The Sign of the Four by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sign of the Four, by Arthur Conan Doyle

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: The Sign of the Four

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Posting Date: November 19, 2008 [EBook #2097]
Release Date: March, 2000

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SIGN OF THE FOUR ***














The Sign of the Four


By

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




Contents





Chapter I

The Science of Deduction

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and
his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,
white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back
his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully
upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with
innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home,
pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined
arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but
custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to
day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled
nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to
protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver
my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant
air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would
care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his
masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many
extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing
him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken
with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
longer.

"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he
had opened. "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per-cent. solution.
Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My constitution has not got over
the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain
upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.
"I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it,
however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that
its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may,
as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid
process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a
permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon
you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for
a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which
you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to
another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to
some extent answerable."

He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips
together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who
has a relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me
work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate
analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then
with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence.
I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own
particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the only one in
the world."

"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I am the
last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or
Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the way,
is their normal state--the matter is laid before me. I examine the
data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim no
credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work
itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my
highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my
methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything
in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat
fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he. "Honestly, I
cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an
exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which
produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with
the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the
case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially
designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the
egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be
devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years
that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small
vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no
remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet
through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from
walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

"My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes,
after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted
last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has all
the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide
range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments
of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some
features of interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases,
the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have
suggested to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had
this morning acknowledging my assistance." He tossed over, as he
spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down
it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray
"magnifiques," "coup-de-maitres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying
to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.

"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly.
"He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three
qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of
observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in knowledge;
and that may come in time. He is now translating my small works into
French."

"Your works?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty of
several monographs. They are all upon technical subjects. Here, for
example, is one 'Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various
Tobaccoes.' In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar-,
cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with colored plates illustrating the
difference in the ash. It is a point which is continually turning up
in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a
clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has
been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously
narrows your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much
difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff
of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."

"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.

"I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing
of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a
preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon the
influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the
hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers, and
diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great practical interest to the
scientific detective,--especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in
discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary you with my
hobby."

"Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the greatest interest
to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your
practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation and
deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his arm-chair,
and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example,
observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there
you dispatched a telegram."

"Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don't
see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I
have mentioned it to no one."

"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise,--"so
absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may
serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction.
Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering to
your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they have taken
up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that
it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering. The earth is of
this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere
else in the neighborhood. So much is observation. The rest is
deduction."

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat
opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that
you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards. What
could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire?
Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the
truth."

"In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought.
"The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think
me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?"

"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a
second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem
which you might submit to me."

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object
in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it
in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here
a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the
kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the
late owner?"

I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my
heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I
intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at
the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked
eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from
smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and
handed it back.

"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been recently
cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

"You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me."
In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and
impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he expect from
an uncleaned watch?

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he
observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes.
"Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to
your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

"Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is
nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so
it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descends to the
eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father.
Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has,
therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

"Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits,--very untidy and careless. He was left
with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time
in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally,
taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather."

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with
considerable bitterness in my heart.

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed
that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into the
history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this
knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that
you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to speak
plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

"My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. Viewing
the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and
painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you, however, that I
never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch."

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these facts?
They are absolutely correct in every particular."

"Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance of
probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

"But it was not mere guess-work?"

"No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit,--destructive to the
logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do
not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which
large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that your
brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that
watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but it
is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard
objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no
great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so
cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched
inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty
well provided for in other respects."

I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a
watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the
inside of the case. It is more handy than a label, as there is no risk
of the number being lost or transposed. There are no less than four
such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case.
Inference,--that your brother was often at low water. Secondary
inference,--that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could
not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner
plate, which contains the key-hole. Look at the thousands of scratches
all round the hole,--marks where the key has slipped. What sober man's
key could have scored those grooves? But you will never see a
drunkard's watch without them. He winds it at night, and he leaves
these traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all this?"

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I regret the injustice
which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvellous
faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot
at present?"

"None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without brain-work. What else
is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a
dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down
the street and drifts across the dun-colored houses. What could be
more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having
powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime
is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those
which are commonplace have any function upon earth."

I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, when with a crisp knock
our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

"A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

"Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Hum! I have no recollection of the
name. Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson. Don't go, doctor.
I should prefer that you remain."



Chapter II

The Statement of the Case

Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure
of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved,
and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness
and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a suggestion of
limited means. The dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and
unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved
only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her face had neither
regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was
sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual
and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over many
nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face
which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. I could
not but observe that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed
for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign
of intense inward agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled
my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic
complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe that I
was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember
it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of mine.
I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable,
than the situation in which I find myself."

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned forward in
his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his
clear-cut, hawklike features. "State your case," said he, in brisk,
business tones.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one. "You will, I am sure,
excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.
"If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop, he might be
of inestimable service to me."

I relapsed into my chair.

"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was an
officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a
child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England. I was
placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at Edinburgh,
and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age. In the year
1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve
months' leave and came home. He telegraphed to me from London that he
had arrived all safe, and directed me to come down at once, giving the
Langham Hotel as his address. His message, as I remember, was full of
kindness and love. On reaching London I drove to the Langham, and was
informed that Captain Morstan was staying there, but that he had gone
out the night before and had not yet returned. I waited all day without
news of him. That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I
communicated with the police, and next morning we advertised in all the
papers. Our inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no
word has ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with
his heart full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and
instead--" She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short
the sentence.

"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

"He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878,--nearly ten years ago."

"His luggage?"

"Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a
clue,--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers
in charge of the convict-guard there."

"Had he any friends in town?"

"Only one that we know of,--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the 34th
Bombay Infantry. The major had retired some little time before, and
lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of course, but he
did not even know that his brother officer was in England."

"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About six
years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an advertisement
appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan and
stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward. There was
no name or address appended. I had at that time just entered the
family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her
advice I published my address in the advertisement column. The same
day there arrived through the post a small card-board box addressed to
me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word
of writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same date
there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar pearl,
without any clue as to the sender. They have been pronounced by an
expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You can see
for yourselves that they are very handsome." She opened a flat box as
she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I had ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes. "Has
anything else occurred to you?"

"Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come to you. This
morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for
yourself."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope too, please. Postmark,
London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man's thumb-mark on
corner,--probably postman. Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence
a packet. Particular man in his stationery. No address. 'Be at the
third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven
o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged
woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all
will be in vain. Your unknown friend.' Well, really, this is a very
pretty little mystery. What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

"That is exactly what I want to ask you."

"Then we shall most certainly go. You and I and--yes, why, Dr. Watson
is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I have
worked together before."

"But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice
and expression.

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any
service."

"You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a retired life,
and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it
will do, I suppose?"

"You must not be later," said Holmes. "There is one other point,
however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
addresses?"

"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of
paper.

"You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition.
Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave
little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised
hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no
question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will
break out, and see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtedly by
the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss
Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of
your father?"

"Nothing could be more unlike."

"I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at
six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter
before then. It is only half-past three. Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from
one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and
hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a
speck in the sombre crowd.

"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.

He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids.
"Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe."

"You really are an automaton,--a calculating-machine!" I cried. "There
is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to
allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to
me a mere unit,--a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are
antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning
woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for
their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is
a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the
London poor."

"In this case, however--"

"I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you
ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make
of this fellow's scribble?"

"It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business habits and
some force of character."

Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They
hardly rise above the common herd. That d might be an a, and that l an
e. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however
illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his k's and
self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few
references to make. Let me recommend this book,--one of the most
remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man.' I
shall be back in an hour."

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were
far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our
late visitor,--her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the
strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the
time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now,--a
sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a
little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such dangerous
thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged
furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army
surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should
dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a factor,--nothing more.
If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man
than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of the
imagination.



Chapter III

In Quest of a Solution

It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager,
and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated with
fits of the blackest depression.

"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of
tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of only
one explanation."

"What! you have solved it already?"

"Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive
fact, that is all. It is, however, VERY suggestive. The details are
still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of
the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th Bombay
Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

"No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan
disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is
Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.
Four years later Sholto dies. WITHIN A WEEK OF HIS DEATH Captain
Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated from
year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a
wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of
her father? And why should the presents begin immediately after
Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir knows something of the
mystery and desires to make compensation? Have you any alternative
theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too,
should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the
letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is
too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other
injustice in her case that you know of."

"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
Sherlock Holmes, pensively. "But our expedition of to-night will solve
them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. Are
you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a little past the
hour."

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes
took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It
was clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious one.

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was
composed, but pale. She must have been more than woman if she did not
feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were
embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered
the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "His
letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were in
command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a
great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in papa's
desk which no one could understand. I don't suppose that it is of the
slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I
brought it with me. It is here."

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his knee.
He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked. "It has at
some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a
plan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and
passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it
is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing. In the left-hand corner
is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with their arms
touching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse characters,
'The sign of the four,--Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan,
Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon the
matter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance. It has been kept
carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean as the other."

"It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of
use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be much
deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider my
ideas." He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn brow
and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss Morstan and I
chatted in an undertone about our present expedition and its possible
outcome, but our companion maintained his impenetrable reserve until
the end of our journey.

It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day had
been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city.
Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down the
Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which threw
a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow glare
from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air, and
threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare.
There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like in the endless
procession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars of
light,--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human kind,
they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloom
once more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy
evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combined
to make me nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss Morstan's
manner that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes alone
could rise superior to petty influences. He held his open note-book
upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down figures and
memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the
side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and
four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of
shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,
dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

"Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said she.

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon us.
"You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manner, "but
I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your companions
is a police-officer."

"I give you my word on that," she answered.

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us mounted
to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly done so
before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away at a
furious pace through the foggy streets.

The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place,
on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete
hoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else we had good
reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.
Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I
endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in
Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our
situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were
slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one moving
anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night,
and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I had
some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what
with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost
my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going a very
long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he muttered
the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuous
by-streets.

"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the
Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.
Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses
of the river."

We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the
lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, and
was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.
Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not
appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glare
and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came rows
of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, and
then again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings,--the
monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the
country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace.
None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped
was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen
window. On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open
by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting
clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous
in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace door-way of a
third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

"The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a high
piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar,"
it cried. "Show them straight in to me."



Chapter IV

The Story of the Bald-Headed Man

We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and
worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw
open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre
of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle
of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which
shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed
his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual
jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose.
Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow
and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly
passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his
obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact
he had just turned his thirtieth year.

"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.
"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small
place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the
howling desert of South London."

We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he
invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond
of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of
curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to
expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was
of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly
into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart
it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah
which stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a
silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre
of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic
odor.

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling.
"That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these
gentlemen--"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."

"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope?
Might I ask you--would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as
to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may
rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything
amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered
from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no
cause for uneasiness."

"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. "I am
a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I
am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father, Miss
Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have
been alive now."

I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan
sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart
that he was dead," said she.

"I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I can
do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say.
I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you,
but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The three of
us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no
outsiders,--no police or officials. We can settle everything
satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing
would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down
upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery
blue eyes.

"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go no
further."

I nodded to show my agreement.

"That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of
Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I
open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am
a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He
applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our
heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky
little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the
centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,
"I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the
liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man
Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete confidence in
his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed
no further in the matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am
a man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and
there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman. I have a natural
shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact
with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere
of elegance around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It is
my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a
connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there
cannot be the least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the
modern French school."

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here at
your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is
very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as
possible."

"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall
all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to me.
I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine what a
terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
once," I ventured to remark.

He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he
cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that sudden
way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each
other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are several
points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the
facts before you as far as I know them myself.

"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the
Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live at
Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and
brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these
advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My
twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,
and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations
as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect
that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all men
he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

"We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
danger--overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone,
and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.
He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never
tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men
with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a
wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for
orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My brother
and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's, but events have
since led us to change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great
shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened
it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter
we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was
short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from
an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the
end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he
wished to make a last communication to us.

"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing
heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon either side
of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable statement
to us, in a voice which was broken as much by emotion as by pain. I
shall try and give it to you in his own very words.

"'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this
supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The
cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has withheld
from her the treasure, half at least of which should have been hers.
And yet I have made no use of it myself,--so blind and foolish a thing
is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me that
I could not bear to share it with another. See that chaplet dipped
with pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to
part with, although I had got it out with the design of sending it to
her. You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure. But
send her nothing--not even the chaplet--until I am gone. After all, men
have been as bad as this and have recovered.

"'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had suffered
for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I
alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of
circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I
brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he
came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the
station, and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now dead.
Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of the
treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of his
chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his
side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards, cutting his
head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I stooped over him
I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

"'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do.
My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could
not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused
of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in
his head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could
not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure, which I
was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no soul
upon earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no necessity why
any soul ever should know.

"'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my
servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door
behind him. "Do not fear, Sahib," he said. "No one need know that you
have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?" "I did
not kill him," said I. Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I
heard it all, Sahib," said he. "I heard you quarrel, and I heard the
blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put
him away together." That was enough to decide me. If my own servant
could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good before
twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar and I disposed of
the body that night, and within a few days the London papers were full
of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan. You will see from
what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the matter. My fault lies in
the fact that we concealed not only the body, but also the treasure,
and that I have clung to Morstan's share as well as to my own. I wish
you, therefore, to make restitution. Put your ears down to my mouth.
The treasure is hidden in--' At this instant a horrible change came
over his expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw dropped, and he
yelled, in a voice which I can never forget, 'Keep him out! For
Christ's sake keep him out!' We both stared round at the window behind
us upon which his gaze was fixed. A face was looking in at us out of
the darkness. We could see the whitening of the nose where it was
pressed against the glass. It was a bearded, hairy face, with wild
cruel eyes and an expression of concentrated malevolence. My brother
and I rushed towards the window, but the man was gone. When we
returned to my father his head had dropped and his pulse had ceased to
beat.

"We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the intruder,
save that just under the window a single footmark was visible in the
flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have thought that our
imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face. We soon, however,
had another and a more striking proof that there were secret agencies
at work all round us. The window of my father's room was found open in
the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been rifled, and upon his
chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with the words 'The sign of the
four' scrawled across it. What the phrase meant, or who our secret
visitor may have been, we never knew. As far as we can judge, none of
my father's property had been actually stolen, though everything had
been turned out. My brother and I naturally associated this peculiar
incident with the fear which haunted my father during his life; but it
is still a complete mystery to us."

The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully
for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his
extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's death
Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared that
she was about to faint. She rallied however, on drinking a glass of
water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon
the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering eyes.
As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day he had
complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at least was
a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr. Thaddeus
Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious pride at the
effect which his story had produced, and then continued between the
puffs of his overgrown pipe.

"My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited as
to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for
months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the
hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died. We could
judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which he had
taken out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had some
little discussion. The pearls were evidently of great value, and he
was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was
himself a little inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, that
if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and finally
bring us into trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade him to
let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached pearl at
fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel destitute."

"It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly. "It was
extremely good of you."

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. "We were your trustees,"
he said. "That was the view which I took of it, though Brother
Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty
of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would have been
such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion. 'Le
mauvais gout mene au crime.' The French have a very neat way of
putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went so
far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself: so I left
Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me.
Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme importance has
occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I instantly communicated
with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood
and demand our share. I explained my views last night to Brother
Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors."

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious settee.
We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new development
which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the first to
spring to his feet.

"You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he. "It is
possible that we may be able to make you some small return by throwing
some light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as Miss Morstan
remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the matter through
without delay."

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his
hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged
topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up,
in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his attire
by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which covered the
ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile and peaky
face. "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he led the way
down the passage. "I am compelled to be a valetudinarian."

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently
prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.
Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
the rattle of the wheels.

"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he. "How do you think he found
out where the treasure was? He had come to the conclusion that it was
somewhere indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the house,
and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be
unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the
building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of
all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space
between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total
to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted for. These
could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a hole,
therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the highest room, and
there, sure enough, he came upon another little garret above it, which
had been sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood the
treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through the
hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at not
less than half a million sterling."

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another
open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change from
a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it was the
place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am ashamed to
say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my heart turned as
heavy as lead within me. I stammered out some few halting words of
congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head drooped, deaf to
the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a confirmed
hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth
interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the
composition and action of innumerable quack nostrums, some of which he
bore about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that he may not
remember any of the answers which I gave him that night. Holmes
declares that he overheard me caution him against the great danger of
taking more than two drops of castor oil, while I recommended
strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However that may be, I was
certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a jerk and the coachman
sprang down to open the door.

"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,
as he handed her out.



Chapter V

The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge

It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our
night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind
us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the westward,
and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a moon peeping
occasionally through the rifts. It was clear enough to see for some
distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the side-lamps from the
carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a
very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow
iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our guide
knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The
door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the
opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his
protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders
about them from the master."

"No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I
should bring some friends."

"He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no
orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can let
you in, but your friends must just stop where they are."

This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in a
perplexed and helpless manner. "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!" he
said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the young
lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road at this hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably. "Folk may be
friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's. He pays me well
to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know none o' your friends."

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially. "I don't
think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember the amateur who
fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your
benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth! how
could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet you
had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw,
I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that has wasted
your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the
fancy."

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our friend
won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

"In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he answered.
"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be
certain of your friends before I let them in."

Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of
a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a
moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast
size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck a
chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the
lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

"I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I
distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is no
light in his window. I do not know what to make of it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the favorite son, you
know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more than
he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up there where the
moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from
within, I think."

"None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little
window beside the door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone
sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind
waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and she
has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But hush! what is that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light
flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and
we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and most
pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken whimpering of a frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in the
house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried for the
door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman
admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you
have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings
until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and
peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which
cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand
was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two who
had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even
look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble
our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marvelled at it
since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should
go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also
the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection. So we stood
hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for
all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it.
I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat,
where the prospectors had been at work."

"And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the
treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking
for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto
came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am
frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half
blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from
the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a
terrified child.

"Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to
giving directions."

We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the
left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down
with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss
Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

"God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob.
"It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this
day!"

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few
words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back into the
others bloodless cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained.
"All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be
alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up
and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus,--you
must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto
in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such
a face on him as that."

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's
teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to pass
my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were
trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out
of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to me to be
mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served
as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, holding the
lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had
remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length,
with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three
doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same slow and
methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our long black
shadows streaming backwards down the corridor. The third door was that
which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving any answer,
and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It was locked on
the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see
when we set our lamp up against it. The key being turned, however, the
hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and
instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved than
I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?"

I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was streaming
into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty radiance.
Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all
beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,--the very face of our
companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the same
circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance. The
features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural
grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring to the
nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of
our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure that he was
indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us
that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he
put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not
yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time it
gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew
Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double
line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the
door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes,
and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets.
One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream of
dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy
with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of steps stood at one
side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and
above them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man
to pass through. At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was
thrown carelessly together.

By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was seated
all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and that
ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold, and
had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only his
features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most
fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar
instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn sheet
of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it,
and then handed it to me.

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The sign
of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I
expected it. Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long, dark
thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is
poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin
so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of
blood showed where the puncture had been.

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows darker
instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I only
require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the
chamber. He was still standing in the door-way, the very picture of
terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, however,
he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of the
treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him
to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him here last
night, and I heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be called
in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am
sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen? Surely you don't
think that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought you here
if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad!" He
jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy.

"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly, putting
his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive down to the
station to report this matter to the police. Offer to assist them in
every way. We shall wait here until your return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him
stumbling down the stairs in the dark.



Chapter VI

Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour to
ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told
you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of
over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something
deeper underlying it."

"Simple!" I ejaculated.

"Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor
expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, that your
footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first
place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not
been opened since last night. How of the window?" He carried the lamp
across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but
addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on
the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us
open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has
mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the
print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy
mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See
here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration."

I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. "This is not a
footmark," said I.

"It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a
wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot
with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the timber-toe."

"It is the wooden-legged man."

"Quite so. But there has been some one else,--a very able and
efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that
angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the round, and,
look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice
in the brick-work.

"It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

"Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who
lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing
one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you
were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would
depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the
rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside,
and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it
may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our
wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional
sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than
one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I
gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin
off his hand."

"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more
unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he
into the room?"

"Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of
interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the
commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals
of crime in this country,--though parallel cases suggest themselves
from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

"How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is
inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?"

"The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered
that possibility."

"How then?" I persisted.

"You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often
have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible
whatever remains, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must be the truth? We know that
he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also
know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no
concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?"

"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness
to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room
above,--the secret room in which the treasure was found."

He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung
himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down
for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and
six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin
lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam
to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell
of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and
the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against
the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof.
I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle
angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see
if we can find any other traces of his individuality."

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the
second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.
For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes.
The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot,--clear,
well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an
ordinary man.

"Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing."

He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered
for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory
failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing
more to be learned here. Let us go down."

"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly,
when we had regained the lower room once more.

"My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch
of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be
instructive to compare results."

"I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered.

"It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I
think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look."
He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room
on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose
only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and
deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his
movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent,
that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made
had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of
exerting them in its defense. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to
himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight.

"We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little
trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the
creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here
at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked,
You see, and the stuff has leaked out."

"What then?" I asked.

"Why, we have got him, that's all," said he. "I know a dog that would
follow that scent to the world's end. If a pack can track a trailed
herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so
pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three.
The answer should give us the--But halloo! here are the accredited
representatives of the law."

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below, and
the hall door shut with a loud crash.

"Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor
fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?"

"The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

"Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding
the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this
Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers called it,
what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

"Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,--"some
strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn
muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the
means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I
discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force
into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would
be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his
chair. Now examine the thorn."

I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was
long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though
some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed
and rounded off with a knife.

"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

"No, it certainly is not."

"With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
But here are the regulars: so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat."

As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on
the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode heavily
into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of
very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen
and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform,
and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

"Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a
pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as
full as a rabbit-warren!"

"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,
quietly.

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on
causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It's
true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was more
by good luck than good guidance."

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

"Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all
this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here,--no room for
theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d'you think
the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes, dryly.

"No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a
million missing. How was the window?"

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with
the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died in a fit; but
then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come
upon me at times.--Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto.
Your friend can remain.--What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto
was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother
died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure. How's
that?"

"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on
the inside."

"Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter.
This Thaddeus Sholto WAS with his brother; there WAS a quarrel; so much
we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much also we
know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him. His bed
had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state
of mind. His appearance is--well, not attractive. You see that I am
weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him."

"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes. "This
splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned,
was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this card,
inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this
rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit into
your theory?"

"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously.
"House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if
this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use
of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus,--a blind, as
like as not. The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of course,
here is a hole in the roof." With great activity, considering his
bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and
immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he
had found the trap-door.

"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "He
has occasional glimmerings of reason. Il n'y a pas des sots si
incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"

"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
"Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case
is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it
is partly open."

"It was I who opened it."

"Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen
at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our
gentleman got away. Inspector!"

"Yes, sir," from the passage.

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.--Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform
you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest
you in the queen's name as being concerned in the death of your
brother."

"There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing
out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think
that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist,--don't promise too much!"
snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you
think."

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
present of the name and description of one of the two people who were
in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his
right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the
inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron
band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has
been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to
you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing
from the palm of his hand. The other man--"

"Ah! the other man--?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the
other's manner.

"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair
of them.--A word with you, Watson."

He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence,"
he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of
our journey."

"I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss
Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here
if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"

"By no means. I don't think I could rest until I know more of this
fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life,
but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises
to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to
see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far."

"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We shall
work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult
over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have
dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down
near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand
side is a bird-stuffer's: Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel
holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and tell
him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring
Toby back in the cab with you."

"A dog, I suppose."

"Yes,--a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would
rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of
London."

"I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back
before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone,
and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the
next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's methods and listen
to his not too delicate sarcasms. 'Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen
verhoehnen was sie nicht verstehen.' Goethe is always pithy."



Chapter VII

The Episode of the Barrel

The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had
borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the
side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first
turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,--so sorely had
she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me since
that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She little
guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint
which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as
my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities
of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this
one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two thoughts which
sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was weak and helpless,
shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to
obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she was rich. If
Holmes's researches were successful, she would be an heiress. Was it
fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon should take such
advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought about? Might she not
look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I could not bear to risk
that such a thought should cross her mind. This Agra treasure
intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The
servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received that
she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door herself,
a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly
her arm stole round the other's waist and how motherly was the voice in
which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an
honored friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged
me to step in and tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the
importance of my errand, and promised faithfully to call and report any
progress which we might make with the case. As we drove away I stole a
glance back, and I still seem to see that little group on the step, the
two graceful, clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall light
shining through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright
stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a
tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had
absorbed us.

And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the original
problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain
Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter,--we
had had light upon all those events. They had only led us, however, to
a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the curious
plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto's
death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by the
murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to the
crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon the card,
corresponding with those upon Captain Morstan's chart,--here was indeed
a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than my
fellow-lodger might well despair of ever finding the clue.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the lower
quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I
could make my impression. At last, however, there was the glint of a
candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window.

"Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. "If you kick up any more
row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon you."

"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in the
bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it."

"But I want a dog," I cried.

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for
when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began, but the words had a most magical
effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the
door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man,
with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he. "Step in, sir.
Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty, would
you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust its
wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't mind
that, sir: it's only a slow-worm. It hain't got no fangs, so I gives
it the run o' the room, for it keeps the bettles down. You must not
mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm guyed at by
the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lane to knock
me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"

"He wanted a dog of yours."

"Ah! that would be Toby."

"Yes, Toby was the name."

"Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved slowly forward with
his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round
him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were
glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and
corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls,
who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices
disturbed their slumbers.

Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel
and half lurcher, brown-and-white in color, with a very clumsy waddling
gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old
naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it
followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me.
It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back
once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I
found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had
been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow
gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the
detective's name.

Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets,
smoking his pipe.

"Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Atheney Jones has
gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has
arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper,
and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a
sergeant up-stairs. Leave the dog here, and come up."

We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs. The room
was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner.

"Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this
bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you.
Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.--Just you carry them down
with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my
handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the
garret with me for a moment."

We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more
upon the footsteps in the dust.

"I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you
observe anything noteworthy about them?"

"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"

"They appear to be much as other footmarks."

"Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the
dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief
difference?"

"Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe
distinctly divided."

"Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you
kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the
wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand."

I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
smell.

"That is where he put his foot in getting out. If YOU can trace him, I
should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run down-stairs,
loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the
roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very
slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of
chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon
the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated
at one of the corner eaves.

"That you, Watson?" he cried.

"Yes."

"This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"

"A water-barrel."

"Top on it?"

"Yes."

"No sign of a ladder?"

"No."

"Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck place. I ought to be
able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty
firm. Here goes, anyhow."

There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily
down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the
barrel, and from there to the earth.

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out
of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In
shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a
dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other,
like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick
yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our
skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are
you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

"Certainly," I answered.

"Your leg will stand it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He
pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical
cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of a famous
vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a
stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and led him to the foot of the
water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession of high,
tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in the
air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and
kept us at the top of our speed.

The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
distance in the cold gray light. The square, massive house, with its
black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn,
behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among
the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected.
The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs,
had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy
which hung over it.

On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.
Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over
upon the other side.

"There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted up
beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white
plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain
since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their
eight-and-twenty hours' start."

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My
fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,
but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent
smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents.

"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this
case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and, since
fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected
it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty
little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There
might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too
palpable clue."

"There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that I
marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even
more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to
be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe
with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be
theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in
command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
Morstan's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
associates,--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
it. Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the
treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some
condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did
not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious.
The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close
association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure
because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not
get away."

"But that is mere speculation," said I.

"It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the
facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto
remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his
treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great
fright. What was that?"

"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

"Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known
what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise
to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a
wooden-legged man,--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white
tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one
white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or
Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with
confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small.
Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?"

"No: it is clear and concise."

"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let us
look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the double
idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and of having
his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out where
Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications with some
one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not
seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could
not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever
knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly
Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the
secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the
guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only deterred
from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with hate, however,
against the dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his
private papers in the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to
the treasure, and finally leaves a momento of his visit in the short
inscription upon the card. He had doubtless planned beforehand that
should he slay the major he would leave some such record upon the body
as a sign that it was not a common murder, but, from the point of view
of the four associates, something in the nature of an act of justice.
Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are common enough in the
annals of crime, and usually afford valuable indications as to the
criminal. Do you follow all this?"

"Very clearly."

"Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a
secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he
leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again
trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan,
with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of
Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious
associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot into
creasote, whence comes Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer
with a damaged tendo Achillis."

"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the crime."

"Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way he
stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against
Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter.
There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his
companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so
Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the ground,
and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far as I can
decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he must be
middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in such an
oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from the length
of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His hairiness was the
one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw him
at the window. I don't know that there is anything else."

"The associate?"

"Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all
about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that one
little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.
Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank.
It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a
stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with our petty
ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces
of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

"Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle."

"That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one
curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of man's real
greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a
proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You
have not a pistol, have you?"

"I have my stick."

"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
nasty I shall shoot him dead." He took out his revolver as he spoke,
and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
right-hand pocket of his jacket.

We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,
however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
taking down shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square-topped
corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking men
were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after their
morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly at us as
we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the right nor to
the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to the ground and an
occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.

We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the
side-streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed
to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
escaping observation. They had never kept to the main road if a
parallel side-street would serve their turn. At the foot of Kennington
Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street and Miles
Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place, Toby ceased
to advance, but began to run backwards and forwards with one ear cocked
and the other drooping, the very picture of canine indecision. Then he
waddled round in circles, looking up to us from time to time, as if to
ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They
surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

"Ah! it's all right. He's off again," said my companion, in a tone of
relief.

He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly made up
his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he
had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before,
for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his
leash and tried to break into a run. I cold see by the gleam in
Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the
dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side-gate into
the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the dog
raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a passage,
between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp, sprang
upon a large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on which it
had been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes, Toby stood
upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for some sign of
appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of the trolley
were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the
smell of creasote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst
simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.



Chapter VIII

The Baker Street Irregulars

"What now?" I asked. "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

"He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down from
the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you consider
how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is no great
wonder that our trail should have been crossed. It is much used now,
especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to blame."

"We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

"Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what
puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were two
different trails running in opposite directions. We took the wrong one.
It only remains to follow the other."

There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place where
he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and finally
dashed off in a fresh direction.

"We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where the
creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

"I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,
whereas the barrel passed down the roadway. No, we are on the true
scent now."

It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place
and Prince's Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us to
the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the dark
current beyond.

"We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here."
Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on the
edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but, though he
sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a wooden
placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith" was
printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to hire by
the hour or day." A second inscription above the door informed us that
a steam launch was kept,--a statement which was confirmed by a great
pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round, and
his face assumed an ominous expression.

"This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are sharper than I expected.
They seem to have covered their tracks. There has, I fear, been
preconcerted management here."

He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a little,
curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a stoutish,
red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.

"You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted. "Come back, you
young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that, he'll
let us hear of it."

"Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. "What a rosy-cheeked
young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?"

The youth pondered for a moment. "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

"Nothing you would like better?"

"I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some
thought.

"Here you are, then! Catch!--A fine child, Mrs. Smith!"

"Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a'most too much
for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a time."

"Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for
that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

"He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I am
beginnin' to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a boat,
sir, maybe I could serve as well."

"I wanted to hire his steam launch."

"Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.
That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than
would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he'd been away in the
barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as
far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha'
stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?"

"He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

"He might, sir, but it weren't his way. Many a time I've heard him
call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don't
like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish talk.
What did he want always knockin' about here for?"

"A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

"Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for my
old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what's more,
my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch. I tell
you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."

"But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You
are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell
that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don't quite
understand how you can be so sure."

"His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.
He tapped at the winder,--about three it would be. 'Show a leg,
matey,' says he: 'time to turn out guard.' My old man woke up
Jim,--that's my eldest,--and away they went, without so much as a word
to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones."

"And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

"Couldn't say, I am sure, sir. I didn't hear no one else."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard
good reports of the--Let me see, what is her name?"

"The Aurora, sir."

"Ah! She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in
the beam?"

"No, indeed. She's as trim a little thing as any on the river. She's
been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going
down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora I shall let
him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"

"No, sir. Black with a white band."

"Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs.
Smith.--There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take
it and cross the river.

"The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in
the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their
information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they
will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under
protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want."

"Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

"What would you do, then?"

"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the
Aurora."

"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at
any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.
Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for
miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set
about it alone."

"Employ the police, then."

"No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is
not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would
injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out
myself, now that we have gone so far."

"Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?"

"Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their
heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are
likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly
safe they will be in no hurry. Jones's energy will be of use to us
there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily
press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong
scent."

"What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank
Penitentiary.

"Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's
sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.
Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of
use to us yet."

We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes
despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we
resumed our journey.

"I am sure I don't know."

"You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force
whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

"Well," said I, laughing.

"This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I
have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my
dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang
will be with us before we have finished our breakfast."

It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a
strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was
limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the
professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look
at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the
death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and
could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure,
however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged
rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it
I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it
it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a
petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as
that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold
stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid
and Homes pouring out the coffee.

"Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.
"The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up
between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your
ham and eggs first."

I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed
"Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

"About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr. Bartholomew
Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room
under circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we can learn,
no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto's person, but a
valuable collection of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had
inherited from his father has been carried off. The discovery was
first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the
house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singular
piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the
detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood Police Station,
and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm. His
trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the
detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the
brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the
housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a
porter, or gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the
thief or thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's
well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation
have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not
have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their way
across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into a room
which communicated with that in which the body was found. This fact,
which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that it was
no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of the
officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on such
occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but think
that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our
detectives more decentralized, and so brought into closer and more
effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to investigate."

"Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. "What
do you think of it?"

"I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested for
the crime."

"So do I. I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen to
have another of his attacks of energy."

At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear Mrs.
Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and
dismay.

"By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are
really after us."

"No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force,--the
Baker Street irregulars."

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the
stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and
ragged little street-Arabs. There was some show of discipline among
them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in
line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number,
taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of lounging
superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable little
scarecrow.

"Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em on sharp. Three bob
and a tanner for tickets."

"Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver. "In future they
can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house
invaded in this way. However, it is just as well that you should all
hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts of a steam
launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red
streaks, funnel black with a white band. She is down the river
somewhere. I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage
opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You must divide it
out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly. Let me know the
moment you have news. Is that all clear?"

"Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

"The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.
Here's a day in advance. Now off you go!" He handed them a shilling
each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
later streaming down the street.

"If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he
rose from the table and lit his pipe. "They can go everywhere, see
everything, overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening that
they have spotted her. In the mean while, we can do nothing but await
results. We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the
Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

"Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you going to bed,
Holmes?"

"No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember
feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am
going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair
client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy task, this of ours
ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man
must, I should think, be absolutely unique."

"That other man again!"

"I have no wish to make a mystery of him,--to you, anyway. But you
must have formed your own opinion. Now, do consider the data.
Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What do
you make of all this?"

"A savage!" I exclaimed. "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the
associates of Jonathan Small."

"Hardly that," said he. "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I
was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the footmarks
caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants of the
Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such marks as
that. The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet. The sandal-wearing
Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the others, because
the thong is commonly passed between. These little darts, too, could
only be shot in one way. They are from a blow-pipe. Now, then, where
are we to find our savage?"

"South American," I hazarded.

He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the shelf.
"This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now being published.
It may be looked upon as the very latest authority. What have we here?
'Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of Sumatra, in the
Bay of Bengal.' Hum! hum! What's all this? Moist climate, coral
reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland Island,
cottonwoods--Ah, here we are. 'The aborigines of the Andaman Islands
may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race upon this
earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa, the
Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians. The average
height is rather below four feet, although many full-grown adults may
be found who are very much smaller than this. They are a fierce,
morose, and intractable people, though capable of forming most devoted
friendships when their confidence has once been gained.' Mark that,
Watson. Now, then, listen to this. 'They are naturally hideous,
having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes, and distorted
features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably small. So
intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the British
official have failed to win them over in any degree. They have always
been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors with their
stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their poisoned arrows. These
massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal feast.' Nice, amiable
people, Watson! If this fellow had been left to his own unaided
devices this affair might have taken an even more ghastly turn. I
fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give a good deal not to
have employed him."

"But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already
determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very
wonderful that this islander should be with him. No doubt we shall
know all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly done.
Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep."

He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he
began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,--his own, no doubt, for
he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance
of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow.
Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound,
until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan
looking down upon me.



Chapter IX

A Break in the Chain

It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and refreshed.
Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save that he had
laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked across at me,
as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and troubled.

"You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared that our talk would wake
you."

"I heard nothing," I answered. "Have you had fresh news, then?"

"Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised and disappointed. I
expected something definite by this time. Wiggins has just been up to
report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a
provoking check, for every hour is of importance."

"Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for
another night's outing."

"No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the
message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do
what you will, but I must remain on guard."

"Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil
Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday."

"On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile in
his eyes.

"Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were anxious to hear what
happened."

"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be
entirely trusted,--not the best of them."

I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be
back in an hour or two," I remarked.

"All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you
may as well return Toby, for I don't think it is at all likely that we
shall have any use for him now."

I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a
half-sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell
I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's adventures, but
very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of
curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the
more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr.
Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it.
With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze
them.

"It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a
million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.
They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl."

"And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a
bright glance at me.

"Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don't
think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it must be
to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"

It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no
sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of
her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small
interest.

"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing
else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly
and honorably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful
and unfounded charge."

It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I
reached home. My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he
had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but
there was none.

"I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs.
Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds.

"No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking
her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?"

"Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, he's that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he
walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of
his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and
every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with 'What is
that, Mrs. Hudson?' And now he has slammed off to his room, but I can
hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he's not going to be
ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling medicine,
but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don't know how ever I
got out of the room."

"I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I
answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter
upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to
our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the
long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his tread,
and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary
inaction.

At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of
feverish color upon either cheek.

"You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you
marching about in the night."

"No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is
consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,
when all else had been overcome. I know the men, the launch,
everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at
work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been
searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard
of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they have
scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that."

"Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

"No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries made, and there is
a launch of that description."

"Could it have gone up the river?"

"I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-party
who will work up as far as Richmond. If no news comes to-day, I shall
start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat.
But surely, surely, we shall hear something."

We did not, however. Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or from
the other agencies. There were articles in most of the papers upon the
Norwood tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to the
unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were to be found,
however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the
following day. I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report
our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes dejected
and somewhat morose. He would hardly reply to my questions, and busied
himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which involved
much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at last in a
smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the small hours
of the morning I could hear the clinking of his test-tubes which told
me that he was still engaged in his malodorous experiment.

In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him
standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a pea-jacket,
and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

"I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I have been turning it
over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it. It is worth
trying, at all events."

"Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

"No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my
representative. I am loath to go, for it is quite on the cards that
some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent
about it last night. I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and to
act on your own judgment if any news should come. Can I rely upon you?"

"Most certainly."

"I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can hardly
tell yet where I may find myself. If I am in luck, however, I may not
be gone so very long. I shall have news of some sort or other before I
get back."

I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On opening the Standard,
however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the business.
"With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have
reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex and
mysterious than was originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown that
it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been in any
way concerned in the matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone,
were both released yesterday evening. It is believed, however, that
the police have a clue as to the real culprits, and that it is being
prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard, with all his
well-known energy and sagacity. Further arrests may be expected at any
moment."

"That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I. "Friend Sholto is
safe, at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it
seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a blunder."

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye
caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran in this way:

"Lost.--Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left Smith's
Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the steam
launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a white
band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can give
information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221b Baker Street,
as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the launch Aurora."

This was clearly Holmes's doing. The Baker Street address was enough
to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be
read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the natural
anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to the door, or a
sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes
returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my
thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the ill-assorted
and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there be, I wondered,
some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning. Might he be suffering
from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his nimble and
speculative mind had built up this wild theory upon faulty premises? I
had never known him to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may
occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I thought, to fall into error
through the over-refinement of his logic,--his preference for a subtle
and bizarre explanation when a plainer and more commonplace one lay
ready to his hand. Yet, on the other hand, I had myself seen the
evidence, and I had heard the reasons for his deductions. When I
looked back on the long chain of curious circumstances, many of them
trivial in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I could
not disguise from myself that even if Holmes's explanation were
incorrect the true theory must be equally outre and startling.

At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell, an
authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person
than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was he,
however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense who
had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His
expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I
understand."

"Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you would
care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

"Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a red
bandanna handkerchief.

"And a whiskey-and-soda?"

"Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have
had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this
Norwood case?"

"I remember that you expressed one."

"Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn
tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the
middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken.
From the time that he left his brother's room he was never out of sight
of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed over roofs and
through trap-doors. It's a very dark case, and my professional credit
is at stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance."

"We all need help sometimes," said I.

"Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in
a husky and confidential voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat. I
have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw
the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is irregular in
his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on
the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I
don't care who knows it. I have had a wire from him this morning, by
which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business.
Here is the message."

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was
dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it
said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track
of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be in
at the finish."

"This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.

"Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed Jones, with evident
satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of
course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an
officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at
the door. Perhaps this is he."

A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and
rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or
twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at
last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance
corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man,
clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his
throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing
was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his
shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had
a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save
a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long gray
side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable
master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

"What is it, my man?" I asked.

He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

"No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have for
him."

"It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

"But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai
Smith's boat?"

"Yes. I knows well where it is. An' I knows where the men he is after
are. An' I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it."

"Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

"It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant
obstinacy of a very old man.

"Well, you must wait for him."

"No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr.
Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself. I
don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a word."

He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.

"Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have important information, and
you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or not,
until our friend returns."

The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney Jones
put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness of
resistance.

"Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. "I come
here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my life, seize
me and treat me in this fashion!"

"You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall recompense you for the
loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not have
long to wait."

He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face
resting on his hands. Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk.
Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

"I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said.

We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes sitting close to us
with an air of quiet amusement.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "You here! But where is the old man?"

"Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair. "Here
he is,--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was
pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test."

"Ah, You rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. "You would have made
an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and
those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew
the glint of your eye, though. You didn't get away from us so easily,
You see."

"I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his
cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know
me,--especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my
cases: so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise
like this. You got my wire?"

"Yes; that was what brought me here."

"How has your case prospered?"

"It has all come to nothing. I have had to release two of my
prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two."

"Never mind. We shall give you two others in the place of them. But
you must put yourself under my orders. You are welcome to all the
official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. Is
that agreed?"

"Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

"Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--a
steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock."

"That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can
step across the road and telephone to make sure."

"Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

"There will be two or three in the boat. What else?"

"When we secure the men we shall get the treasure. I think that it
would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the
young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the first
to open it.--Eh, Watson?"

"It would be a great pleasure to me."

"Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head.
"However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at
it. The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the authorities
until after the official investigation."

"Certainly. That is easily managed. One other point. I should much
like to have a few details about this matter from the lips of Jonathan
Small himself. You know I like to work the detail of my cases out.
There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview with him,
either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is efficiently
guarded?"

"Well, you are master of the situation. I have had no proof yet of the
existence of this Jonathan Small. However, if you can catch him I
don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."

"That is understood, then?"

"Perfectly. Is there anything else?"

"Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in half
an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little
choice in white wines.--Watson, you have never yet recognized my merits
as a housekeeper."



Chapter X

The End of the Islander

Our meal was a merry one. Holmes coud talk exceedingly well when he
chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of
nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on
a quick succession of subjects,--on miracle-plays, on medieval pottery,
on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the
war-ships of the future,--handling each as though he had made a special
study of it. His bright humor marked the reaction from his black
depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a
sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and faced his dinner with the
air of a bon vivant. For myself, I felt elated at the thought that we
were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of Holmes's
gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which had
brought us together.

When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at his watch, and filled up
three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of our
little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you a
pistol, Watson?"

"I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

"You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that
the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six."

It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf, and
found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically.

"Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

"Yes,--that green lamp at the side."

"Then take it off."

The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were cast
off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at the
rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors
forward.

"Where to?" asked Jones.

"To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson's Yard."

Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines
of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with
satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

"We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

"Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us."

"We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a name for being a
clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how
annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

"Yes."

"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical
analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work
is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the
hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the
Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up
the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any
landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have
been scuttled to hide their traces,--though that always remained as a
possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a
certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of
anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product
of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been
in London some time--as we had evidence that he maintained a continual
watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could hardly leave at a moment's
notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to
arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."

"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable
that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his
expedition."

"No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a
retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he
could do without it. But a second consideration struck me. Jonathan
Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion,
however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and
possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite sharp
enough to see that. They had started from their head-quarters under
cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad
light. Now, it was past three o'clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when
they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about
in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far. They
paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final
escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a
couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took,
and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under
cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no
doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the
Colonies."

"But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings."

"Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite
of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small, and
looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably
consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would
make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How,
then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted?
I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could
only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over to
some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling
change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so
be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at a
few hours' notice."

"That seems simple enough."

"It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be
overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at
once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down
the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the Aurora had been handed over
to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial
directions as to her rudder. 'There ain't naught amiss with her
rudder,' said the foreman. 'There she lies, with the red streaks.' At
that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner?
He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have
known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch. 'I
want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he,--'eight o'clock sharp,
mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept waiting.' They had
evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking
shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he
subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening
to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over
the launch. He is to stand at water's edge and wave his handkerchief
to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it
will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all."

"You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or
not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had
a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when they came
down."

"Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd
fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him
suspicious lie snug for another week."

"But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their
hiding-place," said I.

"In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred
to one against Smith knowing where they live. A