The Lauriston Garden Mystery

CHAPTER III.

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 selfimportance

and a certain air of command. You

must have observed the way in which he held his

head and swung his cane. A steady, respectable,

middle-aged man, too, on the face of him—all

facts which led me to believe that he had been a

sergeant.”

“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.

“Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I

thought from his expression that he was pleased

at my evident surprise and admiration. “I said just

now that there were no criminals. It appears that

I am wrong—look at this!” He threw me over the

note which the commissionaire had brought.

“Why,” I cried, as I cast my eye over it, “this is

terrible!”

“It does seem to be a little out of the common,”

he remarked, calmly. “Would you mind reading it

to me aloud?”

This is the letter which I read to him—

“My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:

“There has been a bad business during

the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens,

off the Brixton Road. Our man on the

beat saw a light there about two in

the morning, and as the house was an

empty one, suspected that something

was amiss. He found the door open,

and in the front room, which is bare

of furniture, discovered the body of a

gentleman, well dressed, and having

cards in his pocket bearing the name

of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio,

U.S.A.’ There had been no robbery, nor

is there any evidence as to how the

man met his death. There are marks

of blood in the room, but there is no

wound upon his person. We are at a

loss as to how he came into the empty

house; indeed, the whole affair is a

puzzler. If you can come round to the

house any time before twelve, you will

find me there. I have left everything

in statu quo until I hear from you. If

you are unable to come I shall give you

fuller details, and would esteem it a

great kindness if you would favour me

with your opinion.

“Yours faithfully,

“Tobias Gregson.”

“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland

Yarders,” my friend remarked; “he and Lestrade

are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and

energetic, but conventional—shockingly so. They

have their knives into one another, too. They are

as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There

will be some fun over this case if they are both put

upon the scent.”

I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled

on. “Surely there is not a moment to be lost,”

I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the

most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe

leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be

spry enough at times.”

“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been

longing for.”

“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me.

Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be

sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket

all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial

personage.”

“But he begs you to help him.”

“Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges

it to me; but he would cut his tongue

out before he would own it to any third person.

However, we may as well go and have a look. I

shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a

laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!”

He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about

in a way that showed that an energetic fit had superseded

the apathetic one.

“Get your hat,” he said.

“You wish me to come?”

“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.” A

minute later we were both in a hansom, driving

furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a duncoloured

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 illomened

and minatory look. It was one of four

which stood back some little way from the street,

two being occupied and two empty. The latter

looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy

windows, which were blank and dreary, save that

here and there a “To Let” card had developed like

a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden

sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of

sickly plants separated each of these houses from

the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway,

yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently

of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole

place was very sloppy from the rain which had

fallen through the night. The garden was bounded

by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood

rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning

a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a

small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and

strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching

some glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would

at once have hurried into the house and plunged

into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to

be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance

which, under the circumstances, seemed

to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up

and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the

ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line

of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded

slowly down the path, or rather down the

fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his

eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped,

and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter

an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many

marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but

since the police had been coming and going over

it, I was unable to see how my companion could

hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such

extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive

faculties, that I had no doubt that he could

see a great deal which was hidden from me.

At the door of the house we were met by a

tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired man, with a notebook

in his hand, who rushed forward and wrung

my companion’s hand with effusion. “It is indeed

kind of you to come,” he said, “I have had everything

left untouched.”

“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at

the pathway. “If a herd of buffaloes had passed

along there could not be a greater mess. No doubt,

however, you had drawn your own conclusions,

Gregson, before you permitted this.”

“I have had so much to do inside the house,”

the detective said evasively. “My colleague, Mr.

Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look

after this.”

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows

sardonically. “With two such men as yourself and

Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much

for a third party to find out,” he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied

way. “I think we have done all that can be done,”

he answered; “it’s a queer case though, and I knew

your taste for such things.”

“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock

Holmes.

“No, sir.”

“Nor Lestrade?”

“No, sir.”

“Then let us go and look at the room.” With

which inconsequent remark he strode on into the

house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed

his astonishment.

A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led

to the kitchen and offices. Two doors opened out

of it to the left and to the right. One of these had

obviously been closed for many weeks. The other

belonged to the dining-room, which was the apartment

in which the mysterious affair had occurred.

Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that

subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of

death inspires.

It was a large square room, looking all the

larger from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar

flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was

blotched in places with mildew, and here and there

great strips had become detached and hung down,

exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the

door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece

of imitation white marble. On one corner

of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle.

The solitary window was so dirty that the light

was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge

to everything, which was intensified by the thick

layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

All these details I observed afterwards. At

present my attention was centred upon the single

grim motionless figure which lay stretched

upon the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring

up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a

man about forty-three or forty-four years of age,

middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling

black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He

was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and

waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate

collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed

and trim, was placed upon the floor beside him.

His hands were clenched and his arms thrown

abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked

as though his death struggle had been a grievous

one. On his rigid face there stood an expression

of horror, and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such

as I have never seen upon human features. This

malignant and terrible contortion, combined with

the low forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous

jaw gave the dead man a singularly simious and

ape-like appearance, which was increased by his

writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen death in

many forms, but never has it appeared to me in

a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy

apartment, which looked out upon one of the main

arteries of suburban London.

Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was

standing by the doorway, and greeted my companion

and myself.

“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked.

“It beats anything I have seen, and I am no

chicken.”

“There is no clue?” said Gregson.

“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and,

kneeling down, examined it intently. “You are sure

that there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to numerous

gouts and splashes of blood which lay all

round.

“Positive!” cried both detectives.

“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second

individual—presumably the murderer, if murder

has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances

attendant on the death of Van Jansen,

in Utrecht, in the year ’34. Do you remember the

case, Gregson?”

“No, sir.”

“Read it up—you really should. There is nothing

new under the sun. It has all been done before.”

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying

here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning,

examining, while his eyes wore the

same far-away expression which I have already

remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination

made, that one would hardly have guessed the

minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally,

he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glanced

at the soles of his patent leather boots.

“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.

“No more than was necessary for the purposes

of our examination.”

“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he

said. “There is nothing more to be learned.”

Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand.

At his call they entered the room, and the stranger

was lifted and carried out. As they raised him,

a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.

Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified

eyes.

“There’s been a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a

woman’s wedding-ring.”

He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of

his hand. We all gathered round him and gazed

at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of

plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

“This complicates matters,” said Gregson.

“Heaven knows, they were complicated enough

before.”

“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed

Holmes. “There’s nothing to be learned by

staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?”

“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing

to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps

of the stairs. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud,

of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy

and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold

pin—bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes. Russian

leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber

of Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon

the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent

of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s

‘Decameron,’ with name of Joseph Stangerson

upon the fly-leaf. Two letters—one addressed

to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”

“At what address?”

“American Exchange, Strand—to be left till

called for. They are both from the Guion

Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of

their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate

man was about to return to New York.”

“Have you made any inquiries as to this man,

Stangerson?”

“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had

advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one

of my men has gone to the American Exchange,

but he has not returned yet.”

“Have you sent to Cleveland?”

“We telegraphed this morning.”

“How did you word your inquiries?”

“We simply detailed the circumstances, and

said that we should be glad of any information

which could help us.”

“You did not ask for particulars on any point

which appeared to you to be crucial?”

“I asked about Stangerson.”

“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on

which this whole case appears to hinge? Will you

not telegraph again?”

“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in

an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared

to be about to make some remark, when

Lestrade, who had been in the front room while

we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared

upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a

pompous and self-satisfied manner.

“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery

of the highest importance, and one which

would have been overlooked had I not made a

careful examination of the walls.”

The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and

he was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation

at having scored a point against his colleague.

“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the

room, the atmosphere of which felt clearer since

the removal of its ghastly inmate. “Now, stand

there!”

He struck a match on his boot and held it up

against the wall.

“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the paper had fallen away

in parts. In this particular corner of the room a

large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square

of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there

was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word—

RACHE.

“What do you think of that?” cried the detective,

with the air of a showman exhibiting his show.

“This was overlooked because it was in the darkest

corner of the room, and no one thought of looking

there. The murderer has written it with his or her

own blood. See this smear where it has trickled

down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide

anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write

it on? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece.

It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this

corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest

portion of the wall.”

“And what does it mean now that you have

found it?” asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice.

“Mean? Why, it means that the writer was

going to put the female name Rachel, but was

disturbed before he or she had time to finish.

You mark my words, when this case comes to

be cleared up you will find that a woman named

Rachel has something to do with it. It’s all very

well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You

may be very smart and clever, but the old hound

is the best, when all is said and done.”

“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion,

who had ruffled the little man’s temper by

bursting into an explosion of laughter. “You certainly

have the credit of being the first of us to

find this out, and, as you say, it bears every mark

of having been written by the other participant in

last night’s mystery. I have not had time to examine

this room yet, but with your permission I shall

do so now.”

As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and

a large round magnifying glass from his pocket.

With these two implements he trotted noiselessly

about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally

kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So

engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared

to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered

away to himself under his breath the whole

time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations,

groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement

and of hope. As I watched him I

was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded welltrained

foxhound as it dashes backwards and forwards

through the covert, whining in its eagerness,

until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty

minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring

with the most exact care the distance between

marks which were entirely invisible to me,

and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in

an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place

he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey

dust from the floor, and packed it away in an envelope.

Finally, he examined with his glass the word

upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the

most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to

be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass

in his pocket.

“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for

taking pains,” he remarked with a smile. “It’s a

very bad definition, but it does apply to detective

work.”

Gregson and Lestrade had watched the

manoeuvres of their amateur companion with considerable

curiosity and some contempt. They evidently

failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun

to realize, that Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actions

were all directed towards some definite and

practical end.

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

“It would be robbing you of the credit of the

case if I was to presume to help you,” remarked

my friend. “You are doing so well now that it

would be a pity for anyone to interfere.” There was

a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. “If you

will let me know how your investigations go,” he

continued, “I shall be happy to give you any help I

can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the

constable who found the body. Can you give me

his name and address?”

Lestrade glanced at his note-book. “John

Rance,” he said. “He is off duty now. You will find

him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”

Holmes took a note of the address.

“Come along, Doctor,” he said; “we shall go

and look him up. I’ll tell you one thing which may

help you in the case,” he continued, turning to the

two detectives. “There has been murder done, and

the murderer was a man. He was more than six

feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet

for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and

smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with

his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn

by a horse with three old shoes and one new one

on his off fore leg. In all probability the murderer

had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right

hand were remarkably long. These are only a few

indications, but they may assist you.”

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other

with an incredulous smile.

“If this man was murdered, how was it done?”

asked the former.

“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and

strode off. “One other thing, Lestrade,” he added,

turning round at the door: “ ‘Rache,’ is the German

for ‘revenge;’ so don’t lose your time looking

for Miss Rachel.”

With which Parthian shot he walked away,

leaving the two rivals open-mouthed behind him.

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Mr. Sherlock Holmes The Science Of Deduction

The Science Of Deduction;

CHAPTER II.

We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected

the rooms at No. 221b, Baker Street, of

which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted

of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and

a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished,

and illuminated by two broad windows.

So desirable in every way were the apartments,

and so moderate did the terms seem when divided

between us, that the bargain was concluded upon

the spot, and we at once entered into possession.

That very evening I moved my things round from

the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock

Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus.

For a day or two we were busily employed

in unpacking and laying out our property

to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began

to settle down and to accommodate ourselves

to our new surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live

with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits

were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten

at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and

gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes

he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes

in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in

long walks, which appeared to take him into the

lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed

his energy when the working fit was upon him;

but now and again a reaction would seize him, and

for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the

sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a

muscle from morning to night. On these occasions

I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in

his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being

addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the

temperance and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden

such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and

my curiosity as to his aims in life, gradually deepened

and increased. His very person and appearance

were such as to strike the attention of the

most casual observer. In height he was rather over

six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to

be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and

piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to

which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose

gave his whole expression an air of alertness and

decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and

squareness which mark the man of determination.

His hands were invariably blotted with ink and

stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary

delicacy of touch, as I frequently had

occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating

his fragile philosophical instruments.

The reader may set me down as a hopeless

busybody, when I confess how much this man

stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured

to break through the reticence which he

showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing

judgment, however, be it remembered,

how objectless was my life, and how little there

was to engage my attention. My health forbade me

from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally

genial, and I had no friends who would

call upon me and break the monotony of my daily

existence. Under these circumstances, I eagerly

hailed the little mystery which hung around my

companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring

to unravel it.

He was not studying medicine. He had himself,

in reply to a question, confirmed Stamford’s

opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to

have pursued any course of reading which might

fit him for a degree in science or any other recognized

portal which would give him an entrance

into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain

studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits

his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample

and minute that his observations have fairly astounded

me. Surely no man would work so hard

or attain such precise information unless he had

some definite end in view. Desultory readers are

seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning.

No man burdens his mind with small matters

unless he has some very good reason for doing so.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge.

Of contemporary literature, philosophy and

politics he appeared to know next to nothing.

Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired

in the naivest way who he might be and what he

had done. My surprise reached a climax, however,

when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of

the Copernican Theory and of the composition of

the Solar System. That any civilized human being

in this nineteenth century should not be aware that

the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to

me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly

realize it.

“You appear to be astonished,” he said, smiling

at my expression of surprise. “Now that I do

know it I shall do my best to forget it.”

“To forget it!”

“You see,” he explained, “I consider that a

man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic,

and you have to stock it with such furniture as

you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every

sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge

which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or

at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so

that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it.

Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as

to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have

nothing but the tools which may help him in doing

his work, but of these he has a large assortment,

and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to

think that that little room has elastic walls and can

distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes

a time when for every addition of knowledge you

forget something that you knew before. It is of the

highest importance, therefore, not to have useless

facts elbowing out the useful ones.”

“But the Solar System!” I protested.

“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted

impatiently; “you say that we go round the sun.

If we went round the moon it would not make a

pennyworth of difference to me or to my work.”

I was on the point of asking him what that

work might be, but something in his manner

showed me that the question would be an unwelcome

one. I pondered over our short conversation,

however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions

from it. He said that he would acquire

no knowledge which did not bear upon his object.

Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed

was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated

in my own mind all the various points upon which

he had shown me that he was exceptionally wellinformed.

I even took a pencil and jotted them

down. I could not help smiling at the document

when I had completed it. It ran in this way—

Sherlock Holmes—his limits.

1. Knowledge of Literature.—Nil.

2. Philosophy.—Nil.

3. Astronomy.—Nil.

4. Politics.—Feeble.

5. Botany.—Variable. Well up in belladonna,

opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing

of practical gardening.

6. Geology.—Practical, but limited. Tells at a

glance different soils from each other. After

walks has shown me splashes upon his

trousers, and told me by their colour and

consistence in what part of London he had

received them.

7. Chemistry.—Profound.

8. Anatomy.—Accurate, but unsystematic.

9. Sensational Literature.—Immense. He appears

to know every detail of every horror

perpetrated in the century.

10. Plays the violin well.

11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and

swordsman.

12. Has a good practical knowledge of British

law.

When I had got so far in my list I threw it into

the fire in despair. “If I can only find what the

fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments,

and discovering a calling which needs

them all,” I said to myself, “I may as well give up

the attempt at once.”

I see that I have alluded above to his powers

upon the violin. These were very remarkable,

but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments.

That he could play pieces, and difficult

pieces, I knew well, because at my request he

has played me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and

other favourites. When left to himself, however, he

would seldom produce any music or attempt any

recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an

evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly

at the fiddle which was thrown across his

knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and

melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and

cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which

possessed him, but whether the music aided those

thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the

result of a whim or fancy was more than I could

determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating

solos had it not been that he usually

terminated them by playing in quick succession a

whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation

for the trial upon my patience.

During the first week or so we had no callers,

and I had begun to think that my companion was

as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently,

however, I found that he had many acquaintances,

and those in the most different classes of society.

There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow

who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade,

and who came three or four times in a single

week. One morning a young girl called, fashionably

dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more.

The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy

visitor, looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared

to me to be much excited, and who was closely

followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another

occasion an old white-haired gentleman had

an interview with my companion; and on another

a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When

any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance,

Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use

of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom.

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 armchair

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 twentyfour

hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might

be made a text-book for detectives to teach them

what to avoid.”

I felt rather indignant at having two characters

whom I had admired treated in this cavalier style.

I walked over to the window, and stood looking

out into the busy street. “This fellow may be very

clever,” I said to myself, “but he is certainly very

conceited.”

“There are no crimes and no criminals in these

days,” he said, querulously. “What is the use of

having brains in our profession? I know well that

I have it in me to make my name famous. No

man lives or has ever lived who has brought the

same amount of study and of natural talent to

the detection of crime which I have done. And

what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or,

at most, some bungling villany with a motive so

transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can

see through it.”

I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of

conversation. I thought it best to change the topic.

“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I

asked, pointing to a stalwart, plainly-dressed individual

who was walking slowly down the other

side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers.

He had a large blue envelope in his hand,

and was evidently the bearer of a message.

“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,”

said Sherlock Holmes.

“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He

knows that I cannot verify his guess.”

The thought had hardly passed through my

mind when the man whom we were watching

caught sight of the number on our door, and ran

rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud

knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending

the stair.

“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping

into the room and handing my friend the letter.

Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit

out of him. He little thought of this when he made

that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I said, in

the blandest voice, “what your trade may be?”

“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform

away for repairs.”

“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious

glance at my companion.

“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry,

sir. No answer? Right, sir.”

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand

in a salute, and was gone.

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Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

CHAPTER I.

the year 1878 I took my degree of
Doctor of Medicine of the University of
London, and proceeded to Netley to go
through the course prescribed for surgeons
in the army. Having completed my studies
there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland
Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment
was stationed in India at the time, and before
I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken
out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my
corps had advanced through the passes, and was
already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed,
however, with many other officers who were in the
same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching
Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment,
and at once entered upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion
to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune
and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and
attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at
the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck
on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered
the bone and grazed the subclavian artery.
I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous
Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and
courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw
me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing
me safely to the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged
hardships which I had undergone, I was removed,
with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base
hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already
improved so far as to be able to walk about
the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah,
when I was struck down by enteric fever,
that curse of our Indian possessions. For months
my life was despaired of, and when at last I came
to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak
and emaciated that a medical board determined
that not a day should be lost in sending me back
to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the
troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on
Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined,
but with permission from a paternal government
to spend the next nine months in attempting
to improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was
therefore as free as air—or as free as an income
of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit
a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally
gravitated to London, that great cesspool into
which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are
irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time
at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless,
meaningless existence, and spending such
money as I had, considerably more freely than I
ought. So alarming did the state of my finances
become, that I soon realized that I must either
leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in
the country, or that I must make a complete alteration
in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative,
I began by making up my mind to leave
the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less
pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion,
I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when
some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning
round I recognized young Stamford, who had
been a dresser under me at Bart’s. The sight of a
friendly face in the great wilderness of London is
a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old
days Stamford had never been a particular crony
of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm,
and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to
see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him
to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started
off together in a hansom.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself,
Watson?” he asked in undisguised wonder, as we
rattled through the crowded London streets. “You
are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures,
and had hardly concluded it by the time that we
reached our destination.
“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he
had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up
to now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to
solve the problem as to whether it is possible to
get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion;
“you are the second man to-day that has
used that expression to me.”
“And who was the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory
up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself
this morning because he could not get someone
to go halves with him in some nice rooms
which he had found, and which were too much
for his purse.”
“By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone
to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very
man for him. I should prefer having a partner to
being alone.”
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me
over his wine-glass. “You don’t know Sherlock
Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care
for him as a constant companion.”
“Why, what is there against him?”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against
him. He is a little queer in his ideas—an enthusiast
in some branches of science. As far as I know
he is a decent fellow enough.”
“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.
“No—I have no idea what he intends to go in
for. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a
first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has
never taken out any systematic medical classes.
His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but
he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way knowledge
which would astonish his professors.”
“Did you never ask him what he was going in
for?” I asked.
“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out,
though he can be communicative enough when the
fancy seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to
lodge with anyone, I should prefer a man of studious
and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet
to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough
of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder
of my natural existence. How could I meet this
friend of yours?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned
my companion. “He either avoids the place for
weeks, or else he works there from morning to
night. If you like, we shall drive round together
after luncheon.”
“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation
drifted away into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving
the Holborn, Stamford gave me a few more
particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed
to take as a fellow-lodger.
“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with
him,” he said; “I know nothing more of him than
I have learned from meeting him occasionally in
the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so
you must not hold me responsible.”
“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,”
I answered. “It seems to me, Stamford,” I
added, looking hard at my companion, “that you
have some reason for washing your hands of the
matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or
what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,”
he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little
too scientific for my tastes—it approaches to coldbloodedness.
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 dissectingrooms
with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a
bizarre shape.”
“Beating the subjects!”
“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced
after death. I saw him at it with my own
eyes.”
“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”
“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his
studies are. But here we are, and you must
form your own impressions about him.” As he
spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed
through a small side-door, which opened into a
wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground
to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the
bleak stone staircase and made our way down the
long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall
and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a
low arched passage branched away from it and led
to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered
with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered
about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes,
and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering
flames. There was only one student in the room,
who was bending over a distant table absorbed in
his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced
round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure.
“I’ve found it! I’ve found it,” he shouted to my
companion, running towards us with a test-tube in
his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated
by hoemoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had
he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could
not have shone upon his features.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford,
introducing us.
“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping
my hand with a strength for which I should
hardly have given him credit. “You have been in
Afghanistan, I perceive.”
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in
astonishment.
“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself.
“The question now is about hoemoglobin. No
doubt you see the significance of this discovery of
mine?”
“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered,
“but practically—”
“Why, man, it is the most practical medicolegal
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 badlyplayed
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?”
“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.

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Herlok homes:The Adventure of the Speckled Band

The Adventure of the Speckled Band

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

admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered. “Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.” “It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested. “What, then?” “It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances. “You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see.” “You know me, then?” “No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.” The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion. “There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.” “Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can

stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.” Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted. “Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.” “Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.” “I am all attention, madam.” “My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.” Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he. “The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing

was left save a few acres of ground, and the twohundred- year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man. “When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major- General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less than £1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness. “But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger. “Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies,

and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master. “You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has.” “Your sister is dead, then?” “She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.” Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor. “Pray be precise as to details,” said he. “It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sittingrooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?” “Perfectly so.” “The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he

had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back. “ ‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the night?’ “ ‘Never,’ said I. “ ‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?’ “ ‘Certainly not. But why?’ “ ‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it.’ “ ‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’ “ ‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.’ “ ‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’ “ ‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock.” “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?” “Always.” “And why?” “I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.” “Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.” “I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not

knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor’s room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister.” “One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?” “That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.” “Was your sister dressed?” “No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.” “Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?” “He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was

quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her.” “How about poison?” “The doctors examined her for it, but without success.” “What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?” “It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.” “Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?” “Yes, there are nearly always some there.” “Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled band?” “Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used.” Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied. “These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your narrative.” “Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage— the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice.” “You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?” “Yes, all.”

“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.” “Why, what do you mean?” For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist. “You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes. The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.” There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire. “This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?” “As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.” “Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?” “By no means.” “Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?” “I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there in time for your coming.” “And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?” “No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided from the room. “And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair. “It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.” “Dark enough and sinister enough.”

“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end.” “What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?” “I cannot think.” “When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines.” “But what, then, did the gipsies do?” “I cannot imagine.” “I see many objections to any such theory.” “And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!” The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey. “Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition. “My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion quietly. “I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.” “Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.”

“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?” “It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes. “What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously. “But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my companion imperturbably. “Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his huntingcrop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.” My friend smiled. “Holmes, the busybody!” His smile broadened. “Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!” Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,” said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught.” “I will go when I have said my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands. “See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room. “He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again. “Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’ Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter.” It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures. “I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its exact meaning I have been

obliged to work out the present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the time of the wife’s death was little short of £1100, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £750. Each daughter can claim an income of £250, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.” At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows. “Look there!” said he. A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion. “Stoke Moran?” said he. “Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the driver. “There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we are going.” “There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”

“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.” We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead. “I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word.” Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening.” “We have had the pleasure of making the doctor’s acquaintance,” said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened. “Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.” “So it appears.” “He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns?” “He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him tonight. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine.” The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows. “This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the centre one to your sister’s,

and the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott’s chamber?” “Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.” “Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.” “There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room.” “Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course?” “Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.” “As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar your shutters?” Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!” said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter.” A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow whitecounterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment. “Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last pointing to a thick bell-rope which

hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow. “It goes to the housekeeper’s room.” “It looks newer than the other things?” “Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.” “Your sister asked for it, I suppose?” “No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we wanted for ourselves.” “Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug. “Why, it’s a dummy,” said he. “Won’t it ring?” “No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is.” “How very absurd! I never noticed that before.” “Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!” “That is also quite modern,” said the lady. “Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes. “Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.” “They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment.” Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye. Holmes walked

slowly round and examined each and all of them with the keenest interest. “What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe. “My stepfather’s business papers.” “Oh! you have seen inside, then?” “Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.” “There isn’t a cat in it, for example?” “No. What a strange idea!” “Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on the top of it. “No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.” “Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention. “Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!” The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord. “What do you make of that, Watson?” “It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.” “That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.” I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie. “It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect.” “I shall most certainly do so.” “The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance.” “I assure you that I am in your hands.” “In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room.” Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over there?” “Yes, that is the Crown.” “Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?” “Certainly.” “You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night.” “Oh, yes, easily.” “The rest you will leave in our hands.” “But what will you do?” “We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you.” “I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve. “Perhaps I have.” “Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s death.” “I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.” “You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright.” “No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Goodbye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.” Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor’s voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a

few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms. “Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger.” “Can I be of assistance?” “Your presence might be invaluable.” “Then I shall certainly come.” “It is very kind of you.” “You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than was visible to me.” “No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did.” “I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.” “You saw the ventilator, too?” “Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through.” “I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke Moran.” “My dear Holmes!” “Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.” “But what harm can there be in that?” “Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?” “I cannot as yet see any connection.” “Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?” “No.” “It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?” “I cannot say that I have.” “The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.” “Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”

“Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful.” About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us. “That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes from the middle window.” As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand. There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness. “My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?” Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear. “It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.” I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently

that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words: “The least sound would be fatal to our plans.” I nodded to show that I had heard. “We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.” I nodded again. “Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair.” I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table. Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness. How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness. From outside came the occasional cry of a nightbird, and once at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall. Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull. “You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?” But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it. Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day. “I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word ‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this

ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim. “I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it.” “With the result of driving it through the ventilator.” “And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience.”

THA END