quick
for
me,
Mr.
Holmes.
You
leave
out
a
link
or
two,
and
I
can't
get
over
the
gap.
What
in
the
whole
wide
world
can
be
the
connection
between
this
dead
painting
man
and
the
affair
at
Birlstone?"
"All
knowledge
comes
useful
to
the
detective,"
remarked
Holmes.
"Even
the
trivial
fact
that
in
the
year
1865
a
picture
by
Greuze
entitled
La
Jeune
Fille
a
l'Agneau
fetched
one
million
two
hundred
thousand
francs--more
than
forty
thousand
pounds--at
the
Portalis
sale
may
start
a
train
of
reflection
in
your
mind."
It
was
clear
that
it
did.
The
inspector
looked
honestly
interested.
"I
may
remind
you,"
Holmes
continued,
"that
the
professor's
salary
can
be
ascertained
in
several
trustworthy
books
of
reference.
It
is
seven
hundred
a
year."
"Then
how
could
he
buy--"
"Quite
so!
How
could
he?"
"Ay,
that's
remarkable,"
said
the
inspector
thoughtfully.
"Talk
away,
Mr.
Holmes.
I'm
just
loving
it.
It's
fine!"
Holmes
smiled.
He
was
always
warmed
by
genuine
admiration--the
characteristic
of
the
real
artist.
"What
about
Birlstone?"
he
asked.
"We've
time
yet,"
said
the
inspector,
glancing
at
his
watch.
"I've
a
cab
at
the
door,
and
it
won't
take
us
twenty
minutes
to
Victoria.
But
about
this
picture:
I
thought
you
told
me
once,
Mr.
Holmes,
that
you
had
never
met
Professor
Moriarty."
"No,
I
never
have."
"Then
how
do
you
know
about
his
rooms?"
"Ah,
that's
another
matter.
I
have
been
three
times
in
his
rooms,
twice
waiting
for
him
under
different
pretexts
and
leaving
before
he
came.
Once--well,
I
can
hardly
tell
about
the
once
to
an
official
detective.
It
was
on
the
last
occasion
that
I
took
the
liberty
of
running
over
his
papers--with
the
most
unexpected
results."
"You
found
something
compromising?"
"Absolutely
nothing.
That
was
what
amazed
me.
However,
you
have
now
seen
the
point
of
the
picture.
It
shows
him
to
be
a
very
wealthy
man.
How
did
he
acquire
wealth?
He
is
unmarried.
His
younger
brother
is
a
station
master
in
the
west
of
England.
His
chair
is
worth
seven
hundred
a
year.
And
he
owns
a
Greuze."
"Well?"
"Surely
the
inference
is
plain."
"You
mean
that
he
has
a
great
income
and
that
he
must
earn
it
in
an
illegal
fashion?"
"Exactly.
Of
course
I
have
other
reasons
for
thinking
so--dozens
of
exiguous
threads
which
lead
vaguely
up
towards
the
centre
of
the
web
where
the
poisonous,
motionless
creature
is
lurking.
I
only
mention
the
Greuze
because
it
brings
the
matter
within
the
range
of
your
own
observation."
"Well,
Mr.
Holmes,
I
admit
that
what
you
say
is
interesting:
it's
more
than
interesting--it's
just
wonderful.
But
let
us
have
it
a
little
clearer
if
you
can.
Is
it
forgery,
coining,
burglary--where
does
the
money
come
from?"
"Have
you
ever
read
of
Jonathan
Wild?"
"Well,
the
name
has
a
familiar
sound.
Someone
in
a
novel,
was
he
not?
I
don't
take
much
stock
of
detectives
in
novels--chaps
that
do
things
and
never
let
you
see
how
they
do
them.
That's
just
inspiration:
not
business."
"Jonathan
Wild
wasn't
a
detective,
and
he
wasn't
in
a
novel.
He
was
a
master
criminal,
and
he
lived
last
century--1750
or
thereabouts."
"Then
he's
no
use
to
me.
I'm
a
practical
man."
"Mr.
Mac,
the
most
practical
thing
that
you
ever
did
in
your
life
would
be
to
shut
yourself
up
for
three
months
and
read
twelve
hours
a
day
at
the
annals
of
crime.
Everything
comes
in
circles--even
Professor
Moriarty.
Jonathan
Wild
was
the
hidden
force
of
the
London
criminals,
to
whom
he
sold
his
brains
and
his
organization
on
a
fifteen
per
cent.
commission.
The
old
wheel
turns,
and
the
same
spoke
comes
up.
It's
all
been
done
before,
and
will
be
again.
I'll
tell
you
one
or
two
things
about
Moriarty
which
may
interest
you."
"You'll
interest
me,
right
enough."
"I
happen
to
know
who
is
the
first
link
in
his
chain--a
chain
with
this
Napoleon-gone-wrong
at
one
end,
and
a
hundred
broken
fighting
men,
pickpockets,
blackmailers,
and
card
sharpers
at
the
other,
with
every
sort
of
crime
in
between.
His
chief
of
staff
is
Colonel
Sebastian
Moran,
as
aloof
and
guarded
and
inaccessible
to
the
law
as
himself.
What
do
you
think
he
pays
him?"
"I'd
like
to
hear."
"Six
thousand
a
year.
That's
paying
for
brains,
you
see--the
American
business
principle.
I
learned
that
detail
quite
by
chance.
It's
more
than
the
Prime
Minister
gets.
That
gives
you
an
idea
of
Moriarty's
gains
and
of
the
scale
on
which
he
works.
Another
point:
I
made
it
my
business
to
hunt
down
some
of
Moriarty's
checks
lately--just
common
innocent
checks
that
he
pays
his
household
bills
with.
They
were
drawn
on
six
different
banks.
Does
that
make
any
impression
on
your
mind?"
"Queer,
certainly!
But
what
do
you
gather
from
it?"
"That
he
wanted
no
gossip
about
his
wealth.
No
single
man
should
know
what
he
had.
I
have
no
doubt
that
he
has
twenty
banking
accounts;
the
bulk
of
his
fortune
abroad
in
the
Deutsche
Bank
or
the
Credit
Lyonnais
as
likely
as
not.
Sometime
when
you
have
a
year
or
two
to
spare
I
commend
to
you
the
study
of
Professor
Moriarty."
Inspector
MacDonald
had
grown
steadily
more
impressed
as
the
conversation
proceeded.
He
had
lost
himself
in
his
interest.
Now
his
practical
Scotch
intelligence
brought
him
back
with
a
snap
to
the
matter
in
hand.
"He
can
keep,
anyhow,"
said
he.
"You've
got
us
side-tracked
with
your
interesting
anecdotes,
Mr.
Holmes.
What
really
counts
is
your
remark
that
there
is
some
connection
between
the
professor
and
the
crime.
That
you
get
from
the
warning
received
through
the
man
Porlock.
Can
we
for
our
present
practical
needs
get
any
further
than
that?"
"We
may
form
some
conception
as
to
the
motives
of
the
crime.
It
is,
as
I
gather
from
your
original
remarks,
an
inexplicable,
or
at
least
an
unexplained,
murder.
Now,
presuming
that
the
source
of
the
crime
is
as
we
suspect
it
to
be,
there
might
be
two
different
motives.
In
the
first
place,
I
may
tell
you
that
Moriarty
rules
with
a
rod
of
iron
over
his
people.
His
discipline
is
tremendous.
There
is
only
one
punishment
in
his
code.
It
is
death.
Now
we
might
suppose
that
this
murdered
man--this
Douglas
whose
approaching
fate
was
known
by
one
of
the
arch-criminal's
subordinates--had
in
some
way
betrayed
the
chief.
His
punishment
followed,
and
would
be
known
to
all--if
only
to
put
the
fear
of
death
into
them."
"Well,
that
is
one
suggestion,
Mr.
Holmes."
"The
other
is
that
it
has
been
engineered
by
Moriarty
in
the
ordinary
course
of
business.
Was
there
any
robbery?"
"I
have
not
heard."
"If
so,
it
would,
of
course,
be
against
the
first
hypothesis
and
in
favour
of
the
second.
Moriarty
may
have
been
engaged
to
engineer
it
on
a
promise
of
part
spoils,
or
he
may
have
been
paid
so
much
down
to
manage
it.
Either
is
possible.
But
whichever
it
may
be,
or
if
it
is
some
third
combination,
it
is
down
at
Birlstone
that
we
must
seek
the
solution.
I
know
our
man
too
well
to
suppose
that
he
has
left
anything
up
here
which
may
lead
us
to
him."
"Then
to
Birlstone
we
must
go!"
cried
MacDonald,
jumping
from
his
chair.
"My
word!
it's
later
than
I
thought.
I
can
give
you,
gentlemen,
five
minutes
for
preparation,
and
that
is
all."
"And
ample
for
us
both,"
said
Holmes,
as
he
sprang
up
and
hastened
to
change
from
his
dressing
gown
to
his
coat.
"While
we
are
on
our
way,
Mr.
Mac,
I
will
ask
you
to
be
good
enough
to
tell
me
all
about
it."
"All
about
it"
proved
to
be
disappointingly
little,
and
yet
there
was
enough
to
assure
us
that
the
case
before
us
might
well
be
worthy
of
the
expert's
closest
attention.
He
brightened
and
rubbed
his
thin
hands
together
as
he
listened
to
the
meagre
but
remarkable
details.
A
long
series
of
sterile
weeks
lay
behind
us,
and
here
at
last
there
was
a
fitting
object
for
those
remarkable
powers
which,
like
all
special
gifts,
become
irksome
to
their
owner
when
they
are
not
in
use.
That
razor
brain
blunted
and
rusted
with
inaction.
Sherlock
Holmes's
eyes
glistened,
his
pale
cheeks
took
a
warmer
hue,
and
his
whole
eager
face
shone
with
an
inward
light
when
the
call
for
work
reached
him.
Leaning
forward
in
the
cab,
he
listened
intently
to
MacDonald's
short
sketch
of
the
problem
which
awaited
us
in
Sussex.
The
inspector
was
himself
dependent,
as
he
explained
to
us,
upon
a
scribbled
account
forwarded
to
him
by
the
milk
train
in
the
early
hours
of
the
morning.
White
Mason,
the
local
officer,
was
a
personal
friend,
and
hence
MacDonald
had
been
notified
much
more
promptly
than
is
usual
at
Scotland
Yard
when
provincials
need
their
assistance.
It
is
a
very
cold
scent
upon
which
the
Metropolitan
expert
is
generally
asked
to
run.
"DEAR
INSPECTOR
MACDONALD
[said
the
letter
which
he
read
to
us]:
"Official
requisition
for
your
services
is
in
separate
envelope.
This
is
for
your
private
eye.
Wire
me
what
train
in
the
morning
you
can
get
for
Birlstone,
and
I
will
meet
it--or
have
it
met
if
I
am
too
occupied.
This
case
is
a
snorter.
Don't
waste
a
moment
in
getting
started.
If
you
can
bring
Mr.
Holmes,
please
do
so;
for
he
will
find
something
after
his
own
heart.
We
would
think
the
whole
had
been
fixed
up
for
theatrical
effect
if
there
wasn't
a
dead
man
in
the
middle
of
it.
My
word!
it
IS
a
snorter."
"Your
friend
seems
to
be
no
fool,"
remarked
Holmes.
"No,
sir,
White
Mason
is
a
very
live
man,
if
I
am
any
judge."
"Well,
have
you
anything
more?"
"Only
that
he
will
give
us
every
detail
when
we
meet."
"Then
how
did
you
get
at
Mr.
Douglas
and
the
fact
that
he
had
been
horribly
murdered?"
"That
was
in
the
inclosed
official
report.
It
didn't
say
'horrible':
that's
not
a
recognized
official
term.
It
gave
the
name
John
Douglas.
It
mentioned
that
his
injuries
had
been
in
the
head,
from
the
discharge
of
a
shotgun.
It
also
mentioned
the
hour
of
the
alarm,
which
was
close
on
to
midnight
last
night.
It
added
that
the
case
was
undoubtedly
one
of
murder,
but
that
no
arrest
had
been
made,
and
that
the
case
was
one
which
presented
some
very
perplexing
and
extraordinary
features.
That's
absolutely
all
we
have
at
present,
Mr.
Holmes."
"Then,
with
your
permission,
we
will
leave
it
at
that,
Mr.
Mac.
The
temptation
to
form
premature
theories
upon
insufficient
data
is
the
bane
of
our
profession.
I
can
see
only
two
things
for
certain
at
present--a
great
brain
in
London,
and
a
dead
man
in
Sussex.
It's
the
chain
between
that
we
are
going
to
trace."
Chapter
3--The
Tragedy
of
Birlstone
Now
for
a
moment
I
will
ask
leave
to
remove
my
own
insignificant
personality
and
to
describe
events
which
occurred
before
we
arrived
upon
the
scene
by
the
light
of
knowledge
which
came
to
us
afterwards.
Only
in
this
way
can
I
make
the
reader
appreciate
the
people
concerned
and
the
strange
setting
in
which
their
fate
was
cast.
The
village
of
Birlstone
is
a
small
and
very
ancient
cluster
of
half-timbered
cottages
on
the
northern
border
of
the
county
of
Sussex.
For
centuries
it
had
remained
unchanged;
but
within
the
last
few
years
its
picturesque
appearance
and
situation
have
attracted
a
number
of
well-to-do
residents,
whose
villas
peep
out
from
the
woods
around.
These
woods
are
locally
supposed
to
be
the
extreme
fringe
of
the
great
Weald
forest,
which
thins
away
until
it
reaches
the
northern
chalk
downs.
A
number
of
small
shops
have
come
into
being
to
meet
the
wants
of
the
increased
population;
so
there
seems
some
prospect
that
Birlstone
may
soon
grow
from
an
ancient
village
into
a
modern
town.
It
is
the
centre
for
a
considerable
area
of
country,
since
Tunbridge
Wells,
the
nearest
place
of
importance,
is
ten
or
twelve
miles
to
the
eastward,
over
the
borders
of
Kent.
About
half
a
mile
from
the
town,
standing
in
an
old
park
famous
for
its
huge
beech
trees,
is
the
ancient
Manor
House
of
Birlstone.
Part
of
this
venerable
building
dates
back
to
the
time
of
the
first
crusade,
when
Hugo
de
Capus
built
a
fortalice
in
the
centre
of
the
estate,
which
had
been
granted
to
him
by
the
Red
King.
This
was
destroyed
by
fire
in
1543,
and
some
of
its
smoke-blackened
corner
stones
were
used
when,
in
Jacobean
times,
a
brick
country
house
rose
upon
the
ruins
of
the
feudal
castle.
The
Manor
House,
with
its
many
gables
and
its
small
diamond-paned
windows,
was
still
much
as
the
builder
had
left
it
in
the
early
seventeenth
century.
Of
the
double
moats
which
had
guarded
its
more
warlike
predecessor,
the
outer
had
been
allowed
to
dry
up,
and
served
the
humble
function
of
a
kitchen
garden.
The
inner
one
was
still
there,
and
lay
forty
feet
in
breadth,
though
now
only
a
few
feet
in
depth,
round
the
whole
house.
A
small
stream
fed
it
and
continued
beyond
it,
so
that
the
sheet
of
water,
though
turbid,
was
never
ditchlike
or
unhealthy.
The
ground
floor
windows
were
within
a
foot
of
the
surface
of
the
water.
The
only
approach
to
the
house
was
over
a
drawbridge,
the
chains
and
windlass
of
which
had
long
been
rusted
and
broken.
The
latest
tenants
of
the
Manor
House
had,
however,
with
characteristic
energy,
set
this
right,
and
the
drawbridge
was
not
only
capable
of
being
raised,
but
actually
was
raised
every
evening
and
lowered
every
morning.
By
thus
renewing
the
custom
of
the
old
feudal
days
the
Manor
House
was
converted
into
an
island
during
the
night--a
fact
which
had
a
very
direct
bearing
upon
the
mystery
which
was
soon
to
engage
the
attention
of
all
England.
The
house
had
been
untenanted
for
some
years
and
was
threatening
to
moulder
into
a
picturesque
decay
when
the
Douglases
took
possession
of
it.
This
family
consisted
of
only
two
individuals--John
Douglas
and
his
wife.
Douglas
was
a
remarkable
man,
both
in
character
and
in
person.
In
age
he
may
have
been
about
fifty,
with
a
strong-jawed,
rugged
face,
a
grizzling
moustache,
peculiarly
keen
gray
eyes,
and
a
wiry,
vigorous
figure
which
had
lost
nothing
of
the
strength
and
activity
of
youth.
He
was
cheery
and
genial
to
all,
but
somewhat
offhand
in
his
manners,
giving
the
impression
that
he
had
seen
life
in
social
strata
on
some
far
lower
horizon
than
the
county
society
of
Sussex.
Yet,
though
looked
at
with
some
curiosity
and
reserve
by
his
more
cultivated
neighbours,
he
soon
acquired
a
great
popularity
among
the
villagers,
subscribing
handsomely
to
all
local
objects,
and
attending
their
smoking
concerts
and
other
functions,
where,
having
a
remarkably
rich
tenor
voice,
he
was
always
ready
to
oblige
with
an
excellent
song.
He
appeared
to
have
plenty
of
money,
which
was
said
to
have
been
gained
in
the
California
gold
fields,
and
it
was
clear
from
his
own
talk
and
that
of
his
wife
that
he
had
spent
a
part
of
his
life
in
America.
The
good
impression
which
had
been
produced
by
his
generosity
and
by
his
democratic
manners
was
increased
by
a
reputation
gained
for
utter
indifference
to
danger.
Though
a
wretched
rider,
he
turned
out
at
every
meet,
and
took
the
most
amazing
falls
in
his
determination
to
hold
his
own
with
the
best.
When
the
vicarage
caught
fire
he
distinguished
himself
also
by
the
fearlessness
with
which
he
reentered
the
building
to
save
property,
after
the
local
fire
brigade
had
given
it
up
as
impossible.
Thus
it
came
about
that
John
Douglas
of
the
Manor
House
had
within
five
years
won
himself
quite
a
reputation
in
Birlstone.
His
wife,
too,
was
popular
with
those
who
had
made
her
acquaintance;
though,
after
the
English
fashion,
the
callers
upon
a
stranger
who
settled
in
the
county
without
introductions
were
few
and
far
between.
This
mattered
the
less
to
her,
as
she
was
retiring
by
disposition,
and
very
much
absorbed,
to
all
appearance,
in
her
husband
and
her
domestic
duties.
It
was
known
that
she
was
an
English
lady
who
had
met
Mr.
Douglas
in
London,
he
being
at
that
time
a
widower.
She
was
a
beautiful
woman,
tall,
dark,
and
slender,
some
twenty
years
younger
than
her
husband;
a
disparity
which
seemed
in
no
wise
to
mar
the
contentment
of
their
family
life.
It
was
remarked
sometimes,
however,
by
those
who
knew
them
best,
that
the
confidence
between
the
two
did
not
appear
to
be
complete,
since
the
wife
was
either
very
reticent
about
her
husband's
past
life,
or
else,
as
seemed
more
likely,
was
imperfectly
informed
about
it.
It
had
also
been
noted
and
commented
upon
by
a
few
observant
people
that
there
were
signs
sometimes
of
some
nerve-strain
upon
the
part
of
Mrs.
Douglas,
and
that
she
would
display
acute
uneasiness
if
her
absent
husband
should
ever
be
particularly
late
in
his
return.
On
a
quiet
countryside,
where
all
gossip
is
welcome,
this
weakness
of
the
lady
of
the
Manor
House
did
not
pass
without
remark,
and
it
bulked
larger
upon
people's
memory
when
the
events
arose
which
gave
it
a
very
special
significance.
There
was
yet
another
individual
whose
residence
under
that
roof
was,
it
is
true,
only
an
intermittent
one,
but
whose
presence
at
the
time
of
the
strange
happenings
which
will
now
be
narrated
brought
his
name
prominently
before
the
public.
This
was
Cecil
James
Barker,
of
Hales
Lodge,
Hampstead.
Cecil
Barker's
tall,
loose-jointed
figure
was
a
familiar
one
in
the
main
street
of
Birlstone
village;
for
he
was
a
frequent
and
welcome
visitor
at
the
Manor
House.
He
was
the
more
noticed
as
being
the
only
friend
of
the
past
unknown
life
of
Mr.
Douglas
who
was
ever
seen
in
his
new
English
surroundings.
Barker
was
himself
an
undoubted
Englishman;
but
by
his
remarks
it
was
clear
that
he
had
first
known
Douglas
in
America
and
had
there
lived
on
intimate
terms
with
him.
He
appeared
to
be
a
man
of
considerable
wealth,
and
was
reputed
to
be
a
bachelor.
In
age
he
was
rather
younger
than
Douglas--forty-five
at
the
most--a
tall,
straight,
broad-chested
fellow
with
a
clean-shaved,
prize-fighter
face,
thick,
strong,
black
eyebrows,
and
a
pair
of
masterful
black
eyes
which
might,
even
without
the
aid
of
his
very
capable
hands,
clear
a
way
for
him
through
a
hostile
crowd.
He
neither
rode
nor
shot,
but
spent
his
days
in
wandering
round
the
old
village
with
his
pipe
in
his
mouth,
or
in
driving
with
his
host,
or
in
his
absence
with
his
hostess,
over
the
beautiful
countryside.
"An
easy-going,
free-handed
gentleman,"
said
Ames,
the
butler.
"But,
my
word!
I
had
rather
not
be
the
man
that
crossed
him!"
He
was
cordial
and
intimate
with
Douglas,
and
he
was
no
less
friendly
with
his
wife--a
friendship
which
more
than
once
seemed
to
cause
some
irritation
to
the
husband,
so
that
even
the
servants
were
able
to
perceive
his
annoyance.
Such
was
the
third
person
who
was
one
of
the
family
when
the
catastrophe
occurred.
As
to
the
other
denizens
of
the
old
building,
it
will
suffice
out
of
a
large
household
to
mention
the
prim,
respectable,
and
capable
Ames,
and
Mrs.
Allen,
a
buxom
and
cheerful
person,
who
relieved
the
lady
of
some
of
her
household
cares.
The
other
six
servants
in
the
house
bear
no
relation
to
the
events
of
the
night
of
January
6th.
It
was
at
eleven
forty-five
that
the
first
alarm
reached
the
small
local
police
station,
in
charge
of
Sergeant
Wilson
of
the
Sussex
Constabulary.
Cecil
Barker,
much
excited,
had
rushed
up
to
the
door
and
pealed
furiously
upon
the
bell.
A
terrible
tragedy
had
occurred
at
the
Manor
House,
and
John
Douglas
had
been
murdered.
That
was
the
breathless
burden
of
his
message.
He
had
hurried
back
to
the
house,
followed
within
a
few
minutes
by
the
police
sergeant,
who
arrived
at
the
scene
of
the
crime
a
little
after
twelve
o'clock,
after
taking
prompt
steps
to
warn
the
county
authorities
that
something
serious
was
afoot.
On
reaching
the
Manor
House,
the
sergeant
had
found
the
drawbridge
down,
the
windows
lighted
up,
and
the
whole
household
in
a
state
of
wild
confusion
and
alarm.
The
white-faced
servants
were
huddling
together
in
the
hall,
with
the
frightened
butler
wringing
his
hands
in
the
doorway.
Only
Cecil
Barker
seemed
to
be
master
of
himself
and
his
emotions;
he
had
opened
the
door
which
was
nearest
to
the
entrance
and
he
had
beckoned
to
the
sergeant
to
follow
him.
At
that
moment
there
arrived
Dr.
Wood,
a
brisk
and
capable
general
practitioner
from
the
village.
The
three
men
entered
the
fatal
room
together,
while
the
horror-stricken
butler
followed
at
their
heels,
closing
the
door
behind
him
to
shut
out
the
terrible
scene
from
the
maid
servants.
The
dead
man
lay
on
his
back,
sprawling
with
outstretched
limbs
in
the
centre
of
the
room.
He
was
clad
only
in
a
pink
dressing
gown,
which
covered
his
night
clothes.
There
were
carpet
slippers
on
his
bare
feet.
The
doctor
knelt
beside
him
and
held
down
the
hand
lamp
which
had
stood
on
the
table.
One
glance
at
the
victim
was
enough
to
show
the
healer
that
his
presence
could
be
dispensed
with.
The
man
had
been
horribly
injured.
Lying
across
his
chest
was
a
curious
weapon,
a
shotgun
with
the
barrel
sawed
off
a
foot
in
front
of
the
triggers.
It
was
clear
that
this
had
been
fired
at
close
range
and
that
he
had
received
the
whole
charge
in
the
face,
blowing
his
head
almost
to
pieces.
The
triggers
had
been
wired
together,
so
as
to
make
the
simultaneous
discharge
more
destructive.
The
country
policeman
was
unnerved
and
troubled
by
the
tremendous
responsibility
which
had
come
so
suddenly
upon
him.
"We
will
touch
nothing
until
my
superiors
arrive,"
he
said
in
a
hushed
voice,
staring
in
horror
at
the
dreadful
head.
"Nothing
has
been
touched
up
to
now,"
said
Cecil
Barker.
"I'll
answer
for
that.
You
see
it
all
exactly
as
I
found
it."
"When
was
that?"
The
sergeant
had
drawn
out
his
notebook.
"It
was
just
half-past
eleven.
I
had
not
begun
to
undress,
and
I
was
sitting
by
the
fire
in
my
bedroom
when
I
heard
the
report.
It
was
not
very
loud--it
seemed
to
be
muffled.
I
rushed
down--I
don't
suppose
it
was
thirty
seconds
before
I
was
in
the
room."
"Was
the
door
open?"
"Yes,
it
was
open.
Poor
Douglas
was
lying
as
you
see
him.
His
bedroom
candle
was
burning
on
the
table.
It
was
I
who
lit
the
lamp
some
minutes
afterward."
"Did
you
see
no
one?"
"No.
I
heard
Mrs.
Douglas
coming
down
the
stair
behind
me,
and
I
rushed
out
to
prevent
her
from
seeing
this
dreadful
sight.
Mrs.
Allen,
the
housekeeper,
came
and
took
her
away.
Ames
had
arrived,
and
we
ran
back
into
the
room
once
more."
"But
surely
I
have
heard
that
the
drawbridge
is
kept
up
all
night."
"Yes,
it
was
up
until
I
lowered
it."
"Then
how
could
any
murderer
have
got
away?
It
is
out
of
the
question!
Mr.
Douglas
must
have
shot
himself."
"That
was
our
first
idea.
But
see!"
Barker
drew
aside
the
curtain,
and
showed
that
the
long,
diamond-paned
window
was
open
to
its
full
extent.
"And
look
at
this!"
He
held
the
lamp
down
and
illuminated
a
smudge
of
blood
like
the
mark
of
a
boot-sole
upon
the
wooden
sill.
"Someone
has
stood
there
in
getting
out."
"You
mean
that
someone
waded
across
the
moat?"
"Exactly!"
"Then
if
you
were
in
the
room
within
half
a
minute
of
the
crime,
he
must
have
been
in
the
water
at
that
very
moment."
"I
have
not
a
doubt
of
it.
I
wish
to
heaven
that
I
had
rushed
to
the
window!
But
the
curtain
screened
it,
as
you
can
see,
and
so
it
never
occurred
to
me.
Then
I
heard
the
step
of
Mrs.
Douglas,
and
I
could
not
let
her
enter
the
room.
It
would
have
been
too
horrible."
"Horrible
enough!"
said
the
doctor,
looking
at
the
shattered
head
and
the
terrible
marks
which
surrounded
it.
"I've
never
seen
such
injuries
since
the
Birlstone
railway
smash."
"But,
I
say,"
remarked
the
police
sergeant,
whose
slow,
bucolic
common
sense
was
still
pondering
the
open
window.
"It's
all
very
well
your
saying
that
a
man
escaped
by
wading
this
moat,
but
what
I
ask
you
is,
how
did
he
ever
get
into
the
house
at
all
if
the
bridge
was
up?"
"Ah,
that's
the
question,"
said
Barker.
"At
what
o'clock
was
it
raised?"
"It
was
nearly
six
o'clock,"
said
Ames,
the
butler.
"I've
heard,"
said
the
sergeant,
"that
it
was
usually
raised
at
sunset.
That
would
be
nearer
half-past
four
than
six
at
this
time
of
year."
"Mrs.
Douglas
had
visitors
to
tea,"
said
Ames.
"I
couldn't
raise
it
until
they
went.
Then
I
wound
it
up
myself."
"Then
it
comes
to
this,"
said
the
sergeant:
"If
anyone
came
from
outside--IF
they
did--they
must
have
got
in
across
the
bridge
before
six
and
been
in
hiding
ever
since,
until
Mr.
Douglas
came
into
the
room
after
eleven."
"That
is
so!
Mr.
Douglas
went
round
the
house
every
night
the
last
thing
before
he
turned
in
to
see
that
the
lights
were
right.
That
brought
him
in
here.
The
man
was
waiting
and
shot
him.
Then
he
got
away
through
the
window
and
left
his
gun
behind
him.
That's
how
I
read
it;
for
nothing
else
will
fit
the
facts."
The
sergeant
picked
up
a
card
which
lay
beside
the
dead
man
on
the
floor.
The
initials
V.V.
and
under
them
the
number
341
were
rudely
scrawled
in
ink
upon
it.
"What's
this?"
he
asked,
holding
it
up.
Barker
looked
at
it
with
curiosity.
"I
never
noticed
it
before,"
he
said.
"The
murderer
must
have
left
it
behind
him."
"V.V.--341.
I
can
make
no
sense
of
that."
The
sergeant
kept
turning
it
over
in
his
big
fingers.
"What's
V.V.?
Somebody's
initials,
maybe.
What
have
you
got
there,
Dr.
Wood?"
It
was
a
good-sized
hammer
which
had
been
lying
on
the
rug
in
front
of
the
fireplace--a
substantial,
workmanlike
hammer.
Cecil
Barker
pointed
to
a
box
of
brass-headed
nails
upon
the
mantelpiece.
"Mr.
Douglas
was
altering
the
pictures
yesterday,"
he
said.
"I
saw
him
myself,
standing
upon
that
chair
and
fixing
the
big
picture
above
it.
That
accounts
for
the
hammer."
"We'd
best
put
it
back
on
the
rug
where
we
found
it,"
said
the
sergeant,
scratching
his
puzzled
head
in
his
perplexity.
"It
will
want
the
best
brains
in
the
force
to
get
to
the
bottom
of
this
thing.
It
will
be
a
London
job
before
it
is
finished."
He
raised
the
hand
lamp
and
walked
slowly
round
the
room.
"Hullo!"
he
cried,
excitedly,
drawing
the
window
curtain
to
one
side.
"What
o'clock
were
those
curtains
drawn?"
"When
the
lamps
were
lit,"
said
the
butler.
"It
would
be
shortly
after
four."
"Someone
had
been
hiding
here,
sure
enough."
He
held
down
the
light,
and
the
marks
of
muddy
boots
were
very
visible
in
the
corner.
"I'm
bound
to
say
this
bears
out
your
theory,
Mr.
Barker.
It
looks
as
if
the
man
got
into
the
house
after
four
when
the
curtains
were
drawn,
and
before
six
when
the
bridge
was
raised.
He
slipped
into
this
room,
because
it
was
the
first
that
he
saw.
There
was
no
other
place
where
he
could
hide,
so
he
popped
in
behind
this
curtain.
That
all
seems
clear
enough.
It
is
likely
that
his
main
idea
was
to
burgle
the
house;
but
Mr.
Douglas
chanced
to
come
upon
him,
so
he
murdered
him
and
escaped."
"That's
how
I
read
it,"
said
Barker.
"But,
I
say,
aren't
we
wasting
precious
time?
Couldn't
we
start
out
and
scout
the
country
before
the
fellow
gets
away?"
The
sergeant
considered
for
a
moment.
"There
are
no
trains
before
six
in
the
morning;
so
he
can't
get
away
by
rail.
If
he
goes
by
road
with
his
legs
all
dripping,
it's
odds
that
someone
will
notice
him.
Anyhow,
I
can't
leave
here
myself
until
I
am
relieved.
But
I
think
none
of
you
should
go
until
we
see
more
clearly
how
we
all
stand."
The
doctor
had
taken
the
lamp
and
was
narrowly
scrutinizing
the
body.
"What's
this
mark?"
he
asked.
"Could
this
have
any
connection
with
the
crime?"
The
dead
man's
right
arm
was
thrust
out
from
his
dressing
gown,
and
exposed
as
high
as
the
elbow.
About
halfway
up
the
forearm
was
a
curious
brown
design,
a
triangle
inside
a
circle,
standing
out
in
vivid
relief
upon
the
lard-coloured
skin.
"It's
not
tattooed,"
said
the
doctor,
peering
through
his
glasses.
"I
never
saw
anything
like
it.
The
man
has
been
branded
at
some
time
as
they
brand
cattle.
What
is
the
meaning
of
this?"
"I
don't
profess
to
know
the
meaning
of
it,"
said
Cecil
Barker;
"but
I
have
seen
the
mark
on
Douglas
many
times
this
last
ten
years."
"And
so
have
I,"
said
the
butler.
"Many
a
time
when
the
master
has
rolled
up
his
sleeves
I
have
noticed
that
very
mark.
I've
often
wondered
what
it
could
be."
"Then
it
has
nothing
to
do
with
the
crime,
anyhow,"
said
the
sergeant.
"But
it's
a
rum
thing
all
the
same.
Everything
about
this
case
is
rum.
Well,
what
is
it
now?"
The
butler
had
given
an
exclamation
of
astonishment
and
was
pointing
at
the
dead
man's
outstretched
hand.
"They've
taken
his
wedding
ring!"
he
gasped.
"What!"
"Yes,
indeed.
Master
always
wore
his
plain
gold
wedding
ring
on
the
little
finger
of
his
left
hand.
That
ring
with
the
rough
nugget
on
it
was
above
it,
and
the
twisted
snake
ring
on
the
third
finger.
There's
the
nugget
and
there's
the
snake,
but
the
wedding
ring
is
gone."
"He's
right,"
said
Barker.
"Do
you
tell
me,"
said
the
sergeant,
"that
the
wedding
ring
was
BELOW
the
other?"
"Always!"
"Then
the
murderer,
or
whoever
it
was,
first
took
off
this
ring
you
call
the
nugget
ring,
then
the
wedding
ring,
and
afterwards
put
the
nugget
ring
back
again."
"That
is
so!"
The
worthy
country
policeman
shook
his
head.
"Seems
to
me
the
sooner
we
get
London
on
to
this
case
the
better,"
said
he.
"White
Mason
is
a
smart
man.
No
local
job
has
ever
been
too
much
for
White
Mason.
It
won't
be
long
now
before
he
is
here
to
help
us.
But
I
expect
we'll
have
to
look
to
London
before
we
are
through.
Anyhow,
I'm
not
ashamed
to
say
that
it
is
a
deal
too
thick
for
the
likes
of
me."
Chapter
4--Darkness
At
three
in
the
morning
the
chief
Sussex
detective,
obeying
the
urgent
call
from
Sergeant
Wilson
of
Birlstone,
arrived
from
headquarters
in
a
light
dog-cart
behind
a
breathless
trotter.
By
the
five-forty
train
in
the
morning
he
had
sent
his
message
to
Scotland
Yard,
and
he
was
at
the
Birlstone
station
at
twelve
o'clock
to
welcome
us.
White
Mason
was
a
quiet,
comfortable-looking
person
in
a
loose
tweed
suit,
with
a
clean-shaved,
ruddy
face,
a
stoutish
body,
and
powerful
bandy
legs
adorned
with
gaiters,
looking
like
a
small
farmer,
a
retired
gamekeeper,
or
anything
upon
earth
except
a
very
favourable
specimen
of
the
provincial
criminal
officer.
"A
real
downright
snorter,
Mr.
MacDonald!"
he
kept
repeating.
"We'll
have
the
pressmen
down
like
flies
when
they
understand
it.
I'm
hoping
we
will
get
our
work
done
before
they
get
poking
their
noses
into
it
and
messing
up
all
the
trails.
There
has
been
nothing
like
this
that
I
can
remember.
There
are
some
bits
that
will
come
home
to
you,
Mr.
Holmes,
or
I
am
mistaken.
And
you
also,
Dr.
Watson;
for
the
medicos
will
have
a
word
to
say
before
we
finish.
Your
room
is
at
the
Westville
Arms.
There's
no
other
place;
but
I
hear
that
it
is
clean
and
good.
The
man
will
carry
your
bags.
This
way,
gentlemen,
if
you
please."
He
was
a
very
bustling
and
genial
person,
this
Sussex
detective.
In
ten
minutes
we
had
all
found
our
quarters.
In
ten
more
we
were
seated
in
the
parlour
of
the
inn
and
being
treated
to
a
rapid
sketch
of
those
events
which
have
been
outlined
in
the
previous
chapter.
MacDonald
made
an
occasional
note;
while
Holmes
sat
absorbed,
with
the
expression
of
surprised
and
reverent
admiration
with
which
the
botanist
surveys
the
rare
and
precious
bloom.
"Remarkable!"
he
said,
when
the
story
was
unfolded,
"most
remarkable!
I
can
hardly
recall
any
case
where
the
features
have
been
more
peculiar."
"I
thought
you
would
say
so,
Mr.
Holmes,"
said
White
Mason
in
great
delight.
"We're
well
up
with
the
times
in
Sussex.
I've
told
you
now
how
matters
were,
up
to
the
time
when
I
took
over
from
Sergeant
Wilson
between
three
and
four
this
morning.
My
word!
I
made
the
old
mare
go!
But
I
need
not
have
been
in
such
a
hurry,
as
it
turned
out;
for
there
was
nothing
immediate
that
I
could
do.
Sergeant
Wilson
had
all
the
facts.
I
checked
them
and
considered
them
and
maybe
added
a
few
of
my
own."
"What
were
they?"
asked
Holmes
eagerly.
"Well,
I
first
had
the
hammer
examined.
There
was
Dr.
Wood
there
to
help
me.
We
found
no
signs
of
violence
upon
it.
I
was
hoping
that
if
Mr.
Douglas
defended
himself
with
the
hammer,
he
might
have
left
his
mark
upon
the
murderer
before
he
dropped
it
on
the
mat.
But
there
was
no
stain."
"That,
of
course,
proves
nothing
at
all,"
remarked
Inspector
MacDonald.
"There
has
been
many
a
hammer
murder
and
no
trace
on
the
hammer."
"Quite
so.
It
doesn't
prove
it
wasn't
used.
But
there
might
have
been
stains,
and
that
would
have
helped
us.
As
a
matter
of
fact
there
were
none.
Then
I
examined
the
gun.
They
were
buckshot
cartridges,
and,
as
Sergeant
Wilson
pointed
out,
the
triggers
were
wired
together
so
that,
if
you
pulled
on
the
hinder
one,
both
barrels
were
discharged.
Whoever
fixed
that
up
had
made
up
his
mind
that
he
was
going
to
take
no
chances
of
missing
his
man.
The
sawed
gun
was
not
more
than
two
foot
long--one
could
carry
it
easily
under
one's
coat.
There
was
no
complete
maker's
name;
but
the
printed
letters
P-E-N
were
on
the
fluting
between
the
barrels,
and
the
rest
of
the
name
had
been
cut
off
by
the
saw."
"A
big
P
with
a
flourish
above
it,
E
and
N
smaller?"
asked
Holmes.
"Exactly."
"Pennsylvania
Small
Arms
Company--well-known
American
firm,"
said
Holmes.
White
Mason
gazed
at
my
friend
as
the
little
village
practitioner
looks
at
the
Harley
Street
specialist
who
by
a
word
can
solve
the
difficulties
that
perplex
him.
"That
is
very
helpful,
Mr.
Holmes.
No
doubt
you
are
right.
Wonderful!
Wonderful!
Do
you
carry
the
names
of
all
the
gun
makers
in
the
world
in
your
memory?"
Holmes
dismissed
the
subject
with
a
wave.
"No
doubt
it
is
an
American
shotgun,"
White
Mason
continued.
"I
seem
to
have
read
that
a
sawed-off
shotgun
is
a
weapon
used
in
some
parts
of
America.
Apart
from
the
name
upon
the
barrel,
the
idea
had
occurred
to
me.
There
is
some
evidence
then,
that
this
man
who
entered
the
house
and
killed
its
master
was
an
American."
MacDonald
shook
his
head.
"Man,
you
are
surely
travelling
overfast,"
said
he.
"I
have
heard
no
evidence
yet
that
any
stranger
was
ever
in
the
house
at
all."
"The
open
window,
the
blood
on
the
sill,
the
queer
card,
the
marks
of
boots
in
the
corner,
the
gun!"
"Nothing
there
that
could
not
have
been
arranged.
Mr.
Douglas
was
an
American,
or
had
lived
long
in
America.
So
had
Mr.
Barker.
You
don't
need
to
import
an
American
from
outside
in
order
to
account
for
American
doings."
"Ames,
the
butler--"
"What
about
him?
Is
he
reliable?"
"Ten
years
with
Sir
Charles
Chandos--as
solid
as
a
rock.
He
has
been
with
Douglas
ever
since
he
took
the
Manor
House
five
years
ago.
He
has
never
seen
a
gun
of
this
sort
in
the
house."
"The
gun
was
made
to
conceal.
That's
why
the
barrels
were
sawed.
It
would
fit
into
any
box.
How
could
he
swear
there
was
no
such
gun
in
the
house?"
"Well,
anyhow,
he
had
never
seen
one."
MacDonald
shook
his
obstinate
Scotch
head.
"I'm
not
convinced
yet
that
there
was
ever
anyone
in
the
house,"
said
he.
"I'm
asking
you
to
conseedar"
(his
accent
became
more
Aberdonian
as
he
lost
himself
in
his
argument)
"I'm
asking
you
to
conseedar
what
it
involves
if
you
suppose
that
this
gun
was
ever
brought
into
the
house,
and
that
all
these
strange
things
were
done
by
a
person
from
outside.
Oh,
man,
it's
just
inconceivable!
It's
clean
against
common
sense!
I
put
it
to
you,
Mr.
Holmes,
judging
it
by
what
we
have
heard."
"Well,
state
your
case,
Mr.
Mac,"
said
Holmes
in
his
most
judicial
style.
"The
man
is
not
a
burglar,
supposing
that
he
ever
existed.
The
ring
business
and
the
card
point
to
premeditated
murder
for
some
private
reason.
Very
good.
Here
is
a
man
who
slips
into
a
house
with
the
deliberate
intention
of
committing
murder.
He
knows,
if
he
knows
anything,
that
he
will
have
a
deeficulty
in
making
his
escape,
as
the
house
is
surrounded
with
water.
What
weapon
would
he
choose?
You
would
say
the
most
silent
in
the
world.
Then
he
could
hope
when
the
deed
was
done
to
slip
quickly
from
the
window,
to
wade
the
moat,
and
to
get
away
at
his
leisure.
That's
understandable.
But
is
it
understandable
that
he
should
go
out
of
his
way
to
bring
with
him
the
most
noisy
weapon
he
could
select,
knowing
well
that
it
will
fetch
every
human
being
in
the
house
to
the
spot
as
quick
as
they
can
run,
and
that
it
is
all
odds
that
he
will
be
seen
before
he
can
get
across
the
moat?
Is
that
credible,
Mr.
Holmes?"
"Well,
you
put
the
case
strongly,"
my
friend
replied
thoughtfully.
"It
certainly
needs
a
good
deal
of
justification.
May
I
ask,
Mr.
White
Mason,
whether
you
examined
the
farther
side
of
the
moat
at
once
to
see
if
there
were
any
signs
of
the
man
having
climbed
out
from
the
water?"
"There
were
no
signs,
Mr.
Holmes.
But
it
is
a
stone
ledge,
and
one
could
hardly
expect
them."
"No
tracks
or
marks?"
"None."
"Ha!
Would
there
be
any
objection,
Mr.
White
Mason,
to
our
going
down
to
the
house
at
once?
There
may
possibly
be
some
small
point
which
might
be
suggestive."
"I
was
going
to
propose
it,
Mr.
Holmes;
but
I
thought
it
well
to
put
you
in
touch
with
all
the
facts
before
we
go.
I
suppose
if
anything
should
strike
you--"
White
Mason
looked
doubtfully
at
the
amateur.
"I
have
worked
with
Mr.
Holmes
before,"
said
Inspector
MacDonald.
"He
plays
the
game."
"My
own
idea
of
the
game,
at
any
rate,"
said
Holmes,
with
a
smile.
"I
go
into
a
case
to
help
the
ends
of
justice
and
the
work
of
the
police.
If
I
have
ever
separated
myself
from
the
official
force,
it
is
because
they
have
first
separated
themselves
from
me.
I
have
no
wish
ever
to
score
at
their
expense.
At
the
same
time,
Mr.
White
Mason,
I
claim
the
right
to
work
in
my
own
way
and
give
my
results
at
my
own
time--complete
rather
than
in
stages."
"I
am
sure
we
are
honoured
by
your
presence
and
to
show
you
all
we
know,"
said
White
Mason
cordially.
"Come
along,
Dr.
Watson,
and
when
the
time
comes
we'll
all
hope
for
a
place
in
your
book."
We
walked
down
the
quaint
village
street
with
a
row
of
pollarded
elms
on
each
side
of
it.
Just
beyond
were
two
ancient
stone
pillars,
weather-stained
and
lichen-blotched,
bearing
upon
their
summits
a
shapeless
something
which
had
once
been
the
rampant
lion
of
Capus
of
Birlstone.
A
short
walk
along
the
winding
drive
with
such
sward
and
oaks
around
it
as
one
only
sees
in
rural
England,
then
a
sudden
turn,
and
the
long,
low
Jacobean
house
of
dingy,
liver-coloured
brick
lay
before
us,
with
an
old-fashioned
garden
of
cut
yews
on
each
side
of
it.
As
we
approached
it,
there
was
the
wooden
drawbridge
and
the
beautiful
broad
moat
as
still
and
luminous
as
quicksilver
in
the
cold,
winter
sunshine.
Three
centuries
had
flowed
past
the
old
Manor
House,
centuries
of
births
and
of
homecomings,
of
country
dances
and
of
the
meetings
of
fox
hunters.
Strange
that
now
in
its
old
age
this
dark
business
should
have
cast
its
shadow
upon
the
venerable
walls!
And
yet
those
strange,
peaked
roofs
and
quaint,
overhung
gables
were
a
fitting
covering
to
grim
and
terrible
intrigue.
As
I
looked
at
the
deep-set
windows
and
the
long
sweep
of
the
dull-coloured,
water-lapped
front,
I
felt
that
no
more
fitting
scene
could
be
set
for
such
a
tragedy.
"That's
the
window,"
said
White
Mason,
"that
one
on
the
immediate
right
of
the
drawbridge.
It's
open
just
as
it
was
found
last
night."
"It
looks
rather
narrow
for
a
man
to
pass."
"Well,
it
wasn't
a
fat
man,
anyhow.
We
don't
need
your
deductions,
Mr.
Holmes,
to
tell
us
that.
But
you
or
I
could
squeeze
through
all
right."
Holmes
walked
to
the
edge
of
the
moat
and
looked
across.
Then
he
examined
the
stone
ledge
and
the
grass
border
beyond
it.
"I've
had
a
good
look,
Mr.
Holmes,"
said
White
Mason.
"There
is
nothing
there,
no
sign
that
anyone
has
landed--but
why
should
he
leave
any
sign?"
"Exactly.
Why
should
he?
Is
the
water
always
turbid?"
"Generally
about
this
colour.
The
stream
brings
down
the
clay."
"How
deep
is
it?"
"About
two
feet
at
each
side
and
three
in
the
middle."
"So
we
can
put
aside
all
idea
of
the
man
having
been
drowned
in
crossing."
"No,
a
child
could
not
be
drowned
in
it."
We
walked
across
the
drawbridge,
and
were
admitted
by
a
quaint,
gnarled,
dried-up
person,
who
was
the
butler,
Ames.
The
poor
old
fellow
was
white
and
quivering
from
the
shock.
The
village
sergeant,
a
tall,
formal,
melancholy
man,
still
held
his
vigil
in
the
room
of
Fate.
The
doctor
had
departed.
"Anything
fresh,
Sergeant
Wilson?"
asked
White
Mason.
"No,
sir."
"Then
you
can
go
home.
You've
had
enough.
We
can
send
for
you
if
we
want
you.
The
butler
had
better
wait
outside.
Tell
him
to
warn
Mr.
Cecil
Barker,
Mrs.
Douglas,
and
the
housekeeper
that
we
may
want
a
word
with
them
presently.
Now,
gentlemen,
perhaps
you
will
allow
me
to
give
you
the
views
I
have
formed
first,
and
then
you
will
be
able
to
arrive
at
your
own."
He
impressed
me,
this
country
specialist.
He
had
a
solid
grip
of
fact
and
a
cool,
clear,
common-sense
brain,
which
should
take
him
some
way
in
his
profession.
Holmes
listened
to
him
intently,
with
no
sign
of
that
impatience
which
the
official
exponent
too
often
produced.
"Is
it
suicide,
or
is
it
murder--that's
our
first
question,
gentlemen,
is
it
not?
If
it
were
suicide,
then
we
have
to
believe
that
this
man
began
by
taking
off
his
wedding
ring
and
concealing
it;
that
he
then
came
down
here
in
his
dressing
gown,
trampled
mud
into
a
corner
behind
the
curtain
in
order
to
give
the
idea
someone
had
waited
for
him,
opened
the
window,
put
blood
on
the--"
"We
can
surely
dismiss
that,"
said
MacDonald.
"So
I
think.
Suicide
is
out
of
the
question.
Then
a
murder
has
been
done.
What
we
have
to
determine
is,
whether
it
was
done
by
someone
outside
or
inside
the
house."
"Well,
let's
hear
the
argument."
"There
are
considerable
difficulties
both
ways,
and
yet
one
or
the
other
it
must
be.
We
will
suppose
first
that
some
person
or
persons
inside
the
house
did
the
crime.
They
got
this
man
down
here
at
a
time
when
everything
was
still
and
yet
no
one
was
asleep.
They
then
did
the
deed
with
the
queerest
and
noisiest
weapon
in
the
world
so
as
to
tell
everyone
what
had
happened--a
weapon
that
was
never
seen
in
the
house
before.
That
does
not
seem
a
very
likely
start,
does
it?"
"No,
it
does
not."
"Well,
then,
everyone
is
agreed
that
after
the
alarm
was
given
only
a
minute
at
the
most
had
passed
before
the
whole
household--not
Mr.
Cecil
Barker
alone,
though
he
claims
to
have
been
the
first,
but
Ames
and
all
of
them
were
on
the
spot.
Do
you
tell
me
that
in
that
time
the
guilty
person
managed
to
make
footmarks
in
the
corner,
open
the
window,
mark
the
sill
with
blood,
take
the
wedding
ring
off
the
dead
man's
finger,
and
all
the
rest
of
it?
It's
impossible!"
"You
put
it
very
clearly,"
said
Holmes.
"I
am
inclined
to
agree
with
you."
"Well,
then,
we
are
driven
back
to
the
theory
that
it
was
done
by
someone
from
outside.
We
are
still
faced
with
some
big
difficulties;
but
anyhow
they
have
ceased
to
be
impossibilities.
The
man
got
into
the
house
between
four-thirty
and
six;
that
is
to
say,
between
dusk
and
the
time
when
the
bridge
was
raised.
There
had
been
some
visitors,
and
the
door
was
open;
so
there
was
nothing
to
prevent
him.
He
may
have
been
a
common
burglar,
or
he
may
have
had
some
private
grudge
against
Mr.
Douglas.
Since
Mr.
Douglas
has
spent
most
of
his
life
in
America,
and
this
shotgun
seems
to
be
an
American
weapon,
it
would
seem
that
the
private
grudge
is
the
more
likely
theory.
He
slipped
into
this
room
because
it
was
the
first
he
came
to,
and
he
hid
behind
the
curtain.
There
he
remained
until
past
eleven
at
night.
At
that
time
Mr.
Douglas
entered
the
room.
It
was
a
short
interview,
if
there
were
any
interview
at
all;
for
Mrs.
Douglas
declares
that
her
husband
had
not
left
her
more
than
a
few
minutes
when
she
heard
the
shot."
"The
candle
shows
that,"
said
Holmes.
"Exactly.
The
candle,
which
was
a
new
one,
is
not
burned
more
than
half
an
inch.
He
must
have
placed
it
on
the
table
before
he
was
attacked;
otherwise,
of
course,
it
would
have
fallen
when
he
fell.
This
shows
that
he
was
not
attacked
the
instant
that
he
entered
the
room.
When
Mr.
Barker
arrived
the
candle
was
lit
and
the
lamp
was
out."
"That's
all
clear
enough."
"Well,
now,
we
can
reconstruct
things
on
those
lines.
Mr.
Douglas
enters
the
room.
He
puts
down
the
candle.
A
man
appears
from
behind
the
curtain.
He
is
armed
with
this
gun.
He
demands
the
wedding
ring--Heaven
only
knows
why,
but
so
it
must
have
been.
Mr.
Douglas
gave
it
up.
Then
either
in
cold
blood
or
in
the
course
of
a
struggle--Douglas
may
have
gripped
the
hammer
that
was
found
upon
the
mat--he
shot
Douglas
in
this
horrible
way.
He
dropped
his
gun
and
also
it
would
seem
this
queer
card--V.V.
341,
whatever
that
may
mean--and
he
made
his
escape
through
the
window
and
across
the
moat
at
the
very
moment
when
Cecil
Barker
was
discovering
the
crime.
How's
that,
Mr.
Holmes?"
"Very
interesting,
but
just
a
little
unconvincing."
"Man,
it
would
be
absolute
nonsense
if
it
wasn't
that
anything
else
is
even
worse!"
cried
MacDonald.
"Somebody
killed
the
man,
and
whoever
it
was
I
could
clearly
prove
to
you
that
he
should
have
done
it
some
other
way.
What
does
he
mean
by
allowing
his
retreat
to
be
cut
off
like
that?
What
does
he
mean
by
using
a
shotgun
when
silence
was
his
one
chance
of
escape?
Come,
Mr.
Holmes,
it's
up
to
you
to
give
us
a
lead,
since
you
say
Mr.
White
Mason's
theory
is
unconvincing."
Holmes
had
sat
intently
observant
during
this
long
discussion,
missing
no
word
that
was
said,
with
his
keen
eyes
darting
to
right
and
to
left,
and
his
forehead
wrinkled
with
speculation.
"I
should
like
a
few
more
facts
before
I
get
so
far
as
a
theory,
Mr.
Mac,"
said
he,
kneeling
down
beside
the
body.
"Dear
me!
these
injuries
are
really
appalling.
Can
we
have
the
butler
in
for
a
moment?...
Ames,
I
understand
that
you
have
often
seen
this
very
unusual
mark--a
branded
triangle
inside
a
circle--upon
Mr.
Douglas's
forearm?"
"Frequently,
sir."
"You
never
heard
any
speculation
as
to
what
it
meant?"
"No,
sir."
"It
must
have
caused
great
pain
when
it
was
inflicted.
It
is
undoubtedly
a
burn.
Now,
I
observe,
Ames,
that
there
is
a
small
piece
of
plaster
at
the
angle
of
Mr.
Douglas's
jaw.
Did
you
observe
that
in
life?"
"Yes,
sir,
he
cut
himself
in
shaving
yesterday
morning."
"Did
you
ever
know
him
to
cut
himself
in
shaving
before?"
"Not
for
a
very
long
time,
sir."
"Suggestive!"
said
Holmes.
"It
may,
of
course,
be
a
mere
coincidence,
or
it
may
point
to
some
nervousness
which
would
indicate
that
he
had
reason
to
apprehend
danger.
Had
you
noticed
anything
unusual
in
his
conduct,
yesterday,
Ames?"
"It
struck
me
that
he
was
a
little
restless
and
excited,
sir."
"Ha!
The
attack
may
not
have
been
entirely
unexpected.
We
do
seem
to
make
a
little
progress,
do
we
not?
Perhaps
you
would
rather
do
the
questioning,
Mr.
Mac?"
"No,
Mr.
Holmes,
it's
in
better
hands
than
mine."
"Well,
then,
we
will
pass
to
this
card--V.V.
341.
It
is
rough
cardboard.
Have
you
any
of
the
sort
in
the
house?"
"I
don't
think
so."
Holmes
walked
across
to
the
desk
and
dabbed
a
little
ink
from
each
bottle
on
to
the
blotting
paper.
"It
was
not
printed
in
this
room,"
he
said;
"this
is
black
ink
and
the
other
purplish.
It
was
done
by
a
thick
pen,
and
these
are
fine.
No,
it
was
done
elsewhere,
I
should
say.
Can
you
make
anything
of
the
inscription,
Ames?"
"No,
sir,
nothing."
"What
do
you
think,
Mr.
Mac?"
"It
gives
me
the
impression
of
a
secret
society
of
some
sort;
the
same
with
his
badge
upon
the
forearm."
"That's
my
idea,
too,"
said
White
Mason.
"Well,
we
can
adopt
it
as
a
working
hypothesis
and
then
see
how
far
our
difficulties
disappear.
An
agent
from
such
a
society
makes
his
way
into
the
house,
waits
for
Mr.
Douglas,
blows
his
head
nearly
off
with
this
weapon,
and
escapes
by
wading
the
moat,
after
leaving
a
card
beside
the
dead
man,
which
will,
when
mentioned
in
the
papers,
tell
other
members
of
the
society
that
vengeance
has
been
done.
That
all
hangs
together.
But
why
this
gun,
of
all
weapons?"
"Exactly."
"And
why
the
missing
ring?"
"Quite
so."
"And
why
no
arrest?
It's
past
two
now.
I
take
it
for
granted
that
since
dawn
every
constable
within
forty
miles
has
been
looking
out
for
a
wet
stranger?"
"That
is
so,
Mr.
Holmes."
"Well,
unless
he
has
a
burrow
close
by
or
a
change
of
clothes
ready,
they
can
hardly
miss
him.
And
yet
they
HAVE
missed
him
up
to
now!"
Holmes
had
gone
to
the
window
and
was
examining
with
his
lens
the
blood
mark
on
the
sill.
"It
is
clearly
the
tread
of
a
shoe.
It
is
remarkably
broad;
a
splay-foot,
one
would
say.
Curious,
because,
so
far
as
one
can
trace
any
footmark
in
this
mud-stained
corner,
one
would
say
it
was
a
more
shapely
sole.
However,
they
are
certainly
very
indistinct.
What's
this
under
the
side
table?"
"Mr.
Douglas's
dumb-bells,"
said
Ames.
"Dumb-bell--there's
only
one.
Where's
the
other?"
"I
don't
know,
Mr.
Holmes.
There
may
have
been
only
one.
I
have
not
noticed
them
for
months."
"One
dumb-bell--"
Holmes
said
seriously;
but
his
remarks
were
interrupted
by
a
sharp
knock
at
the
door.
A
tall,
sunburned,
capable-looking,
clean-shaved
man
looked
in
at
us.
I
had
no
difficulty
in
guessing
that
it
was
the
Cecil
Barker
of
whom
I
had
heard.
His
masterful
eyes
travelled
quickly
with
a
questioning
glance
from
face
to
face.
"Sorry
to
interrupt
your
consultation,"
said
he,
"but
you
should
hear
the
latest
news."
"An
arrest?"
"No
such
luck.
But
they've
found
his
bicycle.
The
fellow
left
his
bicycle
behind
him.
Come
and
have
a
look.
It
is
within
a
hundred
yards
of
the
hall
door."
We
found
three
or
four
grooms
and
idlers
standing
in
the
drive
inspecting
a
bicycle
which
had
been
drawn
out
from
a
clump
of
evergreens
in
which
it
had
been
concealed.
It
was
a
well
used
Rudge-Whitworth,
splashed
as
from
a
considerable
journey.
There
was
a
saddlebag
with
spanner
and
oilcan,
but
no
clue
as
to
the
owner.
"It
would
be
a
grand
help
to
the
police,"
said
the
inspector,
"if
these
things
were
numbered
and
registered.
But
we
must
be
thankful
for
what
we've
got.
If
we
can't
find
where
he
went
to,
at
least
we
are
likely
to
get
where
he
came
from.
But
what
in
the
name
of
all
that
is
wonderful
made
the
fellow
leave
it
behind?
And
how
in
the
world
has
he
got
away
without
it?
We
don't
seem
to
get
a
gleam
of
light
in
the
case,
Mr.
Holmes."
"Don't
we?"
my
friend
answered
thoughtfully.
"I
wonder!"
Chapter
5--The
People
of
the
Drama
"Have
you
seen
all
you
want
of
the
study?"
asked
White
Mason
as
we
reentered
the
house.
"For
the
time,"
said
the
inspector,
and
Holmes
nodded.
"Then
perhaps
you
would
now
like
to
hear
the
evidence
of
some
of
the
people
in
the
house.
We
could
use
the
dining
room,
Ames.
Please
come
yourself
first
and
tell
us
what
you
know."
The
butler's
account
was
a
simple
and
a
clear
one,
and
he
gave
a
convincing
impression
of
sincerity.
He
had
been
engaged
five
years
before,
when
Douglas
first
came
to
Birlstone.
He
understood
that
Mr.
Douglas
was
a
rich
gentleman
who
had
made
his
money
in
America.
He
had
been
a
kind
and
considerate
employer--not
quite
what
Ames
was
used
to,
perhaps;
but
one
can't
have
everything.
He
never
saw
any
signs
of
apprehension
in
Mr.
Douglas:
on
the
contrary,
he
was
the
most
fearless
man
he
had
ever
known.
He
ordered
the
drawbridge
to
be
pulled
up
every
night
because
it
was
the
ancient
custom
of
the
old
house,
and
he
liked
to
keep
the
old
ways
up.
Mr.
Douglas
seldom
went
to
London
or
left
the
village;
but
on
the
day
before
the
crime
he
had
been
shopping
at
Tunbridge
Wells.
He
(Ames)
had
observed
some
restlessness
and
excitement
on
the
part
of
Mr.
Douglas
that
day;
for
he
had
seemed
impatient
and
irritable,
which
was
unusual
with
him.
He
had
not
gone
to
bed
that
night;
but
was
in
the
pantry
at
the
back
of
the
house,
putting
away
the
silver,
when
he
heard
the
bell
ring
violently.
He
heard
no
shot;
but
it
was
hardly
possible
he
would,
as
the
pantry
and
kitchens
were
at
the
very
back
of
the
house
and
there
were
several
closed
doors
and
a
long
passage
between.
The
housekeeper
had
come
out
of
her
room,
attracted
by
the
violent
ringing
of
the
bell.
They
had
gone
to
the
front
of
the
house
together.
As
they
reached
the
bottom
of
the
stairs
he
had
seen
Mrs.
Douglas
coming
down
it.
No,
she
was
not
hurrying;
it
did
not
seem
to
him
that
she
was
particularly
agitated.
Just
as
she
reached
the
bottom
of
the
stair
Mr.
Barker
had
rushed
out
of
the
study.
He
had
stopped
Mrs.
Douglas
and
begged
her
to
go
back.
"For
God's
sake,
go
back
to
your
room!"
he
cried.
"Poor
Jack
is
dead!
You
can
do
nothing.
For
God's
sake,
go
back!"
After
some
persuasion
upon
the
stairs
Mrs.
Douglas
had
gone
back.
She
did
not
scream.
She
made
no
outcry
whatever.
Mrs.
Allen,
the
housekeeper,
had
taken
her
upstairs
and
stayed
with
her
in
the
bedroom.
Ames
and
Mr.
Barker
had
then
returned
to
the
study,
where
they
had
found
everything
exactly
as
the
police
had
seen
it.
The
candle
was
not
lit
at
that
time;
but
the
lamp
was
burning.
They
had
looked
out
of
the
window;
but
the
night
was
very
dark
and
nothing
could
be
seen
or
heard.
They
had
then
rushed
out
into
the
hall,
where
Ames
had
turned
the
windlass
which
lowered
the
drawbridge.
Mr.
Barker
had
then
hurried
off
to
get
the
police.
Such,
in
its
essentials,
was
the
evidence
of
the
butler.
The
account
of
Mrs.
Allen,
the
housekeeper,
was,
so
far
as
it
went,
a
corroboration
of
that
of
her
fellow
servant.
The
housekeeper's
room
was
rather
nearer
to
the
front
of
the
house
than
the
pantry
in
which
Ames
had
been
working.
She
was
preparing
to
go
to
bed
when
the
loud
ringing
of
the
bell
had
attracted
her
attention.
She
was
a
little
hard
of
hearing.
Perhaps
that
was
why
she
had
not
heard
the
shot;
but
in
any
case
the
study
was
a
long
way
off.
She
remembered
hearing
some
sound
which
she
imagined
to
be
the
slamming
of
a
door.
That
was
a
good
deal
earlier--half
an
hour
at
least
before
the
ringing
of
the
bell.
When
Mr.
Ames
ran
to
the
front
she
went
with
him.
She
saw
Mr.
Barker,
very
pale
and
excited,
come
out
of
the
study.
He
intercepted
Mrs.
Douglas,
who
was
coming
down
the
stairs.
He
entreated
her
to
go
back,
and
she
answered
him,
but
what
she
said
could
not
be
heard.
"Take
her
up!
Stay
with
her!"
he
had
said
to
Mrs.
Allen.
She
had
therefore
taken
her
to
the
bedroom,
and
endeavoured
to
soothe
her.
She
was
greatly
excited,
trembling
all
over,
but
made
no
other
attempt
to
go
downstairs.
She
just
sat
in
her
dressing
gown
by
her
bedroom
fire,
with
her
head
sunk
in
her
hands.
Mrs.
Allen
stayed
with
her
most
of
the
night.
As
to
the
other
servants,
they
had
all
gone
to
bed,
and
the
alarm
did
not
reach
them
until
just
before
the
police
arrived.
They
slept
at
the
extreme
back
of
the
house,
and
could
not
possibly
have
heard
anything.
So
far
the
housekeeper
could
add
nothing
on
cross-examination
save
lamentations
and
expressions
of
amazement.
Cecil
Barker
succeeded
Mrs.
Allen
as
a
witness.
As
to
the
occurrences
of
the
night
before,
he
had
very
little
to
add
to
what
he
had
already
told
the
police.
Personally,
he
was
convinced
that
the
murderer
had
escaped
by
the
window.
The
bloodstain
was
conclusive,
in
his
opinion,
on
that
point.
Besides,
as
the
bridge
was
up,
there
was
no
other
possible
way
of
escaping.
He
could
not
explain
what
had
become
of
the
assassin
or
why
he
had
not
taken
his
bicycle,
if
it
were
indeed
his.
He
could
not
possibly
have
been
drowned
in
the
moat,
which
was
at
no
place
more
than
three
feet
deep.
In
his
own
mind
he
had
a
very
definite
theory
about
the
murder.
Douglas
was
a
reticent
man,
and
there
were
some
chapters
in
his
life
of
which
he
never
spoke.
He
had
emigrated
to
America
when
he
was
a
very
young
man.
He
had
prospered
well,
and
Barker
had
first
met
him
in
California,
where
they
had
become
partners
in
a
successful
mining
claim
at
a
place
called
Benito
Canyon.
They
had
done
very
well;
but
Douglas
had
suddenly
sold
out
and
started
for
England.
He
was
a
widower
at
that
time.
Barker
had
afterwards
realized
his
money
and
come
to
live
in
London.
Thus
they
had
renewed
their
friendship.
Douglas
had
given
him
the
impression
that
some
danger
was
hanging
over
his
head,
and
he
had
always
looked
upon
his
sudden
departure
from
California,
and
also
his
renting
a
house
in
so
quiet
a
place
in
England,
as
being
connected
with
this
peril.
He
imagined
that
some
secret
society,
some
implacable
organization,
was
on
Douglas's
track,
which
would
never
rest
until
it
killed
him.
Some
remarks
of
his
had
given
him
this
idea;
though
he
had
never
told
him
what
the
society
was,
nor
how
he
had
come
to
offend
it.
He
could
only
suppose
that
the
legend
upon
the
placard
had
some
reference
to
this
secret
society.
"How
long
were
you
with
Douglas
in
California?"
asked
Inspector
MacDonald.
"Five
years
altogether."
"He
was
a
bachelor,
you
say?"
"A
widower."
"Have
you
ever
heard
where
his
first
wife
came
from?"
"No,
I
remember
his
saying
that
she
was
of
German
extraction,
and
I
have
seen
her
portrait.
She
was
a
very
beautiful
woman.
She
died
of
typhoid
the
year
before
I
met
him."
"You
don't
associate
his
past
with
any
particular
part
of
America?"
"I
have
heard
him
talk
of
Chicago.
He
knew
that
city
well
and
had
worked
there.
I
have
heard
him
talk
of
the
coal
and
iron
districts.
He
had
travelled
a
good
deal
in
his
time."
"Was
he
a
politician?
Had
this
secret
society
to
do
with
politics?"
"No,
he
cared
nothing
about
politics."
"You
have
no
reason
to
think
it
was
criminal?"
"On
the
contrary,
I
never
met
a
straighter
man
in
my
life."
"Was
there
anything
curious
about
his
life
in
California?"
"He
liked
best
to
stay
and
to
work
at
our
claim
in
the
mountains.
He
would
never
go
where
other
men
were
if
he
could
help
it.
That's
why
I
first
thought
that
someone
was
after
him.
Then
when
he
left
so
suddenly
for
Europe
I
made
sure
that
it
was
so.
I
believe
that
he
had
a
warning
of
some
sort.
Within
a
week
of
his
leaving
half
a
dozen
men
were
inquiring
for
him."
"What
sort
of
men?"
"Well,
they
were
a
mighty
hard-looking
crowd.
They
came
up
to
the
claim
and
wanted
to
know
where
he
was.
I
told
them
that
he
was
gone
to
Europe
and
that
I
did
not
know
where
to
find
him.
They
meant
him
no
good--it
was
easy
to
see
that."
"Were
these
men
Americans--Californians?"
"Well,
I
don't
know
about
Californians.
They
were
Americans,
all
right.
But
they
were
not
miners.
I
don't
know
what
they
were,
and
was
very
glad
to
see
their
backs."
"That
was
six
years
ago?"
"Nearer
seven."
"And
then
you
were
together
five
years
in
California,
so
that
this
business
dates
back
not
less
than
eleven
years
at
the
least?"
"That
is
so."
"It
must
be
a
very
serious
feud
that
would
be
kept
up
with
such
earnestness
for
as
long
as
that.
It
would
be
no
light
thing
that
would
give
rise
to
it."
"I
think
it
shadowed
his
whole
life.
It
was
never
quite
out
of
his
mind."
"But
if
a
man
had
a
danger
hanging
over
him,
and
knew
what
it
was,
don't
you
think
he
would
turn
to
the
police
for
protection?"
"Maybe
it
was
some
danger
that
he
could
not
be
protected
against.
There's
one
thing
you
should
know.
He
always
went
about
armed.
His
revolver
was
never
out
of
his
pocket.
But,
by
bad
luck,
he
was
in
his
dressing
gown
and
had
left
it
in
the
bedroom
last
night.
Once
the
bridge
was
up,
I
guess
he
thought
he
was
safe."
"I
should
like
these
dates
a
little
clearer,"
said
MacDonald.
"It
is
quite
six
years
since
Douglas
left
California.
You
followed
him
next
year,
did
you
not?"
"That
is
so."
"And
he
had
been
married
five
years.
You
must
have
returned
about
the
time
of
his
marriage."
"About
a
month
before.
I
was
his
best
man."
"Did
you
know
Mrs.
Douglas
before
her
marriage?"
"No,
I
did
not.
I
had
been
away
from
England
for
ten
years."
"But
you
have
seen
a
good
deal
of
her
since."
Barker
looked
sternly
at
the
detective.
"I
have
seen
a
good
deal
of
HIM
since,"
he
answered.
"If
I
have
seen
her,
it
is
because
you
cannot
visit
a
man
without
knowing
his
wife.
If
you
imagine
there
is
any
connection--"
"I
imagine
nothing,
Mr.
Barker.
I
am
bound
to
make
every
inquiry
which
can
bear
upon
the
case.
But
I
mean
no
offense."
"Some
inquiries
are
offensive,"
Barker
answered
angrily.
"It's
only
the
facts
that
we
want.
It
is
in
your
interest
and
everyone's
interest
that
they
should
be
cleared
up.
Did
Mr.
Douglas
entirely
approve
your
friendship
with
his
wife?"
Barker
grew
paler,
and
his
great,
strong
hands
were
clasped
convulsively
together.
"You
have
no
right
to
ask
such
questions!"
he
cried.
"What
has
this
to
do
with
the
matter
you
are
investigating?"
"I
must
repeat
the
question."
"Well,
I
refuse
to
answer."
"You
can
refuse
to
answer;
but
you
must
be
aware
that
your
refusal
is
in
itself
an
answer,
for
you
would
not
refuse
if
you
had
not
something
to
conceal."
Barker
stood
for
a
moment
with
his
face
set
grimly
and
his
strong
black
eyebrows
drawn
low
in
intense
thought.
Then
he
looked
up
with
a
smile.
"Well,
I
guess
you
gentlemen
are
only
doing
your
clear
duty
after
all,
and
I
have
no
right
to
stand
in
the
way
of
it.
I'd
only
ask
you
not
to
worry
Mrs.
Douglas
over
this
matter;
for
she
has
enough
upon
her
just
now.
I
may
tell
you
that
poor
Douglas
had
just
one
fault
in
the
world,
and
that
was
his
jealousy.
He
was
fond
of
me--no
man
could
be
fonder
of
a
friend.
And
he
was
devoted
to
his
wife.
He
loved
me
to
come
here,
and
was
forever
sending
for
me.
And
yet
if
his
wife
and
I
talked
together
or
there
seemed
any
sympathy
between
us,
a
kind
of
wave
of
jealousy
would
pass
over
him,
and
he
would
be
off
the
handle
and
saying
the
wildest
things
in
a
moment.
More
than
once
I've
sworn
off
coming
for
that
reason,
and
then
he
would
write
me
such
penitent,
imploring
letters
that
I
just
had
to.
But
you
can
take
it
from
me,
gentlemen,
if
it
was
my
last
word,
that
no
man
ever
had
a
more
loving,
faithful
wife--and
I
can
say
also
no
friend
could
be
more
loyal
than
I!"
It
was
spoken
with
fervour
and
feeling,
and
yet
Inspector
MacDonald
could
not
dismiss
the
subject.
"You
are
aware,"
said
he,
"that
the
dead
man's
wedding
ring
has
been
taken
from
his
finger?"
"So
it
appears,"
said
Barker.
"What
do
you
mean
by
'appears'?
You
know
it
as
a
fact."
The
man
seemed
confused
and
undecided.
"When
I
said
'appears'
I
meant
that
it
was
conceivable
that
he
had
himself
taken
off
the
ring."
"The
mere
fact
that
the
ring
should
be
absent,
whoever
may
have
removed
it,
would
suggest
to
anyone's
mind,
would
it
not,
that
the
marriage
and
the
tragedy
were
connected?"
Barker
shrugged
his
broad
shoulders.
"I
can't
profess
to
say
what
it
means,"
he
answered.
"But
if
you
mean
to
hint
that
it
could
reflect
in
any
way
upon
this
lady's
honour"--his
eyes
blazed
for
an
instant,
and
then
with
an
evident
effort
he
got
a
grip
upon
his
own
emotions--"well,
you
are
on
the
wrong
track,
that's
all."
"I
don't
know
that
I've
anything
else
to
ask
you
at
present,"
said
MacDonald,
coldly.
"There
was
one
small
point,"
remarked
Sherlock
Holmes.
"When
you
entered
the
room
there
was
only
a
candle
lighted
on
the
table,
was
there
not?"
"Yes,
that
was
so."
"By
its
light
you
saw
that
some
terrible
incident
had
occurred?"
"Exactly."
"You
at
once
rang
for
help?"
"Yes."
"And
it
arrived
very
speedily?"
"Within
a
minute
or
so."
"And
yet
when
they
arrived
they
found
that
the
candle
was
out
and
that
the
lamp
had
been
lighted.
That
seems
very
remarkable."
Again
Barker
showed
some
signs
of
indecision.
"I
don't
see
that
it
was
remarkable,
Mr.
Holmes,"
he
answered
after
a
pause.
"The
candle
threw
a
very
bad
light.
My
first
thought
was
to
get
a
better
one.
The
lamp
was
on
the
table;
so
I
lit
it."
"And
blew
out
the
candle?"
"Exactly."
Holmes
asked
no
further
question,
and
Barker,
with
a
deliberate
look
from
one
to
the
other
of
us,
which
had,
as
it
seemed
to
me,
something
of
defiance
in
it,
turned
and
left
the
room.
Inspector
MacDonald
had
sent
up
a
note
to
the
effect
that
he
would
wait
upon
Mrs.
Douglas
in
her
room;
but
she
had
replied
that
she
would
meet
us
in
the
dining
room.
She
entered
now,
a
tall
and
beautiful
woman
of
thirty,
reserved
and
self-possessed
to
a
remarkable
degree,
very
different
from
the
tragic
and
distracted
figure
I
had
pictured.
It
is
true
that
her
face
was
pale
and
drawn,
like
that
of
one
who
has
endured
a
great
shock;
but
her
manner
was
composed,
and
the
finely
moulded
hand
which
she
rested
upon
the
edge
of
the
table
was
as
steady
as
my
own.
Her
sad,
appealing
eyes
travelled
from
one
to
the
other
of
us
with
a
curiously
inquisitive
expression.
That
questioning
gaze
transformed
itself
suddenly
into
abrupt
speech.
"Have
you
found
anything
out
yet?"
she
asked.
Was
it
my
imagination
that
there
was
an
undertone
of
fear
rather
than
of
hope
in
the
question?
"We
have
taken
every
possible
step,
Mrs.
Douglas,"
said
the
inspector.
"You
may
rest
assured
that
nothing
will
be
neglected."
"Spare
no
money,"
she
said
in
a
dead,
even
tone.
"It
is
my
desire
that
every
possible
effort
should
be
made."
"Perhaps
you
can
tell
us
something
which
may
throw
some
light
upon
the
matter."
"I
fear
not;
but
all
I
know
is
at
your
service."
"We
have
heard
from
Mr.
Cecil
Barker
that
you
did
not
actually
see--that
you
were
never
in
the
room
where
the
tragedy
occurred?"
"No,
he
turned
me
back
upon
the
stairs.
He
begged
me
to
return
to
my
room."
"Quite
so.
You
had
heard
the
shot,
and
you
had
at
once
come
down."
"I
put
on
my
dressing
gown
and
then
came
down."
"How
long
was
it
after
hearing
the
shot
that
you
were
stopped
on
the
stair
by
Mr.
Barker?"
"It
may
have
been
a
couple
of
minutes.
It
is
so
hard
to
reckon
time
at
such
a
moment.
He
implored
me
not
to
go
on.
He
assured
me
that
I
could
do
nothing.
Then
Mrs.
Allen,
the
housekeeper,
led
me
upstairs
again.
It
was
all
like
some
dreadful
dream."
"Can
you
give
us
any
idea
how
long
your
husband
had
been
downstairs
before
you
heard
the
shot?"
"No,
I
cannot
say.
He
went
from
his
dressing
room,
and
I
did
not
hear
him
go.
He
did
the
round
of
the
house
every
night,
for
he
was
nervous
of
fire.
It
is
the
only
thing
that
I
have
ever
known
him
nervous
of."
"That
is
just
the
point
which
I
want
to
come
to,
Mrs.
Douglas.
You
have
known
your
husband
only
in
England,
have
you
not?"
"Yes,
we
have
been
married
five
years."
"Have
you
heard
him
speak
of
anything
which
occurred
in
America
and
might
bring
some
danger
upon
him?"
Mrs.
Douglas
thought
earnestly
before
she
answered.
"Yes,"
she
said
at
last,
"I
have
always
felt
that
there
was
a
danger
hanging
over
him.
He
refused
to
discuss
it
with
me.
It
was
not
from
want
of
confidence
in
me--there
was
the
most
complete
love
and
confidence
between
us--but
it
was
out
of
his
desire
to
keep
all
alarm
away
from
me.
He
thought
I
should
brood
over
it
if
I
knew
all,
and
so
he
was
silent."
"How
did
you
know
it,
then?"
Mrs.
Douglas's
face
lit
with
a
quick
smile.
"Can
a
husband
ever
carry
about
a
secret
all
his
life
and
a
woman
who
loves
him
have
no
suspicion
of
it?
I
knew
it
by
his
refusal
to
talk
about
some
episodes
in
his
American
life.
I
knew
it
by
certain
precautions
he
took.
I
knew
it
by
certain
words
he
let
fall.
I
knew
it
by
the
way
he
looked
at
unexpected
strangers.
I
was
perfectly
certain
that
he
had
some
powerful
enemies,
that
he
believed
they
were
on
his
track,
and
that
he
was
always
on
his
guard
against
them.
I
was
so
sure
of
it
that
for
years
I
have
been
terrified
if
ever
he
came
home
later
than
was
expected."
"Might
I
ask,"
asked
Holmes,
"what
the
words
were
which
attracted
your
attention?"
"The
Valley
of
Fear,"
the
lady
answered.
"That
was
an
expression
he
has
used
when
I
questioned
him.
'I
have
been
in
the
Valley
of
Fear.
I
am
not
out
of
it
yet.'--'Are
we
never
to
get
out
of
the
Valley
of
Fear?'
I
have
asked
him
when
I
have
seen
him
more
serious
than
usual.
'Sometimes
I
think
that
we
never
shall,'
he
has
answered."
"Surely
you
asked
him
what
he
meant
by
the
Valley
of
Fear?"
"I
did;
but
his
face
would
become
very
grave
and
he
would
shake
his
head.
'It
is
bad
enough
that
one
of
us
should
have
been
in
its
shadow,'
he
said.
'Please
God
it
shall
never
fall
upon
you!'
It
was
some
real
valley
in
which
he
had
lived
and
in
which
something
terrible
had
occurred
to
him,
of
that
I
am
certain;
but
I
can
tell
you
no
more."
"And
he
never
mentioned
any
names?"
"Yes,
he
was
delirious
with
fever
once
when
he
had
his
hunting
accident
three
years
ago.
Then
I
remember
that
there
was
a
name
that
came
continually
to
his
lips.
He
spoke
it
with
anger
and
a
sort
of
horror.
McGinty
was
the
name--Bodymaster
McGinty.
I
asked
him
when
he
recovered
who
Bodymaster
McGinty
was,
and
whose
body
he
was
master
of.
'Never
of
mine,
thank
God!'
he
answered
with
a
laugh,
and
that
was
all
I
could
get
from
him.
But
there
is
a
connection
between
Bodymaster
McGinty
and
the
Valley
of
Fear."
"There
is
one
other
point,"
said
Inspector
MacDonald.
"You
met
Mr.
Douglas
in
a
boarding
house
in
London,
did
you
not,
and
became
engaged
to
him
there?
Was
there
any
romance,
anything
secret
or
mysterious,
about
the
wedding?"
"There
was
romance.
There
is
always
romance.
There
was
nothing
mysterious."
"He
had
no
rival?"
"No,
I
was
quite
free."
"You
have
heard,
no
doubt,
that
his
wedding
ring
has
been
taken.
Does
that
suggest
anything
to
you?
Suppose
that
some
enemy
of
his
old
life
had
tracked
him
down
and
committed
this
crime,
what
possible
reason
could
he
have
for
taking
his
wedding
ring?"
For
an
instant
I
could
have
sworn
that
the
faintest
shadow
of
a
smile
flickered
over
the
woman's
lips.
"I
really
cannot
tell,"
she
answered.
"It
is
certainly
a
most
extraordinary
thing."
"Well,
we
will
not
detain
you
any
longer,
and
we
are
sorry
to
have
put
you
to
this
trouble
at
such
a
time,"
said
the
inspector.
"There
are
some
other
points,
no
doubt;
but
we
can
refer
to
you
as
they
arise."
She
rose,
and
I
was
again
conscious
of
that
quick,
questioning
glance
with
which
she
had
just
surveyed
us.
"What
impression
has
my
evidence
made
upon
you?"
The
question
might
as
well
have
been
spoken.
Then,
with
a
bow,
she
swept
from
the
room.
"She's
a
beautiful
woman--a
very
beautiful
woman,"
said
MacDonald
thoughtfully,
after
the
door
had
closed
behind
her.
"This
man
Barker
has
certainly
been
down
here
a
good
deal.
He
is
a
man
who
might
be
attractive
to
a
woman.
He
admits
that
the
dead
man
was
jealous,
and
maybe
he
knew
best
himself
what
cause
he
had
for
jealousy.
Then
there's
that
wedding
ring.
You
can't
get
past
that.
The
man
who
tears
a
wedding
ring
off
a
dead
man's--What
do
you
say
to
it,
Mr.
Holmes?"
My
friend
had
sat
with
his
head
upon
his
hands,
sunk
in
the
deepest
thought.
Now
he
rose
and
rang
the
bell.
"Ames,"
he
said,
when
the
butler
entered,
"where
is
Mr.
Cecil
Barker
now?"
"I'll
see,
sir."
He
came
back
in
a
moment
to
say
that
Barker
was
in
the
garden.
"Can
you
remember,
Ames,
what
Mr.
Barker
had
on
his
feet
last
night
when
you
joined
him
in
the
study?"
"Yes,
Mr.
Holmes.
He
had
a
pair
of
bedroom
slippers.
I
brought
him
his
boots
when
he
went
for
the
police."
"Where
are
the
slippers
now?"
"They
are
still
under
the
chair
in
the
hall."
"Very
good,
Ames.
It
is,
of
course,
important
for
us
to
know
which
tracks
may
be
Mr.
Barker's
and
which
from
outside."
"Yes,
sir.
I
may
say
that
I
noticed
that
the
slippers
were
stained
with
blood--so
indeed
were
my
own."
"That
is
natural
enough,
considering
the
condition
of
the
room.
Very
good,
Ames.
We
will
ring
if
we
want
you."
A
few
minutes
later
we
were
in
the
study.
Holmes
had
brought
with
him
the
carpet
slippers
from
the
hall.
As
Ames
had
observed,
the
soles
of
both
were
dark
with
blood.
"Strange!"
murmured
Holmes,
as
he
stood
in
the
light
of
the
window
and
examined
them
minutely.
"Very
strange
indeed!"
Stooping
with
one
of
his
quick
feline
pounces,
he
placed
the
slipper
upon
the
blood
mark
on
the
sill.
It
exactly
corresponded.
He
smiled
in
silence
at
his
colleagues.
The
inspector
was
transfigured
with
excitement.
His
native
accent
rattled
like
a
stick
upon
railings.
"Man,"
he
cried,
"there's
not
a
doubt
of
it!
Barker
has
just
marked
the
window
himself.
It's
a
good
deal
broader
than
any
bootmark.
I
mind
that
you
said
it
was
a
splay-foot,
and
here's
the
explanation.
But
what's
the
game,
Mr.
Holmes--what's
the
game?"
"Ay,
what's
the
game?"
my
friend
repeated
thoughtfully.
White
Mason
chuckled
and
rubbed
his
fat
hands
together
in
his
professional
satisfaction.
"I
said
it
was
a
snorter!"
he
cried.
"And
a
real
snorter
it
is!"
Chapter
6--A
Dawning
Light
The
three
detectives
had
many
matters
of
detail
into
which
to
inquire;
so
I
returned
alone
to
our
modest
quarters
at
the
village
inn.
But
before
doing
so
I
took
a
stroll
in
the
curious
old-world
garden
which
flanked
the
house.
Rows
of
very
ancient
yew
trees
cut
into
strange
designs
girded
it
round.
Inside
was
a
beautiful
stretch
of
lawn
with
an
old
sundial
in
the
middle,
the
whole
effect
so
soothing
and
restful
that
it
was
welcome
to
my
somewhat
jangled
nerves.
In
that
deeply
peaceful
atmosphere
one
could
forget,
or
remember
only
as
some
fantastic
nightmare,
that
darkened
study
with
the
sprawling,
bloodstained
figure
on
the
floor.
And
yet,
as
I
strolled
round
it
and
tried
to
steep
my
soul
in
its
gentle
balm,
a
strange
incident
occurred,
which
brought
me
back
to
the
tragedy
and
left
a
sinister
impression
in
my
mind.
I
have
said
that
a
decoration
of
yew
trees
circled
the
garden.
At
the
end
farthest
from
the
house
they
thickened
into
a
continuous
hedge.
On
the
other
side
of
this
hedge,
concealed
from
the
eyes
of
anyone
approaching
from
the
direction
of
the
house,
there
was
a
stone
seat.
As
I
approached
the
spot
I
was
aware
of
voices,
some
remark
in
the
deep
tones
of
a
man,
answered
by
a
little
ripple
of
feminine
laughter.
An
instant
later
I
had
come
round
the
end
of
the
hedge
and
my
eyes
lit
upon
Mrs.
Douglas
and
the
man
Barker
before
they
were
aware
of
my
presence.
Her
appearance
gave
me
a
shock.
In
the
dining-room
she
had
been
demure
and
discreet.
Now
all
pretense
of
grief
had
passed
away
from
her.
Her
eyes
shone
with
the
joy
of
living,
and
her
face
still
quivered
with
amusement
at
some
remark
of
her
companion.
He
sat
forward,
his
hands
clasped
and
his
forearms
on
his
knees,
with
an
answering
smile
upon
his
bold,
handsome
face.
In
an
instant--but
it
was
just
one
instant
too
late--they
resumed
their
solemn
masks
as
my
figure
came
into
view.
A
hurried
word
or
two
passed
between
them,
and
then
Barker
rose
and
came
towards
me.
"Excuse
me,
sir,"
said
he,
"but
am
I
addressing
Dr.
Watson?"
I
bowed
with
a
coldness
which
showed,
I
dare
say,
very
plainly
the
impression
which
had
been
produced
upon
my
mind.
"We
thought
that
it
was
probably
you,
as
your
friendship
with
Mr.
Sherlock
Holmes
is
so
well
known.
Would
you
mind
coming
over
and
speaking
to
Mrs.
Douglas
for
one
instant?"
I
followed
him
with
a
dour
face.
Very
clearly
I
could
see
in
my
mind's
eye
that
shattered
figure
on
the
floor.
Here
within
a
few
hours
of
the
tragedy
were
his
wife
and
his
nearest
friend
laughing
together
behind
a
bush
in
the
garden
which
had
been
his.
I
greeted
the
lady
with
reserve.
I
had
grieved
with
her
grief
in
the
dining
room.
Now
I
met
her
appealing
gaze
with
an
unresponsive
eye.
"I
fear
that
you
think
me
callous
and
hard-hearted,"
said
she.
I
shrugged
my
shoulders.
"It
is
no
business
of
mine,"
said
I.
"Perhaps
some
day
you
will
do
me
justice.
If
you
only
realized--"
"There
is
no
need
why
Dr.
Watson
should
realize,"
said
Barker
quickly.
"As
he
has
himself
said,
it
is
no
possible
business
of
his."
"Exactly,"
said
I,
"and
so
I
will
beg
leave
to
resume
my
walk."
"One
moment,
Dr.
Watson,"
cried
the
woman
in
a
pleading
voice.
"There
is
one
question
which
you
can
answer
with
more
authority
than
anyone
else
in
the
world,
and
it
may
make
a
very
great
difference
to
me.
You
know
Mr.
Holmes
and
his
relations
with
the
police
better
than
anyone
else
can.
Supposing
that
a
matter
were
brought
confidentially
to
his
knowledge,
is
it
absolutely
necessary
that
he
should
pass
it
on
to
the
detectives?"
"Yes,
that's
it,"
said
Barker
eagerly.
"Is
he
on
his
own
or
is
he
entirely
in
with
them?"
"I
really
don't
know
that
I
should
be
justified
in
discussing
such
a
point."
"I
beg--I
implore
that
you
will,
Dr.
Watson!
I
assure
you
that
you
will
be
helping
us--helping
me
greatly
if
you
will
guide
us
on
that
point."
There
was
such
a
ring
of
sincerity
in
the
woman's
voice
that
for
the
instant
I
forgot
all
about
her
levity
and
was
moved
only
to
do
her
will.
"Mr.
Holmes
is
an
independent
investigator,"
I
said.
"He
is
his
own
master,
and
would
act
as
his
own
judgment
directed.
At
the
same
time,
he
would
naturally
feel
loyalty
towards
the
officials
who
were
working
on
the
same
case,
and
he
would
not
conceal
from
them
anything
which
would
help
them
in
bringing
a
criminal
to
justice.
Beyond
this
I
can
say
nothing,
and
I
would
refer
you
to
Mr.
Holmes
himself
if
you
wanted
fuller
information."
So
saying
I
raised
my
hat
and
went
upon
my
way,
leaving
them
still
seated
behind
that
concealing
hedge.
I
looked
back
as
I
rounded
the
far
end
of
it,
and
saw
that
they
were
still
talking
very
earnestly
together,
and,
as
they
were
gazing
after
me,
it
was
clear
that
it
was
our
interview
that
was
the
subject
of
their
debate.
"I
wish
none
of
their
confidences,"
said
Holmes,
when
I
reported
to
him
what
had
occurred.
He
had
spent
the
whole
afternoon
at
the
Manor
House
in
consultation
with
his
two
colleagues,
and
returned
about
five
with
a
ravenous
appetite
for
a
high
tea
which
I
had
ordered
for
him.
"No
confidences,
Watson;
for
they
are
mighty
awkward
if
it
comes
to
an
arrest
for
conspiracy
and
murder."
"You
think
it
will
come
to
that?"
He
was
in
his
most
cheerful
and
debonair
humour.
"My
dear
Watson,
when
I
have
exterminated
that
fourth
egg
I
shall
be
ready
to
put
you
in
touch
with
the
whole
situation.
I
don't
say
that
we
have
fathomed
it--far
from
it--but
when
we
have
traced
the
missing
dumb-bell--"
"The
dumb-bell!"
"Dear
me,
Watson,
is
it
possible
that
you
have
not
penetrated
the
fact
that
the
case
hangs
upon
the
missing
dumb-bell?
Well,
well,
you
need
not
be
downcast;
for
between
ourselves
I
don't
think
that
either
Inspector
Mac
or
the
excellent
local
practitioner
has
grasped
the
overwhelming
importance
of
this
incident.
One
dumb-bell,
Watson!
Consider
an
athlete
with
one
dumb-bell!
Picture
to
yourself
the
unilateral
development,
the
imminent
danger
of
a
spinal
curvature.
Shocking,
Watson,
shocking!"
He
sat
with
his
mouth
full
of
toast
and
his
eyes
sparkling
with
mischief,
watching
my
intellectual
entanglement.
The
mere
sight
of
his
excellent
appetite
was
an
assurance
of
success;
for
I
had
very
clear
recollections
of
days
and
nights
without
a
thought
of
food,
when
his
baffled
mind
had
chafed
before
some
problem
while
his
thin,
eager
features
became
more
attenuated
with
the
asceticism
of
complete
mental
concentration.
Finally
he
lit
his
pipe,
and
sitting
in
the
inglenook
of
the
old
village
inn
he
talked
slowly
and
at
random
about
his
case,
rather
as
one
who
thinks
aloud
than
as
one
who
makes
a
considered
statement.
"A
lie,
Watson--a
great,
big,
thumping,
obtrusive,
uncompromising
lie--that's
what
meets
us
on
the
threshold!
There
is
our
starting
point.
The
whole
story
told
by
Barker
is
a
lie.
But
Barker's
story
is
corroborated
by
Mrs.
Douglas.
Therefore
she
is
lying
also.
They
are
both
lying,
and
in
a
conspiracy.
So
now
we
have
the
clear
problem.
Why
are
they
lying,
and
what
is
the
truth
which
they
are
trying
so
hard
to
conceal?
Let
us
try,
Watson,
you
and
I,
if
we
can
get
behind
the
lie
and
reconstruct
the
truth.
"How
do
I
know
that
they
are
lying?
Because
it
is
a
clumsy
fabrication
which
simply
could
not
be
true.
Consider!
According
to
the
story
given
to
us,
the
assassin
had
less
than
a
minute
after
the
murder
had
been
committed
to
take
that
ring,
which
was
under
another
ring,
from
the
dead
man's
finger,
to
replace
the
other
ring--a
thing
which
he
would
surely
never
have
done--and
to
put
that
singular
card
beside
his
victim.
I
say
that
this
was
obviously
impossible.
"You
may
argue--but
I
have
too
much
respect
for
your
judgment,
Watson,
to
think
that
you
will
do
so--that
the
ring
may
have
been
taken
before
the
man
was
killed.
The
fact
that
the
candle
had
been
lit
only
a
short
time
shows
that
there
had
been
no
lengthy
interview.
Was
Douglas,
from
what
we
hear
of
his
fearless
character,
a
man
who
would
be
likely
to
give
up
his
wedding
ring
at
such
short
notice,
or
could
we
conceive
of
his
giving
it
up
at
all?
No,
no,
Watson,
the
assassin
was
alone
with
the
dead
man
for
some
time
with
the
lamp
lit.
Of
that
I
have
no
doubt
at
all.
"But
the
gunshot
was
apparently
the
cause
of
death.
Therefore
the
shot
must
have
been
fired
some
time
earlier
than
we
are
told.
But
there
could
be
no
mistake
about
such
a
matter
as
that.
We
are
in
the
presence,
therefore,
of
a
deliberate
conspiracy
upon
the
part
of
the
two
people
who
heard
the
gunshot--of
the
man
Barker
and
of
the
woman
Douglas.
When
on
the
top
of
this
I
am
able
to
show
that
the
blood
mark
on
the
windowsill
was
deliberately
placed
there
by
Barker,
in
order
to
give
a
false
clue
to
the
police,
you
will
admit
that
the
case
grows
dark
against
him.
"Now
we
have
to
ask
ourselves
at
what
hour
the
murder
actually
did
occur.
Up
to
half-past
ten
the
servants
were
moving
about
the
house;
so
it
was
certainly
not
before
that
time.
At
a
quarter
to
eleven
they
had
all
gone
to
their
rooms
with
the
exception
of
Ames,
who
was
in
the
pantry.
I
have
been
trying
some
experiments
after
you
left
us
this
afternoon,
and
I
find
that
no
noise
which
MacDonald
can
make
in
the
study
can
penetrate
to
me
in
the
pantry
when
the
doors
are
all
shut.
"It
is
otherwise,
however,
from
the
housekeeper's
room.
It
is
not
so
far
down
the
corridor,
and
from
it
I
could
vaguely
hear
a
voice
when
it
was
very
loudly
raised.
The
sound
from
a
shotgun
is
to
some
extent
muffled
when
the
discharge
is
at
very
close
range,
as
it
undoubtedly
was
in
this
instance.
It
would
not
be
very
loud,
and
yet
in
the
silence
of
the
night
it
should
have
easily
penetrated
to
Mrs.
Allen's
room.
She
is,
as
she
has
told
us,
somewhat
deaf;
but
none
the
less
she
mentioned
in
her
evidence
that
she
did
hear
something
like
a
door
slamming
half
an
hour
before
the
alarm
was
given.
Half
an
hour
before
the
alarm
was
given
would
be
a
quarter
to
eleven.
I
have
no
doubt
that
what
she
heard
was
the
report
of
the
gun,
and
that
this
was
the
real
instant
of
the
murder.
"If
this
is
so,
we
have
now
to
determine
what
Barker
and
Mrs.
Douglas,
presuming
that
they
are
not
the
actual
murderers,
could
have
been
doing
from
quarter
to
eleven,
when
the
sound
of
the
shot
brought
them
down,
until
quarter
past
eleven,
when
they
rang
the
bell
and
summoned
the
servants.
What
were
they
doing,
and
why
did
they
not
instantly
give
the
alarm?
That
is
the
question
which
faces
us,
and
when
it
has
been
answered
we
shall
surely
have
gone
some
way
to
solve
our
problem."
"I
am
convinced
myself,"
said
I,
"that
there
is
an
understanding
between
those
two
people.
She
must
be
a
heartless
creature
to
sit
laughing
at
some
jest
within
a
few
hours
of
her
husband's
murder."
"Exactly.
She
does
not
shine
as
a
wife
even
in
her
own
account
of
what
occurred.
I
am
not
a
whole-souled
admirer
of
womankind,
as
you
are
aware,
Watson,
but
my
experience
of
life
has
taught
me
that
there
are
few
wives,
having
any
regard
for
their
husbands,
who
would
let
any
man's
spoken
word
stand
between
them
and
that
husband's
dead
body.
Should
I
ever
marry,
Watson,
I
should
hope
to
inspire
my
wife
with
some
feeling
which
would
prevent
her
from
being
walked
off
by
a
housekeeper
when
my
corpse
was
lying
within
a
few
yards
of
her.
It
was
badly
stage-managed;
for
even
the
rawest
investigators
must
be
struck
by
the
absence
of
the
usual
feminine
ululation.
If
there
had
been
nothing
else,
this
incident
alone
would
have
suggested
a
prearranged
conspiracy
to
my
mind."
"You
think
then,
definitely,
that
Barker
and
Mrs.
Douglas
are
guilty
of
the
murder?"
"There
is
an
appalling
directness
about
your
questions,
Watson,"
said
Holmes,
shaking
his
pipe
at
me.
"They
come
at
me
like
bullets.
If
you
put
it
that
Mrs.
Douglas
and
Barker
know
the
truth
about
the
murder,
and
are
conspiring
to
conceal
it,
then
I
can
give
you
a
whole-souled
answer.
I
am
sure
they
do.
But
your
more
deadly
proposition
is
not
so
clear.
Let
us
for
a
moment
consider
the
difficulties
which
stand
in
the
way.
"We
will
suppose
that
this
couple
are
united
by
the
bonds
of
a
guilty
love,
and
that
they
have
determined
to
get
rid
of
the
man
who
stands
between
them.
It
is
a
large
supposition;
for
discreet
inquiry
among
servants
and
others
has
failed
to
corroborate
it
in
any
way.
On
the
contrary,
there
is
a
good
deal
of
evidence
that
the
Douglases
were
very
attached
to
each
other."
"That,
I
am
sure,
cannot
be
true,"
said
I,
thinking
of
the
beautiful
smiling
face
in
the
garden.
"Well
at
least
they
gave
that
impression.
However,
we
will
suppose
that
they
are
an
extraordinarily
astute
couple,
who
deceive
everyone
upon
this
point,
and
conspire
to
murder
the
husband.
He
happens
to
be
a
man
over
whose
head
some
danger
hangs--"
"We
have
only
their
word
for
that."
Holmes
looked
thoughtful.
"I
see,
Watson.
You
are
sketching
out
a
theory
by
which
everything
they
say
from
the
beginning
is
false.
According
to
your
idea,
there
was
never
any
hidden
menace,
or
secret
society,
or
Valley
of
Fear,
or
Boss
MacSomebody,
or
anything
else.
Well,
that
is
a
good
sweeping
generalization.
Let
us
see
what
that
brings
us
to.
They
invent
this
theory
to
account
for
the
crime.
They
then
play
up
to
the
idea
by
leaving
this
bicycle
in
the
park
as
proof
of
the
existence
of
some
outsider.
The
stain
on
the
windowsill
conveys
the
same
idea.
So
does
the
card
on
the
body,
which
might
have
been
prepared
in
the
house.
That
all
fits
into
your
hypothesis,
Watson.
But
now
we
come
on
the
nasty,
angular,
uncompromising
bits
which
won't
slip
into
their
places.
Why
a
cut-off
shotgun
of
all
weapons--and
an
American
one
at
that?
How
could
they
be
so
sure
that
the
sound
of
it
would
not
bring
someone
on
to
them?
It's
a
mere
chance
as
it
is
that
Mrs.
Allen
did
not
start
out
to
inquire
for
the
slamming
door.
Why
did
your
guilty
couple
do
all
this,
Watson?"
"I
confess
that
I
can't
explain
it."
"Then
again,
if
a
woman
and
her
lover
conspire
to
murder
a
husband,
are
they
going
to
advertise
their
guilt
by
ostentatiously
removing
his
wedding
ring
after
his
death?
Does
that
strike
you
as
very
probable,
Watson?"
"No,
it
does
not."
"And
once
again,
if
the
thought
of
leaving
a
bicycle
concealed
outside
had
occurred
to
you,
would
it
really
have
seemed
worth
doing
when
the
dullest
detective
would
naturally
say
this
is
an
obvious
blind,
as
the
bicycle
is
the
first
thing
which
the
fugitive
needed
in
order
to
make
his
escape."
"I
can
conceive
of
no
explanation."
"And
yet
there
should
be
no
combination
of
events
for
which
the
wit
of
man
cannot
conceive
an
explanation.
Simply
as
a
mental
exercise,
without
any
assertion
that
it
is
true,
let
me
indicate
a
possible
line
of
thought.
It
is,
I
admit,
mere
imagination;
but
how
often
is
imagination
the
mother
of
truth?
"We
will
suppose
that
there
was
a
guilty
secret,
a
really
shameful
secret
in
the
life
of
this
man
Douglas.
This
leads
to
his
murder
by
someone
who
is,
we
will
suppose,
an
avenger,
someone
from
outside.
This
avenger,
for
some
reason
which
I
confess
I
am
still
at
a
loss
to
explain,
took
the
dead
man's
wedding
ring.
The
vendetta
might
conceivably
date
back
to
the
man's
first
marriage,
and
the
ring
be
taken
for
some
such
reason.
"Before
this
avenger
got
away,
Barker
and
the
wife
had
reached
the
room.
The
assassin
convinced
them
that
any
attempt
to
arrest
him
would
lead
to
the
publication
of
some
hideous
scandal.
They
were
converted
to
this
idea,
and
preferred
to
let
him
go.
For
this
purpose
they
probably
lowered
the
bridge,
which
can
be
done
quite
noiselessly,
and
then
raised
it
again.
He
made
his
escape,
and
for
some
reason
thought
that
he
could
do
so
more
safely
on
foot
than
on
the
bicycle.
He
therefore
left
his
machine
where
it
would
not
be
discovered
until
he
had
got
safely
away.
So
far
we
are
within
the
bounds
of
possibility,
are
we
not?"
"Well,
it
is
possible,
no
doubt,"
said
I,
with
some
reserve.
"We
have
to
remember,
Watson,
that
whatever
occurred
is
certainly
something
very
extraordinary.
Well,
now,
to
continue
our
supposititious
case,
the
couple--not
necessarily
a
guilty
couple--realize
after
the
murderer
is
gone
that
they
have
placed
themselves
in
a
position
in
which
it
may
be
difficult
for
them
to
prove
that
they
did
not
themselves
either
do
the
deed
or
connive
at
it.
They
rapidly
and
rather
clumsily
met
the
situation.
The
mark
was
put
by
Barker's
bloodstained
slipper
upon
the
windowsill
to
suggest
how
the
fugitive
got
away.
They
obviously
were
the
two
who
must
have
heard
the
sound
of
the
gun;
so
they
gave
the
alarm
exactly
as
they
would
have
done,
but
a
good
half
hour
after
the
event."
"And
how
do
you
propose
to
prove
all
this?"
"Well,
if
there
were
an
outsider,
he
may
be
traced
and
taken.
That
would
be
the
most
effective
of
all
proofs.
But
if
not--well,
the
resources
of
science
are
far
from
being
exhausted.
I
think
that
an
evening
alone
in
that
study
would
help
me
much."
"An
evening
alone!"
"I
propose
to
go
up
there
presently.
I
have
arranged
it
with
the
estimable
Ames,
who
is
by
no
means
wholehearted
about
Barker.
I
shall
sit
in
that
room
and
see
if
its
atmosphere
brings
me
inspiration.
I'm
a
believer
in
the
genius
loci.
You
smile,
Friend
Watson.
Well,
we
shall
see.
By
the
way,
you
have
that
big
umbrella
of
yours,
have
you
not?"
"It
is
here."
"Well,
I'll
borrow
that
if
I
may."
"Certainly--but
what
a
wretched
weapon!
If
there
is
danger--"
"Nothing
serious,
my
dear
Watson,
or
I
should
certainly
ask
for
your
assistance.
But
I'll
take
the
umbrella.
At
present
I
am
only
awaiting
the
return
of
our
colleagues
from
Tunbridge
Wells,
where
they
are
at
present
engaged
in
trying
for
a
likely
owner
to
the
bicycle."
It
was
nightfall
before
Inspector
MacDonald
and
White
Mason
came
back
from
their
expedition,
and
they
arrived
exultant,
reporting
a
great
advance
in
our
investigation.
"Man,
I'll
admeet
that
I
had
my
doubts
if
there
was
ever
an
outsider,"
said
MacDonald,
"but
that's
all
past
now.
We've
had
the
bicycle
identified,
and
we
have
a
description
of
our
man;
so
that's
a
long
step
on
our
journey."
"It
sounds
to
me
like
the
beginning
of
the
end,"
said
Holmes.
"I'm
sure
I
congratulate
you
both
with
all
my
heart."
"Well,
I
started
from
the
fact
that
Mr.
Douglas
had
seemed
disturbed
since
the
day
before,
when
he
had
been
at
Tunbridge
Wells.
It
was
at
Tunbridge
Wells
then
that
he
had
become
conscious
of
some
danger.
It
was
clear,
therefore,
that
if
a
man
had
come
over
with
a
bicycle
it
was
from
Tunbridge
Wells
that
he
might
be
expected
to
have
come.
We
took
the
bicycle
over
with
us
and
showed
it
at
the
hotels.
It
was
identified
at
once
by
the
manager
of
the
Eagle
Commercial
as
belonging
to
a
man
named
Hargrave,
who
had
taken
a
room
there
two
days
before.
This
bicycle
and
a
small
valise
were
his
whole
belongings.
He
had
registered
his
name
as
coming
from
London,
but
had
given
no
address.
The
valise
was
London
made,
and
the
contents
were
British;
but
the
man
himself
was
undoubtedly
an
American."
"Well,
well,"
said
Holmes
gleefully,
"you
have
indeed
done
some
solid
work
while
I
have
been
sitting
spinning
theories
with
my
friend!
It's
a
lesson
in
being
practical,
Mr.
Mac."
"Ay,
it's
just
that,
Mr.
Holmes,"
said
the
inspector
with
satisfaction.
"But
this
may
all
fit
in
with
your
theories,"
I
remarked.
"That
may
or
may
not
be.
But
let
us
hear
the
end,
Mr.
Mac.
Was
there
nothing
to
identify
this
man?"
"So
little
that
it
was
evident
that
he
had
carefully
guarded
himself
against
identification.
There
were
no
papers
or
letters,
and
no
marking
upon
the
clothes.
A
cycle
map
of
the
county
lay
on
his
bedroom
table.
He
had
left
the
hotel
after
breakfast
yesterday
morning
on
his
bicycle,
and
no
more
was
heard
of
him
until
our
inquiries."
"That's
what
puzzles
me,
Mr.
Holmes,"
said
White
Mason.
"If
the
fellow
did
not
want
the
hue
and
cry
raised
over
him,
one
would
imagine
that
he
would
have
returned
and
remained
at
the
hotel
as
an
inoffensive
tourist.
As
it
is,
he
must
know
that
he
will
be
reported
to
the
police
by
the
hotel
manager
and
that
his
disappearance
will
be
connected
with
the
murder."
"So
one
would
imagine.
Still,
he
has
been
justified
of
his
wisdom
up
to
date,
at
any
rate,
since
he
has
not
been
taken.
But
his
description--what
of
that?"
MacDonald
referred
to
his
notebook.
"Here
we
have
it
so
far
as
they
could
give
it.
They
don't
seem
to
have
taken
any
very
particular
stock
of
him;
but
still
the
porter,
the
clerk,
and
the
chambermaid
are
all
agreed
that
this
about
covers
the
points.
He
was
a
man
about
five
foot
nine
in
height,
fifty
or
so
years
of
age,
his
hair
slightly
grizzled,
a
grayish
moustache,
a
curved
nose,
and
a
face
which
all
of
them
described
as
fierce
and
forbidding."
"Well,
bar
the
expression,
that
might
almost
be
a
description
of
Douglas
himself,"
said
Holmes.
"He
is
just
over
fifty,
with
grizzled
hair
and
moustache,
and
about
the
same
height.
Did
you
get
anything
else?"
"He
was
dressed
in
a
heavy
gray
suit
with
a
reefer
jacket,
and
he
wore
a
short
yellow
overcoat
and
a
soft
cap."
"What
about
the
shotgun?"
"It
is
less
than
two
feet
long.
It
could
very
well
have
fitted
into
his
valise.
He
could
have
carried
it
inside
his
overcoat
without
difficulty."
"And
how
do
you
consider
that
all
this
bears
upon
the
general
case?"
"Well,
Mr.
Holmes,"
said
MacDonald,
"when
we
have
got
our
man--and
you
may
be
sure
that
I
had
his
description
on
the
wires
within
five
minutes
of
hearing
it--we
shall
be
better
able
to
judge.
But,
even
as
it
stands,
we
have
surely
gone
a
long
way.
We
know
that
an
American
calling
himself
Hargrave
came
to
Tunbridge
Wells
two
days
ago
with
bicycle
and
valise.
In
the
latter
was
a
sawed-off
shotgun;
so
he
came
with
the
deliberate
purpose
of
crime.
Yesterday
morning
he
set
off
for
this
place
on
his
bicycle,
with
his
gun
concealed
in
his
overcoat.
No
one
saw
him
arrive,
so
far
as
we
can
learn;
but
he
need
not
pass
through
the
village
to
reach
the
park
gates,
and
there
are
many
cyclists
upon
the
road.
Presumably
he
at
once
concealed
his
cycle
among
the
laurels
where
it
was
found,
and
possibly
lurked
there
himself,
with
his
eye
on
the
house,
waiting
for
Mr.
Douglas
to
come
out.
The
shotgun
is
a
strange
weapon
to
use
inside
a
house;
but
he
had
intended
to
use
it
outside,
and
there
it
has
very
obvious
advantages,
as
it
would
be
impossible
to
miss
with
it,
and
the
sound
of
shots
is
so
common
in
an
English
sporting
neighbourhood
that
no
particular
notice
would
be
taken."
"That
is
all
very
clear,"
said
Holmes.
"Well,
Mr.
Douglas
did
not
appear.
What
was
he
to
do
next?
He
left
his
bicycle
and
approached
the
house
in
the
twilight.
He
found
the
bridge
down
and
no
one
about.
He
took
his
chance,
intending,
no
doubt,
to
make
some
excuse
if
he
met
anyone.
He
met
no
one.
He
slipped
into
the
first
room
that
he
saw,
and
concealed
himself
behind
the
curtain.
Thence
he
could
see
the
drawbridge
go
up,
and
he
knew
that
his
only
escape
was
through
the
moat.
He
waited
until
quarter-past
eleven,
when
Mr.
Douglas
upon
his
usual
nightly
round
came
into
the
room.
He
shot
him
and
escaped,
as
arranged.
He
was
aware
that
the
bicycle
would
be
described
by
the
hotel
people
and
be
a
clue
against
him;
so
he
left
it
there
and
made
his
way
by
some
other
means
to
London
or
to
some
safe
hiding
place
which
he
had
already
arranged.
How
is
that,
Mr.
Holmes?"
"Well,
Mr.
Mac,
it
is
very
good
and
very
clear
so
far
as
it
goes.
That
is
your
end
of
the
story.
My
end
is
that
the
crime
was
committed
half
an
hour
earlier
than
reported;
that
Mrs.
Douglas
and
Barker
are
both
in
a
conspiracy
to
conceal
something;
that
they
aided
the
murderer's
escape--or
at
least
that
they
reached
the
room
before
he
escaped--and
that
they
fabricated
evidence
of
his
escape
through
the
window,
whereas
in
all
probability
they
had
themselves
let
him
go
by
lowering
the
bridge.
That's
my
reading
of
the
first
half."
The
two
detectives
shook
their
heads.
"Well,
Mr.
Holmes,
if
this
is
true,
we
only
tumble
out
of
one
mystery
into
another,"
said
the
London
inspector.
"And
in
some
ways
a
worse
one,"
added
White
Mason.
"The
lady
has
never
been
in
America
in
all
her
life.
What
possible
connection
could
she
have
with
an
American
assassin
which
would
cause
her
to
shelter
him?"
"I
freely
admit
the
difficulties,"
said
Holmes.
"I
propose
to
make
a
little
investigation
of
my
own
to-night,
and
it
is
just
possible
that
it
may
contribute
something
to
the
common
cause."
"Can
we
help
you,
Mr.
Holmes?"
"No,
no!
Darkness
and
Dr.
Watson's
umbrella--my
wants
are
simple.
And
Ames,
the
faithful
Ames,
no
doubt
he
will
stretch
a
point
for
me.
All
my
lines
of
thought
lead
me
back
invariably
to
the
one
basic
question--why
should
an
athletic
man
develop
his
frame
upon
so
unnatural
an
instrument
as
a
single
dumb-bell?"
It
was
late
that
night
when
Holmes
returned
from
his
solitary
excursion.
We
slept
in
a
double-bedded
room,
which
was
the
best
that
the
little
country
inn
could
do
for
us.
I
was
already
asleep
when
I
was
partly
awakened
by
his
entrance.
"Well,
Holmes,"
I
murmured,
"have
you
found
anything
out?"
He
stood
beside
me
in
silence,
his
candle
in
his
hand.
Then
the
tall,
lean
figure
inclined
towards
me.
"I
say,
Watson,"
he
whispered,
"would
you
be
afraid
to
sleep
in
the
same
room
with
a
lunatic,
a
man
with
softening
of
the
brain,
an
idiot
whose
mind
has
lost
its
grip?"
"Not
in
the
least,"
I
answered
in
astonishment.
"Ah,
that's
lucky,"
he
said,
and
not
another
word
would
he
utter
that
night.
Chapter
7--The
Solution
Next
morning,
after
breakfast,
we
found
Inspector
MacDonald
and
White
Mason
seated
in
close
consultation
in
the
small
parlour
of
the
local
police
sergeant.
On
the
table
in
front
of
them
were
piled
a
number
of
letters
and
telegrams,
which
they
were
carefully
sorting
and
docketing.
Three
had
been
placed
on
one
side.
"Still
on
the
track
of
the
elusive
bicyclist?"
Holmes
asked
cheerfully.
"What
is
the
latest
news
of
the
ruffian?"
MacDonald
pointed
ruefully
to
his
heap
of
correspondence.
"He
is
at
present
reported
from
Leicester,
Nottingham,
Southampton,
Derby,
East
Ham,
Richmond,
and
fourteen
other
places.
In
three
of
them--East
Ham,
Leicester,
and
Liverpool--there
is
a
clear
case
against
him,
and
he
has
actually
been
arrested.
The
country
seems
to
be
full
of
the
fugitives
with
yellow
coats."
"Dear
me!"
said
Holmes
sympathetically.
"Now,
Mr.
Mac
and
you,
Mr.
White
Mason,
I
wish
to
give
you
a
very
earnest
piece
of
advice.
When
I
went
into
this
case
with
you
I
bargained,
as
you
will
no
doubt
remember,
that
I
should
not
present
you
with
half-proved
theories,
but
that
I
should
retain
and
work
out
my
own
ideas
until
I
had
satisfied
myself
that
they
were
correct.
For
this
reason
I
am
not
at
the
present
moment
telling
you
all
that
is
in
my
mind.
On
the
other
hand,
I
said
that
I
would
play
the
game
fairly
by
you,
and
I
do
not
think
it
is
a
fair
game
to
allow
you
for
one
unnecessary
moment
to
waste
your
energies
upon
a
profitless
task.
Therefore
I
am
here
to
advise
you
this
morning,
and
my
advice
to
you
is
summed
up
in
three
words--abandon
the
case."
MacDonald
and
White
Mason
stared
in
amazement
at
their
celebrated
colleague.
"You
consider
it
hopeless!"
cried
the
inspector.
"I
consider
your
case
to
be
hopeless.
I
do
not
consider
that
it
is
hopeless
to
arrive
at
the
truth."
"But
this
cyclist.
He
is
not
an
invention.
We
have
his
description,
his
valise,
his
bicycle.
The
fellow
must
be
somewhere.
Why
should
we
not
get
him?"
"Yes,
yes,
no
doubt
he
is
somewhere,
and
no
doubt
we
shall
get
him;
but
I
would
not
have
you
waste
your
energies
in
East
Ham
or
Liverpool.
I
am
sure
that
we
can
find
some
shorter
cut
to
a
result."
"You
are
holding
something
back.
It's
hardly
fair
of
you,
Mr.
Holmes."
The
inspector
was
annoyed.
"You
know
my
methods
of
work,
Mr.
Mac.
But
I
will
hold
it
back
for
the
shortest
time
possible.
I
only
wish
to
verify
my
details
in
one
way,
which
can
very
readily
be
done,
and
then
I
make
my
bow
and
return
to
London,
leaving
my
results
entirely
at
your
service.
I
owe
you
too
much
to
act
otherwise;
for
in
all
my
experience
I
cannot
recall
any
more
singular
and
interesting
study."
"This
is
clean
beyond
me,
Mr.
Holmes.
We
saw
you
when
we
returned
from
Tunbridge
Wells
last
night,
and
you
were
in
general
agreement
with
our
results.
What
has
happened
since
then
to
give
you
a
completely
new
idea
of
the
case?"
"Well,
since
you
ask
me,
I
spent,
as
I
told
you
that
I
would,
some
hours
last
night
at
the
Manor
House."
"Well,
what
happened?"
"Ah,
I
can
only
give
you
a
very
general
answer
to
that
for
the
moment.
By
the
way,
I
have
been
reading
a
short
but
clear
and
interesting
account
of
the
old
building,
purchasable
at
the
modest
sum
of
one
penny
from
the
local
tobacconist."
Here
Holmes
drew
a
small
tract,
embellished
with
a
rude
engraving
of
the
ancient
Manor
House,
from
his
waistcoat
pocket.
"It
immensely
adds
to
the
zest
of
an
investigation,
my
dear
Mr.
Mac,
when
one
is
in
conscious
sympathy
with
the
historical
atmosphere
of
one's
surroundings.
Don't
look
so
impatient;
for
I
assure
you
that
even
so
bald
an
account
as
this
raises
some
sort
of
picture
of
the
past
in
one's
mind.
Permit
me
to
give
you
a
sample.
'Erected
in
the
fifth
year
of
the
reign
of
James
I,
and
standing
upon
the
site
of
a
much
older
building,
the
Manor
House
of
Birlstone
presents
one
of
the
finest
surviving
examples
of
the
moated
Jacobean
residence--'"
"You
are
making
fools
of
us,
Mr.
Holmes!"
"Tut,
tut,
Mr.
Mac!--the
first
sign
of
temper
I
have
detected
in
you.
Well,
I
won't
read
it
verbatim,
since
you
feel
so
strongly
upon
the
subject.
But
when
I
tell
you
that
there
is
some
account
of
the
taking
of
the
place
by
a
parliamentary
colonel
in
1644,
of
the
concealment
of
Charles
for
several
days
in
the
course
of
the
Civil
War,
and
finally
of
a
visit
there
by
the
second
George,
you
will
admit
that
there
are
various
associations
of
interest
connected
with
this
ancient
house."
"I
don't
doubt
it,
Mr.
Holmes;
but
that
is
no
business
of
ours."
"Is
it
not?
Is
it
not?
Breadth
of
view,
my
dear
Mr.
Mac,
is
one
of
the
essentials
of
our
profession.
The
interplay
of
ideas
and
the
oblique
uses
of
knowledge
are
often
of
extraordinary
interest.
You
will
excuse
these
remarks
from
one
who,
though
a
mere
connoisseur
of
crime,
is
still
rather
older
and
perhaps
more
experienced
than
yourself."
"I'm
the
first
to
admit
that,"
said
the
detective
heartily.
"You
get
to
your
point,
I
admit;
but
you
have
such
a
deuced
round-the-corner
way
of
doing
it."
"Well,
well,
I'll
drop
past
history
and
get
down
to
present-day
facts.
I
called
last
night,
as
I
have
already
said,
at
the
Manor
House.
I
did
not
see
either
Barker
or
Mrs.
Douglas.
I
saw
no
necessity
to
disturb
them;
but
I
was
pleased
to
hear
that
the
lady
was
not
visibly
pining
and
that
she
had
partaken
of
an
excellent
dinner.
My
visit
was
specially
made
to
the
good
Mr.
Ames,
with
whom
I
exchanged
some
amiabilities,
which
culminated
in
his
allowing
me,
without
reference
to
anyone
else,
to
sit
alone
for
a
time
in
the
study."
"What!
With
that?"
I
ejaculated.
"No,
no,
everything
is
now
in
order.
You
gave
permission
for
that,
Mr.
Mac,
as
I
am
informed.
The
room
was
in
its
normal
state,
and
in
it
I
passed
an
instructive
quarter
of
an
hour."
"What
were
you
doing?"
"Well,
not
to
make
a
mystery
of
so
simple
a
matter,
I
was
looking
for
the
missing
dumb-bell.
It
has
always
bulked
rather
large
in
my
estimate
of
the
case.
I
ended
by
finding
it."
"Where?"
"Ah,
there
we
come
to
the
edge
of
the
unexplored.
Let
me
go
a
little
further,
a
very
little
further,
and
I
will
promise
that
you
shall
share
everything
that
I
know."
"Well,
we're
bound
to
take
you
on
your
own
terms,"
said
the
inspector;
"but
when
it
comes
to
telling
us
to
abandon
the
case--why
in
the
name
of
goodness
should
we
abandon
the
case?"
"For
the
simple
reason,
my
dear
Mr.
Mac,
that
you
have
not
got
the
first
idea
what
it
is
that
you
are
investigating."
"We
are
investigating
the
murder
of
Mr.
John
Douglas
of
Birlstone
Manor."
"Yes,
yes,
so
you
are.
But
don't
trouble
to
trace
the
mysterious
gentleman
upon
the
bicycle.
I
assure
you
that
it
won't
help
you."
"Then
what
do
you
suggest
that
we
do?"
"I
will
tell
you
exactly
what
to
do,
if
you
will
do
it."
"Well,
I'm
bound
to
say
I've
always
found
you
had
reason
behind
all
your
queer
ways.
I'll
do
what
you
advise."
"And
you,
Mr.
White
Mason?"
The
country
detective
looked
helplessly
from
one
to
the
other.
Holmes
and
his
methods
were
new
to
him.
"Well,
if
it
is
good
enough
for
the
inspector,
it
is
good
enough
for
me,"
he
said
at
last.
"Capital!"
said
Holmes.
"Well,
then,
I
should
recommend
a
nice,
cheery
country
walk
for
both
of
you.
They
tell
me
that
the
views
from
Birlstone
Ridge
over
the
Weald
are
very
remarkable.
No
doubt
lunch
could
be
got
at
some
suitable
hostelry;
though
my
ignorance
of
the
country
prevents
me
from
recommending
one.
In
the
evening,
tired
but
happy--"
"Man,
this
is
getting
past
a
joke!"
cried
MacDonald,
rising
angrily
from
his
chair.
"Well,
well,
spend
the
day
as
you
like,"
said
Holmes,
patting
him
cheerfully
upon
the
shoulder.
"Do
what
you
like
and
go
where
you
will,
but
meet
me
here
before
dusk
without
fail--without
fail,
Mr.
Mac."
"That
sounds
more
like
sanity."
"All
of
it
was
excellent
advice;
but
I
don't
insist,
so
long
as
you
are
here
when
I
need
you.
But
now,
before
we
part,
I
want
you
to
write
a
note
to
Mr.
Barker."
"Well?"
"I'll
dictate
it,
if
you
like.
Ready?
"Dear
Sir:
"It
has
struck
me
that
it
is
our
duty
to
drain
the
moat,
in
the
hope
that
we
may
find
some--"
"It's
impossible,"
said
the
inspector.
"I've
made
inquiry."
"Tut,
tut!
My
dear
sir,
please
do
what
I
ask
you."
"Well,
go
on."
"--in
the
hope
that
we
may
find
something
which
may
bear
upon
our
investigation.
I
have
made
arrangements,
and
the
workmen
will
be
at
work
early
to-morrow
morning
diverting
the
stream--"
"Impossible!"
"--diverting
the
stream;
so
I
thought
it
best
to
explain
matters
beforehand.
"Now
sign
that,
and
send
it
by
hand
about
four
o'clock.
At
that
hour
we
shall
meet
again
in
this
room.
Until
then
we
may
each
do
what
we
like;
for
I
can
assure
you
that
this
inquiry
has
come
to
a
definite
pause."
Evening
was
drawing
in
when
we
reassembled.
Holmes
was
very
serious
in
his
manner,
myself
curious,
and
the
detectives
obviously
critical
and
annoyed.
"Well,
gentlemen,"
said
my
friend
gravely,
"I
am
asking
you
now
to
put
everything
to
the
test
with
me,
and
you
will
judge
for
yourselves
whether
the
observations
I
have
made
justify
the
conclusions
to
which
I
have
come.
It
is
a
chill
evening,
and
I
do
not
know
how
long
our
expedition
may
last;
so
I
beg
that
you
will
wear
your
warmest
coats.
It
is
of
the
first
importance
that
we
should
be
in
our
places
before
it
grows
dark;
so
with
your
permission
we
shall
get
started
at
once."
We
passed
along
the
outer
bounds
of
the
Manor
House
park
until
we
came
to
a
place
where
there
was
a
gap
in
the
rails
which
fenced
it.
Through
this
we
slipped,
and
then
in
the
gathering
gloom
we
followed
Holmes
until
we
had
reached
a
shrubbery
which
lies
nearly
opposite
to
the
main
door
and
the
drawbridge.
The
latter
had
not
been
raised.
Holmes
crouched
down
behind
the
screen
of
laurels,
and
we
all
three
followed
his
example.
"Well,
what
are
we
to
do
now?"
asked
MacDonald
with
some
gruffness.
"Possess
our
souls
in
patience
and
make
as
little
noise
as
possible,"
Holmes
answered.
"What
are
we
here
for
at
all?
I
really
think
that
you
might
treat
us
with
more
frankness."
Holmes
laughed.
"Watson
insists
that
I
am
the
dramatist
in
real
life,"
said
he.
"Some
touch
of
the
artist
wells
up
within
me,
and
calls
insistently
for
a
well-staged
performance.
Surely
our
profession,
Mr.
Mac,
would
be
a
drab
and
sordid
one
if
we
did
not
sometimes
set
the
scene
so
as
to
glorify
our
results.
The
blunt
accusation,
the
brutal
tap
upon
the
shoulder--what
can
one
make
of
such
a
denouement?
But
the
quick
inference,
the
subtle
trap,
the
clever
forecast
of
coming
events,
the
triumphant
vindication
of
bold
theories--are
these
not
the
pride
and
the
justification
of
our
life's
work?
At
the
present
moment
you
thrill
with
the
glamour
of
the
situation
and
the
anticipation
of
the
hunt.
Where
would
be
that
thrill
if
I
had
been
as
definite
as
a
timetable?
I
only
ask
a
little
patience,
Mr.
Mac,
and
all
will
be
clear
to
you."
"Well,
I
hope
the
pride
and
justification
and
the
rest
of
it
will
come
before
we
all
get
our
death
of
cold,"
said
the
London
detective
with
comic
resignation.
We
all
had
good
reason
to
join
in
the
aspiration;
for
our
vigil
was
a
long
and
bitter
one.
Slowly
the
shadows
darkened
over
the
long,
sombre
face
of
the
old
house.
A
cold,
damp
reek
from
the
moat
chilled
us
to
the
bones
and
set
our
teeth
chattering.
There
was
a
single
lamp
over
the
gateway
and
a
steady
globe
of
light
in
the
fatal
study.
Everything
else
was
dark
and
still.
"How
long
is
this
to
last?"
asked
the
inspector
finally.
"And
what
is
it
we
are
watching
for?"
"I
have
no
more
notion
than
you
how
long
it
is
to
last,"
Holmes
answered
with
some
asperity.
"If
criminals
would
always
schedule
their
movements
like
railway
trains,
it
would
certainly
be
more
convenient
for
all
of
us.
As
to
what
it
is
we--Well,
THAT'S
what
we
are
watching
for!"
As
he
spoke
the
bright,
yellow
light
in
the
study
was
obscured
by
somebody
passing
to
and
fro
before
it.
The
laurels
among
which
we
lay
were
immediately
opposite
the
window
and
not
more
than
a
hundred
feet
from
it.
Presently
it
was
thrown
open
with
a
whining
of
hinges,
and
we
could
dimly
see
the
dark
outline
of
a
man's
head
and
shoulders
looking
out
into
the
gloom.
For
some
minutes
he
peered
forth
in
furtive,
stealthy
fashion,
as
one
who
wishes
to
be
assured
that
he
is
unobserved.
Then
he
leaned
forward,
and
in
the
intense
silence
we
were
aware
of
the
soft
lapping
of
agitated
water.
He
seemed
to
be
stirring
up
the
moat
with
something
which
he
held
in
his
hand.
Then
suddenly
he
hauled
something
in
as
a
fisherman
lands
a
fish--some
large,
round
object
which
obscured
the
light
as
it
was
dragged
through
the
open
casement.
"Now!"
cried
Holmes.
"Now!"
We
were
all
upon
our
feet,
staggering
after
him
with
our
stiffened
limbs,
while
he
ran
swiftly
across
the
bridge
and
rang
violently
at
the
bell.
There
was
the
rasping
of
bolts
from
the
other
side,
and
the
amazed
Ames
stood
in
the
entrance.
Holmes
brushed
him
aside
without
a
word
and,
followed
by
all
of
us,
rushed
into
the
room
which
had
been
occupied
by
the
man
whom
we
had
been
watching.
The
oil
lamp
on
the
table
represented
the
glow
which
we
had
seen
from
outside.
It
was
now
in
the
hand
of
Cecil
Barker,
who
held
it
towards
us
as
we
entered.
Its
light
shone
upon
his
strong,
resolute,
clean-shaved
face
and
his
menacing
eyes.
"What
the
devil
is
the
meaning
of
all
this?"
he
cried.
"What
are
you
after,
anyhow?"
Holmes
took
a
swift
glance
round,
and
then
pounced
upon
a
sodden
bundle
tied
together
with
cord
which
lay
where
it
had
been
thrust
under
the
writing
table.
"This
is
what
we
are
after,
Mr.
Barker--this
bundle,
weighted
with
a
dumb-bell,
which
you
have
just
raised
from
the
bottom
of
the
moat."
Barker
stared
at
Holmes
with
amazement
in
his
face.
"How
in
thunder
came
you
to
know
anything
about
it?"
he
asked.
"Simply
that
I
put
it
there."
"You
put
it
there!
You!"
"Perhaps
I
should
have
said
'replaced
it
there,'"
said
Holmes.
"You
will
remember,
Inspector
MacDonald,
that
I
was
somewhat
struck
by
the
absence
of
a
dumb-bell.
I
drew
your
attention
to
it;
but
with
the
pressure
of
other
events
you
had
hardly
the
time
to
give
it
the
consideration
which
would
have
enabled
you
to
draw
deductions
from
it.
When
water
is
near
and
a
weight
is
missing
it
is
not
a
very
far-fetched
supposition
that
something
has
been
sunk
in
the
water.
The
idea
was
at
least
worth
testing;
so
with
the
help
of
Ames,
who
admitted
me
to
the
room,
and
the
crook
of
Dr.
Watson's
umbrella,
I
was
able
last
night
to
fish
up
and
inspect
this
bundle.
"It
was
of
the
first
importance,
however,
that
we
should
be
able
to
prove
who
placed
it
there.
This
we
accomplished
by
the
very
obvious
device
of
announcing
that
the
moat
would
be
dried
to-morrow,
which
had,
of
course,
the
effect
that
whoever
had
hidden
the
bundle
would
most
certainly
withdraw
it
the
moment
that
darkness
enabled
him
to
do
so.
We
have
no
less
than
four
witnesses
as
to
who
it
was
who
took
advantage
of
the
opportunity,
and
so,
Mr.
Barker,
I
think
the
word
lies
now
with
you."
Sherlock
Holmes
put
the
sopping
bundle
upon
the
table
beside
the
lamp
and
undid
the
cord
which
bound
it.
From
within
he
extracted
a
dumb-bell,
which
he
tossed
down
to
its
fellow
in
the
corner.
Next
he
drew
forth
a
pair
of
boots.
"American,
as
you
perceive,"
he
remarked,
pointing
to
the
toes.
Then
he
laid
upon
the
table
a
long,
deadly,
sheathed
knife.
Finally
he
unravelled
a
bundle
of
clothing,
comprising
a
complete
set
of
underclothes,
socks,
a
gray
tweed
suit,
and
a
short
yellow
overcoat.
"The
clothes
are
commonplace,"
remarked
Holmes,
"save
only
the
overcoat,
which
is
full
of
suggestive
touches."
He
held
it
tenderly
towards
the
light.
"Here,
as
you
perceive,
is
the
inner
pocket
prolonged
into
the
lining
in
such
fashion
as
to
give
ample
space
for
the
truncated
fowling
piece.
The
tailor's
tab
is
on
the
neck--'Neal,
Outfitter,
Vermissa,
U.S.A.'
I
have
spent
an
instructive
afternoon
in
the
rector's
library,
and
have
enlarged
my
knowledge
by
adding
the
fact
that
Vermissa
is
a
flourishing
little
town
at
the
head
of
one
of
the
best
known
coal
and
iron
valleys
in
the
United
States.
I
have
some
recollection,
Mr.
Barker,
that
you
associated
the
coal
districts
with
Mr.
Douglas's
first
wife,
and
it
would
surely
not
be
too
far-fetched
an
inference
that
the
V.V.
upon
the
card
by
the
dead
body
might
stand
for
Vermissa
Valley,
or
that
this
very
valley
which
sends
forth
emissaries
of
murder
may
be
that
Valley
of
Fear
of
which
we
have
heard.
So
much
is
fairly
clear.
And
now,
Mr.
Barker,
I
seem
to
be
standing
rather
in
the
way
of
your
explanation."
It
was
a
sight
to
see
Cecil
Barker's
expressive
face
during
this
exposition
of
the
great
detective.
Anger,
amazement,
consternation,
and
indecision
swept
over
it
in
turn.
Finally
he
took
refuge
in
a
somewhat
acrid
irony.
"You
know
such
a
lot,
Mr.
Holmes,
perhaps
you
had
better
tell
us
some
more,"
he
sneered.
"I
have
no
doubt
that
I
could
tell
you
a
great
deal
more,
Mr.
Barker;
but
it
would
come
with
a
better
grace
from
you."
"Oh,
you
think
so,
do
you?
Well,
all
I
can
say
is
that
if
there's
any
secret
here
it
is
not
my
secret,
and
I
am
not
the
man
to
give
it
away."
"Well,
if
you
take
that
line,
Mr.
Barker,"
said
the
inspector
quietly,
"we
must
just
keep
you
in
sight
until
we
have
the
warrant
and
can
hold
you."
"You
can
do
what
you
damn
please
about
that,"
said
Barker
defiantly.
The
proceedings
seemed
to
have
come
to
a
definite
end
so
far
as
he
was
concerned;
for
one
had
only
to
look
at
that
granite
face
to
realize
that
no
peine
forte
et
dure
would
ever
force
him
to
plead
against
his
will.
The
deadlock
was
broken,
however,
by
a
woman's
voice.
Mrs.
Douglas
had
been
standing
listening
at
the
half
opened
door,
and
now
she
entered
the
room.
"You
have
done
enough
for
now,
Cecil,"
said
she.
"Whatever
comes
of
it
in
the
future,
you
have
done
enough."
"Enough
and
more
than
enough,"
remarked
Sherlock
Holmes
gravely.
"I
have
every
sympathy
with
you,
madam,
and
should
strongly
urge
you
to
have
some
confidence
in
the
common
sense
of
our
jurisdiction
and
to
take
the
police
voluntarily
into
your
complete
confidence.
It
may
be
that
I
am
myself
at
fault
for
not
following
up
the
hint
which
you
conveyed
to
me
through
my
friend,
Dr.
Watson;
but,
at
that
time
I
had
every
reason
to
believe
that
you
were
directly
concerned
in
the
crime.
Now
I
am
assured
that
this
is
not
so.
At
the
same
time,
there
is
much
that
is
unexplained,
and
I
should
strongly
recommend
that
you
ask
Mr.
Douglas
to
tell
us
his
own
story."
Mrs.
Douglas
gave
a
cry
of
astonishment
at
Holmes's
words.
The
detectives
and
I
must
have
echoed
it,
when
we
were
aware
of
a
man
who
seemed
to
have
emerged
from
the
wall,
who
advanced
now
from
the
gloom
of
the
corner
in
which
he
had
appeared.
Mrs.
Douglas
turned,
and
in
an
instant
her
arms
were
round
him.
Barker
had
seized
his
outstretched
hand.
"It's
best
this
way,
Jack,"
his
wife
repeated;
"I
am
sure
that
it
is
best."
"Indeed,
yes,
Mr.
Douglas,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes,
"I
am
sure
that
you
will
find
it
best."
The
man
stood
blinking
at
us
with
the
dazed
look
of
one
who
comes
from
the
dark
into
the
light.
It
was
a
remarkable
face,
bold
gray
eyes,
a
strong,
short-clipped,
grizzled
moustache,
a
square,
projecting
chin,
and
a
humorous
mouth.
He
took
a
good
look
at
us
all,
and
then
to
my
amazement
he
advanced
to
me
and
handed
me
a
bundle
of
paper.
"I've
heard
of
you,"
said
he
in
a
voice
which
was
not
quite
English
and
not
quite
American,
but
was
altogether
mellow
and
pleasing.
"You
are
the
historian
of
this
bunch.
Well,
Dr.
Watson,
you've
never
had
such
a
story
as
that
pass
through
your
hands
before,
and
I'll
lay
my
last
dollar
on
that.
Tell
it
your
own
way;
but
there
are
the
facts,
and
you
can't
miss
the
public
so
long
as
you
have
those.
I've
been
cooped
up
two
days,
and
I've
spent
the
daylight
hours--as
much
daylight
as
I
could
get
in
that
rat
trap--in
putting
the
thing
into
words.
You're
welcome
to
them--you
and
your
public.
There's
the
story
of
the
Valley
of
Fear."
"That's
the
past,
Mr.
Douglas,"
said
Sherlock
Holmes
quietly.
"What
we
desire
now
is
to
hear
your
story
of
the
present."
"You'll
have
it,
sir,"
said
Douglas.
"May
I
smoke
as
I
talk?
Well,
thank
you,
Mr.
Holmes.
You're
a
smoker
yourself,
if
I
remember
right,
and
you'll
guess
what
it
is
to
be
sitting
for
two
days
with
tobacco
in
your
pocket
and
afraid
that
the
smell
will
give
you
away."
He
leaned
against
the
mantelpiece
and
sucked
at
the
cigar
which
Holmes
had
handed
him.
"I've
heard
of
you,
Mr.
Holmes.
I
never
guessed
that
I
should
meet
you.
But
before
you
are
through
with
that,"
he
nodded
at
my
papers,
"you
will
say
I've
brought
you
something
fresh."
Inspector
MacDonald
had
been
staring
at
the
newcomer
with
the
greatest
amazement.
"Well,
this
fairly
beats
me!"
he
cried
at
last.
"If
you
are
Mr.
John
Douglas
of
Birlstone
Manor,
then
whose
death
have
we
been
investigating
for
these
two
days,
and
where
in
the
world
have
you
sprung
from
now?
You
seemed
to
me
to
come
out
of
the
floor
like
a
jack-in-a-box."
"Ah,
Mr.
Mac,"
said
Holmes,
shaking
a
reproving
forefinger,
"you
would
not
read
that
excellent
local
compilation
which
described
the
concealment
of
King
Charles.
People
did
not
hide
in
those
days
without
excellent
hiding
places,
and
the
hiding
place
that
has
once
been
used
may
be
again.
I
had
persuaded
myself
that
we
should
find
Mr.
Douglas
under
this
roof."
"And
how
long
have
you
been
playing
this
trick
upon
us,
Mr.
Holmes?"
said
the
inspector
angrily.
"How
long
have
you
allowed
us
to
waste
ourselves
upon
a
search
that
you
knew
to
be
an
absurd
one?"
"Not
one
instant,
my
dear
Mr.
Mac.
Only
last
night
did
I
form
my
views
of
the
case.
As
they
could
not
be
put
to
the
proof
until
this
evening,
I
invited
you
and
your
colleague
to
take
a
holiday
for
the
day.
Pray
what
more
could
I
do?
When
I
found
the
suit
of
clothes
in
the
moat,
it
at
once
became
apparent
to
me
that
the
body
we
had
found
could
not
have
been
the
body
of
Mr.
John
Douglas
at
all,
but
must
be
that
of
the
bicyclist
from
Tunbridge
Wells.
No
other
conclusion
was
possible.
Therefore
I
had
to
determine
where
Mr.
John
Douglas
himself
could
be,
and
the
balance
of
probability
was
that
with
the
connivance
of
his
wife
and
his
friend
he
was
concealed
in
a
house
which
had
such
conveniences
for
a
fugitive,
and
awaiting
quieter
times
when
he
could
make
his
final
escape."
"Well,
you
figured
it
out
about
right,"
said
Douglas
approvingly.
"I
thought
I'd
dodge
your
British
law;
for
I
was
not
sure
how
I
stood
under
it,
and
also
I
saw
my
chance
to
throw
these
hounds
once
for
all
off
my
track.
Mind
you,
from
first
to
last
I
have
done
nothing
to
be
ashamed
of,
and
nothing
that
I
would
not
do
again;
but
you'll
judge
that
for
yourselves
when
I
tell
you
my
story.
Never
mind
warning
me,
Inspector:
I'm
ready
to
stand
pat
upon
the
truth.
"I'm
not
going
to
begin
at
the
beginning.
That's
all
there,"
he
indicated
my
bundle
of
papers,
"and
a
mighty
queer
yarn
you'll
find
it.
It
all
comes
down
to
this:
That
there
are
some
men
that
have
good
cause
to
hate
me
and
would
give
their
last
dollar
to
know
that
they
had
got
me.
So
long
as
I
am
alive
and
they
are
alive,
there
is
no
safety
in
this
world
for
me.
They
hunted
me
from
Chicago
to
California,
then
they
chased
me
out
of
America;
but
when
I
married
and
settled
down
in
this
quiet
spot
I
thought
my
last
years
were
going
to
be
peaceable.
"I
never
explained
to
my
wife
how
things
were.
Why
should
I
pull
her
into
it?
She
would
never
have
a
quiet
moment
again;
but
would
always
be
imagining
trouble.
I
fancy
she
knew
something,
for
I
may
have
dropped
a
word
here
or
a
word
there;
but
until
yesterday,
after
you
gentlemen
had
seen
her,
she
never
knew
the
rights
of
the
matter.
She
told
you
all
she
knew,
and
so
did
Barker
here;
for
on
the
night
when
this
thing
happened
there
was
mighty
little
time
for
explanations.
She
knows
everything
now,
and
I
would
have
been
a
wiser
man
if
I
had
told
her
sooner.
But
it
was
a
hard
question,
dear,"
he
took
her
hand
for
an
instant
in
his
own,
"and
I
acted
for
the
best.
"Well,
gentlemen,
the
day
before
these
happenings
I
was
over
in
Tunbridge
Wells,
and
I
got
a
glimpse
of
a
man
in
the
street.
It
was
only
a
glimpse;
but
I
have
a
quick
eye
for
these
things,
and
I
never
doubted
who
it
was.
It
was
the
worst
enemy
I
had
among
them
all--one
who
has
been
after
me
like
a
hungry
wolf
after
a
caribou
all
these
years.
I
knew
there
was
trouble
coming,
and
I
came
home
and
made
ready
for
it.
I
guessed
I'd
fight
through
it
all
right
on
my
own,
my
luck
was
a
proverb
in
the
States
about
'76.
I
never
doubted
that
it
would
be
with
me
still.
"I
was
on
my
guard
all
that
next
day,
and
never
went
out
into
the
park.
It's
as
well,
or
he'd
have
had
the
drop
on
me
with
that
buckshot
gun
of
his
before
ever
I
could
draw
on
him.
After
the
bridge
was
up--my
mind
was
always
more
restful
when
that
bridge
was
up
in
the
evenings--I
put
the
thing
clear
out
of
my
head.
I
never
dreamed
of
his
getting
into
the
house
and
waiting
for
me.
But
when
I
made
my
round
in
my
dressing
gown,
as
was
my
habit,
I
had
no
sooner
entered
the
study
than
I
scented
danger.
I
guess
when
a
man
has
had
dangers
in
his
life--and
I've
had
more
than
most
in
my
time--there
is
a
kind
of
sixth
sense
that
waves
the
red
flag.
I
saw
the
signal
clear
enough,
and
yet
I
couldn't
tell
you
why.
Next
instant
I
spotted
a
boot
under
the
window
curtain,
and
then
I
saw
why
plain
enough.
"I'd
just
the
one
candle
that
was
in
my
hand;
but
there
was
a
good
light
from
the
hall
lamp
through
the
open
door.
I
put
down
the
candle
and
jumped
for
a
hammer
that
I'd
left
on
the
mantel.
At
the
same
moment
he
sprang
at
me.
I
saw
the
glint
of
a
knife,
and
I
lashed
at
him
with
the
hammer.
I
got
him
somewhere;
for
the
knife
tinkled
down
on
the
floor.
He
dodged
round
the
table
as
quick
as
an
eel,
and
a
moment
later
he'd
got
his
gun
from
under
his
coat.
I
heard
him
cock
it;
but
I
had
got
hold
of
it
before
he
could
fire.
I
had
it
by
the
barrel,
and
we
wrestled
for
it
all
ends
up
for
a
minute
or
more.
It
was
death
to
the
man
that
lost
his
grip.
"He
never
lost
his
grip;
but
he
got
it
butt
downward
for
a
moment
too
long.
Maybe
it
was
I
that
pulled
the
trigger.
Maybe
we
just
jolted
it
off
between
us.
Anyhow,
he
got
both
barrels
in
the
face,
and
there
I
was,
staring
down
at
all
that
was
left
of
Ted
Baldwin.
I'd
recognized
him
in
the
township,
and
again
when
he
sprang
for
me;
but
his
own
mother
wouldn't
recognize
him
as
I
saw
him
then.
I'm
used
to
rough
work;
but
I
fairly
turned
sick
at
the
sight
of
him.
"I
was
hanging
on
the
side
of
the
table
when
Barker
came
hurrying
down.
I
heard
my
wife
coming,
and
I
ran
to
the
door
and
stopped
her.
It
was
no
sight
for
a
woman.
I
promised
I'd
come
to
her
soon.
I
said
a
word
or
two
to
Barker--he
took
it
all
in
at
a
glance--and
we
waited
for
the
rest
to
come
along.
But
there
was
no
sign
of
them.
Then
we
understood
that
they
could
hear
nothing,
and
that
all
that
had
happened
was
known
only
to
ourselves.
"It
was
at
that
instant
that
the
idea
came
to
me.
I
was
fairly
dazzled
by
the
brilliance
of
it.
The
man's
sleeve
had
slipped
up
and
there
was
the
branded
mark
of
the
lodge
upon
his
forearm.
See
here!"
The
man
whom
we
had
known
as
Douglas
turned
up
his
own
coat
and
cuff
to
show
a
brown
triangle
within
a
circle
exactly
like
that
which
we
had
seen
upon
the
dead
man.
"It
was
the
sight
of
that
which
started
me
on
it.
I
seemed
to
see
it
all
clear
at
a
glance.
There
were
his
height
and
hair
and
figure,
about
the
same
as
my
own.
No
one
could
swear
to
his
face,
poor
devil!
I
brought
down
this
suit
of
clothes,
and
in
a
quarter
of
an
hour
Barker
and
I
had
put
my
dressing
gown
on
him
and
he
lay
as
you
found
him.
We
tied
all
his
things
into
a
bundle,
and
I
weighted
them
with
the
only
weight
I
could
find
and
put
them
through
the
window.
The
card
he
had
meant
to
lay
upon
my
body
was
lying
beside
his
own.
"My
rings
were
put
on
his
finger;
but
when
it
came
to
the
wedding
ring,"
he
held
out
his
muscular
hand,
"you
can
see
for
yourselves
that
I
had
struck
the
limit.
I
have
not
moved
it
since
the
day
I
was
married,
and
it
would
have
taken
a
file
to
get
it
off.
I
don't
know,
anyhow,
that
I
should
have
cared
to
part
with
it;
but
if
I
had
wanted
to
I
couldn't.
So
we
just
had
to
leave
that
detail
to
take
care
of
itself.
On
the
other
hand,
I
brought
a
bit
of
plaster
down
and
put
it
where
I
am
wearing
one
myself
at
this
instant.
You
slipped
up
there,
Mr.
Holmes,
clever
as
you
are;
for
if
you
had
chanced
to
take
off
that
plaster
you
would
have
found
no
cut
underneath
it.
"Well,
that
was
the
situation.
If
I
could
lie
low
for
a
while
and
then
get
away
where
I
could
be
joined
by
my
'widow'
we
should
have
a
chance
at
last
of
living
in
peace
for
the
rest
of
our
lives.
These
devils
would
give
me
no
rest
so
long
as
I
was
above
ground;
but
if
they
saw
in
the
papers
that
Baldwin
had
got
his
man,
there
would
be
an
end
of
all
my
troubles.
I
hadn't
much
time
to
make
it
all
clear
to
Barker
and
to
my
wife;
but
they
understood
enough
to
be
able
to
help
me.
I
knew
all
about
this
hiding
place,
so
did
Ames;
but
it
never
entered
his
head
to
connect
it
with
the
matter.
I
retired
into
it,
and
it
was
up
to
Barker
to
do
the
rest.
"I
guess
you
can
fill
in
for
yourselves
what
he
did.
He
opened
the
window
and
made
the
mark
on
the
sill
to
give
an
idea
of
how
the
murderer
escaped.
It
was
a
tall
order,
that;
but
as
the
bridge
was
up
there
was
no
other
way.
Then,
when
everything
was
fixed,
he
rang
the
bell
for
all
he
was
worth.
What
happened
afterward
you
know.
And
so,
gentlemen,
you
can
do
what
you
please;
but
I've
told
you
the
truth
and
the
whole
truth,
so
help
me
God!
What
I
ask
you
now
is
how
do
I
stand
by
the
English
law?"
There
was
a
silence
which
was
broken
by
Sherlock
Holmes.
"The
English
law
is
in
the
main
a
just
law.
You
will
get
no
worse
than
your
deserts
from
that,
Mr.
Douglas.
But
I
would
ask
you
how
did
this
man
know
that
you
lived
here,
or
how
to
get
into
your
house,
or
where
to
hide
to
get
you?"
"I
know
nothing
of
this."
Holmes's
face
was
very
white
and
grave.
"The
story
is
not
over
yet,
I
fear,"
said
he.
"You
may
find
worse
dangers
than
the
English
law,
or
even
than
your
enemies
from
America.
I
see
trouble
before
you,
Mr.
Douglas.
You'll
take
my
advice
and
still
be
on
your
guard."
And
now,
my
long-suffering
readers,
I
will
ask
you
to
come
away
with
me
for
a
time,
far
from
the
Sussex
Manor
House
of
Birlstone,
and
far
also
from
the
year
of
grace
in
which
we
made
our
eventful
journey
which
ended
with
the
strange
story
of
the
man
who
had
been
known
as
John
Douglas.
I
wish
you
to
journey
back
some
twenty
years
in
time,
and
westward
some
thousands
of
miles
in
space,
that
I
may
lay
before
you
a
singular
and
terrible
narrative--so
singular
and
so
terrible
that
you
may
find
it
hard
to
believe
that
even
as
I
tell
it,
even
so
did
it
occur.
Do
not
think
that
I
intrude
one
story
before
another
is
finished.
As
you
read
on
you
will
find
that
this
is
not
so.
And
when
I
have
detailed
those
distant
events
and
you
have
solved
this
mystery
of
the
past,
we
shall
meet
once
more
in
those
rooms
on
Baker
Street,
where
this,
like
so
many
other
wonderful
happenings,
will
find
its
end.
Part
2--The
Scowrers
Chapter
1--The
Man
It
was
the
fourth
of
February
in
the
year
1875.
It
had
been
a
severe
winter,
and
the
snow
lay
deep
in
the
gorges
of
the
Gilmerton
Mountains.
The
steam
ploughs
had,
however,
kept
the
railroad
open,
and
the
evening
train
which
connects
the
long
line
of
coal-mining
and
iron-working
settlements
was
slowly
groaning
its
way
up
the
steep
gradients
which
lead
from
Stagville
on
the
plain
to
Vermissa,
the
central
township
which
lies
at
the
head
of
Vermissa
Valley.
From
this
point
the
track
sweeps
downward
to
Bartons
Crossing,
Helmdale,
and
the
purely
agricultural
county
of
Merton.
It
was
a
single
track
railroad;
but
at
every
siding--and
they
were
numerous--long
lines
of
trucks
piled
with
coal
and
iron
ore
told
of
the
hidden
wealth
which
had
brought
a
rude
population
and
a
bustling
life
to
this
most
desolate
corner
of
the
United
States
of
America.
For
desolate
it
was!
Little
could
the
first
pioneer
who
had
traversed
it
have
ever
imagined
that
the
fairest
prairies
and
the
most
lush
water
pastures
were
valueless
compared
to
this
gloomy
land
of
black
crag
and
tangled
forest.
Above
the
dark
and
often
scarcely
penetrable
woods
upon
their
flanks,
the
high,
bare
crowns
of
the
mountains,
white
snow,
and
jagged
rock
towered
upon
each
flank,
leaving
a
long,
winding,
tortuous
valley
in
the
centre.
Up
this
the
little
train
was
slowly
crawling.
The
oil
lamps
had
just
been
lit
in
the
leading
passenger
car,
a
long,
bare
carriage
in
which
some
twenty
or
thirty
people
were
seated.
The
greater
number
of
these
were
workmen
returning
from
their
day's
toil
in
the
lower
part
of
the
valley.
At
least
a
dozen,
by
their
grimed
faces
and
the
safety
lanterns
which
they
carried,
proclaimed
themselves
miners.
These
sat
smoking
in
a
group
and
conversed
in
low
voices,
glancing
occasionally
at
two
men
on
the
opposite
side
of
the
car,
whose
uniforms
and
badges
showed
them
to
be
policemen.
Several
women
of
the
labouring
class
and
one
or
two
travellers
who
might
have
been
small
local
storekeepers
made
up
the
rest
of
the
company,
with
the
exception
of
one
young
man
in
a
corner
by
himself.
It
is
with
this
man
that
we
are
concerned.
Take
a
good
look
at
him;
for
he
is
worth
it.
He
is
a
fresh-complexioned,
middle-sized
young
man,
not
far,
one
would
guess,
from
his
thirtieth
year.
He
has
large,
shrewd,
humorous
gray
eyes
which
twinkle
inquiringly
from
time
to
time
as
he
looks
round
through
his
spectacles
at
the
people
about
him.
It
is
easy
to
see
that
he
is
of
a
sociable
and
possibly
simple
disposition,
anxious
to
be
friendly
to
all
men.
Anyone
could
pick
him
at
once
as
gregarious
in
his
habits
and
communicative
in
his
nature,
with
a
quick
wit
and
a
ready
smile.
And
yet
the
man
who
studied
him
more
closely
might
discern
a
certain
firmness
of
jaw
and
grim
tightness
about
the
lips
which
would
warn
him
that
there
were
depths
beyond,
and
that
this
pleasant,
brown-haired
young
Irishman
might
conceivably
leave
his
mark
for
good
or
evil
upon
any
society
to
which
he
was
introduced.
Having
made
one
or
two
tentative
remarks
to
the
nearest
miner,
and
receiving
only
short,
gruff
replies,
the
traveller
resigned
himself
to
uncongenial
silence,
staring
moodily
out
of
the
window
at
the
fading
landscape.
It
was
not
a
cheering
prospect.
Through
the
growing
gloom
there
pulsed
the
red
glow
of
the
furnaces
on
the
sides
of
the
hills.
Great
heaps
of
slag
and
dumps
of
cinders
loomed
up
on
each
side,
with
the
high
shafts
of
the
collieries
towering
above
them.
Huddled
groups
of
mean,
wooden
houses,
the
windows
of
which
were
beginning
to
outline
themselves
in
light,
were
scattered
here
and
there
along
the
line,
and
the
frequent
halting
places
were
crowded
with
their
swarthy
inhabitants.
The
iron
and
coal
valleys
of
the
Vermissa
district
were
no
resorts
for
the
leisured
or
the
cultured.
Everywhere
there
were
stern
signs
of
the
crudest
battle
of
life,
the
rude
work
to
be
done,
and
the
rude,
strong
workers
who
did
it.
The
young
traveller
gazed
out
into
this
dismal
country
with
a
face
of
mingled
repulsion
and
interest,
which
showed
that
the
scene
was
new
to
him.
At
intervals
he
drew
from
his
pocket
a
bulky
letter
to
which
he
referred,
and
on
the
margins
of
which
he
scribbled
some
notes.
Once
from
the
back
of
his
waist
he
produced
something
which
one
would
hardly
have
expected
to
find
in
the
possession
of
so
mild-mannered
a
man.
It
was
a
navy
revolver
of
the
largest
size.
As
he
turned
it
slantwise
to
the
light,
the
glint
upon
the
rims
of
the
copper
shells
within
the
drum
showed
that
it
was
fully
loaded.
He
quickly
restored
it
to
his
secret
pocket,
but
not
before
it
had
been
observed
by
a
working
man
who
had
seated
himself
upon
the
adjoining
bench.
"Hullo,
mate!"
said
he.
"You
seem
heeled
and
ready."
The
young
man
smiled
with
an
air
of
embarrassment.
"Yes,"
said
he,
"we
need
them
sometimes
in
the
place
I
come
from."
"And
where
may
that
be?"
"I'm
last
from
Chicago."
"A
stranger
in
these
parts?"
"Yes."
"You
may
find
you
need
it
here,"
said
the
workman.
"Ah!
is
that
so?"
The
young
man
seemed
interested.
"Have
you
heard
nothing
of
doings
hereabouts?"
"Nothing
out
of
the
way."
"Why,
I
thought
the
country
was
full
of
it.
You'll
hear
quick
enough.
What
made
you
come
here?"
"I
heard
there
was
always
work
for
a
willing
man."
"Are
you
a
member
of
the
union?"
"Sure."
"Then
you'll
get
your
job,
I
guess.
Have
you
any
friends?"
"Not
yet;
but
I
have
the
means
of
making
them."
"How's
that,
then?"
"I
am
one
of
the
Eminent
Order
of
Freemen.
There's
no
town
without
a
lodge,
and
where
there
is
a
lodge
I'll
find
my
friends."
The
remark
had
a
singular
effect
upon
his
companion.
He
glanced
round
suspiciously
at
the
others
in
the
car.
The
miners
were
still
whispering
among
themselves.
The
two
police
officers
were
dozing.
He
came
across,
seated
himself
close
to
the
young
traveller,
and
held
out
his
hand.
"Put
it
there,"
he
said.
A
hand-grip
passed
between
the
two.
"I
see
you
speak
the
truth,"
said
the
workman.
"But
it's
well
to
make
certain."
He
raised
his
right
hand
to
his
right
eyebrow.
The
traveller
at
once
raised
his
left
hand
to
his
left
eyebrow.
"Dark
nights
are
unpleasant,"
said
the
workman.
"Yes,
for
strangers
to
travel,"
the
other
answered.
"That's
good
enough.
I'm
Brother
Scanlan,
Lodge
341,
Vermissa
Valley.
Glad
to
see
you
in
these
parts."
"Thank
you.
I'm
Brother
John
McMurdo,
Lodge
29,
Chicago.
Bodymaster
J.H.
Scott.
But
I
am
in
luck
to
meet
a
brother
so
early."
"Well,
there
are
plenty
of
us
about.
You
won't
find
the
order
more
flourishing
anywhere
in
the
States
than
right
here
in
Vermissa
Valley.
But
we
could
do
with
some
lads
like
you.
I
can't
understand
a
spry
man
of
the
union
finding
no
work
to
do
in
Chicago."
"I
found
plenty
of
work
to
do,"
said
McMurdo.
"Then
why
did
you
leave?"
McMurdo
nodded
towards
the
policemen
and
smiled.
"I
guess
those
chaps
would
be
glad
to
know,"
he
said.
Scanlan
groaned
sympathetically.
"In
trouble?"
he
asked
in
a
whisper.
"Deep."
"A
penitentiary
job?"
"And
the
rest."
"Not
a
killing!"
"It's
early
days
to
talk
of
such
things,"
said
McMurdo
with
the
air
of
a
man
who
had
been
surprised
into
saying
more
than
he
intended.
"I've
my
own
good
reasons
for
leaving
Chicago,
and
let
that
be
enough
for
you.
Who
are
you
that
you
should
take
it
on
yourself
to
ask
such
things?"
His
gray
eyes
gleamed
with
sudden
and
dangerous
anger
from
behind
his
glasses.
"All
right,
mate,
no
offense
meant.
The
boys
will
think
none
the
worse
of
you,
whatever
you
may
have
done.
Where
are
you
bound
for
now?"
"Vermissa."
"That's
the
third
halt
down
the
line.
Where
are
you
staying?"
McMurdo
took
out
an
envelope
and
held
it
close
to
the
murky
oil
lamp.
"Here
is
the
address--Jacob
Shafter,
Sheridan
Street.
It's
a
boarding
house
that
was
recommended
by
a
man
I
knew
in
Chicago."
"Well,
I
don't
know
it;
but
Vermissa
is
out
of
my
beat.
I
live
at
Hobson's
Patch,
and
that's
here
where
we
are
drawing
up.
But,
say,
there's
one
bit
of
advice
I'll
give
you
before
we
part:
If
you're
in
trouble
in
Vermissa,
go
straight
to
the
Union
House
and
see
Boss
McGinty.
He
is
the
Bodymaster
of
Vermissa
Lodge,
and
nothing
can
happen
in
these
parts
unless
Black
Jack
McGinty
wants
it.
So
long,
mate!
Maybe
we'll
meet
in
lodge
one
of
these
evenings.
But
mind
my
words:
If
you
are
in
trouble,
go
to
Boss
McGinty."
Scanlan
descended,
and
McMurdo
was
left
once
again
to
his
thoughts.
Night
had
now
fallen,
and
the
flames
of
the
frequent
furnaces
were
roaring
and
leaping
in
the
darkness.
Against
their
lurid
background
dark
figures
were
bending
and
straining,
twisting
and
turning,
with
the
motion
of
winch
or
of
windlass,
to
the
rhythm
of
an
eternal
clank
and
roar.
"I
guess
hell
must
look
something
like
that,"
said
a
voice.
McMurdo
turned
and
saw
that
one
of
the
policemen
had
shifted
in
his
seat
and
was
staring
out
into
the
fiery
waste.
"For
that
matter,"
said
the
other
policeman,
"I
allow
that
hell
must
BE
something
like
that.
If
there
are
worse
devils
down
yonder
than
some
we
could
name,
it's
more
than
I'd
expect.
I
guess
you
are
new
to
this
part,
young
man?"
"Well,
what
if
I
am?"
McMurdo
answered
in
a
surly
voice.
"Just
this,
mister,
that
I
should
advise
you
to
be
careful
in
choosing
your
friends.
I
don't
think
I'd
begin
with
Mike
Scanlan
or
his
gang
if
I
were
you."
"What
the
hell
is
it
to
you
who
are
my
friends?"
roared
McMurdo
in
a
voice
which
brought
every
head
in
the
carriage
round
to
witness
the
altercation.
"Did
I
ask
you
for
your
advice,
or
did
you
think
me
such
a
sucker
that
I
couldn't
move
without
it?
You
speak
when
you
are
spoken
to,
and
by
the
Lord
you'd
have
to
wait
a
long
time
if
it
was
me!"
He
thrust
out
his
face
and
grinned
at
the
patrolmen
like
a
snarling
dog.
The
two
policemen,
heavy,
good-natured
men,
were
taken
aback
by
the
extraordinary
vehemence
with
which
their
friendly
advances
had
been
rejected.
"No
offense,
stranger,"
said
one.
"It
was
a
warning
for
your
own
good,
seeing
that
you
are,
by
your
own
showing,
new
to
the
place."
"I'm
new
to
the
place;
but
I'm
not
new
to
you
and
your
kind!"
cried
McMurdo
in
cold
fury.
"I
guess
you're
the
same
in
all
places,
shoving
your
advice
in
when
nobody
asks
for
it."
"Maybe
we'll
see
more
of
you
before
very
long,"
said
one
of
the
patrolmen
with
a
grin.
"You're
a
real
hand-picked
one,
if
I
am
a
judge."
"I
was
thinking
the
same,"
remarked
the
other.
"I
guess
we
may
meet
again."
"I'm
not
afraid
of
you,
and
don't
you
think
it!"
cried
McMurdo.
"My
name's
Jack
McMurdo--see?
If
you
want
me,
you'll
find
me
at
Jacob
Shafter's
on
Sheridan
Street,
Vermissa;
so
I'm
not
hiding
from
you,
am
I?
Day
or
night
I
dare
to
look
the
like
of
you
in
the
face--don't
make
any
mistake
about
that!"
There
was
a
murmur
of
sympathy
and
admiration
from
the
miners
at
the
dauntless
demeanour
of
the
newcomer,
while
the
two
policemen
shrugged
their
shoulders
and
renewed
a
conversation
between
themselves.
A
few
minutes
later
the
train
ran
into
the
ill-lit
station,
and
there
was
a
general
clearing;
for
Vermissa
was
by
far
the
largest
town
on
the
line.
McMurdo
picked
up
his
leather
gripsack
and
was
about
to
start
off
into
the
darkness,
when
one
of
the
miners
accosted
him.
"By
Gar,
mate!
you
know
how
to
speak
to
the
cops,"
he
said
in
a
voice
of
awe.
"It
was
grand
to
hear
you.
Let
me
carry
your
grip
and
show
you
the
road.
I'm
passing
Shafter's
on
the
way
to
my
own
shack."
There
was
a
chorus
of
friendly
"Good-nights"
from
the
other
miners
as
they
passed
from
the
platform.
Before
ever
he
had
set
foot
in
it,
McMurdo
the
turbulent
had
become
a
character
in
Vermissa.
The
country
had
been
a
place
of
terror;
but
the
town
was
in
its
way
even
more
depressing.
Down
that
long
valley
there
was
at
least
a
certain
gloomy
grandeur
in
the
huge
fires
and
the
clouds
of
drifting
smoke,
while
the
strength
and
industry
of
man
found
fitting
monuments
in
the
hills
which
he
had
spilled
by
the
side
of
his
monstrous
excavations.
But
the
town
showed
a
dead
level
of
mean
ugliness
and
squalor.
The
broad
street
was
churned
up
by
the
traffic
into
a
horrible
rutted
paste
of
muddy
snow.
The
sidewalks
were
narrow
and
uneven.
The
numerous
gas-lamps
served
only
to
show
more
clearly
a
long
line
of
wooden
houses,
each
with
its
veranda
facing
the
street,
unkempt
and
dirty.
As
they
approached
the
centre
of
the
town
the
scene
was
brightened
by
a
row
of
well-lit
stores,
and
even
more
by
a
cluster
of
saloons
and
gaming
houses,
in
which
the
miners
spent
their
hard-earned
but
generous
wages.
"That's
the
Union
House,"
said
the
guide,
pointing
to
one
saloon
which
rose
almost
to
the
dignity
of
being
a
hotel.
"Jack
McGinty
is
the
boss
there."
"What
sort
of
a
man
is
he?"
McMurdo
asked.
"What!
have
you
never
heard
of
the
boss?"
"How
could
I
have
heard
of
him
when
you
know
that
I
am
a
stranger
in
these
parts?"
"Well,
I
thought
his
name
was
known
clear
across
the
country.
It's
been
in
the
papers
often
enough."
"What
for?"
"Well,"
the
miner
lowered
his
voice--"over
the
affairs."
"What
affairs?"
"Good
Lord,
mister!
you
are
queer,
if
I
must
say
it
without
offense.
There's
only
one
set
of
affairs
that
you'll
hear
of
in
these
parts,
and
that's
the
affairs
of
the
Scowrers."
"Why,
I
seem
to
have
read
of
the
Scowrers
in
Chicago.
A
gang
of
murderers,
are
they
not?"
"Hush,
on
your
life!"
cried
the
miner,
standing
still
in
alarm,
and
gazing
in
amazement
at
his
companion.
"Man,
you
won't
live
long
in
these
parts
if
you
speak
in
the
open
street
like
that.
Many
a
man
has
had
the
life
beaten
out
of
him
for
less."
"Well,
I
know
nothing
about
them.
It's
only
what
I
have
read."
"And
I'm
not
saying
that
you
have
not
read
the
truth."
The
man
looked
nervously
round
him
as
he
spoke,
peering
into
the
shadows
as
if
he
feared
to
see
some
lurking
danger.
"If
killing
is
murder,
then
God
knows
there
is
murder
and
to
spare.
But
don't
you
dare
to
breathe
the
name
of
Jack
McGinty
in
connection
with
it,
stranger;
for
every
whisper
goes
back
to
him,
and
he
is
not
one
that
is
likely
to
let
it
pass.
Now,
that's
the
house
you're
after,
that
one
standing
back
from
the
street.
You'll
find
old
Jacob
Shafter
that
runs
it
as
honest
a
man
as
lives
in
this
township."
"I
thank
you,"
said
McMurdo,
and
shaking
hands
with
his
new
acquaintance
he
plodded,
gripsack
in
hand,
up
the
path
which
led
to
the
dwelling
house,
at
the
door
of
which
he
gave
a
resounding
knock.
It
was
opened
at
once
by
someone
very
different
from
what
he
had
expected.
It
was
a
woman,
young
and
singularly
beautiful.
She
was
of
the
German
type,
blonde
and
fair-haired,
with
the
piquant
contrast
of
a
pair
of
beautiful
dark
eyes
with
which
she
surveyed
the
stranger
with
surprise
and
a
pleasing
embarrassment
which
brought
a
wave
of
colour
over
her
pale
face.
Framed
in
the
bright
light
of
the
open
doorway,
it
seemed
to
McMurdo
that
he
had
never
seen
a
more
beautiful
picture;
the
more
attractive
for
its
contrast
with
the
sordid
and
gloomy
surroundings.
A
lovely
violet
growing
upon
one
of
those
black
slag-heaps
of
the
mines
would
not
have
seemed
more
surprising.
So
entranced
was
he
that
he
stood
staring
without
a
word,
and
it
was
she
who
broke
the
silence.
"I
thought
it
was
father,"
said
she
with
a
pleasing
little
touch
of
a
German
accent.
"Did
you
come
to
see
him?
He
is
down
town.
I
expect
him
back
every
minute."
McMurdo
continued
to
gaze
at
her
in
open
admiration
until
her
eyes
dropped
in
confusion
before
this
masterful
visitor.
"No,
miss,"
he
said
at
last,
"I'm
in
no
hurry
to
see
him.
But
your
house
was
recommended
to
me
for
board.
I
thought
it
might
suit
me--and
now
I
know
it
will."
"You
are
quick
to
make
up
your
mind,"
said
she
with
a
smile.
"Anyone
but
a
blind
man
could
do
as
much,"
the
other
answered.
She
laughed
at
the
compliment.
"Come
right
in,
sir,"
she
said.
"I'm
Miss
Ettie
Shafter,
Mr.
Shafter's
daughter.
My
mother's
dead,
and
I
run
the
house.
You
can
sit
down
by
the
stove
in
the
front
room
until
father
comes
along--Ah,
here
he
is!
So
you
can
fix
things
with
him
right
away."
A
heavy,
elderly
man
came
plodding
up
the
path.
In
a
few
words
McMurdo
explained
his
business.
A
man
of
the
name
of
Murphy
had
given
him
the
address
in
Chicago.
He
in
turn
had
had
it
from
someone
else.
Old
Shafter
was
quite
ready.
The
stranger
made
no
bones
about
terms,
agreed
at
once
to
every
condition,
and
was
apparently
fairly
flush
of
money.
For
seven
dollars
a
week
paid
in
advance
he
was
to
have
board
and
lodging.
So
it
was
that
McMurdo,
the
self-confessed
fugitive
from
justice,
took
up
his
abode
under
the
roof
of
the
Shafters,
the
first
step
which
was
to
lead
to
so
long
and
dark
a
train
of
events,
ending
in
a
far
distant
land.
Chapter
2--The
Bodymaster
McMurdo
was
a
man
who
made
his
mark
quickly.
Wherever
he
was
the
folk
around
soon
knew
it.
Within
a
week
he
had
become
infinitely
the
most
important
person
at
Shafter's.
There
were
ten
or
a
dozen
boarders
there;
but
they
were
honest
foremen
or
commonplace
clerks
from
the
stores,
of
a
very
different
calibre
from
the
young
Irishman.
Of
an
evening
when
they
gathered
together
his
joke
was
always
the
readiest,
his
conversation
the
brightest,
and
his
song
the
best.
He
was
a
born
boon
companion,
with
a
magnetism
which
drew
good
humour
from
all
around
him.
And
yet
he
showed
again
and
again,
as
he
had
shown
in
the
railway
carriage,
a
capacity
for
sudden,
fierce
anger,
which
compelled
the
respect
and
even
the
fear
of
those
who
met
him.
For
the
law,
too,
and
all
who
were
connected
with
it,
he
exhibited
a
bitter
contempt
which
delighted
some
and
alarmed
others
of
his
fellow
boarders.
From
the
first
he
made
it
evident,
by
his
open
admiration,
that
the
daughter
of
the
house
had
won
his
heart
from
the
instant
that
he
had
set
eyes
upon
her
beauty
and
her
grace.
He
was
no
backward
suitor.
On
the
second
day
he
told
her
that
he
loved
her,
and
from
then
onward
he
repeated
the
same
story
with
an
absolute
disregard
of
what
she
might
say
to
discourage
him.
"Someone
else?"
he
would
cry.
"Well,
the
worse
luck
for
someone
else!
Let
him
look
out
for
himself!
Am
I
to
lose
my
life's
chance
and
all
my
heart's
desire
for
someone
else?
You
can
keep
on
saying
no,
Ettie:
the
day
will
come
when
you
will
say
yes,
and
I'm
young
enough
to
wait."
He
was
a
dangerous
suitor,
with
his
glib
Irish
tongue,
and
his
pretty,
coaxing
ways.
There
was
about
him
also
that
glamour
of
experience
and
of
mystery
which
attracts
a
woman's
interest,
and
finally
her
love.
He
could
talk
of
the
sweet
valleys
of
County
Monaghan
from
which
he
came,
of
the
lovely,
distant
island,
the
low
hills
and
green
meadows
of
which
seemed
the
more
beautiful
when
imagination
viewed
them
from
this
place
of
grime
and
snow.
Then
he
was
versed
in
the
life
of
the
cities
of
the
North,
of
Detroit,
and
the
lumber
camps
of
Michigan,
and
finally
of
Chicago,
where
he
had
worked
in
a
planing
mill.
And
afterwards
came
the
hint
of
romance,
the
feeling
that
strange
things
had
happened
to
him
in
that
great
city,
so
strange
and
so
intimate
that
they
might
not
be
spoken
of.
He
spoke
wistfully
of
a
sudden
leaving,
a
breaking
of
old
ties,
a
flight
into
a
strange
world,
ending
in
this
dreary
valley,
and
Ettie
listened,
her
dark
eyes
gleaming
with
pity
and
with
sympathy--those
two
qualities
which
may
turn
so
rapidly
and
so
naturally
to
love.
McMurdo
had
obtained
a
temporary
job
as
bookkeeper
for
he
was
a
well-educated
man.
This
kept
him
out
most
of
the
day,
and
he
had
not
found
occasion
yet
to
report
himself
to
the
head
of
the
lodge
of
the
Eminent
Order
of
Freemen.
He
was
reminded
of
his
omission,
however,
by
a
visit
one
evening
from
Mike
Scanlan,
the
fellow
member
whom
he
had
met
in
the
train.
Scanlan,
the
small,
sharp-faced,
nervous,
black-eyed
man,
seemed
glad
to
see
him
once
more.
After
a
glass
or
two
of
whisky
he
broached
the
object
of
his
visit.
"Say,
McMurdo,"
said
he,
"I
remembered
your
address,
so
I
made
bold
to
call.
I'm
surprised
that
you've
not
reported
to
the
Bodymaster.
Why
haven't
you
seen
Boss
McGinty
yet?"
"Well,
I
had
to
find
a
job.
I
have
been
busy."
"You
must
find
time
for
him
if
you
have
none
for
anything
else.
Good
Lord,
man!
you're
a
fool
not
to
have
been
down
to
the
Union
House
and
registered
your
name
the
first
morning
after
you
came
here!
If
you
run
against
him--well,
you
mustn't,
that's
all!"
McMurdo
showed
mild
surprise.
"I've
been
a
member
of
the
lodge
for
over
two
years,
Scanlan,
but
I
never
heard
that
duties
were
so
pressing
as
all
that."
"Maybe
not
in
Chicago."
"Well,
it's
the
same
society
here."
"Is
it?"
Scanlan
looked
at
him
long
and
fixedly.
There
was
something
sinister
in
his
eyes.
"Isn't
it?"
"You'll
tell
me
that
in
a
month's
time.
I
hear
you
had
a
talk
with
the
patrolmen
after
I
left
the
train."
"How
did
you
know
that?"
"Oh,
it
got
about--things
do
get
about
for
good
and
for
bad
in
this
district."
"Well,
yes.
I
told
the
hounds
what
I
thought
of
them."
"By
the
Lord,
you'll
be
a
man
after
McGinty's
heart!"
"What,
does
he
hate
the
police
too?"
Scanlan
burst
out
laughing.
"You
go
and
see
him,
my
lad,"
said
he
as
he
took
his
leave.
"It's
not
the
police
but
you
that
he'll
hate
if
you
don't!
Now,
take
a
friend's
advice
and
go
at
once!"
It
chanced
that
on
the
same
evening
McMurdo
had
another
more
pressing
interview
which
urged
him
in
the
same
direction.
It
may
have
been
that
his
attentions
to
Ettie
had
been
more
evident
than
before,
or
that
they
had
gradually
obtruded
themselves
into
the
slow
mind
of
his
good
German
host;
but,
whatever
the
cause,
the
boarding-house
keeper
beckoned
the
young
man
into
his
private
room
and
started
on
the
subject
without
any
circumlocution.
"It
seems
to
me,
mister,"
said
he,
"that
you
are
gettin'
set
on
my
Ettie.
Ain't
that
so,
or
am
I
wrong?"
"Yes,
that
is
so,"
the
young
man
answered.
"Vell,
I
vant
to
tell
you
right
now
that
it
ain't
no
manner
of
use.
There's
someone
slipped
in
afore
you."
"She
told
me
so."
"Vell,
you
can
lay
that
she
told
you
truth.
But
did
she
tell
you
who
it
vas?"
"No,
I
asked
her;
but
she
wouldn't
tell."
"I
dare
say
not,
the
leetle
baggage!
Perhaps
she
did
not
vish
to
frighten
you
avay."
"Frighten!"
McMurdo
was
on
fire
in
a
moment.
"Ah,
yes,
my
friend!
You
need
not
be
ashamed
to
be
frightened
of
him.
It
is
Teddy
Baldwin."
"And
who
the
devil
is
he?"
"He
is
a
boss
of
Scowrers."
"Scowrers!
I've
heard
of
them
before.
It's
Scowrers
here
and
Scowrers
there,
and
always
in
a
whisper!
What
are
you
all
afraid
of?
Who
are
the
Scowrers?"
The
boarding-house
keeper
instinctively
sank
his
voice,
as
everyone
did
who
talked
about
that
terrible
society.
"The
Scowrers,"
said
he,
"are
the
Eminent
Order
of
Freemen!"
The
young
man
stared.
"Why,
I
am
a
member
of
that
order
myself."
"You!
I
vould
never
have
had
you
in
my
house
if
I
had
known
it--not
if
you
vere
to
pay
me
a
hundred
dollar
a
veek."
"What's
wrong
with
the
order?
It's
for
charity
and
good
fellowship.
The
rules
say
so."
"Maybe
in
some
places.
Not
here!"
"What
is
it
here?"
"It's
a
murder
society,
that's
vat
it
is."
McMurdo
laughed
incredulously.
"How
can
you
prove
that?"
he
asked.
"Prove
it!
Are
there
not
fifty
murders
to
prove
it?
Vat
about
Milman
and
Van
Shorst,
and
the
Nicholson
family,
and
old
Mr.
Hyam,
and
little
Billy
James,
and
the
others?
Prove
it!
Is
there
a
man
or
a
voman
in
this
valley
vat
does
not
know
it?"
"See
here!"
said
McMurdo
earnestly.
"I
want
you
to
take
back
what
you've
said,
or
else
make
it
good.
One
or
the
other
you
must
do
before
I
quit
this
room.
Put
yourself
in
my
place.
Here
am
I,
a
stranger
in
the
town.
I
belong
to
a
society
that
I
know
only
as
an
innocent
one.
You'll
find
it
through
the
length
and
breadth
of
the
States,
but
always
as
an
innocent
one.
Now,
when
I
am
counting
upon
joining
it
here,
you
tell
me
that
it
is
the
same
as
a
murder
society
called
the
Scowrers.
I
guess
you
owe
me
either
an
apology
or
else
an
explanation,
Mr.
Shafter."
"I
can
but
tell
you
vat
the
whole
vorld
knows,
mister.
The
bosses
of
the
one
are
the
bosses
of
the
other.
If
you
offend
the
one,
it
is
the
other
vat
vill
strike
you.
We
have
proved
it
too
often."
"That's
just
gossip--I
want
proof!"
said
McMurdo.
"If
you
live
here
long
you
vill
get
your
proof.
But
I
forget
that
you
are
yourself
one
of
them.
You
vill
soon
be
as
bad
as
the
rest.
But
you
vill
find
other
lodgings,
mister.
I
cannot
have
you
here.
Is
it
not
bad
enough
that
one
of
these
people
come
courting
my
Ettie,
and
that
I
dare
not
turn
him
down,
but
that
I
should
have
another
for
my
boarder?
Yes,
indeed,
you
shall
not
sleep
here
after
to-night!"
McMurdo
found
himself
under
sentence
of
banishment
both
from
his
comfortable
quarters
and
from
the
girl
whom
he
loved.
He
found
her
alone
in
the
sitting-room
that
same
evening,
and
he
poured
his
troubles
into
her
ear.
"Sure,
your
father
is
after
giving
me
notice,"
he
said.
"It's
little
I
would
care
if
it
was
just
my
room,
but
indeed,
Ettie,
though
it's
only
a
week
that
I've
known
you,
you
are
the
very
breath
of
life
to
me,
and
I
can't
live
without
you!"
"Oh,
hush,
Mr.
McMurdo,
don't
speak
so!"
said
the
girl.
"I
have
told
you,
have
I
not,
that
you
are
too
late?
There
is
another,
and
if
I
have
not
promised
to
marry
him
at
once,
at
least
I
can
promise
no
one
else."
"Suppose
I
had
been
first,
Ettie,
would
I
have
had
a
chance?"
The
girl
sank
her
face
into
her
hands.
"I
wish
to
heaven
that
you
had
been
first!"
she
sobbed.
McMurdo
was
down
on
his
knees
before
her
in
an
instant.
"For
God's
sake,
Ettie,
let
it
stand
at
that!"
he
cried.
"Will
you
ruin
your
life
and
my
own
for
the
sake
of
this
promise?
Follow
your
heart,
acushla!
'Tis
a
safer
guide
than
any
promise
before
you
knew
what
it
was
that
you
were
saying."
He
had
seized
Ettie's
white
hand
between
his
own
strong
brown
ones.
"Say
that
you
will
be
mine,
and
we
will
face
it
out
together!"
"Not
here?"
"Yes,
here."
"No,
no,
Jack!"
His
arms
were
round
her
now.
"It
could
not
be
here.
Could
you
take
me
away?"
A
struggle
passed
for
a
moment
over
McMurdo's
face;
but
it
ended
by
setting
like
granite.
"No,
here,"
he
said.
"I'll
hold
you
against
the
world,
Ettie,
right
here
where
we
are!"
"Why
should
we
not
leave
together?"
"No,
Ettie,
I
can't
leave
here."
"But
why?"
"I'd
never
hold
my
head
up
again
if
I
felt
that
I
had
been
driven
out.
Besides,
what
is
there
to
be
afraid
of?
Are
we
not
free
folks
in
a
free
country?
If
you
love
me,
and
I
you,
who
will
dare
to
come
between?"
"You
don't
know,
Jack.
You've
been
here
too
short
a
time.
You
don't
know
this
Baldwin.
You
don't
know
McGinty
and
his
Scowrers."
"No,
I
don't
know
them,
and
I
don't
fear
them,
and
I
don't
believe
in
them!"
said
McMurdo.
"I've
lived
among
rough
men,
my
darling,
and
instead
of
fearing
them
it
has
always
ended
that
they
have
feared
me--always,
Ettie.
It's
mad
on
the
face
of
it!
If
these
men,
as
your
father
says,
have
done
crime
after
crime
in
the
valley,
and
if
everyone
knows
them
by
name,
how
comes
it
that
none
are
brought
to
justice?
You
answer
me
that,
Ettie!"
"Because
no
witness
dares
to
appear
against
them.
He
would
not
live
a
month
if
he
did.
Also
because
they
have
always
their
own
men
to
swear
that
the
accused
one
was
far
from
the
scene
of
the
crime.
But
surely,
Jack,
you
must
have
read
all
this.
I
had
understood
that
every
paper
in
the
United
States
was
writing
about
it."
"Well,
I
have
read
something,
it
is
true;
but
I
had
thought
it
was
a
story.
Maybe
these
men
have
some
reason
in
what
they
do.
Maybe
they
are
wronged
and
have
no
other
way
to
help
themselves."
"Oh,
Jack,
don't
let
me
hear
you
speak
so!
That
is
how
he
speaks--the
other
one!"
"Baldwin--he
speaks
like
that,
does
he?"
"And
that
is
why
I
loathe
him
so.
Oh,
Jack,
now
I
can
tell
you
the
truth.
I
loathe
him
with
all
my
heart;
but
I
fear
him
also.
I
fear
him
for
myself;
but
above
all
I
fear
him
for
father.
I
know
that
some
great
sorrow
would
come
upon
us
if
I
dared
to
say
what
I
really
felt.
That
is
why
I
have
put
him
off
with
half-promises.
It
was
in
real
truth
our
only
hope.
But
if
you
would
fly
with
me,
Jack,
we
could
take
father
with
us
and
live
forever
far
from
the
power
of
these
wicked
men."
Again
there
was
the
struggle
upon
McMurdo's
face,
and
again
it
set
like
granite.
"No
harm
shall
come
to
you,
Ettie--nor
to
your
father
either.
As
to
wicked
men,
I
expect
you
may
find
that
I
am
as
bad
as
the
worst
of
them
before
we're
through."
"No,
no,
Jack!
I
would
trust
you
anywhere."
McMurdo
laughed
bitterly.
"Good
Lord!
how
little
you
know
of
me!
Your
innocent
soul,
my
darling,
could
not
even
guess
what
is
passing
in
mine.
But,
hullo,
who's
the
visitor?"
The
door
had
opened
suddenly,
and
a
young
fellow
came
swaggering
in
with
the
air
of
one
who
is
the
master.
He
was
a
handsome,
dashing
young
man
of
about
the
same
age
and
build
as
McMurdo
himself.
Under
his
broad-brimmed
black
felt
hat,
which
he
had
not
troubled
to
remove,
a
handsome
face
with
fierce,
domineering
eyes
and
a
curved
hawk-bill
of
a
nose
looked
savagely
at
the
pair
who
sat
by
the
stove.
Ettie
had
jumped
to
her
feet
full
of
confusion
and
alarm.
"I'm
glad
to
see
you,
Mr.
Baldwin,"
said
she.
"You're
earlier
than
I
had
thought.
Come
and
sit
down."
Baldwin
stood
with
his
hands
on
his
hips
looking
at
McMurdo.
"Who
is
this?"
he
asked
curtly.
"It's
a
friend
of
mine,
Mr.
Baldwin,
a
new
boarder
here.
Mr.
McMurdo,
may
I
introduce
you
to
Mr.
Baldwin?"
The
young
men
nodded
in
surly
fashion
to
each
other.
"Maybe
Miss
Ettie
has
told
you
how
it
is
with
us?"
said
Baldwin.
"I
didn't
understand
that
there
was
any
relation
between
you."
"Didn't
you?
Well,
you
can
understand
it
now.
You
can
take
it
from
me
that
this
young
lady
is
mine,
and
you'll
find
it
a
very
fine
evening
for
a
walk."
"Thank
you,
I
am
in
no
humour
for
a
walk."
"Aren't
you?"
The
man's
savage
eyes
were
blazing
with
anger.
"Maybe
you
are
in
a
humour
for
a
fight,
Mr.
Boarder!"
"That
I
am!"
cried
McMurdo,
springing
to
his
feet.
"You
never
said
a
more
welcome
word."
"For
God's
sake,
Jack!
Oh,
for
God's
sake!"
cried
poor,
distracted
Ettie.
"Oh,
Jack,
Jack,
he
will
hurt
you!"
"Oh,
it's
Jack,
is
it?"
said
Baldwin
with
an
oath.
"You've
come
to
that
already,
have
you?"
"Oh,
Ted,
be
reasonable--be
kind!
For
my
sake,
Ted,
if
ever
you
loved
me,
be
big-hearted
and
forgiving!"
"I
think,
Ettie,
that
if
you
were
to
leave
us
alone
we
could
get
this
thing
settled,"
said
McMurdo
quietly.
"Or
maybe,
Mr.
Baldwin,
you
will
take
a
turn
down
the
street
with
me.
It's
a
fine
evening,
and
there's
some
open
ground
beyond
the
next
block."
"I'll
get
even
with
you
without
needing
to
dirty
my
hands,"
said
his
enemy.
"You'll
wish
you
had
never
set
foot
in
this
house
before
I
am
through
with
you!"
"No
time
like
the
present,"
cried
McMurdo.
"I'll
choose
my
own
time,
mister.
You
can
leave
the
time
to
me.
See
here!"
He
suddenly
rolled
up
his
sleeve
and
showed
upon
his
forearm
a
peculiar
sign
which
appeared
to
have
been
branded
there.
It
was
a
circle
with
a
triangle
within
it.
"D'you
know
what
that
means?"
"I
neither
know
nor
care!"
"Well,
you
will
know,
I'll
promise
you
that.
You
won't
be
much
older,
either.
Perhaps
Miss
Ettie
can
tell
you
something
about
it.
As
to
you,
Ettie,
you'll
come
back
to
me
on
your
knees--d'ye
hear,
girl?--on
your
knees--and
then
I'll
tell
you
what
your
punishment
may
be.
You've
sowed--and
by
the
Lord,
I'll
see
that
you
reap!"
He
glanced
at
them
both
in
fury.
Then
he
turned
upon
his
heel,
and
an
instant
later
the
outer
door
had
banged
behind
him.
For
a
few
moments
McMurdo
and
the
girl
stood
in
silence.
Then
she
threw
her
arms
around
him.
"Oh,
Jack,
how
brave
you
were!
But
it
is
no
use,
you
must
fly!
To-night--Jack--to-night!
It's
your
only
hope.
He
will
have
your
life.
I
read
it
in
his
horrible
eyes.
What
chance
have
you
against
a
dozen
of
them,
with
Boss
McGinty
and
all
the
power
of
the
lodge
behind
them?"
McMurdo
disengaged
her
hands,
kissed
her,
and
gently
pushed
her
back
into
a
chair.
"There,
acushla,
there!
Don't
be
disturbed
or
fear
for
me.
I'm
a
Freeman
myself.
I'm
after
telling
your
father
about
it.
Maybe
I
am
no
better
than
the
others;
so
don't
make
a
saint
of
me.
Perhaps
you
hate
me
too,
now
that
I've
told
you
as
much?"
"Hate
you,
Jack?
While
life
lasts
I
could
never
do
that!
I've
heard
that
there
is
no
harm
in
being
a
Freeman
anywhere
but
here;
so
why
should
I
think
the
worse
of
you
for
that?
But
if
you
are
a
Freeman,
Jack,
why
should
you
not
go
down
and
make
a
friend
of
Boss
McGinty?
Oh,
hurry,
Jack,
hurry!
Get
your
word
in
first,
or
the
hounds
will
be
on
your
trail."
"I
was
thinking
the
same
thing,"
said
McMurdo.
"I'll
go
right
now
and
fix
it.
You
can
tell
your
father
that
I'll
sleep
here
to-night
and
find
some
other
quarters
in
the
morning."
The
bar
of
McGinty's
saloon
was
crowded
as
usual;
for
it
was
the
favourite
loafing
place
of
all
the
rougher
elements
of
the
town.
The
man
was
popular;
for
he
had
a
rough,
jovial
disposition
which
formed
a
mask,
covering
a
great
deal
which
lay
behind
it.
But
apart
from
this
popularity,
the
fear
in
which
he
was
held
throughout
the
township,
and
indeed
down
the
whole
thirty
miles
of
the
valley
and
past
the
mountains
on
each
side
of
it,
was
enough
in
itself
to
fill
his
bar;
for
none
could
afford
to
neglect
his
good
will.
Besides
those
secret
powers
which
it
was
universally
believed
that
he
exercised
in
so
pitiless
a
fashion,
he
was
a
high
public
official,
a
municipal
councillor,
and
a
commissioner
of
roads,
elected
to
the
office
through
the
votes
of
the
ruffians
who
in
turn
expected
to
receive
favours
at
his
hands.
Assessments
and
taxes
were
enormous;
the
public
works
were
notoriously
neglected,
the
accounts
were
slurred
over
by
bribed
auditors,
and
the
decent
citizen
was
terrorized
into
paying
public
blackmail,
and
holding
his
tongue
lest
some
worse
thing
befall
him.
Thus
it
was
that,
year
by
year,
Boss
McGinty's
diamond
pins
became
more
obtrusive,
his
gold
chains
more
weighty
across
a
more
gorgeous
vest,
and
his
saloon
stretched
farther
and
farther,
until
it
threatened
to
absorb
one
whole
side
of
the
Market
Square.
McMurdo
pushed
open
the
swinging
door
of
the
saloon
and
made
his
way
amid
the
crowd
of
men
within,
through
an
atmosphere
blurred
with
tobacco
smoke
and
heavy
with
the
smell
of
spirits.
The
place
was
brilliantly
lighted,
and
the
huge,
heavily
gilt
mirrors
upon
every
wall
reflected
and
multiplied
the
garish
illumination.
There
were
several
bartenders
in
their
shirt
sleeves,
hard
at
work
mixing
drinks
for
the
loungers
who
fringed
the
broad,
brass-trimmed
counter.
At
the
far
end,
with
his
body
resting
upon
the
bar
and
a
cigar
stuck
at
an
acute
angle
from
the
corner
of
his
mouth,
stood
a
tall,
strong,
heavily
built
man
who
could
be
none
other
than
the
famous
McGinty
himself.
He
was
a
black-maned
giant,
bearded
to
the
cheek-bones,
and
with
a
shock
of
raven
hair
which
fell
to
his
collar.
His
complexion
was
as
swarthy
as
that
of
an
Italian,
and
his
eyes
were
of
a
strange
dead
black,
which,
combined
with
a
slight
squint,
gave
them
a
particularly
sinister
appearance.
All
else
in
the
man--his
noble
proportions,
his
fine
features,
and
his
frank
bearing--fitted
in
with
that
jovial,
man-to-man
manner
which
he
affected.
Here,
one
would
say,
is
a
bluff,
honest
fellow,
whose
heart
would
be
sound
however
rude
his
outspoken
words
might
seem.
It
was
only
when
those
dead,
dark
eyes,
deep
and
remorseless,
were
turned
upon
a
man
that
he
shrank
within
himself,
feeling
that
he
was
face
to
face
with
an
infinite
possibility
of
latent
evil,
with
a
strength
and
courage
and
cunning
behind
it
which
made
it
a
thousand
times
more
deadly.
Having
had
a
good
look
at
his
man,
McMurdo
elbowed
his
way
forward
with
his
usual
careless
audacity,
and
pushed
himself
through
the
little
group
of
courtiers
who
were
fawning
upon
the
powerful
boss,
laughing
uproariously
at
the
smallest
of
his
jokes.
The
young
stranger's
bold
gray
eyes
looked
back
fearlessly
through
their
glasses
at
the
deadly
black
ones
which
turned
sharply
upon
him.
"Well,
young
man,
I
can't
call
your
face
to
mind."
"I'm
new
here,
Mr.
McGinty."
"You
are
not
so
new
that
you
can't
give
a
gentleman
his
proper
title."
"He's
Councillor
McGinty,
young
man,"
said
a
voice
from
the
group.
"I'm
sorry,
Councillor.
I'm
strange
to
the
ways
of
the
place.
But
I
was
advised
to
see
you."
"Well,
you
see
me.
This
is
all
there
is.
What
d'you
think
of
me?"
"Well,
it's
early
days.
If
your
heart
is
as
big
as
your
body,
and
your
soul
as
fine
as
your
face,
then
I'd
ask
for
nothing
better,"
said
McMurdo.
"By
Gar!
you've
got
an
Irish
tongue
in
your
head
anyhow,"
cried
the
saloon-keeper,
not
quite
certain
whether
to
humour
this
audacious
visitor
or
to
stand
upon
his
dignity.
"So
you
are
good
enough
to
pass
my
appearance?"
"Sure,"
said
McMurdo.
"And
you
were
told
to
see
me?"
"I
was."
"And
who
told
you?"
"Brother
Scanlan
of
Lodge
341,
Vermissa.
I
drink
your
health
Councillor,
and
to
our
better
acquaintance."
He
raised
a
glass
with
which
he
had
been
served
to
his
lips
and
elevated
his
little
finger
as
he
drank
it.
McGinty,
who
had
been
watching
him
narrowly,
raised
his
thick
black
eyebrows.
"Oh,
it's
like
that,
is
it?"
said
he.
"I'll
have
to
look
a
bit
closer
into
this,
Mister--"
"McMurdo."
"A
bit
closer,
Mr.
McMurdo;
for
we
don't
take
folk
on
trust
in
these
parts,
nor
believe
all
we're
told
neither.
Come
in
here
for
a
moment,
behind
the
bar."
There
was
a
small
room
there,
lined
with
barrels.
McGinty
carefully
closed
the
door,
and
then
seated
himself
on
one
of
them,
biting
thoughtfully
on
his
cigar
and
surveying
his
companion
with
those
disquieting
eyes.
For
a
couple
of
minutes
he
sat
in
complete
silence.
McMurdo
bore
the
inspection
cheerfully,
one
hand
in
his
coat
pocket,
the
other
twisting
his
brown
moustache.
Suddenly
McGinty
stooped
and
produced
a
wicked-looking
revolver.
"See
here,
my
joker,"
said
he,
"if
I
thought
you
were
playing
any
game
on
us,
it
would
be
short
work
for
you."
"This
is
a
strange
welcome,"
McMurdo
answered
with
some
dignity,
"for
the
Bodymaster
of
a
lodge
of
Freemen
to
give
to
a
stranger
brother."
"Ay,
but
it's
just
that
same
that
you
have
to
prove,"
said
McGinty,
"and
God
help
you
if
you
fail!
Where
were
you
made?"
"Lodge
29,
Chicago."
"When?"
"June
24,
1872."
"What
Bodymaster?"
"James
H.
Scott."
"Who
is
your
district
ruler?"
"Bartholomew
Wilson."
"Hum!
You
seem
glib
enough
in
your
tests.
What
are
you
doing
here?"
"Working,
the
same
as
you--but
a
poorer
job."
"You
have
your
back
answer
quick
enough."
"Yes,
I
was
always
quick
of
speech."
"Are
you
quick
of
action?"
"I
have
had
that
name
among
those
that
knew
me
best."
"Well,
we
may
try
you
sooner
than
you
think.
Have
you
heard
anything
of
the
lodge
in
these
parts?"
"I've
heard
that
it
takes
a
man
to
be
a
brother."
"True
for
you,
Mr.
McMurdo.
Why
did
you
leave
Chicago?"
"I'm
damned
if
I
tell
you
that!"
McGinty
opened
his
eyes.
He
was
not
used
to
being
answered
in
such
fashion,
and
it
amused
him.
"Why
won't
you
tell
me?"
"Because
no
brother
may
tell
another
a
lie."
"Then
the
truth
is
too
bad
to
tell?"
"You
can
put
it
that
way
if
you
like."
"See
here,
mister,
you
can't
expect
me,
as
Bodymaster,
to
pass
into
the
lodge
a
man
for
whose
past
he
can't
answer."
McMurdo
looked
puzzled.
Then
he
took
a
worn
newspaper
cutting
from
an
inner
pocket.
"You
wouldn't
squeal
on
a
fellow?"
said
he.
"I'll
wipe
my
hand
across
your
face
if
you
say
such
words
to
me!"
cried
McGinty
hotly.
"You
are
right,
Councillor,"
said
McMurdo
meekly.
"I
should
apologize.
I
spoke
without
thought.
Well,
I
know
that
I
am
safe
in
your
hands.
Look
at
that
clipping."
McGinty
glanced
his
eyes
over
the
account
of
the
shooting
of
one
Jonas
Pinto,
in
the
Lake
Saloon,
Market
Street,
Chicago,
in
the
New
Year
week
of
1874.
"Your
work?"
he
asked,
as
he
handed
back
the
paper.
McMurdo
nodded.
"Why
did
you
shoot
him?"
"I
was
helping
Uncle
Sam
to
make
dollars.
Maybe
mine
were
not
as
good
gold
as
his,
but
they
looked
as
well
and
were
cheaper
to
make.
This
man
Pinto
helped
me
to
shove
the
queer--"
"To
do
what?"
"Well,
it
means
to
pass
the
dollars
out
into
circulation.
Then
he
said
he
would
split.
Maybe
he
did
split.
I
didn't
wait
to
see.
I
just
killed
him
and
lighted
out
for
the
coal
country."
"Why
the
coal
country?"
"'Cause
I'd
read
in
the
papers
that
they
weren't
too
particular
in
those
parts."
McGinty
laughed.
"You
were
first
a
coiner
and
then
a
murderer,
and
you
came
to
these
parts
because
you
thought
you'd
be
welcome."
"That's
about
the
size
of
it,"
McMurdo
answered.
"Well,
I
guess
you'll
go
far.
Say,
can
you
make
those
dollars
yet?"
McMurdo
took
half
a
dozen
from
his
pocket.
"Those
never
passed
the
Philadelphia
mint,"
said
he.
"You
don't
say!"
McGinty
held
them
to
the
light
in
his
enormous
hand,
which
was
hairy
as
a
gorilla's.
"I
can
see
no
difference.
Gar!
you'll
be
a
mighty
useful
brother,
I'm
thinking!
We
can
do
with
a
bad
man
or
two
among
us,
Friend
McMurdo:
for
there
are
times
when
we
have
to
take
our
own
part.
We'd
soon
be
against
the
wall
if
we
didn't
shove
back
at
those
that
were
pushing
us."
"Well,
I
guess
I'll
do
my
share
of
shoving
with
the
rest
of
the
boys."
"You
seem
to
have
a
good
nerve.
You
didn't
squirm
when
I
shoved
this
gun
at
you."
"It
was
not
me
that
was
in
danger."
"Who
then?"
"It
was
you,
Councillor."
McMurdo
drew
a
cocked
pistol
from
the
side
pocket
of
his
peajacket.
"I
was
covering
you
all
the
time.
I
guess
my
shot
would
have
been
as
quick
as
yours."
"By
Gar!"
McGinty
flushed
an
angry
red
and
then
burst
into
a
roar
of
laughter.
"Say,
we've
had
no
such
holy
terror
come
to
hand
this
many
a
year.
I
reckon
the
lodge
will
learn
to
be
proud
of
you....
Well,
what
the
hell
do
you
want?
And
can't
I
speak
alone
with
a
gentleman
for
five
minutes
but
you
must
butt
in
on
us?"
The
bartender
stood
abashed.
"I'm
sorry,
Councillor,
but
it's
Ted
Baldwin.
He
says
he
must
see
you
this
very
minute."
The
message
was
unnecessary;
for
the
set,
cruel
face
of
the
man
himself
was
looking
over
the
servant's
shoulder.
He
pushed
the
bartender
out
and
closed
the
door
on
him.
"So,"
said
he
with
a
furious
glance
at
McMurdo,
"you
got
here
first,
did
you?
I've
a
word
to
say
to
you,
Councillor,
about
this
man."
"Then
say
it
here
and
now
before
my
face,"
cried
McMurdo.
"I'll
say
it
at
my
own
time,
in
my
own
way."
"Tut!
Tut!"
said
McGinty,
getting
off
his
barrel.
"This
will
never
do.
We
have
a
new
brother
here,
Baldwin,
and
it's
not
for
us
to
greet
him
in
such
fashion.
Hold
out
your
hand,
man,
and
make
it
up!"
"Never!"
cried
Baldwin
in
a
fury.
"I've
offered
to
fight
him
if
he
thinks
I
have
wronged
him,"
said
McMurdo.
"I'll
fight
him
with
fists,
or,
if
that
won't
satisfy
him,
I'll
fight
him
any
other
way
he
chooses.
Now,
I'll
leave
it
to
you,
Councillor,
to
judge
between
us
as
a
Bodymaster
should."
"What
is
it,
then?"
"A
young
lady.
She's
free
to
choose
for
herself."
"Is
she?"
cried
Baldwin.
"As
between
two
brothers
of
the
lodge
I
should
say
that
she
was,"
said
the
Boss.
"Oh,
that's
your
ruling,
is
it?"
"Yes,
it
is,
Ted
Baldwin,"
said
McGinty,
with
a
wicked
stare.
"Is
it
you
that
would
dispute
it?"
"You
would
throw
over
one
that
has
stood
by
you
this
five
years
in
favour
of
a
man
that
you
never
saw
before
in
your
life?
You're
not
Bodymaster
for
life,
Jack
McGinty,
and
by
God!
when
next
it
comes
to
a
vote--"
The
Councillor
sprang
at
him
like
a
tiger.
His
hand
closed
round
the
other's
neck,
and
he
hurled
him
back
across
one
of
the
barrels.
In
his
mad
fury
he
would
have
squeezed
the
life
out
of
him
if
McMurdo
had
not
interfered.
"Easy,
Councillor!
For
heaven's
sake,
go
easy!"
he
cried,
as
he
dragged
him
back.
McGinty
released
his
hold,
and
Baldwin,
cowed
and
shaken
gasping
for
breath,
and
shivering
in
every
limb,
as
one
who
has
looked
over
the
very
edge
of
death,
sat
up
on
the
barrel
over
which
he
had
been
hurled.
"You've
been
asking
for
it
this
many
a
day,
Ted
Baldwin--now
you've
got
it!"
cried
McGinty,
his
huge
chest
rising
and
falling.
"Maybe
you
think
if
I
was
voted
down
from
Bodymaster
you
would
find
yourself
in
my
shoes.
It's
for
the
lodge
to
say
that.
But
so
long
as
I
am
the
chief
I'll
have
no
man
lift
his
voice
against
me
or
my
rulings."
"I
have
nothing
against
you,"
mumbled
Baldwin,
feeling
his
throat.
"Well,
then,"
cried
the
other,
relapsing
in
a
moment
into
a
bluff
joviality,
"we
are
all
good
friends
again
and
there's
an
end
of
the
matter."
He
took
a
bottle
of
champagne
down
from
the
shelf
and
twisted
out
the
cork.
"See
now,"
he
continued,
as
he
filled
three
high
glasses.
"Let
us
drink
the
quarrelling
toast
of
the
lodge.
After
that,
as
you
know,
there
can
be
no
bad
blood
between
us.
Now,
then
the
left
hand
on
the
apple
of
my
throat.
I
say
to
you,
Ted
Baldwin,
what
is
the
offense,
sir?"
"The
clouds
are
heavy,"
answered
Baldwin
"But
they
will
forever
brighten."
"And
this
I
swear!"
The
men
drank
their
glasses,
and
the
same
ceremony
was
performed
between
Baldwin
and
McMurdo
"There!"
cried
McGinty,
rubbing
his
hands.
"That's
the
end
of
the
black
blood.
You
come
under
lodge
discipline
if
it
goes
further,
and
that's
a
heavy
hand
in
these
parts,
as
Brother
Baldwin
knows--and
as
you
will
damn
soon
find
out,
Brother
McMurdo,
if
you
ask
for
trouble!"
"Faith,
I'd
be
slow
to
do
that,"
said
McMurdo.
He
held
out
his
hand
to
Baldwin.
"I'm
quick
to
quarrel
and
quick
to
forgive.
It's
my
hot
Irish
blood,
they
tell
me.
But
it's
over
for
me,
and
I
bear
no
grudge."
Baldwin
had
to
take
the
proffered
hand;
for
the
baleful
eye
of
the
terrible
Boss
was
upon
him.
But
his
sullen
face
showed
how
little
the
words
of
the
other
had
moved
him.
McGinty
clapped
them
both
on
the
shoulders.
"Tut!
These
girls!
These
girls!"
he
cried.
"To
think
that
the
same
petticoats
should
come
between
two
of
my
boys!
It's
the
devil's
own
luck!
Well,
it's
the
colleen
inside
of
them
that
must
settle
the
question;
for
it's
outside
the
jurisdiction
of
a
Bodymaster--and
the
Lord
be
praised
for
that!
We
have
enough
on
us,
without
the
women
as
well.
You'll
have
to
be
affiliated
to
Lodge
341,
Brother
McMurdo.
We
have
our
own
ways
and
methods,
different
from
Chicago.
Saturday
night
is
our
meeting,
and
if
you
come
then,
we'll
make
you
free
forever
of
the
Vermissa
Valley."
Chapter
3--Lodge
341,
Vermissa
On
the
day
following
the
evening
which
had
contained
so
many
exciting
events,
McMurdo
moved
his
lodgings
from
old
Jacob
Shafter's
and
took
up
his
quarters
at
the
Widow
MacNamara's
on
the
extreme
outskirts
of
the
town.
Scanlan,
his
original
acquaintance
aboard
the
train,
had
occasion
shortly
afterwards
to
move
into
Vermissa,
and
the
two
lodged
together.
There
was
no
other
boarder,
and
the
hostess
was
an
easy-going
old
Irishwoman
who
left
them
to
themselves;
so
that
they
had
a
freedom
for
speech
and
action
welcome
to
men
who
had
secrets
in
common.
Shafter
had
relented
to
the
extent
of
letting
McMurdo
come
to
his
meals
there
when
he
liked;
so
that
his
intercourse
with
Ettie
was
by
no
means
broken.
On
the
contrary,
it
drew
closer
and
more
intimate
as
the
weeks
went
by.
In
his
bedroom
at
his
new
abode
McMurdo
felt
it
safe
to
take
out
the
coining
moulds,
and
under
many
a
pledge
of
secrecy
a
number
of
brothers
from
the
lodge
were
allowed
to
come
in
and
see
them,
each
carrying
away
in
his
pocket
some
examples
of
the
false
money,
so
cunningly
struck
that
there
was
never
the
slightest
difficulty
or
danger
in
passing
it.
Why,
with
such
a
wonderful
art
at
his
command,
McMurdo
should
condescend
to
work
at
all
was
a
perpetual
mystery
to
his
companions;
though
he
made
it
clear
to
anyone
who
asked
him
that
if
he
lived
without
any
visible
means
it
would
very
quickly
bring
the
police
upon
his
track.
One
policeman
was
indeed
after
him
already;
but
the
incident,
as
luck
would
have
it,
did
the
adventurer
a
great
deal
more
good
than
harm.
After
the
first
introduction
there
were
few
evenings
when
he
did
not
find
his
way
to
McGinty's
saloon,
there
to
make
closer
acquaintance
with
"the
boys,"
which
was
the
jovial
title
by
which
the
dangerous
gang
who
infested
the
place
were
known
to
one
another.
His
dashing
manner
and
fearlessness
of
speech
made
him
a
favourite
with
them
all;
while
the
rapid
and
scientific
way
in
which
he
polished
off
his
antagonist
in
an
"all
in"
bar-room
scrap
earned
the
respect
of
that
rough
community.
Another
incident,
however,
raised
him
even
higher
in
their
estimation.
Just
at
the
crowded
hour
one
night,
the
door
opened
and
a
man
entered
with
the
quiet
blue
uniform
and
peaked
cap
of
the
mine
police.
This
was
a
special
body
raised
by
the
railways
and
colliery
owners
to
supplement
the
efforts
of
the
ordinary
civil
police,
who
were
perfectly
helpless
in
the
face
of
the
organized
ruffianism
which
terrorized
the
district.
There
was
a
hush
as
he
entered,
and
many
a
curious
glance
was
cast
at
him;
but
the
relations
between
policemen
and
criminals
are
peculiar
in
some
parts
of
the
States,
and
McGinty
himself,
standing
behind
his
counter,
showed
no
surprise
when
the
policeman
enrolled
himself
among
his
customers.
"A
straight
whisky;
for
the
night
is
bitter,"
said
the
police
officer.
"I
don't
think
we
have
met
before,
Councillor?"
"You'll
be
the
new
captain?"
said
McGinty.
"That's
so.
We're
looking
to
you,
Councillor,
and
to
the
other
leading
citizens,
to
help
us
in
upholding
law
and
order
in
this
township.
Captain
Marvin
is
my
name."
"We'd
do
better
without
you,
Captain
Marvin,"
said
McGinty
coldly;
"for
we
have
our
own
police
of
the
township,
and
no
need
for
any
imported
goods.
What
are
you
but
the
paid
tool
of
the
capitalists,
hired
by
them
to
club
or
shoot
your
poorer
fellow
citizen?"
"Well,
well,
we
won't
argue
about
that,"
said
the
police
officer
good-humouredly.
"I
expect
we
all
do
our
duty
same
as
we
see
it;
but
we
can't
all
see
it
the
same."
He
had
drunk
off
his
glass
and
had
turned
to
go,
when
his
eyes
fell
upon
the
face
of
Jack
McMurdo,
who
was
scowling
at
his
elbow.
"Hullo!
Hullo!"
he
cried,
looking
him
up
and
down.
"Here's
an
old
acquaintance!"
McMurdo
shrank
away
from
him.
"I
was
never
a
friend
to
you
nor
any
other
cursed
copper
in
my
life,"
said
he.
"An
acquaintance
isn't
always
a
friend,"
said
the
police
captain,
grinning.
"You're
Jack
McMurdo
of
Chicago,
right
enough,
and
don't
you
deny
it!"
McMurdo
shrugged
his
shoulders.
"I'm
not
denying
it,"
said
he.
"D'ye
think
I'm
ashamed
of
my
own
name?"
"You've
got
good
cause
to
be,
anyhow."
"What
the
devil
d'you
mean
by
that?"
he
roared
with
his
fists
clenched.
"No,
no,
Jack,
bluster
won't
do
with
me.
I
was
an
officer
in
Chicago
before
ever
I
came
to
this
darned
coal
bunker,
and
I
know
a
Chicago
crook
when
I
see
one."
McMurdo's
face
fell.
"Don't
tell
me
that
you're
Marvin
of
the
Chicago
Central!"
he
cried.
"Just
the
same
old
Teddy
Marvin,
at
your
service.
We
haven't
forgotten
the
shooting
of
Jonas
Pinto
up
there."
"I
never
shot
him."
"Did
you
not?
That's
good
impartial
evidence,
ain't
it?
Well,
his
death
came
in
uncommon
handy
for
you,
or
they
would
have
had
you
for
shoving
the
queer.
Well,
we
can
let
that
be
bygones;
for,
between
you
and
me--and
perhaps
I'm
going
further
than
my
duty
in
saying
it--they
could
get
no
clear
case
against
you,
and
Chicago's
open
to
you
to-morrow."
"I'm
very
well
where
I
am."
"Well,
I've
given
you
the
pointer,
and
you're
a
sulky
dog
not
to
thank
me
for
it."
"Well,
I
suppose
you
mean
well,
and
I
do
thank
you,"
said
McMurdo
in
no
very
gracious
manner.
"It's
mum
with
me
so
long
as
I
see
you
living
on
the
straight,"
said
the
captain.
"But,
by
the
Lord!
if
you
get
off
after
this,
it's
another
story!
So
good-night
to
you--and
good-night,
Councillor."
He
left
the
bar-room;
but
not
before
he
had
created
a
local
hero.
McMurdo's
deeds
in
far
Chicago
had
been
whispered
before.
He
had
put
off
all
questions
with
a
smile,
as
one
who
did
not
wish
to
have
greatness
thrust
upon
him.
But
now
the
thing
was
officially
confirmed.
The
bar
loafers
crowded
round
him
and
shook
him
heartily
by
the
hand.
He
was
free
of
the
community
from
that
time
on.
He
could
drink
hard
and
show
little
trace
of
it;
but
that
evening,
had
his
mate
Scanlan
not
been
at
hand
to
lead
him
home,
the
feted
hero
would
surely
have
spent
his
night
under
the
bar.
On
a
Saturday
night
McMurdo
was
introduced
to
the
lodge.
He
had
thought
to
pass
in
without
ceremony
as
being
an
initiate
of
Chicago;
but
there
were
particular
rites
in
Vermissa
of
which
they
were
proud,
and
these
had
to
be
undergone
by
every
postulant.
The
assembly
met
in
a
large
room
reserved
for
such
purposes
at
the
Union
House.
Some
sixty
members
assembled
at
Vermissa;
but
that
by
no
means
represented
the
full
strength
of
the
organization,
for
there
were
several
other
lodges
in
the
valley,
and
others
across
the
mountains
on
each
side,
who
exchanged
members
when
any
serious
business
was
afoot,
so
that
a
crime
might
be
done
by
men
who
were
strangers
to
the
locality.
Altogether
there
were
not
less
than
five
hundred
scattered
over
the
coal
district.
In
the
bare
assembly
room
the
men
were
gathered
round
a
long
table.
At
the
side
was
a
second
one
laden
with
bottles
and
glasses,
on
which
some
members
of
the
company
were
already
turning
their
eyes.
McGinty
sat
at
the
head
with
a
flat
black
velvet
cap
upon
his
shock
of
tangled
black
hair,
and
a
coloured
purple
stole
round
his
neck,
so
that
he
seemed
to
be
a
priest
presiding
over
some
diabolical
ritual.
To
right
and
left
of
him
were
the
higher
lodge
officials,
the
cruel,
handsome
face
of
Ted
Baldwin
among
them.
Each
of
these
wore
some
scarf
or
medallion
as
emblem
of
his
office.
They
were,
for
the
most
part,
men
of
mature
age;
but
the
rest
of
the
company
consisted
of
young
fellows
from
eighteen
to
twenty-five,
the
ready
and
capable
agents
who
carried
out
the
commands
of
their
seniors.
Among
the
older
men
were
many
whose
features
showed
the
tigerish,
lawless
souls
within;
but
looking
at
the
rank
and
file
it
was
difficult
to
believe
that
these
eager
and
open-faced
young
fellows
were
in
very
truth
a
dangerous
gang
of
murderers,
whose
minds
had
suffered
such
complete
moral
perversion
that
they
took
a
horrible
pride
in
their
proficiency
at
the
business,
and
looked
with
deepest
respect
at
the
man
who
had
the
reputation
of
making
what
they
called
"a
clean
job."
To
their
contorted
natures
it
had
become
a
spirited
and
chivalrous
thing
to
volunteer
for
service
against
some
man
who
had
never
injured
them,
and
whom
in
many
cases
they
had
never
seen
in
their
lives.
The
crime
committed,
they
quarrelled
as
to
who
had
actually
struck
the
fatal
blow,
and
amused
one
another
and
the
company
by
describing
the
cries
and
contortions
of
the
murdered
man.
At
first
they
had
shown
some
secrecy
in
their
arrangements;
but
at
the
time
which
this
narrative
describes
their
proceedings
were
extraordinarily
open,
for
the
repeated
failure
of
the
law
had
proved
to
them
that,
on
the
one
hand,
no
one
would
dare
to
witness
against
them,
and
on
the
other
they
had
an
unlimited
number
of
stanch
witnesses
upon
whom
they
could
call,
and
a
well-filled
treasure
chest
from
which
they
could
draw
the
funds
to
engage
the
best
legal
talent
in
the
state.
In
ten
long
years
of
outrage
there
had
been
no
single
conviction,
and
the
only
danger
that
ever
threatened
the
Scowrers
lay
in
the
victim
himself--who,
however
outnumbered
and
taken
by
surprise,
might
and
occasionally
did
leave
his
mark
upon
his
assailants.
McMurdo
had
been
warned
that
some
ordeal
lay
before
him;
but
no
one
would
tell
him
in
what
it
consisted.
He
was
led
now
into
an
outer
room
by
two
solemn
brothers.
Through
the
plank
partition
he
could
hear
the
murmur
of
many
voices
from
the
assembly
within.
Once
or
twice
he
caught
the
sound
of
his
own
name,
and
he
knew
that
they
were
discussing
his
candidacy.
Then
there
entered
an
inner
guard
with
a
green
and
gold
sash
across
his
chest.
"The
Bodymaster
orders
that
he
shall
be
trussed,
blinded,
and
entered,"
said
he.
The
three
of
them
removed
his
coat,
turned
up
the
sleeve
of
his
right
arm,
and
finally
passed
a
rope
round
above
the
elbows
and
made
it
fast.
They
next
placed
a
thick
black
cap
right
over
his
head
and
the
upper
part
of
his
face,
so
that
he
could
see
nothing.
He
was
then
led
into
the
assembly
hall.
It
was
pitch
dark
and
very
oppressive
under
his
hood.
He
heard
the
rustle
and
murmur
of
the
people
round
him,
and
then
the
voice
of
McGinty
sounded
dull
and
distant
through
the
covering
of
his
ears.
"John
McMurdo,"
said
the
voice,
"are
you
already
a
member
of
the
Ancient
Order
of
Freemen?"
He
bowed
in
assent.
"Is
your
lodge
No.
29,
Chicago?"
He
bowed
again.
"Dark
nights
are
unpleasant,"
said
the
voice.
"Yes,
for
strangers
to
travel,"
he
answered.
"The
clouds
are
heavy."
"Yes,
a
storm
is
approaching."
"Are
the
brethren
satisfied?"
asked
the
Bodymaster.
There
was
a
general
murmur
of
assent.
"We
know,
Brother,
by
your
sign
and
by
your
countersign
that
you
are
indeed
one
of
us,"
said
McGinty.
"We
would
have
you
know,
however,
that
in
this
county
and
in
other
counties
of
these
parts
we
have
certain
rites,
and
also
certain
duties
of
our
own
which
call
for
good
men.
Are
you
ready
to
be
tested?"
"I
am."
"Are
you
of
stout
heart?"
"I
am."
"Take
a
stride
forward
to
prove
it."
As
the
words
were
said
he
felt
two
hard
points
in
front
of
his
eyes,
pressing
upon
them
so
that
it
appeared
as
if
he
could
not
move
forward
without
a
danger
of
losing
them.
None
the
less,
he
nerved
himself
to
step
resolutely
out,
and
as
he
did
so
the
pressure
melted
away.
There
was
a
low
murmur
of
applause.
"He
is
of
stout
heart,"
said
the
voice.
"Can
you
bear
pain?"
"As
well
as
another,"
he
answered.
"Test
him!"
It
was
all
he
could
do
to
keep
himself
from
screaming
out,
for
an
agonizing
pain
shot
through
his
forearm.
He
nearly
fainted
at
the
sudden
shock
of
it;
but
he
bit
his
lip
and
clenched
his
hands
to
hide
his
agony.
"I
can
take
more
than
that,"
said
he.
This
time
there
was
loud
applause.
A
finer
first
appearance
had
never
been
made
in
the
lodge.
Hands
clapped
him
on
the
back,
and
the
hood
was
plucked
from
his
head.
He
stood
blinking
and
smiling
amid
the
congratulations
of
the
brothers.
"One
last
word,
Brother
McMurdo,"
said
McGinty.
"You
have
already
sworn
the
oath
of
secrecy
and
fidelity,
and
you
are
aware
that
the
punishment
for
any
breach
of
it
is
instant
and
inevitable
death?"
"I
am,"
said
McMurdo.
"And
you
accept
the
rule
of
the
Bodymaster
for
the
time
being
under
all
circumstances?"
"I
do."
"Then
in
the
name
of
Lodge
341,
Vermissa,
I
welcome
you
to
its
privileges
and
debates.
You
will
put
the
liquor
on
the
table,
Brother
Scanlan,
and
we
will
drink
to
our
worthy
brother."
McMurdo's
coat
had
been
brought
to
him;
but
before
putting
it
on
he
examined
his
right
arm,
which
still
smarted
heavily.
There
on
the
flesh
of
the
forearm
was
a
circle
with
a
triangle
within
it,
deep
and
red,
as
the
branding
iron
had
left
it.
One
or
two
of
his
neighbours
pulled
up
their
sleeves
and
showed
their
own
lodge
marks.
"We've
all
had
it,"
said
one;
"but
not
all
as
brave
as
you
over
it."
"Tut!
It
was
nothing,"
said
he;
but
it
burned
and
ached
all
the
same.
When
the
drinks
which
followed
the
ceremony
of
initiation
had
all
been
disposed
of,
the
business
of
the
lodge
proceeded.
McMurdo,
accustomed
only
to
the
prosaic
performances
of
Chicago,
listened
with
open
ears
and
more
surprise
than
he
ventured
to
show
to
what
followed.
"The
first
business
on
the
agenda
paper,"
said
McGinty,
"is
to
read
the
following
letter
from
Division
Master
Windle
of
Merton
County
Lodge
249.
He
says:
"Dear
Sir:
"There
is
a
job
to
be
done
on
Andrew
Rae
of
Rae
&
Sturmash,
coal
owners
near
this
place.
You
will
remember
that
your
lodge
owes
us
a
return,
having
had
the
service
of
two
brethren
in
the
matter
of
the
patrolman
last
fall.
You
will
send
two
good
men,
they
will
be
taken
charge
of
by
Treasurer
Higgins
of
this
lodge,
whose
address
you
know.
He
will
show
them
when
to
act
and
where.
Yours
in
freedom,
"J.W.
WINDLE
D.M.A.O.F."
"Windle
has
never
refused
us
when
we
have
had
occasion
to
ask
for
the
loan
of
a
man
or
two,
and
it
is
not
for
us
to
refuse
him."
McGinty
paused
and
looked
round
the
room
with
his
dull,
malevolent
eyes.
"Who
will
volunteer
for
the
job?"
Several
young
fellows
held
up
their
hands.
The
Bodymaster
looked
at
them
with
an
approving
smile.
"You'll
do,
Tiger
Cormac.
If
you
handle
it
as
well
as
you
did
the
last,
you
won't
be
wrong.
And
you,
Wilson."
"I've
no
pistol,"
said
the
volunteer,
a
mere
boy
in
his
teens.
"It's
your
first,
is
it
not?
Well,
you
have
to
be
blooded
some
time.
It
will
be
a
great
start
for
you.
As
to
the
pistol,
you'll
find
it
waiting
for
you,
or
I'm
mistaken.
If
you
report
yourselves
on
Monday,
it
will
be
time
enough.
You'll
get
a
great
welcome
when
you
return."
"Any
reward
this
time?"
asked
Cormac,
a
thick-set,
dark-faced,
brutal-looking
young
man,
whose
ferocity
had
earned
him
the
nickname
of
"Tiger."
"Never
mind
the
reward.
You
just
do
it
for
the
honour
of
the
thing.
Maybe
when
it
is
done
there
will
be
a
few
odd
dollars
at
the
bottom
of
the
box."
"What
has
the
man
done?"
asked
young
Wilson.
"Sure,
it's
not
for
the
likes
of
you
to
ask
what
the
man
has
done.
He
has
been
judged
over
there.
That's
no
business
of
ours.
All
we
have
to
do
is
to
carry
it
out
for
them,
same
as
they
would
for
us.
Speaking
of
that,
two
brothers
from
the
Merton
lodge
are
coming
over
to
us
next
week
to
do
some
business
in
this
quarter."
"Who
are
they?"
asked
someone.
"Faith,
it
is
wiser
not
to
ask.
If
you
know
nothing,
you
can
testify
nothing,
and
no
trouble
can
come
of
it.
But
they
are
men
who
will
make
a
clean
job
when
they
are
about
it."
"And
time,
too!"
cried
Ted
Baldwin.
"Folk
are
gettin'
out
of
hand
in
these
parts.
It
was
only
last
week
that
three
of
our
men
were
turned
off
by
Foreman
Blaker.
It's
been
owing
him
a
long
time,
and
he'll
get
it
full
and
proper."
"Get
what?"
McMurdo
whispered
to
his
neighbour.
"The
business
end
of
a
buckshot
cartridge!"
cried
the
man
with
a
loud
laugh.
"What
think
you
of
our
ways,
Brother?"
McMurdo's
criminal
soul
seemed
to
have
already
absorbed
the
spirit
of
the
vile
association
of
which
he
was
now
a
member.
"I
like
it
well,"
said
he.
"'Tis
a
proper
place
for
a
lad
of
mettle."
Several
of
those
who
sat
around
heard
his
words
and
applauded
them.
"What's
that?"
cried
the
black-maned
Bodymaster
from
the
end
of
the
table.
"'Tis
our
new
brother,
sir,
who
finds
our
ways
to
his
taste."
McMurdo
rose
to
his
feet
for
an
instant.
"I
would
say,
Eminent
Bodymaster,
that
if
a
man
should
be
wanted
I
should
take
it
as
an
honour
to
be
chosen
to
help
the
lodge."
There
was
great
applause
at
this.
It
was
felt
that
a
new
sun
was
pushing
its
rim
above
the
horizon.
To
some
of
the
elders
it
seemed
that
the
progress
was
a
little
too
rapid.
"I
would
move,"
said
the
secretary,
Harraway,
a
vulture-faced
old
graybeard
who
sat
near
the
chairman,
"that
Brother
McMurdo
should
wait
until
it
is
the
good
pleasure
of
the
lodge
to
employ
him."
"Sure,
that
was
what
I
meant;
I'm
in
your
hands,"
said
McMurdo.
"Your
time
will
come,
Brother,"
said
the
chairman.
"We
have
marked
you
down
as
a
willing
man,
and
we
believe
that
you
will
do
good
work
in
these
parts.
There
is
a
small
matter
to-night
in
which
you
may
take
a
hand
if
it
so
please
you."
"I
will
wait
for
something
that
is
worth
while."
"You
can
come
to-night,
anyhow,
and
it
will
help
you
to
know
what
we
stand
for
in
this
community.
I
will
make
the
announcement
later.
Meanwhile,"
he
glanced
at
his
agenda
paper,
"I
have
one
or
two
more
points
to
bring
before
the
meeting.
First
of
all,
I
will
ask
the
treasurer
as
to
our
bank
balance.
There
is
the
pension
to
Jim
Carnaway's
widow.
He
was
struck
down
doing
the
work
of
the
lodge,
and
it
is
for
us
to
see
that
she
is
not
the
loser."
"Jim
was
shot
last
month
when
they
tried
to
kill
Chester
Wilcox
of
Marley
Creek,"
McMurdo's
neighbour
informed
him.
"The
funds
are
good
at
the
moment,"
said
the
treasurer,
with
the
bankbook
in
front
of
him.
"The
firms
have
been
generous
of
late.
Max
Linder
&
Co.
paid
five
hundred
to
be
left
alone.
Walker
Brothers
sent
in
a
hundred;
but
I
took
it
on
myself
to
return
it
and
ask
for
five.
If
I
do
not
hear
by
Wednesday,
their
winding
gear
may
get
out
of
order.
We
had
to
burn
their
breaker
last
year
before
they
became
reasonable.
Then
the
West
Section
Coaling
Company
has
paid
its
annual
contribution.
We
have
enough
on
hand
to
meet
any
obligations."
"What
about
Archie
Swindon?"
asked
a
brother.
"He
has
sold
out
and
left
the
district.
The
old
devil
left
a
note
for
us
to
say
that
he
had
rather
be
a
free
crossing
sweeper
in
New
York
than
a
large
mine
owner
under
the
power
of
a
ring
of
blackmailers.
By
Gar!
it
was
as
well
that
he
made
a
break
for
it
before
the
note
reached
us!
I
guess
he
won't
show
his
face
in
this
valley
again."
An
elderly,
clean-shaved
man
with
a
kindly
face
and
a
good
brow
rose
from
the
end
of
the
table
which
faced
the
chairman.
"Mr.
Treasurer,"
he
asked,
"may
I
ask
who
has
bought
the
property
of
this
man
that
we
have
driven
out
of
the
district?"
"Yes,
Brother
Morris.
It
has
been
bought
by
the
State
&
Merton
County
Railroad
Company."
"And
who
bought
the
mines
of
Todman
and
of
Lee
that
came
into
the
market
in
the
same
way
last
year?"
"The
same
company,
Brother
Morris."
"And
who
bought
the
ironworks
of
Manson
and
of
Shuman
and
of
Van
Deher
and
of
Atwood,
which
have
all
been
given
up
of
late?"
"They
were
all
bought
by
the
West
Gilmerton
General
Mining
Company."
"I
don't
see,
Brother
Morris,"
said
the
chairman,
"that
it
matters
to
us
who
buys
them,
since
they
can't
carry
them
out
of
the
district."
"With
all
respect
to
you,
Eminent
Bodymaster,
I
think
it
may
matter
very
much
to
us.
This
process
has
been
going
on
now
for
ten
long
years.
We
are
gradually
driving
all
the
small
men
out
of
trade.
What
is
the
result?
We
find
in
their
places
great
companies
like
the
Railroad
or
the
General
Iron,
who
have
their
directors
in
New
York
or
Philadelphia,
and
care
nothing
for
our
threats.
We
can
take
it
out
of
their
local
bosses;
but
it
only
means
that
others
will
be
sent
in
their
stead.
And
we
are
making
it
dangerous
for
ourselves.
The
small
men
could
not
harm
us.
They
had
not
the
money
nor
the
power.
So
long
as
we
did
not
squeeze
them
too
dry,
they
would
stay
on
under
our
power.
But
if
these
big
companies
find
that
we
stand
between
them
and
their
profits,
they
will
spare
no
pains
and
no
expense
to
hunt
us
down
and
bring
us
to
court."
There
was
a
hush
at
these
ominous
words,
and
every
face
darkened
as
gloomy
looks
were
exchanged.
So
omnipotent
and
unchallenged
had
they
been
that
the
very
thought
that
there
was
possible
retribution
in
the
background
had
been
banished
from
their
minds.
And
yet
the
idea
struck
a
chill
to
the
most
reckless
of
them.
"It
is
my
advice,"
the
speaker
continued,
"that
we
go
easier
upon
the
small
men.
On
the
day
that
they
have
all
been
driven
out
the
power
of
this
society
will
have
been
broken."
Unwelcome
truths
are
not
popular.
There
were
angry
cries
as
the
speaker
resumed
his
seat.
McGinty
rose
with
gloom
upon
his
brow.
"Brother
Morris,"
said
he,
"you
were
always
a
croaker.
So
long
as
the
members
of
this
lodge
stand
together
there
is
no
power
in
the
United
States
that
can
touch
them.
Sure,
have
we
not
tried
it
often
enough
in
the
lawcourts?
I
expect
the
big
companies
will
find
it
easier
to
pay
than
to
fight,
same
as
the
little
companies
do.
And
now,
Brethren,"
McGinty
took
off
his
black
velvet
cap
and
his
stole
as
he
spoke,
"this
lodge
has
finished
its
business
for
the
evening,
save
for
one
small
matter
which
may
be
mentioned
when
we
are
parting.
The
time
has
now
come
for
fraternal
refreshment
and
for
harmony."
Strange
indeed
is
human
nature.
Here
were
these
men,
to
whom
murder
was
familiar,
who
again
and
again
had
struck
down
the
father
of
the
family,
some
man
against
whom
they
had
no
personal
feeling,
without
one
thought
of
compunction
or
of
compassion
for
his
weeping
wife
or
helpless
children,
and
yet
the
tender
or
pathetic
in
music
could
move
them
to
tears.
McMurdo
had
a
fine
tenor
voice,
and
if
he
had
failed
to
gain
the
good
will
of
the
lodge
before,
it
could
no
longer
have
been
withheld
after
he
had
thrilled
them
with
"I'm
Sitting
on
the
Stile,
Mary,"
and
"On
the
Banks
of
Allan
Water."
In
his
very
first
night
the
new
recruit
had
made
himself
one
of
the
most
popular
of
the
brethren,
marked
already
for
advancement
and
high
office.
There
were
other
qualities
needed,
however,
besides
those
of
good
fellowship,
to
make
a
worthy
Freeman,
and
of
these
he
was
given
an
example
before
the
evening
was
over.
The
whisky
bottle
had
passed
round
many
times,
and
the
men
were
flushed
and
ripe
for
mischief
when
their
Bodymaster
rose
once
more
to
address
them.
"Boys,"
said
he,
"there's
one
man
in
this
town
that
wants
trimming
up,
and
it's
for
you
to
see
that
he
gets
it.
I'm
speaking
of
James
Stanger
of
the
Herald.
You've
seen
how
he's
been
opening
his
mouth
against
us
again?"
There
was
a
murmur
of
assent,
with
many
a
muttered
oath.
McGinty
took
a
slip
of
paper
from
his
waistcoat
pocket.
"LAW
AND
ORDER!"
That's
how
he
heads
it.
"REIGN
OF
TERROR
IN
THE
COAL
AND
IRON
DISTRICT
"Twelve
years
have
now
elapsed
since
the
first
assassinations
which
proved
the
existence
of
a
criminal
organization
in
our
midst.
From
that
day
these
outrages
have
never
ceased,
until
now
they
have
reached
a
pitch
which
makes
us
the
opprobrium
of
the
civilized
world.
Is
it
for
such
results
as
this
that
our
great
country
welcomes
to
its
bosom
the
alien
who
flies
from
the
despotisms
of
Europe?
Is
it
that
they
shall
themselves
become
tyrants
over
the
very
men
who
have
given
them
shelter,
and
that
a
state
of
terrorism
and
lawlessness
should
be
established
under
the
very
shadow
of
the
sacred
folds
of
the
starry
Flag
of
Freedom
which
would
raise
horror
in
our
minds
if
we
read
of
it
as
existing
under
the
most
effete
monarchy
of
the
East?
The
men
are
known.
The
organization
is
patent
and
public.
How
long
are
we
to
endure
it?
Can
we
forever
live--
"Sure,
I've
read
enough
of
the
slush!"
cried
the
chairman,
tossing
the
paper
down
upon
the
table.
"That's
what
he
says
of
us.
The
question
I'm
asking
you
is
what
shall
we
say
to
him?"
"Kill
him!"
cried
a
dozen
fierce
voices.
"I
protest
against
that,"
said
Brother
Morris,
the
man
of
the
good
brow
and
shaved
face.
"I
tell
you,
Brethren,
that
our
hand
is
too
heavy
in
this
valley,
and
that
there
will
come
a
point
where
in
self-defense
every
man
will
unite
to
crush
us
out.
James
Stanger
is
an
old
man.
He
is
respected
in
the
township
and
the
district.
His
paper
stands
for
all
that
is
solid
in
the
valley.
If
that
man
is
struck
down,
there
will
be
a
stir
through
this
state
that
will
only
end
with
our
destruction."
"And
how
would
they
bring
about
our
destruction,
Mr.
Standback?"
cried
McGinty.
"Is
it
by
the
police?
Sure,
half
of
them
are
in
our
pay
and
half
of
them
afraid
of
us.
Or
is
it
by
the
law
courts
and
the
judge?
Haven't
we
tried
that
before
now,
and
what
ever
came
of
it?"
"There
is
a
Judge
Lynch
that
might
try
the
case,"
said
Brother
Morris.
A
general
shout
of
anger
greeted
the
suggestion.
"I
have
but
to
raise
my
finger,"
cried
McGinty,
"and
I
could
put
two
hundred
men
into
this
town
that
would
clear
it
out
from
end
to
end."
Then
suddenly
raising
his
voice
and
bending
his
huge
black
brows
into
a
terrible
frown,
"See
here,
Brother
Morris,
I
have
my
eye
on
you,
and
have
had
for
some
time!
You've
no
heart
yourself,
and
you
try
to
take
the
heart
out
of
others.
It
will
be
an
ill
day
for
you,
Brother
Morris,
when
your
own
name
comes
on
our
agenda
paper,
and
I'm
thinking
that
it's
just
there
that
I
ought
to
place
it."
Morris
had
turned
deadly
pale,
and
his
knees
seemed
to
give
way
under
him
as
he
fell
back
into
his
chair.
He
raised
his
glass
in
his
trembling
hand
and
drank
before
he
could
answer.
"I
apologize,
Eminent
Bodymaster,
to
you
and
to
every
brother
in
this
lodge
if
I
have
said
more
than
I
should.
I
am
a
faithful
member--you
all
know
that--and
it
is
my
fear
lest
evil
come
to
the
lodge
which
makes
me
speak
in
anxious
words.
But
I
have
greater
trust
in
your
judgment
than
in
my
own,
Eminent
Bodymaster,
and
I
promise
you
that
I
will
not
offend
again."
The
Bodymaster's
scowl
relaxed
as
he
listened
to
the
humble
words.
"Very
good,
Brother
Morris.
It's
myself
that
would
be
sorry
if
it
were
needful
to
give
you
a
lesson.
But
so
long
as
I
am
in
this
chair
we
shall
be
a
united
lodge
in
word
and
in
deed.
And
now,
boys,"
he
continued,
looking
round
at
the
company,
"I'll
say
this
much,
that
if
Stanger
got
his
full
deserts
there
would
be
more
trouble
than
we
need
ask
for.
These
editors
hang
together,
and
every
journal
in
the
state
would
be
crying
out
for
police
and
troops.
But
I
guess
you
can
give
him
a
pretty
severe
warning.
Will
you
fix
it,
Brother
Baldwin?"
"Sure!"
said
the
young
man
eagerly.
"How
many
will
you
take?"
"Half
a
dozen,
and
two
to
guard
the
door.
You'll
come,
Gower,
and
you,
Mansel,
and
you,
Scanlan,
and
the
two
Willabys."
"I
promised
the
new
brother
he
should
go,"
said
the
chairman.
Ted
Baldwin
looked
at
McMurdo
with
eyes
which
showed
that
he
had
not
forgotten
nor
forgiven.
"Well,
he
can
come
if
he
wants,"
he
said
in
a
surly
voice.
"That's
enough.
The
sooner
we
get
to
work
the
better."
The
company
broke
up
with
shouts
and
yells
and
snatches
of
drunken
song.
The
bar
was
still
crowded
with
revellers,
and
many
of
the
brethren
remained
there.
The
little
band
who
had
been
told
off
for
duty
passed
out
into
the
street,
proceeding
in
twos
and
threes
along
the
sidewalk
so
as
not
to
provoke
attention.
It
was
a
bitterly
cold
night,
with
a
half-moon
shining
brilliantly
in
a
frosty,
star-spangled
sky.
The
men
stopped
and
gathered
in
a
yard
which
faced
a
high
building.
The
words,
"Vermissa
Herald"
were
printed
in
gold
lettering
between
the
brightly
lit
windows.
From
within
came
the
clanking
of
the
printing
press.
"Here,
you,"
said
Baldwin
to
McMurdo,
"you
can
stand
below
at
the
door
and
see
that
the
road
is
kept
open
for
us.
Arthur
Willaby
can
stay
with
you.
You
others
come
with
me.
Have
no
fears,
boys;
for
we
have
a
dozen
witnesses
that
we
are
in
the
Union
Bar
at
this
very
moment."
It
was
nearly
midnight,
and
the
street
was
deserted
save
for
one
or
two
revellers
upon
their
way
home.
The
party
crossed
the
road,
and,
pushing
open
the
door
of
the
newspaper
office,
Baldwin
and
his
men
rushed
in
and
up
the
stair
which
faced
them.
McMurdo
and
another
remained
below.
From
the
room
above
came
a
shout,
a
cry
for
help,
and
then
the
sound
of
trampling
feet
and
of
falling
chairs.
An
instant
later
a
gray-haired
man
rushed
out
on
the
landing.
He
was
seized
before
he
could
get
farther,
and
his
spectacles
came
tinkling
down
to
McMurdo's
feet.
There
was
a
thud
and
a
groan.
He
was
on
his
face,
and
half
a
dozen
sticks
were
clattering
together
as
they
fell
upon
him.
He
writhed,
and
his
long,
thin
limbs
quivered
under
the
blows.
The
others
ceased
at
last;
but
Baldwin,
his
cruel
face
set
in
an
infernal
smile,
was
hacking
at
the
man's
head,
which
he
vainly
endeavoured
to
defend
with
his
arms.
His
white
hair
was
dabbled
with
patches
of
blood.
Baldwin
was
still
stooping
over
his
victim,
putting
in
a
short,
vicious
blow
whenever
he
could
see
a
part
exposed,
when
McMurdo
dashed
up
the
stair
and
pushed
him
back.
"You'll
kill
the
man,"
said
he.
"Drop
it!"
Baldwin
looked
at
him
in
amazement.
"Curse
you!"
he
cried.
"Who
are
you
to
interfere--you
that
are
new
to
the
lodge?
Stand
back!"
He
raised
his
stick;
but
McMurdo
had
whipped
his
pistol
out
of
his
pocket.
"Stand
back
yourself!"
he
cried.
"I'll
blow
your
face
in
if
you
lay
a
hand
on
me.
As
to
the
lodge,
wasn't
it
the
order
of
the
Bodymaster
that
the
man
was
not
to
be
killed--and
what
are
you
doing
but
killing
him?"
"It's
truth
he
says,"
remarked
one
of
the
men.
"By
Gar!
you'd
best
hurry
yourselves!"
cried
the
man
below.
"The
windows
are
all
lighting
up,
and
you'll
have
the
whole
town
here
inside
of
five
minutes."
There
was
indeed
the
sound
of
shouting
in
the
street,
and
a
little
group
of
compositors
and
pressmen
was
forming
in
the
hall
below
and
nerving
itself
to
action.
Leaving
the
limp
and
motionless
body
of
the
editor
at
the
head
of
the
stair,
the
criminals
rushed
down
and
made
their
way
swiftly
along
the
street.
Having
reached
the
Union
House,
some
of
them
mixed
with
the
crowd
in
McGinty's
saloon,
whispering
across
the
bar
to
the
Boss
that
the
job
had
been
well
carried
through.
Others,
and
among
them
McMurdo,
broke
away
into
side
streets,
and
so
by
devious
paths
to
their
own
homes.
Chapter
4--The
Valley
of
Fear
When
McMurdo
awoke
next
morning
he
had
good
reason
to
remember
his
initiation
into
the
lodge.
His
head
ached
with
the
effect
of
the
drink,
and
his
arm,
where
he
had
been
branded,
was
hot
and
swollen.
Having
his
own
peculiar
source
of
income,
he
was
irregular
in
his
attendance
at
his
work;
so
he
had
a
late
breakfast,
and
remained
at
home
for
the
morning
writing
a
long
letter
to
a
friend.
Afterwards
he
read
the
Daily
Herald.
In
a
special
column
put
in
at
the
last
moment
he
read:
OUTRAGE
AT
THE
HERALD
OFFICE--EDITOR
SERIOUSLY
INJURED.
It
was
a
short
account
of
the
facts
with
which
he
was
himself
more
familiar
than
the
writer
could
have
been.
It
ended
with
the
statement:
The
matter
is
now
in
the
hands
of
the
police;
but
it
can
hardly
be
hoped
that
their
exertions
will
be
attended
by
any
better
results
than
in
the
past.
Some
of
the
men
were
recognized,
and
there
is
hope
that
a
conviction
may
be
obtained.
The
source
of
the
outrage
was,
it
need
hardly
be
said,
that
infamous
society
which
has
held
this
community
in
bondage
for
so
long
a
period,
and
against
which
the
Herald
has
taken
so
uncompromising
a
stand.
Mr.
Stanger's
many
friends
will
rejoice
to
hear
that,
though
he
has
been
cruelly
and
brutally
beaten,
and
though
he
has
sustained
severe
injuries
about
the
head,
there
is
no
immediate
danger
to
his
life.
Below
it
stated
that
a
guard
of
police,
armed
with
Winchester
rifles,
had
been
requisitioned
for
the
defense
of
the
office.
McMurdo
had
laid
down
the
paper,
and
was
lighting
his
pipe
with
a
hand
which
was
shaky
from
the
excesses
of
the
previous
evening,
when
there
was
a
knock
outside,
and
his
landlady
brought
to
him
a
note
which
had
just
been
handed
in
by
a
lad.
It
was
unsigned,
and
ran
thus:
I
should
wish
to
speak
to
you,
but
would
rather
not
do
so
in
your
house.
You
will
find
me
beside
the
flagstaff
upon
Miller
Hill.
If
you
will
come
there
now,
I
have
something
which
it
is
important
for
you
to
hear
and
for
me
to
say.
McMurdo
read
the
note
twice
with
the
utmost
surprise;
for
he
could
not
imagine
what
it
meant
or
who
was
the
author
of
it.
Had
it
been
in
a
feminine
hand,
he
might
have
imagined
that
it
was
the
beginning
of
one
of
those
adventures
which
had
been
familiar
enough
in
his
past
life.
But
it
was
the
writing
of
a
man,
and
of
a
well
educated
one,
too.
Finally,
after
some
hesitation,
he
determined
to
see
the
matter
through.
Miller
Hill
is
an
ill-kept
public
park
in
the
very
centre
of
the
town.
In
summer
it
is
a
favourite
resort
of
the
people,
but
in
winter
it
is
desolate
enough.
From
the
top
of
it
one
has
a
view
not
only
of
the
whole
straggling,
grimy
town,
but
of
the
winding
valley
beneath,
with
its
scattered
mines
and
factories
blackening
the
snow
on
each
side
of
it,
and
of
the
wooded
and
white-capped
ranges
flanking
it.
McMurdo
strolled
up
the
winding
path
hedged
in
with
evergreens
until
he
reached
the
deserted
restaurant
which
forms
the
centre
of
summer
gaiety.
Beside
it
was
a
bare
flagstaff,
and
underneath
it
a
man,
his
hat
drawn
down
and
the
collar
of
his
overcoat
turned
up.
When
he
turned
his
face
McMurdo
saw
that
it
was
Brother
Morris,
he
who
had
incurred
the
anger
of
the
Bodymaster
the
night
before.
The
lodge
sign
was
given
and
exchanged
as
they
met.
"I
wanted
to
have
a
word
with
you,
Mr.
McMurdo,"
said
the
older
man,
speaking
with
a
hesitation
which
showed
that
he
was
on
delicate
ground.
"It
was
kind
of
you
to
come."
"Why
did
you
not
put
your
name
to
the
note?"
"One
has
to
be
cautious,
mister.
One
never
knows
in
times
like
these
how
a
thing
may
come
back
to
one.
One
never
knows
either
who
to
trust
or
who
not
to
trust."
"Surely
one
may
trust
brothers
of
the
lodge."
"No,
no,
not
always,"
cried
Morris
with
vehemence.
"Whatever
we
say,
even
what
we
think,
seems
to
go
back
to
that
man
McGinty."
"Look
here!"
said
McMurdo
sternly.
"It
was
only
last
night,
as
you
know
well,
that
I
swore
good
faith
to
our
Bodymaster.
Would
you
be
asking
me
to
break
my
oath?"
"If
that
is
the
view
you
take,"
said
Morris
sadly,
"I
can
only
say
that
I
am
sorry
I
gave
you
the
trouble
to
come
and
meet
me.
Things
have
come
to
a
bad
pass
when
two
free
citizens
cannot
speak
their
thoughts
to
each
other."
McMurdo,
who
had
been
watching
his
companion
very
narrowly,
relaxed
somewhat
in
his
bearing.
"Sure
I
spoke
for
myself
only,"
said
he.
"I
am
a
newcomer,
as
you
know,
and
I
am
strange
to
it
all.
It
is
not
for
me
to
open
my
mouth,
Mr.
Morris,
and
if
you
think
well
to
say
anything
to
me
I
am
here
to
hear
it."
"And
to
take
it
back
to
Boss
McGinty!"
said
Morris
bitterly.
"Indeed,
then,
you
do
me
injustice
there,"
cried
McMurdo.
"For
myself
I
am
loyal
to
the
lodge,
and
so
I
tell
you
straight;
but
I
would
be
a
poor
creature
if
I
were
to
repeat
to
any
other
what
you
might
say
to
me
in
confidence.
It
will
go
no
further
than
me;
though
I
warn
you
that
you
may
get
neither
help
nor
sympathy."
"I
have
given
up
looking
for
either
the
one
or
the
other,"
said
Morris.
"I
may
be
putting
my
very
life
in
your
hands
by
what
I
say;
but,
bad
as
you
are--and
it
seemed
to
me
last
night
that
you
were
shaping
to
be
as
bad
as
the
worst--still
you
are
new
to
it,
and
your
conscience
cannot
yet
be
as
hardened
as
theirs.
That
was
why
I
thought
to
speak
with
you."
"Well,
what
have
you
to
say?"
"If
you
give
me
away,
may
a
curse
be
on
you!"
"Sure,
I
said
I
would
not."
"I
would
ask
you,
then,
when
you
joined
the
Freeman's
society
in
Chicago
and
swore
vows
of
charity
and
fidelity,
did
ever
it
cross
your
mind
that
you
might
find
it
would
lead
you
to
crime?"
"If
you
call
it
crime,"
McMurdo
answered.
"Call
it
crime!"
cried
Morris,
his
voice
vibrating
with
passion.
"You
have
seen
little
of
it
if
you
can
call
it
anything
else.
Was
it
crime
last
night
when
a
man
old
enough
to
be
your
father
was
beaten
till
the
blood
dripped
from
his
white
hairs?
Was
that
crime--or
what
else
would
you
call
it?"
"There
are
some
would
say
it
was
war,"
said
McMurdo,
"a
war
of
two
classes
with
all
in,
so
that
each
struck
as
best
it
could."
"Well,
did
you
think
of
such
a
thing
when
you
joined
the
Freeman's
society
at
Chicago?"
"No,
I'm
bound
to
say
I
did
not."
"Nor
did
I
when
I
joined
it
at
Philadelphia.
It
was
just
a
benefit
club
and
a
meeting
place
for
one's
fellows.
Then
I
heard
of
this
place--curse
the
hour
that
the
name
first
fell
upon
my
ears!--and
I
came
to
better
myself!
My
God!
to
better
myself!
My
wife
and
three
children
came
with
me.
I
started
a
drygoods
store
on
Market
Square,
and
I
prospered
well.
The
word
had
gone
round
that
I
was
a
Freeman,
and
I
was
forced
to
join
the
local
lodge,
same
as
you
did
last
night.
I've
the
badge
of
shame
on
my
forearm
and
something
worse
branded
on
my
heart.
I
found
that
I
was
under
the
orders
of
a
black
villain
and
caught
in
a
meshwork
of
crime.
What
could
I
do?
Every
word
I
said
to
make
things
better
was
taken
as
treason,
same
as
it
was
last
night.
I
can't
get
away;
for
all
I
have
in
the
world
is
in
my
store.
If
I
leave
the
society,
I
know
well
that
it
means
murder
to
me,
and
God
knows
what
to
my
wife
and
children.
Oh,
man,
it
is
awful--awful!"
He
put
his
hands
to
his
face,
and
his
body
shook
with
convulsive
sobs.
McMurdo
shrugged
his
shoulders.
"You
were
too
soft
for
the
job,"
said
he.
"You
are
the
wrong
sort
for
such
work."
"I
had
a
conscience
and
a
religion;
but
they
made
me
a
criminal
among
them.
I
was
chosen
for
a
job.
If
I
backed
down
I
knew
well
what
would
come
to
me.
Maybe
I'm
a
coward.
Maybe
it's
the
thought
of
my
poor
little
woman
and
the
children
that
makes
me
one.
Anyhow
I
went.
I
guess
it
will
haunt
me
forever.
"It
was
a
lonely
house,
twenty
miles
from
here,
over
the
range
yonder.
I
was
told
off
for
the
door,
same
as
you
were
last
night.
They
could
not
trust
me
with
the
job.
The
others
went
in.
When
they
came
out
their
hands
were
crimson
to
the
wrists.
As
we
turned
away
a
child
was
screaming
out
of
the
house
behind
us.
It
was
a
boy
of
five
who
had
seen
his
father
murdered.
I
nearly
fainted
with
the
horror
of
it,
and
yet
I
had
to
keep
a
bold
and
smiling
face;
for
well
I
knew
that
if
I
did
not
it
would
be
out
of
my
house
that
they
would
come
next
with
their
bloody
hands
and
it
would
be
my
little
Fred
that
would
be
screaming
for
his
father.
"But
I
was
a
criminal
then,
part
sharer
in
a
murder,
lost
forever
in
this
world,
and
lost
also
in
the
next.
I
am
a
good
Catholic;
but
the
priest
would
have
no
word
with
me
when
he
heard
I
was
a
Scowrer,
and
I
am
excommunicated
from
my
faith.
That's
how
it
stands
with
me.
And
I
see
you
going
down
the
same
road,
and
I
ask
you
what
the
end
is
to
be.
Are
you
ready
to
be
a
cold-blooded
murderer
also,
or
can
we
do
anything
to
stop
it?"
"What
would
you
do?"
asked
McMurdo
abruptly.
"You
would
not
inform?"
"God
forbid!"
cried
Morris.
"Sure,
the
very
thought
would
cost
me
my
life."
"That's
well,"
said
McMurdo.
"I'm
thinking
that
you
are
a
weak
man
and
that
you
make
too
much
of
the
matter."
"Too
much!
Wait
till
you
have
lived
here
longer.
Look
down
the
valley!
See
the
cloud
of
a
hundred
chimneys
that
overshadows
it!
I
tell
you
that
the
cloud
of
murder
hangs
thicker
and
lower
than
that
over
the
heads
of
the
people.
It
is
the
Valley
of
Fear,
the
Valley
of
Death.
The
terror
is
in
the
hearts
of
the
people
from
the
dusk
to
the
dawn.
Wait,
young
man,
and
you
will
learn
for
yourself."
"Well,
I'll
let
you
know
what
I
think
when
I
have
seen
more,"
said
McMurdo
carelessly.
"What
is
very
clear
is
that
you
are
not
the
man
for
the
place,
and
that
the
sooner
you
sell
out--if
you
only
get
a
dime
a
dollar
for
what
the
business
is
worth--the
better
it
will
be
for
you.
What
you
have
said
is
safe
with
me;
but,
by
Gar!
if
I
thought
you
were
an
informer--"
"No,
no!"
cried
Morris
piteously.
"Well,
let
it
rest
at
that.
I'll
bear
what
you
have
said
in
mind,
and
maybe
some
day
I'll
come
back
to
it.
I
expect
you
meant
kindly
by
speaking
to
me
like
this.
Now
I'll
be
getting
home."
"One
word
before
you
go,"
said
Morris.
"We
may
have
been
seen
together.
They
may
want
to
know
what
we
have
spoken
about."
"Ah!
that's
well
thought
of."
"I
offer
you
a
clerkship
in
my
store."
"And
I
refuse
it.
That's
our
business.
Well,
so
long,
Brother
Morris,
and
may
you
find
things
go
better
with
you
in
the
future."
That
same
afternoon,
as
McMurdo
sat
smoking,
lost
in
thought
beside
the
stove
of
his
sitting-room,
the
door
swung
open
and
its
framework
was
filled
with
the
huge
figure
of
Boss
McGinty.
He
passed
the
sign,
and
then
seating
himself
opposite
to
the
young
man
he
looked
at
him
steadily
for
some
time,
a
look
which
was
as
steadily
returned.
"I'm
not
much
of
a
visitor,
Brother
McMurdo,"
he
said
at
last.
"I
guess
I
am
too
busy
over
the
folk
that
visit
me.
But
I
thought
I'd
stretch
a
point
and
drop
down
to
see
you
in
your
own
house."
"I'm
proud
to
see
you
here,
Councillor,"
McMurdo
answered
heartily,
bringing
his
whisky
bottle
out
of
the
cupboard.
"It's
an
honour
that
I
had
not
expected."
"How's
the
arm?"
asked
the
Boss.
McMurdo
made
a
wry
face.
"Well,
I'm
not
forgetting
it,"
he
said;
"but
it's
worth
it."
"Yes,
it's
worth
it,"
the
other
answered,
"to
those
that
are
loyal
and
go
through
with
it
and
are
a
help
to
the
lodge.
What
were
you
speaking
to
Brother
Morris
about
on
Miller
Hill
this
morning?"
The
question
came
so
suddenly
that
it
was
well
that
he
had
his
answer
prepared.
He
burst
into
a
hearty
laugh.
"Morris
didn't
know
I
could
earn
a
living
here
at
home.
He
shan't
know
either;
for
he
has
got
too
much
conscience
for
the
likes
of
me.
But
he's
a
good-hearted
old
chap.
It
was
his
idea
that
I
was
at
a
loose
end,
and
that
he
would
do
me
a
good
turn
by
offering
me
a
clerkship
in
a
drygoods
store."
"Oh,
that
was
it?"
"Yes,
that
was
it."
"And
you
refused
it?"
"Sure.
Couldn't
I
earn
ten
times
as
much
in
my
own
bedroom
with
four
hours'
work?"
"That's
so.
But
I
wouldn't
get
about
too
much
with
Morris."
"Why
not?"
"Well,
I
guess
because
I
tell
you
not.
That's
enough
for
most
folk
in
these
parts."
"It
may
be
enough
for
most
folk;
but
it
ain't
enough
for
me,
Councillor,"
said
McMurdo
boldly.
"If
you
are
a
judge
of
men,
you'll
know
that."
The
swarthy
giant
glared
at
him,
and
his
hairy
paw
closed
for
an
instant
round
the
glass
as
though
he
would
hurl
it
at
the
head
of
his
companion.
Then
he
laughed
in
his
loud,
boisterous,
insincere
fashion.
"You're
a
queer
card,
for
sure,"
said
he.
"Well,
if
you
want
reasons,
I'll
give
them.
Did
Morris
say
nothing
to
you
against
the
lodge?"
"No."
"Nor
against
me?"
"No."
"Well,
that's
because
he
daren't
trust
you.
But
in
his
heart
he
is
not
a
loyal
brother.
We
know
that
well.
So
we
watch
him
and
we
wait
for
the
time
to
admonish
him.
I'm
thinking
that
the
time
is
drawing
near.
There's
no
room
for
scabby
sheep
in
our
pen.
But
if
you
keep
company
with
a
disloyal
man,
we
might
think
that
you
were
disloyal,
too.
See?"
"There's
no
chance
of
my
keeping
company
with
him;
for
I
dislike
the
man,"
McMurdo
answered.
"As
to
being
disloyal,
if
it
was
any
man
but
you
he
would
not
use
the
word
to
me
twice."
"Well,
that's
enough,"
said
McGinty,
draining
off
his
glass.
"I
came
down
to
give
you
a
word
in
season,
and
you've
had
it."
"I'd
like
to
know,"
said
McMurdo,
"how
you
ever
came
to
learn
that
I
had
spoken
with
Morris
at
all?"
McGinty
laughed.
"It's
my
business
to
know
what
goes
on
in
this
township,"
said
he.
"I
guess
you'd
best
reckon
on
my
hearing
all
that
passes.
Well,
time's
up,
and
I'll
just
say--"
But
his
leavetaking
was
cut
short
in
a
very
unexpected
fashion.
With
a
sudden
crash
the
door
flew
open,
and
three
frowning,
intent
faces
glared
in
at
them
from
under
the
peaks
of
police
caps.
McMurdo
sprang
to
his
feet
and
half
drew
his
revolver;
but
his
arm
stopped
midway
as
he
became
conscious
that
two
Winchester
rifles
were
levelled
at
his
head.
A
man
in
uniform
advanced
into
the
room,
a
six-shooter
in
his
hand.
It
was
Captain
Marvin,
once
of
Chicago,
and
now
of
the
Mine
Constabulary.
He
shook
his
head
with
a
half-smile
at
McMurdo.
"I
thought
you'd
be
getting
into
trouble,
Mr.
Crooked
McMurdo
of
Chicago,"
said
he.
"Can't
keep
out
of
it,
can
you?
Take
your
hat
and
come
along
with
us."
"I
guess
you'll
pay
for
this,
Captain
Marvin,"
said
McGinty.
"Who
are
you,
I'd
like
to
know,
to
break
into
a
house
in
this
fashion
and
molest
honest,
law-abiding
men?"
"You're
standing
out
in
this
deal,
Councillor
McGinty,"
said
the
police
captain.
"We
are
not
out
after
you,
but
after
this
man
McMurdo.
It
is
for
you
to
help,
not
to
hinder
us
in
our
duty."
"He
is
a
friend
of
mine,
and
I'll
answer
for
his
conduct,"
said
the
Boss.
"By
all
accounts,
Mr.
McGinty,
you
may
have
to
answer
for
your
own
conduct
some
of
these
days,"
the
captain
answered.
"This
man
McMurdo
was
a
crook
before
ever
he
came
here,
and
he's
a
crook
still.
Cover
him,
Patrolman,
while
I
disarm
him."
"There's
my
pistol,"
said
McMurdo
coolly.
"Maybe,
Captain
Marvin,
if
you
and
I
were
alone
and
face
to
face
you
would
not
take
me
so
easily."
"Where's
your
warrant?"
asked
McGinty.
"By
Gar!
a
man
might
as
well
live
in
Russia
as
in
Vermissa
while
folk
like
you
are
running
the
police.
It's
a
capitalist
outrage,
and
you'll
hear
more
of
it,
I
reckon."
"You
do
what
you
think
is
your
duty
the
best
way
you
can,
Councillor.
We'll
look
after
ours."
"What
am
I
accused
of?"
asked
McMurdo.
"Of
being
concerned
in
the
beating
of
old
Editor
Stanger
at
the
Herald
office.
It
wasn't
your
fault
that
it
isn't
a
murder
charge."
"Well,
if
that's
all
you
have
against
him,"
cried
McGinty
with
a
laugh,
"you
can
save
yourself
a
deal
of
trouble
by
dropping
it
right
now.
This
man
was
with
me
in
my
saloon
playing
poker
up
to
midnight,
and
I
can
bring
a
dozen
to
prove
it."
"That's
your
affair,
and
I
guess
you
can
settle
it
in
court
to-morrow.
Meanwhile,
come
on,
McMurdo,
and
come
quietly
if
you
don't
want
a
gun
across
your
head.
You
stand
wide,
Mr.
McGinty;
for
I
warn
you
I
will
stand
no
resistance
when
I
am
on
duty!"
So
determined
was
the
appearance
of
the
captain
that
both
McMurdo
and
his
boss
were
forced
to
accept
the
situation.
The
latter
managed
to
have
a
few
whispered
words
with
the
prisoner
before
they
parted.
"What
about--"
he
jerked
his
thumb
upward
to
signify
the
coining
plant.
"All
right,"
whispered
McMurdo,
who
had
devised
a
safe
hiding
place
under
the
floor.
"I'll
bid
you
good-bye,"
said
the
Boss,
shaking
hands.
"I'll
see
Reilly
the
lawyer
and
take
the
defense
upon
myself.
Take
my
word
for
it
that
they
won't
be
able
to
hold
you."
"I
wouldn't
bet
on
that.
Guard
the
prisoner,
you
two,
and
shoot
him
if
he
tries
any
games.
I'll
search
the
house
before
I
leave."
He
did
so;
but
apparently
found
no
trace
of
the
concealed
plant.
When
he
had
descended
he
and
his
men
escorted
McMurdo
to
headquarters.
Darkness
had
fallen,
and
a
keen
blizzard
was
blowing
so
that
the
streets
were
nearly
deserted;
but
a
few
loiterers
followed
the
group,
and
emboldened
by
invisibility
shouted
imprecations
at
the
prisoner.
"Lynch
the
cursed
Scowrer!"
they
cried.
"Lynch
him!"
They
laughed
and
jeered
as
he
was
pushed
into
the
police
station.
After
a
short,
formal
examination
from
the
inspector
in
charge
he
was
put
into
the
common
cell.
Here
he
found
Baldwin
and
three
other
criminals
of
the
night
before,
all
arrested
that
afternoon
and
waiting
their
trial
next
morning.
But
even
within
this
inner
fortress
of
the
law
the
long
arm
of
the
Freemen
was
able
to
extend.
Late
at
night
there
came
a
jailer
with
a
straw
bundle
for
their
bedding,
out
of
which
he
extracted
two
bottles
of
whisky,
some
glasses,
and
a
pack
of
cards.
They
spent
a
hilarious
night,
without
an
anxious
thought
as
to
the
ordeal
of
the
morning.
Nor
had
they
cause,
as
the
result
was
to
show.
The
magistrate
could
not
possibly,
on
the
evidence,
have
held
them
for
a
higher
court.
On
the
one
hand
the
compositors
and
pressmen
were
forced
to
admit
that
the
light
was
uncertain,
that
they
were
themselves
much
perturbed,
and
that
it
was
difficult
for
them
to
swear
to
the
identity
of
the
assailants;
although
they
believed
that
the
accused
were
among
them.
Cross
examined
by
the
clever
attorney
who
had
been
engaged
by
McGinty,
they
were
even
more
nebulous
in
their
evidence.
The
injured
man
had
already
deposed
that
he
was
so
taken
by
surprise
by
the
suddenness
of
the
attack
that
he
could
state
nothing
beyond
the
fact
that
the
first
man
who
struck
him
wore
a
moustache.
He
added
that
he
knew
them
to
be
Scowrers,
since
no
one
else
in
the
community
could
possibly
have
any
enmity
to
him,
and
he
had
long
been
threatened
on
account
of
his
outspoken
editorials.
On
the
other
hand,
it
was
clearly
shown
by
the
united
and
unfaltering
evidence
of
six
citizens,
including
that
high
municipal
official,
Councillor
McGinty,
that
the
men
had
been
at
a
card
party
at
the
Union
House
until
an
hour
very
much
later
than
the
commission
of
the
outrage.
Needless
to
say
that
they
were
discharged
with
something
very
near
to
an
apology
from
the
bench
for
the
inconvenience
to
which
they
had
been
put,
together
with
an
implied
censure
of
Captain
Marvin
and
the
police
for
their
officious
zeal.
The
verdict
was
greeted
with
loud
applause
by
a
court
in
which
McMurdo
saw
many
familiar
faces.
Brothers
of
the
lodge
smiled
and
waved.
But
there
were
others
who
sat
with
compressed
lips
and
brooding
eyes
as
the
men
filed
out
of
the
dock.
One
of
them,
a
little,
dark-bearded,
resolute
fellow,
put
the
thoughts
of
himself
and
comrades
into
words
as
the
ex-prisoners
passed
him.
"You
damned
murderers!"
he
said.
"We'll
fix
you
yet!"
Chapter
5--The
Darkest
Hour
If
anything
had
been
needed
to
give
an
impetus
to
Jack
McMurdo's
popularity
among
his
fellows
it
would
have
been
his
arrest
and
acquittal.
That
a
man
on
the
very
night
of
joining
the
lodge
should
have
done
something
which
brought
him
before
the
magistrate
was
a
new
record
in
the
annals
of
the
society.
Already
he
had
earned
the
reputation
of
a
good
boon
companion,
a
cheery
reveller,
and
withal
a
man
of
high
temper,
who
would
not
take
an
insult
even
from
the
all-powerful
Boss
himself.
But
in
addition
to
this
he
impressed
his
comrades
with
the
idea
that
among
them
all
there
was
not
one
whose
brain
was
so
ready
to
devise
a
bloodthirsty
scheme,
or
whose
hand
would
be
more
capable
of
carrying
it
out.
"He'll
be
the
boy
for
the
clean
job,"
said
the
oldsters
to
one
another,
and
waited
their
time
until
they
could
set
him
to
his
work.
McGinty
had
instruments
enough
already;
but
he
recognized
that
this
was
a
supremely
able
one.
He
felt
like
a
man
holding
a
fierce
bloodhound
in
leash.
There
were
curs
to
do
the
smaller
work;
but
some
day
he
would
slip
this
creature
upon
its
prey.
A
few
members
of
the
lodge,
Ted
Baldwin
among
them,
resented
the
rapid
rise
of
the
stranger
and
hated
him
for
it;
but
they
kept
clear
of
him,
for
he
was
as
ready
to
fight
as
to
laugh.
But
if
he
gained
favour
with
his
fellows,
there
was
another
quarter,
one
which
had
become
even
more
vital
to
him,
in
which
he
lost
it.
Ettie
Shafter's
father
would
have
nothing
more
to
do
with
him,
nor
would
he
allow
him
to
enter
the
house.
Ettie
herself
was
too
deeply
in
love
to
give
him
up
altogether,
and
yet
her
own
good
sense
warned
her
of
what
would
come
from
a
marriage
with
a
man
who
was
regarded
as
a
criminal.
One
morning
after
a
sleepless
night
she
determined
to
see
him,
possibly
for
the
last
time,
and
make
one
strong
endeavour
to
draw
him
from
those
evil
influences
which
were
sucking
him
down.
She
went
to
his
house,
as
he
had
often
begged
her
to
do,
and
made
her
way
into
the
room
which
he
used
as
his
sitting-room.
He
was
seated
at
a
table,
with
his
back
turned
and
a
letter
in
front
of
him.
A
sudden
spirit
of
girlish
mischief
came
over
her--she
was
still
only
nineteen.
He
had
not
heard
her
when
she
pushed
open
the
door.
Now
she
tiptoed
forward
and
laid
her
hand
lightly
upon
his
bended
shoulders.
If
she
had
expected
to
startle
him,
she
certainly
succeeded;
but
only
in
turn
to
be
startled
herself.
With
a
tiger
spring
he
turned
on
her,
and
his
right
hand
was
feeling
for
her
throat.
At
the
same
instant
with
the
other
hand
he
crumpled
up
the
paper
that
lay
before
him.
For
an
instant
he
stood
glaring.
Then
astonishment
and
joy
took
the
place
of
the
ferocity
which
had
convulsed
his
features--a
ferocity
which
had
sent
her
shrinking
back
in
horror
as
from
something
which
had
never
before
intruded
into
her
gentle
life.
"It's
you!"
said
he,
mopping
his
brow.
"And
to
think
that
you
should
come
to
me,
heart
of
my
heart,
and
I
should
find
nothing
better
to
do
than
to
want
to
strangle
you!
Come
then,
darling,"
and
he
held
out
his
arms,
"let
me
make
it
up
to
you."
But
she
had
not
recovered
from
that
sudden
glimpse
of
guilty
fear
which
she
had
read
in
the
man's
face.
All
her
woman's
instinct
told
her
that
it
was
not
the
mere
fright
of
a
man
who
is
startled.
Guilt--that
was
it--guilt
and
fear!
"What's
come
over
you,
Jack?"
she
cried.
"Why
were
you
so
scared
of
me?
Oh,
Jack,
if
your
conscience
was
at
ease,
you
would
not
have
looked
at
me
like
that!"
"Sure,
I
was
thinking
of
other
things,
and
when
you
came
tripping
so
lightly
on
those
fairy
feet
of
yours--"
"No,
no,
it
was
more
than
that,
Jack."
Then
a
sudden
suspicion
seized
her.
"Let
me
see
that
letter
you
were
writing."
"Ah,
Ettie,
I
couldn't
do
that."
Her
suspicions
became
certainties.
"It's
to
another
woman,"
she
cried.
"I
know
it!
Why
else
should
you
hold
it
from
me?
Was
it
to
your
wife
that
you
were
writing?
How
am
I
to
know
that
you
are
not
a
married
man--you,
a
stranger,
that
nobody
knows?"
"I
am
not
married,
Ettie.
See
now,
I
swear
it!
You're
the
only
one
woman
on
earth
to
me.
By
the
cross
of
Christ
I
swear
it!"
He
was
so
white
with
passionate
earnestness
that
she
could
not
but
believe
him.
"Well,
then,"
she
cried,
"why
will
you
not
show
me
the
letter?"
"I'll
tell
you,
acushla,"
said
he.
"I'm
under
oath
not
to
show
it,
and
just
as
I
wouldn't
break
my
word
to
you
so
I
would
keep
it
to
those
who
hold
my
promise.
It's
the
business
of
the
lodge,
and
even
to
you
it's
secret.
And
if
I
was
scared
when
a
hand
fell
on
me,
can't
you
understand
it
when
it
might
have
been
the
hand
of
a
detective?"
She
felt
that
he
was
telling
the
truth.
He
gathered
her
into
his
arms
and
kissed
away
her
fears
and
doubts.
"Sit
here
by
me,
then.
It's
a
queer
throne
for
such
a
queen;
but
it's
the
best
your
poor
lover
can
find.
He'll
do
better
for
you
some
of
these
days,
I'm
thinking.
Now
your
mind
is
easy
once
again,
is
it
not?"
"How
can
it
ever
be
at
ease,
Jack,
when
I
know
that
you
are
a
criminal
among
criminals,
when
I
never
know
the
day
that
I
may
hear
you
are
in
court
for
murder?
'McMurdo
the
Scowrer,'
that's
what
one
of
our
boarders
called
you
yesterday.
It
went
through
my
heart
like
a
knife."
"Sure,
hard
words
break
no
bones."
"But
they
were
true."
"Well,
dear,
it's
not
so
bad
as
you
think.
We
are
but
poor
men
that
are
trying
in
our
own
way
to
get
our
rights."
Ettie
threw
her
arms
round
her
lover's
neck.
"Give
it
up,
Jack!
For
my
sake,
for
God's
sake,
give
it
up!
It
was
to
ask
you
that
I
came
here
to-day.
Oh,
Jack,
see--I
beg
it
of
you
on
my
bended
knees!
Kneeling
here
before
you
I
implore
you
to
give
it
up!"
He
raised
her
and
soothed
her
with
her
head
against
his
breast.
"Sure,
my
darlin',
you
don't
know
what
it
is
you
are
asking.
How
could
I
give
it
up
when
it
would
be
to
break
my
oath
and
to
desert
my
comrades?
If
you
could
see
how
things
stand
with
me
you
could
never
ask
it
of
me.
Besides,
if
I
wanted
to,
how
could
I
do
it?
You
don't
suppose
that
the
lodge
would
let
a
man
go
free
with
all
its
secrets?"
"I've
thought
of
that,
Jack.
I've
planned
it
all.
Father
has
saved
some
money.
He
is
weary
of
this
place
where
the
fear
of
these
people
darkens
our
lives.
He
is
ready
to
go.
We
would
fly
together
to
Philadelphia
or
New
York,
where
we
would
be
safe
from
them."
McMurdo
laughed.
"The
lodge
has
a
long
arm.
Do
you
think
it
could
not
stretch
from
here
to
Philadelphia
or
New
York?"
"Well,
then,
to
the
West,
or
to
England,
or
to
Germany,
where
father
came
from--anywhere
to
get
away
from
this
Valley
of
Fear!"
McMurdo
thought
of
old
Brother
Morris.
"Sure,
it
is
the
second
time
I
have
heard
the
valley
so
named,"
said
he.
"The
shadow
does
indeed
seem
to
lie
heavy
on
some
of
you."
"It
darkens
every
moment
of
our
lives.
Do
you
suppose
that
Ted
Baldwin
has
ever
forgiven
us?
If
it
were
not
that
he
fears
you,
what
do
you
suppose
our
chances
would
be?
If
you
saw
the
look
in
those
dark,
hungry
eyes
of
his
when
they
fall
on
me!"
"By
Gar!
I'd
teach
him
better
manners
if
I
caught
him
at
it!
But
see
here,
little
girl.
I
can't
leave
here.
I
can't--take
that
from
me
once
and
for
all.
But
if
you
will
leave
me
to
find
my
own
way,
I
will
try
to
prepare
a
way
of
getting
honourably
out
of
it."
"There
is
no
honour
in
such
a
matter."
"Well,
well,
it's
just
how
you
look
at
it.
But
if
you'll
give
me
six
months,
I'll
work
it
so
that
I
can
leave
without
being
ashamed
to
look
others
in
the
face."
The
girl
laughed
with
joy.
"Six
months!"
she
cried.
"Is
it
a
promise?"
"Well,
it
may
be
seven
or
eight.
But
within
a
year
at
the
furthest
we
will
leave
the
valley
behind
us."
It
was
the
most
that
Ettie
could
obtain,
and
yet
it
was
something.
There
was
this
distant
light
to
illuminate
the
gloom
of
the
immediate
future.
She
returned
to
her
father's
house
more
light-hearted
than
she
had
ever
been
since
Jack
McMurdo
had
come
into
her
life.
It
might
be
thought
that
as
a
member,
all
the
doings
of
the
society
would
be
told
to
him;
but
he
was
soon
to
discover
that
the
organization
was
wider
and
more
complex
than
the
simple
lodge.
Even
Boss
McGinty
was
ignorant
as
to
many
things;
for
there
was
an
official
named
the
County
Delegate,
living
at
Hobson's
Patch
farther
down
the
line,
who
had
power
over
several
different
lodges
which
he
wielded
in
a
sudden
and
arbitrary
way.
Only
once
did
McMurdo
see
him,
a
sly,
little
gray-haired
rat
of
a
man,
with
a
slinking
gait
and
a
sidelong
glance
which
was
charged
with
malice.
Evans
Pott
was
his
name,
and
even
the
great
Boss
of
Vermissa
felt
towards
him
something
of
the
repulsion
and
fear
which
the
huge
Danton
may
have
felt
for
the
puny
but
dangerous
Robespierre.
One
day
Scanlan,
who
was
McMurdo's
fellow
boarder,
received
a
note
from
McGinty
inclosing
one
from
Evans
Pott,
which
informed
him
that
he
was
sending
over
two
good
men,
Lawler
and
Andrews,
who
had
instructions
to
act
in
the
neighbourhood;
though
it
was
best
for
the
cause
that
no
particulars
as
to
their
objects
should
be
given.
Would
the
Bodymaster
see
to
it
that
suitable
arrangements
be
made
for
their
lodgings
and
comfort
until
the
time
for
action
should
arrive?
McGinty
added
that
it
was
impossible
for
anyone
to
remain
secret
at
the
Union
House,
and
that,
therefore,
he
would
be
obliged
if
McMurdo
and
Scanlan
would
put
the
strangers
up
for
a
few
days
in
their
boarding
house.
The
same
evening
the
two
men
arrived,
each
carrying
his
gripsack.
Lawler
was
an
elderly
man,
shrewd,
silent,
and
self-contained,
clad
in
an
old
black
frock
coat,
which
with
his
soft
felt
hat
and
ragged,
grizzled
beard
gave
him
a
general
resemblance
to
an
itinerant
preacher.
His
companion
Andrews
was
little
more
than
a
boy,
frank-faced
and
cheerful,
with
the
breezy
manner
of
one
who
is
out
for
a
holiday
and
means
to
enjoy
every
minute
of
it.
Both
men
were
total
abstainers,
and
behaved
in
all
ways
as
exemplary
members
of
the
society,
with
the
one
simple
exception
that
they
were
assassins
who
had
often
proved
themselves
to
be
most
capable
instruments
for
this
association
of
murder.
Lawler
had
already
carried
out
fourteen
commissions
of
the
kind,
and
Andrews
three.
They
were,
as
McMurdo
found,
quite
ready
to
converse
about
their
deeds
in
the
past,
which
they
recounted
with
the
half-bashful
pride
of
men
who
had
done
good
and
unselfish
service
for
the
community.
They
were
reticent,
however,
as
to
the
immediate
job
in
hand.
"They
chose
us
because
neither
I
nor
the
boy
here
drink,"
Lawler
explained.
"They
can
count
on
us
saying
no
more
than
we
should.
You
must
not
take
it
amiss,
but
it
is
the
orders
of
the
County
Delegate
that
we
obey."
"Sure,
we
are
all
in
it
together,"
said
Scanlan,
McMurdo's
mate,
as
the
four
sat
together
at
supper.
"That's
true
enough,
and
we'll
talk
till
the
cows
come
home
of
the
killing
of
Charlie
Williams
or
of
Simon
Bird,
or
any
other
job
in
the
past.
But
till
the
work
is
done
we
say
nothing."
"There
are
half
a
dozen
about
here
that
I
have
a
word
to
say
to,"
said
McMurdo,
with
an
oath.
"I
suppose
it
isn't
Jack
Knox
of
Ironhill
that
you
are
after.
I'd
go
some
way
to
see
him
get
his
deserts."
"No,
it's
not
him
yet."
"Or
Herman
Strauss?"
"No,
nor
him
either."
"Well,
if
you
won't
tell
us
we
can't
make
you;
but
I'd
be
glad
to
know."
Lawler
smiled
and
shook
his
head.
He
was
not
to
be
drawn.
In
spite
of
the
reticence
of
their
guests,
Scanlan
and
McMurdo
were
quite
determined
to
be
present
at
what
they
called
"the
fun."
When,
therefore,
at
an
early
hour
one
morning
McMurdo
heard
them
creeping
down
the
stairs
he
awakened
Scanlan,
and
the
two
hurried
on
their
clothes.
When
they
were
dressed
they
found
that
the
others
had
stolen
out,
leaving
the
door
open
behind
them.
It
was
not
yet
dawn,
and
by
the
light
of
the
lamps
they
could
see
the
two
men
some
distance
down
the
street.
They
followed
them
warily,
treading
noiselessly
in
the
deep
snow.
The
boarding
house
was
near
the
edge
of
the
town,
and
soon
they
were
at
the
crossroads
which
is
beyond
its
boundary.
Here
three
men
were
waiting,
with
whom
Lawler
and
Andrews
held
a
short,
eager
conversation.
Then
they
all
moved
on
together.
It
was
clearly
some
notable
job
which
needed
numbers.
At
this
point
there
are
several
trails
which
lead
to
various
mines.
The
strangers
took
that
which
led
to
the
Crow
Hill,
a
huge
business
which
was
in
strong
hands
which
had
been
able,
thanks
to
their
energetic
and
fearless
New
England
manager,
Josiah
H.
Dunn,
to
keep
some
order
and
discipline
during
the
long
reign
of
terror.
Day
was
breaking
now,
and
a
line
of
workmen
were
slowly
making
their
way,
singly
and
in
groups,
along
the
blackened
path.
McMurdo
and
Scanlan
strolled
on
with
the
others,
keeping
in
sight
of
the
men
whom
they
followed.
A
thick
mist
lay
over
them,
and
from
the
heart
of
it
there
came
the
sudden
scream
of
a
steam
whistle.
It
was
the
ten-minute
signal
before
the
cages
descended
and
the
day's
labour
began.
When
they
reached
the
open
space
round
the
mine
shaft
there
were
a
hundred
miners
waiting,
stamping
their
feet
and
blowing
on
their
fingers;
for
it
was
bitterly
cold.
The
strangers
stood
in
a
little
group
under
the
shadow
of
the
engine
house.
Scanlan
and
McMurdo
climbed
a
heap
of
slag
from
which
the
whole
scene
lay
before
them.
They
saw
the
mine
engineer,
a
great
bearded
Scotchman
named
Menzies,
come
out
of
the
engine
house
and
blow
his
whistle
for
the
cages
to
be
lowered.
At
the
same
instant
a
tall,
loose-framed
young
man
with
a
clean-shaved,
earnest
face
advanced
eagerly
towards
the
pit
head.
As
he
came
forward
his
eyes
fell
upon
the
group,
silent
and
motionless,
under
the
engine
house.
The
men
had
drawn
down
their
hats
and
turned
up
their
collars
to
screen
their
faces.
For
a
moment
the
presentiment
of
Death
laid
its
cold
hand
upon
the
manager's
heart.
At
the
next
he
had
shaken
it
off
and
saw
only
his
duty
towards
intrusive
strangers.
"Who
are
you?"
he
asked
as
he
advanced.
"What
are
you
loitering
there
for?"
There
was
no
answer;
but
the
lad
Andrews
stepped
forward
and
shot
him
in
the
stomach.
The
hundred
waiting
miners
stood
as
motionless
and
helpless
as
if
they
were
paralyzed.
The
manager
clapped
his
two
hands
to
the
wound
and
doubled
himself
up.
Then
he
staggered
away;
but
another
of
the
assassins
fired,
and
he
went
down
sidewise,
kicking
and
clawing
among
a
heap
of
clinkers.
Menzies,
the
Scotchman,
gave
a
roar
of
rage
at
the
sight
and
rushed
with
an
iron
spanner
at
the
murderers;
but
was
met
by
two
balls
in
the
face
which
dropped
him
dead
at
their
very
feet.
There
was
a
surge
forward
of
some
of
the
miners,
and
an
inarticulate
cry
of
pity
and
of
anger;
but
a
couple
of
the
strangers
emptied
their
six-shooters
over
the
heads
of
the
crowd,
and
they
broke
and
scattered,
some
of
them
rushing
wildly
back
to
their
homes
in
Vermissa.
When
a
few
of
the
bravest
had
rallied,
and
there
was
a
return
to
the
mine,
the
murderous
gang
had
vanished
in
the
mists
of
morning,
without
a
single
witness
being
able
to
swear
to
the
identity
of
these
men
who
in
front
of
a
hundred
spectators
had
wrought
this
double
crime.
Scanlan
and
McMurdo
made
their
way
back;
Scanlan
somewhat
subdued,
for
it
was
the
first
murder
job
that
he
had
seen
with
his
own
eyes,
and
it
appeared
less
funny
than
he
had
been
led
to
believe.
The
horrible
screams
of
the
dead
manager's
wife
pursued
them
as
they
hurried
to
the
town.
McMurdo
was
absorbed
and
silent;
but
he
showed
no
sympathy
for
the
weakening
of
his
companion.
"Sure,
it
is
like
a
war,"
he
repeated.
"What
is
it
but
a
war
between
us
and
them,
and
we
hit
back
where
we
best
can."
There
was
high
revel
in
the
lodge
room
at
the
Union
House
that
night,
not
only
over
the
killing
of
the
manager
and
engineer
of
the
Crow
Hill
mine,
which
would
bring
this
organization
into
line
with
the
other
blackmailed
and
terror-stricken
companies
of
the
district,
but
also
over
a
distant
triumph
which
had
been
wrought
by
the
hands
of
the
lodge
itself.
It
would
appear
that
when
the
County
Delegate
had
sent
over
five
good
men
to
strike
a
blow
in
Vermissa,
he
had
demanded
that
in
return
three
Vermissa
men
should
be
secretly
selected
and
sent
across
to
kill
William
Hales
of
Stake
Royal,
one
of
the
best
known
and
most
popular
mine
owners
in
the
Gilmerton
district,
a
man
who
was
believed
not
to
have
an
enemy
in
the
world;
for
he
was
in
all
ways
a
model
employer.
He
had
insisted,
however,
upon
efficiency
in
the
work,
and
had,
therefore,
paid
off
certain
drunken
and
idle
employees
who
were
members
of
the
all-powerful
society.
Coffin
notices
hung
outside
his
door
had
not
weakened
his
resolution,
and
so
in
a
free,
civilized
country
he
found
himself
condemned
to
death.
The
execution
had
now
been
duly
carried
out.
Ted
Baldwin,
who
sprawled
now
in
the
seat
of
honour
beside
the
Bodymaster,
had
been
chief
of
the
party.
His
flushed
face
and
glazed,
bloodshot
eyes
told
of
sleeplessness
and
drink.
He
and
his
two
comrades
had
spent
the
night
before
among
the
mountains.
They
were
unkempt
and
weather-stained.
But
no
heroes,
returning
from
a
forlorn
hope,
could
have
had
a
warmer
welcome
from
their
comrades.
The
story
was
told
and
retold
amid
cries
of
delight
and
shouts
of
laughter.
They
had
waited
for
their
man
as
he
drove
home
at
nightfall,
taking
their
station
at
the
top
of
a
steep
hill,
where
his
horse
must
be
at
a
walk.
He
was
so
furred
to
keep
out
the
cold
that
he
could
not
lay
his
hand
on
his
pistol.
They
had
pulled
him
out
and
shot
him
again
and
again.
He
had
screamed
for
mercy.
The
screams
were
repeated
for
the
amusement
of
the
lodge.
"Let's
hear
again
how
he
squealed,"
they
cried.
None
of
them
knew
the
man;
but
there
is
eternal
drama
in
a
killing,
and
they
had
shown
the
Scowrers
of
Gilmerton
that
the
Vermissa
men
were
to
be
relied
upon.
There
had
been
one
contretemps;
for
a
man
and
his
wife
had
driven
up
while
they
were
still
emptying
their
revolvers
into
the
silent
body.
It
had
been
suggested
that
they
should
shoot
them
both;
but
they
were
harmless
folk
who
were
not
connected
with
the
mines,
so
they
were
sternly
bidden
to
drive
on
and
keep
silent,
lest
a
worse
thing
befall
them.
And
so
the
blood-mottled
figure
had
been
left
as
a
warning
to
all
such
hard-hearted
employers,
and
the
three
noble
avengers
had
hurried
off
into
the
mountains
where
unbroken
nature
comes
down
to
the
very
edge
of
the
furnaces
and
the
slag
heaps.
Here
they
were,
safe
and
sound,
their
work
well
done,
and
the
plaudits
of
their
companions
in
their
ears.
It
had
been
a
great
day
for
the
Scowrers.
The
shadow
had
fallen
even
darker
over
the
valley.
But
as
the
wise
general
chooses
the
moment
of
victory
in
which
to
redouble
his
efforts,
so
that
his
foes
may
have
no
time
to
steady
themselves
after
disaster,
so
Boss
McGinty,
looking
out
upon
the
scene
of
his
operations
with
his
brooding
and
malicious
eyes,
had
devised
a
new
attack
upon
those
who
opposed
him.
That
very
night,
as
the
half-drunken
company
broke
up,
he
touched
McMurdo
on
the
arm
and
led
him
aside
into
that
inner
room
where
they
had
their
first
interview.
"See
here,
my
lad,"
said
he,
"I've
got
a
job
that's
worthy
of
you
at
last.
You'll
have
the
doing
of
it
in
your
own
hands."
"Proud
I
am
to
hear
it,"
McMurdo
answered.
"You
can
take
two
men
with
you--Manders
and
Reilly.
They
have
been
warned
for
service.
We'll
never
be
right
in
this
district
until
Chester
Wilcox
has
been
settled,
and
you'll
have
the
thanks
of
every
lodge
in
the
coal
fields
if
you
can
down
him."
"I'll
do
my
best,
anyhow.
Who
is
he,
and
where
shall
I
find
him?"
McGinty
took
his
eternal
half-chewed,
half-smoked
cigar
from
the
corner
of
his
mouth,
and
proceeded
to
draw
a
rough
diagram
on
a
page
torn
from
his
notebook.
"He's
the
chief
foreman
of
the
Iron
Dike
Company.
He's
a
hard
citizen,
an
old
colour
sergeant
of
the
war,
all
scars
and
grizzle.
We've
had
two
tries
at
him;
but
had
no
luck,
and
Jim
Carnaway
lost
his
life
over
it.
Now
it's
for
you
to
take
it
over.
That's
the
house--all
alone
at
the
Iron
Dike
crossroad,
same
as
you
see
here
on
the
map--without
another
within
earshot.
It's
no
good
by
day.
He's
armed
and
shoots
quick
and
straight,
with
no
questions
asked.
But
at
night--well,
there
he
is
with
his
wife,
three
children,
and
a
hired
help.
You
can't
pick
or
choose.
It's
all
or
none.
If
you
could
get
a
bag
of
blasting
powder
at
the
front
door
with
a
slow
match
to
it--"
"What's
the
man
done?"
"Didn't
I
tell
you
he
shot
Jim
Carnaway?"
"Why
did
he
shoot
him?"
"What
in
thunder
has
that
to
do
with
you?
Carnaway
was
about
his
house
at
night,
and
he
shot
him.
That's
enough
for
me
and
you.
You've
got
to
settle
the
thing
right."
"There's
these
two
women
and
the
children.
Do
they
go
up
too?"
"They
have
to--else
how
can
we
get
him?"
"It
seems
hard
on
them;
for
they've
done
nothing."
"What
sort
of
fool's
talk
is
this?
Do
you
back
out?"
"Easy,
Councillor,
easy!
What
have
I
ever
said
or
done
that
you
should
think
I
would
be
after
standing
back
from
an
order
of
the
Bodymaster
of
my
own
lodge?
If
it's
right
or
if
it's
wrong,
it's
for
you
to
decide."
"You'll
do
it,
then?"
"Of
course
I
will
do
it."
"When?"
"Well,
you
had
best
give
me
a
night
or
two
that
I
may
see
the
house
and
make
my
plans.
Then--"
"Very
good,"
said
McGinty,
shaking
him
by
the
hand.
"I
leave
it
with
you.
It
will
be
a
great
day
when
you
bring
us
the
news.
It's
just
the
last
stroke
that
will
bring
them
all
to
their
knees."
McMurdo
thought
long
and
deeply
over
the
commission
which
had
been
so
suddenly
placed
in
his
hands.
The
isolated
house
in
which
Chester
Wilcox
lived
was
about
five
miles
off
in
an
adjacent
valley.
That
very
night
he
started
off
all
alone
to
prepare
for
the
attempt.
It
was
daylight
before
he
returned
from
his
reconnaissance.
Next
day
he
interviewed
his
two
subordinates,
Manders
and
Reilly,
reckless
youngsters
who
were
as
elated
as
if
it
were
a
deer-hunt.
Two
nights
later
they
met
outside
the
town,
all
three
armed,
and
one
of
them
carrying
a
sack
stuffed
with
the
powder
which
was
used
in
the
quarries.
It
was
two
in
the
morning
before
they
came
to
the
lonely
house.
The
night
was
a
windy
one,
with
broken
clouds
drifting
swiftly
across
the
face
of
a
three-quarter
moon.
They
had
been
warned
to
be
on
their
guard
against
bloodhounds;
so
they
moved
forward
cautiously,
with
their
pistols
cocked
in
their
hands.
But
there
was
no
sound
save
the
howling
of
the
wind,
and
no
movement
but
the
swaying
branches
above
them.
McMurdo
listened
at
the
door
of
the
lonely
house;
but
all
was
still
within.
Then
he
leaned
the
powder
bag
against
it,
ripped
a
hole
in
it
with
his
knife,
and
attached
the
fuse.
When
it
was
well
alight
he
and
his
two
companions
took
to
their
heels,
and
were
some
distance
off,
safe
and
snug
in
a
sheltering
ditch,
before
the
shattering
roar
of
the
explosion,
with
the
low,
deep
rumble
of
the
collapsing
building,
told
them
that
their
work
was
done.
No
cleaner
job
had
ever
been
carried
out
in
the
bloodstained
annals
of
the
society.
But
alas
that
work
so
well
organized
and
boldly
carried
out
should
all
have
gone
for
nothing!
Warned
by
the
fate
of
the
various
victims,
and
knowing
that
he
was
marked
down
for
destruction,
Chester
Wilcox
had
moved
himself
and
his
family
only
the
day
before
to
some
safer
and
less
known
quarters,
where
a
guard
of
police
should
watch
over
them.
It
was
an
empty
house
which
had
been
torn
down
by
the
gunpowder,
and
the
grim
old
colour
sergeant
of
the
war
was
still
teaching
discipline
to
the
miners
of
Iron
Dike.
"Leave
him
to
me,"
said
McMurdo.
"He's
my
man,
and
I'll
get
him
sure
if
I
have
to
wait
a
year
for
him."
A
vote
of
thanks
and
confidence
was
passed
in
full
lodge,
and
so
for
the
time
the
matter
ended.
When
a
few
weeks
later
it
was
reported
in
the
papers
that
Wilcox
had
been
shot
at
from
an
ambuscade,
it
was
an
open
secret
that
McMurdo
was
still
at
work
upon
his
unfinished
job.
Such
were
the
methods
of
the
Society
of
Freemen,
and
such
were
the
deeds
of
the
Scowrers
by
which
they
spread
their
rule
of
fear
over
the
great
and
rich
district
which
was
for
so
long
a
period
haunted
by
their
terrible
presence.
Why
should
these
pages
be
stained
by
further
crimes?
Have
I
not
said
enough
to
show
the
men
and
their
methods?
These
deeds
are
written
in
history,
and
there
are
records
wherein
one
may
read
the
details
of
them.
There
one
may
learn
of
the
shooting
of
Policemen
Hunt
and
Evans
because
they
had
ventured
to
arrest
two
members
of
the
society--a
double
outrage
planned
at
the
Vermissa
lodge
and
carried
out
in
cold
blood
upon
two
helpless
and
disarmed
men.
There
also
one
may
read
of
the
shooting
of
Mrs.
Larbey
when
she
was
nursing
her
husband,
who
had
been
beaten
almost
to
death
by
orders
of
Boss
McGinty.
The
killing
of
the
elder
Jenkins,
shortly
followed
by
that
of
his
brother,
the
mutilation
of
James
Murdoch,
the
blowing
up
of
the
Staphouse
family,
and
the
murder
of
the
Stendals
all
followed
hard
upon
one
another
in
the
same
terrible
winter.
Darkly
the
shadow
lay
upon
the
Valley
of
Fear.
The
spring
had
come
with
running
brooks
and
blossoming
trees.
There
was
hope
for
all
Nature
bound
so
long
in
an
iron
grip;
but
nowhere
was
there
any
hope
for
the
men
and
women
who
lived
under
the
yoke
of
the
terror.
Never
had
the
cloud
above
them
been
so
dark
and
hopeless
as
in
the
early
summer
of
the
year
1875.
Chapter
6--Danger
It
was
the
height
of
the
reign
of
terror.
McMurdo,
who
had
already
been
appointed
Inner
Deacon,
with
every
prospect
of
some
day
succeeding
McGinty
as
Bodymaster,
was
now
so
necessary
to
the
councils
of
his
comrades
that
nothing
was
done
without
his
help
and
advice.
The
more
popular
he
became,
however,
with
the
Freemen,
the
blacker
were
the
scowls
which
greeted
him
as
he
passed
along
the
streets
of
Vermissa.
In
spite
of
their
terror
the
citizens
were
taking
heart
to
band
themselves
together
against
their
oppressors.
Rumours
had
reached
the
lodge
of
secret
gatherings
in
the
Herald
office
and
of
distribution
of
firearms
among
the
law-abiding
people.
But
McGinty
and
his
men
were
undisturbed
by
such
reports.
They
were
numerous,
resolute,
and
well
armed.
Their
opponents
were
scattered
and
powerless.
It
would
all
end,
as
it
had
done
in
the
past,
in
aimless
talk
and
possibly
in
impotent
arrests.
So
said
McGinty,
McMurdo,
and
all
the
bolder
spirits.
It
was
a
Saturday
evening
in
May.
Saturday
was
always
the
lodge
night,
and
McMurdo
was
leaving
his
house
to
attend
it
when
Morris,
the
weaker
brother
of
the
order,
came
to
see
him.
His
brow
was
creased
with
care,
and
his
kindly
face
was
drawn
and
haggard.
"Can
I
speak
with
you
freely,
Mr.
McMurdo?"
"Sure."
"I
can't
forget
that
I
spoke
my
heart
to
you
once,
and
that
you
kept
it
to
yourself,
even
though
the
Boss
himself
came
to
ask
you
about
it."
"What
else
could
I
do
if
you
trusted
me?
It
wasn't
that
I
agreed
with
what
you
said."
"I
know
that
well.
But
you
are
the
one
that
I
can
speak
to
and
be
safe.
I've
a
secret
here,"
he
put
his
hand
to
his
breast,
"and
it
is
just
burning
the
life
out
of
me.
I
wish
it
had
come
to
any
one
of
you
but
me.
If
I
tell
it,
it
will
mean
murder,
for
sure.
If
I
don't,
it
may
bring
the
end
of
us
all.
God
help
me,
but
I
am
near
out
of
my
wits
over
it!"
McMurdo
looked
at
the
man
earnestly.
He
was
trembling
in
every
limb.
He
poured
some
whisky
into
a
glass
and
handed
it
to
him.
"That's
the
physic
for
the
likes
of
you,"
said
he.
"Now
let
me
hear
of
it."
Morris
drank,
and
his
white
face
took
a
tinge
of
colour.
"I
can
tell
it
to
you
all
in
one
sentence,"
said
he.
"There's
a
detective
on
our
trail."
McMurdo
stared
at
him
in
astonishment.
"Why,
man,
you're
crazy,"
he
said.
"Isn't
the
place
full
of
police
and
detectives
and
what
harm
did
they
ever
do
us?"
"No,
no,
it's
no
man
of
the
district.
As
you
say,
we
know
them,
and
it
is
little
that
they
can
do.
But
you've
heard
of
Pinkerton's?"
"I've
read
of
some
folk
of
that
name."
"Well,
you
can
take
it
from
me
you've
no
show
when
they
are
on
your
trail.
It's
not
a
take-it-or-miss-it
government
concern.
It's
a
dead
earnest
business
proposition
that's
out
for
results
and
keeps
out
till
by
hook
or
crook
it
gets
them.
If
a
Pinkerton
man
is
deep
in
this
business,
we
are
all
destroyed."
"We
must
kill
him."
"Ah,
it's
the
first
thought
that
came
to
you!
So
it
will
be
up
at
the
lodge.
Didn't
I
say
to
you
that
it
would
end
in
murder?"
"Sure,
what
is
murder?
Isn't
it
common
enough
in
these
parts?"
"It
is,
indeed;
but
it's
not
for
me
to
point
out
the
man
that
is
to
be
murdered.
I'd
never
rest
easy
again.
And
yet
it's
our
own
necks
that
may
be
at
stake.
In
God's
name
what
shall
I
do?"
He
rocked
to
and
fro
in
his
agony
of
indecision.
But
his
words
had
moved
McMurdo
deeply.
It
was
easy
to
see
that
he
shared
the
other's
opinion
as
to
the
danger,
and
the
need
for
meeting
it.
He
gripped
Morris's
shoulder
and
shook
him
in
his
earnestness.
"See
here,
man,"
he
cried,
and
he
almost
screeched
the
words
in
his
excitement,
"you
won't
gain
anything
by
sitting
keening
like
an
old
wife
at
a
wake.
Let's
have
the
facts.
Who
is
the
fellow?
Where
is
he?
How
did
you
hear
of
him?
Why
did
you
come
to
me?"
"I
came
to
you;
for
you
are
the
one
man
that
would
advise
me.
I
told
you
that
I
had
a
store
in
the
East
before
I
came
here.
I
left
good
friends
behind
me,
and
one
of
them
is
in
the
telegraph
service.
Here's
a
letter
that
I
had
from
him
yesterday.
It's
this
part
from
the
top
of
the
page.
You
can
read
it
yourself."
This
was
what
McMurdo
read:
How
are
the
Scowrers
getting
on
in
your
parts?
We
read
plenty
of
them
in
the
papers.
Between
you
and
me
I
expect
to
hear
news
from
you
before
long.
Five
big
corporations
and
the
two
railroads
have
taken
the
thing
up
in
dead
earnest.
They
mean
it,
and
you
can
bet
they'll
get
there!
They
are
right
deep
down
into
it.
Pinkerton
has
taken
hold
under
their
orders,
and
his
best
man,
Birdy
Edwards,
is
operating.
The
thing
has
got
to
be
stopped
right
now.
"Now
read
the
postscript."
Of
course,
what
I
give
you
is
what
I
learned
in
business;
so
it
goes
no
further.
It's
a
queer
cipher
that
you
handle
by
the
yard
every
day
and
can
get
no
meaning
from.
McMurdo
sat
in
silence
for
some
time,
with
the
letter
in
his
listless
hands.
The
mist
had
lifted
for
a
moment,
and
there
was
the
abyss
before
him.
"Does
anyone
else
know
of
this?"
he
asked.
"I
have
told
no
one
else."
"But
this
man--your
friend--has
he
any
other
person
that
he
would
be
likely
to
write
to?"
"Well,
I
dare
say
he
knows
one
or
two
more."
"Of
the
lodge?"
"It's
likely
enough."
"I
was
asking
because
it
is
likely
that
he
may
have
given
some
description
of
this
fellow
Birdy
Edwards--then
we
could
get
on
his
trail."
"Well,
it's
possible.
But
I
should
not
think
he
knew
him.
He
is
just
telling
me
the
news
that
came
to
him
by
way
of
business.
How
would
he
know
this
Pinkerton
man?"
McMurdo
gave
a
violent
start.
"By
Gar!"
he
cried,
"I've
got
him.
What
a
fool
I
was
not
to
know
it.
Lord!
but
we're
in
luck!
We
will
fix
him
before
he
can
do
any
harm.
See
here,
Morris,
will
you
leave
this
thing
in
my
hands?"
"Sure,
if
you
will
only
take
it
off
mine."
"I'll
do
that.
You
can
stand
right
back
and
let
me
run
it.
Even
your
name
need
not
be
mentioned.
I'll
take
it
all
on
myself,
as
if
it
were
to
me
that
this
letter
has
come.
Will
that
content
you?"
"It's
just
what
I
would
ask."
"Then
leave
it
at
that
and
keep
your
head
shut.
Now
I'll
get
down
to
the
lodge,
and
we'll
soon
make
old
man
Pinkerton
sorry
for
himself."
"You
wouldn't
kill
this
man?"
"The
less
you
know,
Friend
Morris,
the
easier
your
conscience
will
be,
and
the
better
you
will
sleep.
Ask
no
questions,
and
let
these
things
settle
themselves.
I
have
hold
of
it
now."
Morris
shook
his
head
sadly
as
he
left.
"I
feel
that
his
blood
is
on
my
hands,"
he
groaned.
"Self-protection
is
no
murder,
anyhow,"
said
McMurdo,
smiling
grimly.
"It's
him
or
us.
I
guess
this
man
would
destroy
us
all
if
we
left
him
long
in
the
valley.
Why,
Brother
Morris,
we'll
have
to
elect
you
Bodymaster
yet;
for
you've
surely
saved
the
lodge."
And
yet
it
was
clear
from
his
actions
that
he
thought
more
seriously
of
this
new
intrusion
than
his
words
would
show.
It
may
have
been
his
guilty
conscience,
it
may
have
been
the
reputation
of
the
Pinkerton
organization,
it
may
have
been
the
knowledge
that
great,
rich
corporations
had
set
themselves
the
task
of
clearing
out
the
Scowrers;
but,
whatever
his
reason,
his
actions
were
those
of
a
man
who
is
preparing
for
the
worst.
Every
paper
which
would
incriminate
him
was
destroyed
before
he
left
the
house.
After
that
he
gave
a
long
sigh
of
satisfaction;
for
it
seemed
to
him
that
he
was
safe.
And
yet
the
danger
must
still
have
pressed
somewhat
upon
him;
for
on
his
way
to
the
lodge
he
stopped
at
old
man
Shafter's.
The
house
was
forbidden
him;
but
when
he
tapped
at
the
window
Ettie
came
out
to
him.
The
dancing
Irish
deviltry
had
gone
from
her
lover's
eyes.
She
read
his
danger
in
his
earnest
face.
"Something
has
happened!"
she
cried.
"Oh,
Jack,
you
are
in
danger!"
"Sure,
it
is
not
very
bad,
my
sweetheart.
And
yet
it
may
be
wise
that
we
make
a
move
before
it
is
worse."
"Make
a
move?"
"I
promised
you
once
that
I
would
go
some
day.
I
think
the
time
is
coming.
I
had
news
to-night,
bad
news,
and
I
see
trouble
coming."
"The
police?"
"Well,
a
Pinkerton.
But,
sure,
you
wouldn't
know
what
that
is,
acushla,
nor
what
it
may
mean
to
the
likes
of
me.
I'm
too
deep
in
this
thing,
and
I
may
have
to
get
out
of
it
quick.
You
said
you
would
come
with
me
if
I
went."
"Oh,
Jack,
it
would
be
the
saving
of
you!"
"I'm
an
honest
man
in
some
things,
Ettie.
I
wouldn't
hurt
a
hair
of
your
bonny
head
for
all
that
the
world
can
give,
nor
ever
pull
you
down
one
inch
from
the
golden
throne
above
the
clouds
where
I
always
see
you.
Would
you
trust
me?"
She
put
her
hand
in
his
without
a
word.
"Well,
then,
listen
to
what
I
say,
and
do
as
I
order
you,
for
indeed
it's
the
only
way
for
us.
Things
are
going
to
happen
in
this
valley.
I
feel
it
in
my
bones.
There
may
be
many
of
us
that
will
have
to
look
out
for
ourselves.
I'm
one,
anyhow.
If
I
go,
by
day
or
night,
it's
you
that
must
come
with
me!"
"I'd
come
after
you,
Jack."
"No,
no,
you
shall
come
WITH
me.
If
this
valley
is
closed
to
me
and
I
can
never
come
back,
how
can
I
leave
you
behind,
and
me
perhaps
in
hiding
from
the
police
with
never
a
chance
of
a
message?
It's
with
me
you
must
come.
I
know
a
good
woman
in
the
place
I
come
from,
and
it's
there
I'd
leave
you
till
we
can
get
married.
Will
you
come?"
"Yes,
Jack,
I
will
come."
"God
bless
you
for
your
trust
in
me!
It's
a
fiend
out
of
hell
that
I
should
be
if
I
abused
it.
Now,
mark
you,
Ettie,
it
will
be
just
a
word
to
you,
and
when
it
reaches
you,
you
will
drop
everything
and
come
right
down
to
the
waiting
room
at
the
depot
and
stay
there
till
I
come
for
you."
"Day
or
night,
I'll
come
at
the
word,
Jack."
Somewhat
eased
in
mind,
now
that
his
own
preparations
for
escape
had
been
begun,
McMurdo
went
on
to
the
lodge.
It
had
already
assembled,
and
only
by
complicated
signs
and
countersigns
could
he
pass
through
the
outer
guard
and
inner
guard
who
close-tiled
it.
A
buzz
of
pleasure
and
welcome
greeted
him
as
he
entered.
The
long
room
was
crowded,
and
through
the
haze
of
tobacco
smoke
he
saw
the
tangled
black
mane
of
the
Bodymaster,
the
cruel,
unfriendly
features
of
Baldwin,
the
vulture
face
of
Harraway,
the
secretary,
and
a
dozen
more
who
were
among
the
leaders
of
the
lodge.
He
rejoiced
that
they
should
all
be
there
to
take
counsel
over
his
news.
"Indeed,
it's
glad
we
are
to
see
you,
Brother!"
cried
the
chairman.
"There's
business
here
that
wants
a
Solomon
in
judgment
to
set
it
right."
"It's
Lander
and
Egan,"
explained
his
neighbour
as
he
took
his
seat.
"They
both
claim
the
head
money
given
by
the
lodge
for
the
shooting
of
old
man
Crabbe
over
at
Stylestown,
and
who's
to
say
which
fired
the
bullet?"
McMurdo
rose
in
his
place
and
raised
his
hand.
The
expression
of
his
face
froze
the
attention
of
the
audience.
There
was
a
dead
hush
of
expectation.
"Eminent
Bodymaster,"
he
said,
in
a
solemn
voice,
"I
claim
urgency!"
"Brother
McMurdo
claims
urgency,"
said
McGinty.
"It's
a
claim
that
by
the
rules
of
this
lodge
takes
precedence.
Now
Brother,
we
attend
you."
McMurdo
took
the
letter
from
his
pocket.
"Eminent
Bodymaster
and
Brethren,"
he
said,
"I
am
the
bearer
of
ill
news
this
day;
but
it
is
better
that
it
should
be
known
and
discussed,
than
that
a
blow
should
fall
upon
us
without
warning
which
would
destroy
us
all.
I
have
information
that
the
most
powerful
and
richest
organizations
in
this
state
have
bound
themselves
together
for
our
destruction,
and
that
at
this
very
moment
there
is
a
Pinkerton
detective,
one
Birdy
Edwards,
at
work
in
the
valley
collecting
the
evidence
which
may
put
a
rope
round
the
necks
of
many
of
us,
and
send
every
man
in
this
room
into
a
felon's
cell.
That
is
the
situation
for
the
discussion
of
which
I
have
made
a
claim
of
urgency."
There
was
a
dead
silence
in
the
room.
It
was
broken
by
the
chairman.
"What
is
your
evidence
for
this,
Brother
McMurdo?"
he
asked.
"It
is
in
this
letter
which
has
come
into
my
hands,"
said
McMurdo.
He
read
the
passage
aloud.
"It
is
a
matter
of
honour
with
me
that
I
can
give
no
further
particulars
about
the
letter,
nor
put
it
into
your
hands;
but
I
assure
you
that
there
is
nothing
else
in
it
which
can
affect
the
interests
of
the
lodge.
I
put
the
case
before
you
as
it
has
reached
me."
"Let
me
say,
Mr.
Chairman,"
said
one
of
the
older
brethren,
"that
I
have
heard
of
Birdy
Edwards,
and
that
he
has
the
name
of
being
the
best
man
in
the
Pinkerton
service."
"Does
anyone
know
him
by
sight?"
asked
McGinty.
"Yes,"
said
McMurdo,
"I
do."
There
was
a
murmur
of
astonishment
through
the
hall.
"I
believe
we
hold
him
in
the
hollow
of
our
hands,"
he
continued
with
an
exulting
smile
upon
his
face.
"If
we
act
quickly
and
wisely,
we
can
cut
this
thing
short.
If
I
have
your
confidence
and
your
help,
it
is
little
that
we
have
to
fear."
"What
have
we
to
fear,
anyhow?
What
can
he
know
of
our
affairs?"
"You
might
say
so
if
all
were
as
stanch
as
you,
Councillor.
But
this
man
has
all
the
millions
of
the
capitalists
at
his
back.
Do
you
think
there
is
no
weaker
brother
among
all
our
lodges
that
could
not
be
bought?
He
will
get
at
our
secrets--maybe
has
got
them
already.
There's
only
one
sure
cure."
"That
he
never
leaves
the
valley,"
said
Baldwin.
McMurdo
nodded.
"Good
for
you,
Brother
Baldwin,"
he
said.
"You
and
I
have
had
our
differences,
but
you
have
said
the
true
word
to-night."
"Where
is
he,
then?
Where
shall
we
know
him?"
"Eminent
Bodymaster,"
said
McMurdo,
earnestly,
"I
would
put
it
to
you
that
this
is
too
vital
a
thing
for
us
to
discuss
in
open
lodge.
God
forbid
that
I
should
throw
a
doubt
on
anyone
here;
but
if
so
much
as
a
word
of
gossip
got
to
the
ears
of
this
man,
there
would
be
an
end
of
any
chance
of
our
getting
him.
I
would
ask
the
lodge
to
choose
a
trusty
committee,
Mr.
Chairman--yourself,
if
I
might
suggest
it,
and
Brother
Baldwin
here,
and
five
more.
Then
I
can
talk
freely
of
what
I
know
and
of
what
I
advise
should
be
done."
The
proposition
was
at
once
adopted,
and
the
committee
chosen.
Besides
the
chairman
and
Baldwin
there
were
the
vulture-faced
secretary,
Harraway,
Tiger
Cormac,
the
brutal
young
assassin,
Carter,
the
treasurer,
and
the
brothers
Willaby,
fearless
and
desperate
men
who
would
stick
at
nothing.
The
usual
revelry
of
the
lodge
was
short
and
subdued:
for
there
was
a
cloud
upon
the
men's
spirits,
and
many
there
for
the
first
time
began
to
see
the
cloud
of
avenging
Law
drifting
up
in
that
serene
sky
under
which
they
had
dwelt
so
long.
The
horrors
they
had
dealt
out
to
others
had
been
so
much
a
part
of
their
settled
lives
that
the
thought
of
retribution
had
become
a
remote
one,
and
so
seemed
the
more
startling
now
that
it
came
so
closely
upon
them.
They
broke
up
early
and
left
their
leaders
to
their
council.
"Now,
McMurdo!"
said
McGinty
when
they
were
alone.
The
seven
men
sat
frozen
in
their
seats.
"I
said
just
now
that
I
knew
Birdy
Edwards,"
McMurdo
explained.
"I
need
not
tell
you
that
he
is
not
here
under
that
name.
He's
a
brave
man,
but
not
a
crazy
one.
He
passes
under
the
name
of
Steve
Wilson,
and
he
is
lodging
at
Hobson's
Patch."
"How
do
you
know
this?"
"Because
I
fell
into
talk
with
him.
I
thought
little
of
it
at
the
time,
nor
would
have
given
it
a
second
thought
but
for
this
letter;
but
now
I'm
sure
it's
the
man.
I
met
him
on
the
cars
when
I
went
down
the
line
on
Wednesday--a
hard
case
if
ever
there
was
one.
He
said
he
was
a
reporter.
I
believed
it
for
the
moment.
Wanted
to
know
all
he
could
about
the
Scowrers
and
what
he
called
'the
outrages'
for
a
New
York
paper.
Asked
me
every
kind
of
question
so
as
to
get
something.
You
bet
I
was
giving
nothing
away.
'I'd
pay
for
it
and
pay
well,'
said
he,
'if
I
could
get
some
stuff
that
would
suit
my
editor.'
I
said
what
I
thought
would
please
him
best,
and
he
handed
me
a
twenty-dollar
bill
for
my
information.
'There's
ten
times
that
for
you,'
said
he,
'if
you
can
find
me
all
that
I
want.'"
"What
did
you
tell
him,
then?"
"Any
stuff
I
could
make
up."
"How
do
you
know
he
wasn't
a
newspaper
man?"
"I'll
tell
you.
He
got
out
at
Hobson's
Patch,
and
so
did
I.
I
chanced
into
the
telegraph
bureau,
and
he
was
leaving
it.
"'See
here,'
said
the
operator
after
he'd
gone
out,
'I
guess
we
should
charge
double
rates
for
this.'--'I
guess
you
should,'
said
I.
He
had
filled
the
form
with
stuff
that
might
have
been
Chinese,
for
all
we
could
make
of
it.
'He
fires
a
sheet
of
this
off
every
day,'
said
the
clerk.
'Yes,'
said
I;
'it's
special
news
for
his
paper,
and
he's
scared
that
the
others
should
tap
it.'
That
was
what
the
operator
thought
and
what
I
thought
at
the
time;
but
I
think
differently
now."
"By
Gar!
I
believe
you
are
right,"
said
McGinty.
"But
what
do
you
allow
that
we
should
do
about
it?"
"Why
not
go
right
down
now
and
fix
him?"
someone
suggested.
"Ay,
the
sooner
the
better."
"I'd
start
this
next
minute
if
I
knew
where
we
could
find
him,"
said
McMurdo.
"He's
in
Hobson's
Patch;
but
I
don't
know
the
house.
I've
got
a
plan,
though,
if
you'll
only
take
my
advice."
"Well,
what
is
it?"
"I'll
go
to
the
Patch
to-morrow
morning.
I'll
find
him
through
the
operator.
He
can
locate
him,
I
guess.
Well,
then
I'll
tell
him
that
I'm
a
Freeman
myself.
I'll
offer
him
all
the
secrets
of
the
lodge
for
a
price.
You
bet
he'll
tumble
to
it.
I'll
tell
him
the
papers
are
at
my
house,
and
that
it's
as
much
as
my
life
would
be
worth
to
let
him
come
while
folk
were
about.
He'll
see
that
that's
horse
sense.
Let
him
come
at
ten
o'clock
at
night,
and
he
shall
see
everything.
That
will
fetch
him
sure."
"Well?"
"You
can
plan
the
rest
for
yourselves.
Widow
MacNamara's
is
a
lonely
house.
She's
as
true
as
steel
and
as
deaf
as
a
post.
There's
only
Scanlan
and
me
in
the
house.
If
I
get
his
promise--and
I'll
let
you
know
if
I
do--I'd
have
the
whole
seven
of
you
come
to
me
by
nine
o'clock.
We'll
get
him
in.
If
ever
he
gets
out
alive--well,
he
can
talk
of
Birdy
Edwards's
luck
for
the
rest
of
his
days!"
"There's
going
to
be
a
vacancy
at
Pinkerton's
or
I'm
mistaken.
Leave
it
at
that,
McMurdo.
At
nine
to-morrow
we'll
be
with
you.
You
once
get
the
door
shut
behind
him,
and
you
can
leave
the
rest
with
us."
Chapter
7--The
Trapping
of
Birdy
Edwards
As
McMurdo
had
said,
the
house
in
which
he
lived
was
a
lonely
one
and
very
well
suited
for
such
a
crime
as
they
had
planned.
It
was
on
the
extreme
fringe
of
the
town
and
stood
well
back
from
the
road.
In
any
other
case
the
conspirators
would
have
simply
called
out
their
man,
as
they
had
many
a
time
before,
and
emptied
their
pistols
into
his
body;
but
in
this
instance
it
was
very
necessary
to
find
out
how
much
he
knew,
how
he
knew
it,
and
what
had
been
passed
on
to
his
employers.
It
was
possible
that
they
were
already
too
late
and
that
the
work
had
been
done.
If
that
was
indeed
so,
they
could
at
least
have
their
revenge
upon
the
man
who
had
done
it.
But
they
were
hopeful
that
nothing
of
great
importance
had
yet
come
to
the
detective's
knowledge,
as
otherwise,
they
argued,
he
would
not
have
troubled
to
write
down
and
forward
such
trivial
information
as
McMurdo
claimed
to
have
given
him.
However,
all
this
they
would
learn
from
his
own
lips.
Once
in
their
power,
they
would
find
a
way
to
make
him
speak.
It
was
not
the
first
time
that
they
had
handled
an
unwilling
witness.
McMurdo
went
to
Hobson's
Patch
as
agreed.
The
police
seemed
to
take
particular
interest
in
him
that
morning,
and
Captain
Marvin--he
who
had
claimed
the
old
acquaintance
with
him
at
Chicago--actually
addressed
him
as
he
waited
at
the
station.
McMurdo
turned
away
and
refused
to
speak
with
him.
He
was
back
from
his
mission
in
the
afternoon,
and
saw
McGinty
at
the
Union
House.
"He
is
coming,"
he
said.
"Good!"
said
McGinty.
The
giant
was
in
his
shirt
sleeves,
with
chains
and
seals
gleaming
athwart
his
ample
waistcoat
and
a
diamond
twinkling
through
the
fringe
of
his
bristling
beard.
Drink
and
politics
had
made
the
Boss
a
very
rich
as
well
as
powerful
man.
The
more
terrible,
therefore,
seemed
that
glimpse
of
the
prison
or
the
gallows
which
had
risen
before
him
the
night
before.
"Do
you
reckon
he
knows
much?"
he
asked
anxiously.
McMurdo
shook
his
head
gloomily.
"He's
been
here
some
time--six
weeks
at
the
least.
I
guess
he
didn't
come
into
these
parts
to
look
at
the
prospect.
If
he
has
been
working
among
us
all
that
time
with
the
railroad
money
at
his
back,
I
should
expect
that
he
has
got
results,
and
that
he
has
passed
them
on."
"There's
not
a
weak
man
in
the
lodge,"
cried
McGinty.
"True
as
steel,
every
man
of
them.
And
yet,
by
the
Lord!
there
is
that
skunk
Morris.
What
about
him?
If
any
man
gives
us
away,
it
would
be
he.
I've
a
mind
to
send
a
couple
of
the
boys
round
before
evening
to
give
him
a
beating
up
and
see
what
they
can
get
from
him."
"Well,
there
would
be
no
harm
in
that,"
McMurdo
answered.
"I
won't
deny
that
I
have
a
liking
for
Morris
and
would
be
sorry
to
see
him
come
to
harm.
He
has
spoken
to
me
once
or
twice
over
lodge
matters,
and
though
he
may
not
see
them
the
same
as
you
or
I,
he
never
seemed
the
sort
that
squeals.
But
still
it
is
not
for
me
to
stand
between
him
and
you."
"I'll
fix
the
old
devil!"
said
McGinty
with
an
oath.
"I've
had
my
eye
on
him
this
year
past."
"Well,
you
know
best
about
that,"
McMurdo
answered.
"But
whatever
you
do
must
be
to-morrow;
for
we
must
lie
low
until
the
Pinkerton
affair
is
settled
up.
We
can't
afford
to
set
the
police
buzzing,
to-day
of
all
days."
"True
for
you,"
said
McGinty.
"And
we'll
learn
from
Birdy
Edwards
himself
where
he
got
his
news
if
we
have
to
cut
his
heart
out
first.
Did
he
seem
to
scent
a
trap?"
McMurdo
laughed.
"I
guess
I
took
him
on
his
weak
point,"
he
said.
"If
he
could
get
on
a
good
trail
of
the
Scowrers,
he's
ready
to
follow
it
into
hell.
I
took
his
money,"
McMurdo
grinned
as
he
produced
a
wad
of
dollar
notes,
"and
as
much
more
when
he
has
seen
all
my
papers."
"What
papers?"
"Well,
there
are
no
papers.
But
I
filled
him
up
about
constitutions
and
books
of
rules
and
forms
of
membership.
He
expects
to
get
right
down
to
the
end
of
everything
before
he
leaves."
"Faith,
he's
right
there,"
said
McGinty
grimly.
"Didn't
he
ask
you
why
you
didn't
bring
him
the
papers?"
"As
if
I
would
carry
such
things,
and
me
a
suspected
man,
and
Captain
Marvin
after
speaking
to
me
this
very
day
at
the
depot!"
"Ay,
I
heard
of
that,"
said
McGinty.
"I
guess
the
heavy
end
of
this
business
is
coming
on
to
you.
We
could
put
him
down
an
old
shaft
when
we've
done
with
him;
but
however
we
work
it
we
can't
get
past
the
man
living
at
Hobson's
Patch
and
you
being
there
to-day."
McMurdo
shrugged
his
shoulders.
"If
we
handle
it
right,
they
can
never
prove
the
killing,"
said
he.
"No
one
can
see
him
come
to
the
house
after
dark,
and
I'll
lay
to
it
that
no
one
will
see
him
go.
Now
see
here,
Councillor,
I'll
show
you
my
plan
and
I'll
ask
you
to
fit
the
others
into
it.
You
will
all
come
in
good
time.
Very
well.
He
comes
at
ten.
He
is
to
tap
three
times,
and
me
to
open
the
door
for
him.
Then
I'll
get
behind
him
and
shut
it.
He's
our
man
then."
"That's
all
easy
and
plain."
"Yes;
but
the
next
step
wants
considering.
He's
a
hard
proposition.
He's
heavily
armed.
I've
fooled
him
proper,
and
yet
he
is
likely
to
be
on
his
guard.
Suppose
I
show
him
right
into
a
room
with
seven
men
in
it
where
he
expected
to
find
me
alone.
There
is
going
to
be
shooting,
and
somebody
is
going
to
be
hurt."
"That's
so."
"And
the
noise
is
going
to
bring
every
damned
copper
in
the
township
on
top
of
it."
"I
guess
you
are
right."
"This
is
how
I
should
work
it.
You
will
all
be
in
the
big
room--same
as
you
saw
when
you
had
a
chat
with
me.
I'll
open
the
door
for
him,
show
him
into
the
parlour
beside
the
door,
and
leave
him
there
while
I
get
the
papers.
That
will
give
me
the
chance
of
telling
you
how
things
are
shaping.
Then
I
will
go
back
to
him
with
some
faked
papers.
As
he
is
reading
them
I
will
jump
for
him
and
get
my
grip
on
his
pistol
arm.
You'll
hear
me
call
and
in
you
will
rush.
The
quicker
the
better;
for
he
is
as
strong
a
man
as
I,
and
I
may
have
more
than
I
can
manage.
But
I
allow
that
I
can
hold
him
till
you
come."
"It's
a
good
plan,"
said
McGinty.
"The
lodge
will
owe
you
a
debt
for
this.
I
guess
when
I
move
out
of
the
chair
I
can
put
a
name
to
the
man
that's
coming
after
me."
"Sure,
Councillor,
I
am
little
more
than
a
recruit,"
said
McMurdo;
but
his
face
showed
what
he
thought
of
the
great
man's
compliment.
When
he
had
returned
home
he
made
his
own
preparations
for
the
grim
evening
in
front
of
him.
First
he
cleaned,
oiled,
and
loaded
his
Smith
&
Wesson
revolver.
Then
he
surveyed
the
room
in
which
the
detective
was
to
be
trapped.
It
was
a
large
apartment,
with
a
long
deal
table
in
the
centre,
and
the
big
stove
at
one
side.
At
each
of
the
other
sides
were
windows.
There
were
no
shutters
on
these:
only
light
curtains
which
drew
across.
McMurdo
examined
these
attentively.
No
doubt
it
must
have
struck
him
that
the
apartment
was
very
exposed
for
so
secret
a
meeting.
Yet
its
distance
from
the
road
made
it
of
less
consequence.
Finally
he
discussed
the
matter
with
his
fellow
lodger.
Scanlan,
though
a
Scowrer,
was
an
inoffensive
little
man
who
was
too
weak
to
stand
against
the
opinion
of
his
comrades,
but
was
secretly
horrified
by
the
deeds
of
blood
at
which
he
had
sometimes
been
forced
to
assist.
McMurdo
told
him
shortly
what
was
intended.
"And
if
I
were
you,
Mike
Scanlan,
I
would
take
a
night
off
and
keep
clear
of
it.
There
will
be
bloody
work
here
before
morning."
"Well,
indeed
then,
Mac,"
Scanlan
answered.
"It's
not
the
will
but
the
nerve
that
is
wanting
in
me.
When
I
saw
Manager
Dunn
go
down
at
the
colliery
yonder
it
was
just
more
than
I
could
stand.
I'm
not
made
for
it,
same
as
you
or
McGinty.
If
the
lodge
will
think
none
the
worse
of
me,
I'll
just
do
as
you
advise
and
leave
you
to
yourselves
for
the
evening."
The
men
came
in
good
time
as
arranged.
They
were
outwardly
respectable
citizens,
well
clad
and
cleanly;
but
a
judge
of
faces
would
have
read
little
hope
for
Birdy
Edwards
in
those
hard
mouths
and
remorseless
eyes.
There
was
not
a
man
in
the
room
whose
hands
had
not
been
reddened
a
dozen
times
before.
They
were
as
hardened
to
human
murder
as
a
butcher
to
sheep.
Foremost,
of
course,
both
in
appearance
and
in
guilt,
was
the
formidable
Boss.
Harraway,
the
secretary,
was
a
lean,
bitter
man
with
a
long,
scraggy
neck
and
nervous,
jerky
limbs,
a
man
of
incorruptible
fidelity
where
the
finances
of
the
order
were
concerned,
and
with
no
notion
of
justice
or
honesty
to
anyone
beyond.
The
treasurer,
Carter,
was
a
middle-aged
man,
with
an
impassive,
rather
sulky
expression,
and
a
yellow
parchment
skin.
He
was
a
capable
organizer,
and
the
actual
details
of
nearly
every
outrage
had
sprung
from
his
plotting
brain.
The
two
Willabys
were
men
of
action,
tall,
lithe
young
fellows
with
determined
faces,
while
their
companion,
Tiger
Cormac,
a
heavy,
dark
youth,
was
feared
even
by
his
own
comrades
for
the
ferocity
of
his
disposition.
These
were
the
men
who
assembled
that
night
under
the
roof
of
McMurdo
for
the
killing
of
the
Pinkerton
detective.
Their
host
had
placed
whisky
upon
the
table,
and
they
had
hastened
to
prime
themselves
for
the
work
before
them.
Baldwin
and
Cormac
were
already
half-drunk,
and
the
liquor
had
brought
out
all
their
ferocity.
Cormac
placed
his
hands
on
the
stove
for
an
instant--it
had
been
lighted,
for
the
nights
were
still
cold.
"That
will
do,"
said
he,
with
an
oath.
"Ay,"
said
Baldwin,
catching
his
meaning.
"If
he
is
strapped
to
that,
we
will
have
the
truth
out
of
him."
"We'll
have
the
truth
out
of
him,
never
fear,"
said
McMurdo.
He
had
nerves
of
steel,
this
man;
for
though
the
whole
weight
of
the
affair
was
on
him
his
manner
was
as
cool
and
unconcerned
as
ever.
The
others
marked
it
and
applauded.
"You
are
the
one
to
handle
him,"
said
the
Boss
approvingly.
"Not
a
warning
will
he
get
till
your
hand
is
on
his
throat.
It's
a
pity
there
are
no
shutters
to
your
windows."
McMurdo
went
from
one
to
the
other
and
drew
the
curtains
tighter.
"Sure
no
one
can
spy
upon
us
now.
It's
close
upon
the
hour."
"Maybe
he
won't
come.
Maybe
he'll
get
a
sniff
of
danger,"
said
the
secretary.
"He'll
come,
never
fear,"
McMurdo
answered.
"He
is
as
eager
to
come
as
you
can
be
to
see
him.
Hark
to
that!"
They
all
sat
like
wax
figures,
some
with
their
glasses
arrested
halfway
to
their
lips.
Three
loud
knocks
had
sounded
at
the
door.
"Hush!"
McMurdo
raised
his
hand
in
caution.
An
exulting
glance
went
round
the
circle,
and
hands
were
laid
upon
their
weapons.
"Not
a
sound,
for
your
lives!"
McMurdo
whispered,
as
he
went
from
the
room,
closing
the
door
carefully
behind
him.
With
strained
ears
the
murderers
waited.
They
counted
the
steps
of
their
comrade
down
the
passage.
Then
they
heard
him
open
the
outer
door.
There
were
a
few
words
as
of
greeting.
Then
they
were
aware
of
a
strange
step
inside
and
of
an
unfamiliar
voice.
An
instant
later
came
the
slam
of
the
door
and
the
turning
of
the
key
in
the
lock.
Their
prey
was
safe
within
the
trap.
Tiger
Cormac
laughed
horribly,
and
Boss
McGinty
clapped
his
great
hand
across
his
mouth.
"Be
quiet,
you
fool!"
he
whispered.
"You'll
be
the
undoing
of
us
yet!"
There
was
a
mutter
of
conversation
from
the
next
room.
It
seemed
interminable.
Then
the
door
opened,
and
McMurdo
appeared,
his
finger
upon
his
lip.
He
came
to
the
end
of
the
table
and
looked
round
at
them.
A
subtle
change
had
come
over
him.
His
manner
was
as
of
one
who
has
great
work
to
do.
His
face
had
set
into
granite
firmness.
His
eyes
shone
with
a
fierce
excitement
behind
his
spectacles.
He
had
become
a
visible
leader
of
men.
They
stared
at
him
with
eager
interest;
but
he
said
nothing.
Still
with
the
same
singular
gaze
he
looked
from
man
to
man.
"Well!"
cried
Boss
McGinty
at
last.
"Is
he
here?
Is
Birdy
Edwards
here?"
"Yes,"
McMurdo
answered
slowly.
"Birdy
Edwards
is
here.
I
am
Birdy
Edwards!"
There
were
ten
seconds
after
that
brief
speech
during
which
the
room
might
have
been
empty,
so
profound
was
the
silence.
The
hissing
of
a
kettle
upon
the
stove
rose
sharp
and
strident
to
the
ear.
Seven
white
faces,
all
turned
upward
to
this
man
who
dominated
them,
were
set
motionless
with
utter
terror.
Then,
with
a
sudden
shivering
of
glass,
a
bristle
of
glistening
rifle
barrels
broke
through
each
window,
while
the
curtains
were
torn
from
their
hangings.
At
the
sight
Boss
McGinty
gave
the
roar
of
a
wounded
bear
and
plunged
for
the
half-opened
door.
A
levelled
revolver
met
him
there
with
the
stern
blue
eyes
of
Captain
Marvin
of
the
Mine
Police
gleaming
behind
the
sights.
The
Boss
recoiled
and
fell
back
into
his
chair.
"You're
safer
there,
Councillor,"
said
the
man
whom
they
had
known
as
McMurdo.
"And
you,
Baldwin,
if
you
don't
take
your
hand
off
your
pistol,
you'll
cheat
the
hangman
yet.
Pull
it
out,
or
by
the
Lord
that
made
me--There,
that
will
do.
There
are
forty
armed
men
round
this
house,
and
you
can
figure
it
out
for
yourself
what
chance
you
have.
Take
their
pistols,
Marvin!"
There
was
no
possible
resistance
under
the
menace
of
those
rifles.
The
men
were
disarmed.
Sulky,
sheepish,
and
amazed,
they
still
sat
round
the
table.
"I'd
like
to
say
a
word
to
you
before
we
separate,"
said
the
man
who
had
trapped
them.
"I
guess
we
may
not
meet
again
until
you
see
me
on
the
stand
in
the
courthouse.
I'll
give
you
something
to
think
over
between
now
and
then.
You
know
me
now
for
what
I
am.
At
last
I
can
put
my
cards
on
the
table.
I
am
Birdy
Edwards
of
Pinkerton's.
I
was
chosen
to
break
up
your
gang.
I
had
a
hard
and
dangerous
game
to
play.
Not
a
soul,
not
one
soul,
not
my
nearest
and
dearest,
knew
that
I
was
playing
it.
Only
Captain
Marvin
here
and
my
employers
knew
that.
But
it's
over
to-night,
thank
God,
and
I
am
the
winner!"
The
seven
pale,
rigid
faces
looked
up
at
him.
There
was
unappeasable
hatred
in
their
eyes.
He
read
the
relentless
threat.
"Maybe
you
think
that
the
game
is
not
over
yet.
Well,
I
take
my
chance
of
that.
Anyhow,
some
of
you
will
take
no
further
hand,
and
there
are
sixty
more
besides
yourselves
that
will
see
a
jail
this
night.
I'll
tell
you
this,
that
when
I
was
put
upon
this
job
I
never
believed
there
was
such
a
society
as
yours.
I
thought
it
was
paper
talk,
and
that
I
would
prove
it
so.
They
told
me
it
was
to
do
with
the
Freemen;
so
I
went
to
Chicago
and
was
made
one.
Then
I
was
surer
than
ever
that
it
was
just
paper
talk;
for
I
found
no
harm
in
the
society,
but
a
deal
of
good.
"Still,
I
had
to
carry
out
my
job,
and
I
came
to
the
coal
valleys.
When
I
reached
this
place
I
learned
that
I
was
wrong
and
that
it
wasn't
a
dime
novel
after
all.
So
I
stayed
to
look
after
it.
I
never
killed
a
man
in
Chicago.
I
never
minted
a
dollar
in
my
life.
Those
I
gave
you
were
as
good
as
any
others;
but
I
never
spent
money
better.
But
I
knew
the
way
into
your
good
wishes
and
so
I
pretended
to
you
that
the
law
was
after
me.
It
all
worked
just
as
I
thought.
"So
I
joined
your
infernal
lodge,
and
I
took
my
share
in
your
councils.
Maybe
they
will
say
that
I
was
as
bad
as
you.
They
can
say
what
they
like,
so
long
as
I
get
you.
But
what
is
the
truth?
The
night
I
joined
you
beat
up
old
man
Stanger.
I
could
not
warn
him,
for
there
was
no
time;
but
I
held
your
hand,
Baldwin,
when
you
would
have
killed
him.
If
ever
I
have
suggested
things,
so
as
to
keep
my
place
among
you,
they
were
things
which
I
knew
I
could
prevent.
I
could
not
save
Dunn
and
Menzies,
for
I
did
not
know
enough;
but
I
will
see
that
their
murderers
are
hanged.
I
gave
Chester
Wilcox
warning,
so
that
when
I
blew
his
house
in
he
and
his
folk
were
in
hiding.
There
was
many
a
crime
that
I
could
not
stop;
but
if
you
look
back
and
think
how
often
your
man
came
home
the
other
road,
or
was
down
in
town
when
you
went
for
him,
or
stayed
indoors
when
you
thought
he
would
come
out,
you'll
see
my
work."
"You
blasted
traitor!"
hissed
McGinty
through
his
closed
teeth.
"Ay,
John
McGinty,
you
may
call
me
that
if
it
eases
your
smart.
You
and
your
like
have
been
the
enemy
of
God
and
man
in
these
parts.
It
took
a
man
to
get
between
you
and
the
poor
devils
of
men
and
women
that
you
held
under
your
grip.
There
was
just
one
way
of
doing
it,
and
I
did
it.
You
call
me
a
traitor;
but
I
guess
there's
many
a
thousand
will
call
me
a
deliverer
that
went
down
into
hell
to
save
them.
I've
had
three
months
of
it.
I
wouldn't
have
three
such
months
again
if
they
let
me
loose
in
the
treasury
at
Washington
for
it.
I
had
to
stay
till
I
had
it
all,
every
man
and
every
secret
right
here
in
this
hand.
I'd
have
waited
a
little
longer
if
it
hadn't
come
to
my
knowledge
that
my
secret
was
coming
out.
A
letter
had
come
into
the
town
that
would
have
set
you
wise
to
it
all.
Then
I
had
to
act
and
act
quickly.
"I've
nothing
more
to
say
to
you,
except
that
when
my
time
comes
I'll
die
the
easier
when
I
think
of
the
work
I
have
done
in
this
valley.
Now,
Marvin,
I'll
keep
you
no
more.
Take
them
in
and
get
it
over."
There
is
little
more
to
tell.
Scanlan
had
been
given
a
sealed
note
to
be
left
at
the
address
of
Miss
Ettie
Shafter,
a
mission
which
he
had
accepted
with
a
wink
and
a
knowing
smile.
In
the
early
hours
of
the
morning
a
beautiful
woman
and
a
much
muffled
man
boarded
a
special
train
which
had
been
sent
by
the
railroad
company,
and
made
a
swift,
unbroken
journey
out
of
the
land
of
danger.
It
was
the
last
time
that
ever
either
Ettie
or
her
lover
set
foot
in
the
Valley
of
Fear.
Ten
days
later
they
were
married
in
Chicago,
with
old
Jacob
Shafter
as
witness
of
the
wedding.
The
trial
of
the
Scowrers
was
held
far
from
the
place
where
their
adherents
might
have
terrified
the
guardians
of
the
law.
In
vain
they
struggled.
In
vain
the
money
of
the
lodge--money
squeezed
by
blackmail
out
of
the
whole
countryside--was
spent
like
water
in
the
attempt
to
save
them.
That
cold,
clear,
unimpassioned
statement
from
one
who
knew
every
detail
of
their
lives,
their
organization,
and
their
crimes
was
unshaken
by
all
the
wiles
of
their
defenders.
At
last
after
so
many
years
they
were
broken
and
scattered.
The
cloud
was
lifted
forever
from
the
valley.
McGinty
met
his
fate
upon
the
scaffold,
cringing
and
whining
when
the
last
hour
came.
Eight
of
his
chief
followers
shared
his
fate.
Fifty-odd
had
various
degrees
of
imprisonment.
The
work
of
Birdy
Edwards
was
complete.
And
yet,
as
he
had
guessed,
the
game
was
not
over
yet.
There
was
another
hand
to
be
played,
and
yet
another
and
another.
Ted
Baldwin,
for
one,
had
escaped
the
scaffold;
so
had
the
Willabys;
so
had
several
others
of
the
fiercest
spirits
of
the
gang.
For
ten
years
they
were
out
of
the
world,
and
then
came
a
day
when
they
were
free
once
more--a
day
which
Edwards,
who
knew
his
men,
was
very
sure
would
be
an
end
of
his
life
of
peace.
They
had
sworn
an
oath
on
all
that
they
thought
holy
to
have
his
blood
as
a
vengeance
for
their
comrades.
And
well
they
strove
to
keep
their
vow!
From
Chicago
he
was
chased,
after
two
attempts
so
near
success
that
it
was
sure
that
the
third
would
get
him.
From
Chicago
he
went
under
a
changed
name
to
California,
and
it
was
there
that
the
light
went
for
a
time
out
of
his
life
when
Ettie
Edwards
died.
Once
again
he
was
nearly
killed,
and
once
again
under
the
name
of
Douglas
he
worked
in
a
lonely
canyon,
where
with
an
English
partner
named
Barker
he
amassed
a
fortune.
At
last
there
came
a
warning
to
him
that
the
bloodhounds
were
on
his
track
once
more,
and
he
cleared--only
just
in
time--for
England.
And
thence
came
the
John
Douglas
who
for
a
second
time
married
a
worthy
mate,
and
lived
for
five
years
as
a
Sussex
county
gentleman,
a
life
which
ended
with
the
strange
happenings
of
which
we
have
heard.
Epilogue
The
police
trial
had
passed,
in
which
the
case
of
John
Douglas
was
referred
to
a
higher
court.
So
had
the
Quarter
Sessions,
at
which
he
was
acquitted
as
having
acted
in
self-defense.
"Get
him
out
of
England
at
any
cost,"
wrote
Holmes
to
the
wife.
"There
are
forces
here
which
may
be
more
dangerous
than
those
he
has
escaped.
There
is
no
safety
for
your
husband
in
England."
Two
months
had
gone
by,
and
the
case
had
to
some
extent
passed
from
our
minds.
Then
one
morning
there
came
an
enigmatic
note
slipped
into
our
letter
box.
"Dear
me,
Mr.
Holmes.
Dear
me!"
said
this
singular
epistle.
There
was
neither
superscription
nor
signature.
I
laughed
at
the
quaint
message;
but
Holmes
showed
unwonted
seriousness.
"Deviltry,
Watson!"
he
remarked,
and
sat
long
with
a
clouded
brow.
Late
last
night
Mrs.
Hudson,
our
landlady,
brought
up
a
message
that
a
gentleman
wished
to
see
Mr.
Holmes,
and
that
the
matter
was
of
the
utmost
importance.
Close
at
the
heels
of
his
messenger
came
Cecil
Barker,
our
friend
of
the
moated
Manor
House.
His
face
was
drawn
and
haggard.
"I've
had
bad
news--terrible
news,
Mr.
Holmes,"
said
he.
"I
feared
as
much,"
said
Holmes.
"You
have
not
had
a
cable,
have
you?"
"I
have
had
a
note
from
someone
who
has."
"It's
poor
Douglas.
They
tell
me
his
name
is
Edwards;
but
he
will
always
be
Jack
Douglas
of
Benito
Canyon
to
me.
I
told
you
that
they
started
together
for
South
Africa
in
the
Palmyra
three
weeks
ago."
"Exactly."
"The
ship
reached
Cape
Town
last
night.
I
received
this
cable
from
Mrs.
Douglas
this
morning:
"'Jack
has
been
lost
overboard
in
gale
off
St.
Helena.
No
one
knows
how
accident
occurred.'
"'IVY
DOUGLAS.'"
"Ha!
It
came
like
that,
did
it?"
said
Holmes
thoughtfully.
"Well,
I've
no
doubt
it
was
well
stage-managed."
"You
mean
that
you
think
there
was
no
accident?"
"None
in
the
world."
"He
was
murdered?"
"Surely!"
"So
I
think
also.
These
infernal
Scowrers,
this
cursed
vindictive
nest
of
criminals--"
"No,
no,
my
good
sir,"
said
Holmes.
"There
is
a
master
hand
here.
It
is
no
case
of
sawed-off
shotguns
and
clumsy
six-shooters.
You
can
tell
an
old
master
by
the
sweep
of
his
brush.
I
can
tell
a
Moriarty
when
I
see
one.
This
crime
is
from
London,
not
from
America."
"But
for
what
motive?"
"Because
it
is
done
by
a
man
who
cannot
afford
to
fail,
one
whose
whole
unique
position
depends
upon
the
fact
that
all
he
does
must
succeed.
A
great
brain
and
a
huge
organization
have
been
turned
to
the
extinction
of
one
man.
It
is
crushing
the
nut
with
the
triphammer--an
absurd
extravagance
of
energy--but
the
nut
is
very
effectually
crushed
all
the
same."
"How
came
this
man
to
have
anything
to
do
with
it?"
"I
can
only
say
that
the
first
word
that
ever
came
to
us
of
the
business
was
from
one
of
his
lieutenants.
These
Americans
were
well
advised.
Having
an
English
job
to
do,
they
took
into
partnership,
as
any
foreign
criminal
could
do,
this
great
consultant
in
crime.
From
that
moment
their
man
was
doomed.
At
first
he
would
content
himself
by
using
his
machinery
in
order
to
find
their
victim.
Then
he
would
indicate
how
the
matter
might
be
treated.
Finally,
when
he
read
in
the
reports
of
the
failure
of
this
agent,
he
would
step
in
himself
with
a
master
touch.
You
heard
me
warn
this
man
at
Birlstone
Manor
House
that
the
coming
danger
was
greater
than
the
past.
Was
I
right?"
Barker
beat
his
head
with
his
clenched
fist
in
his
impotent
anger.
"Do
not
tell
me
that
we
have
to
sit
down
under
this?
Do
you
say
that
no
one
can
ever
get
level
with
this
king
devil?"
"No,
I
don't
say
that,"
said
Holmes,
and
his
eyes
seemed
to
be
looking
far
into
the
future.
"I
don't
say
that
he
can't
be
beat.
But
you
must
give
me
time--you
must
give
me
time!"
We
all
sat
in
silence
for
some
minutes
while
those
fateful
eyes
still
strained
to
pierce
the
veil.
