A study in Scarlet

                            PART I

            Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of
             John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Army
                     Medical Department

                          Chapter 1
                    Mr. Sherlock Holmes

  In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the
course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed
my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland
Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in
India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan
war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my
corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in
the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many other
officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded
in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and
at once entered upon my new duties.
  The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but
for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed
from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I
served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the
shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed
the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the
murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage
shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a pack-
horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.
  Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships
which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of
wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I
rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk
about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the veranda
when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian
possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at
last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak
and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day
should be lost in sending me back to England. I was despatched
accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later
on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but
with permission from a paternal government to spend the next
nine months in attempting to improve it.
  I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free
as air -- or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a
day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances I natu-
rally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the
loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I
stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a
comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as
I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the
state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must
either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the coun-
try, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of
living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my
mind to leave the hotel, and take up my quarters in some less
pretentious and less expensive domicile.
  On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was
standing at the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped me on the
shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who
had been a dresser under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly
face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed
to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particu-
lar crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he,
in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance
of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we
started off together in a hansom.
  "Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he
asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded
London streets. "You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a
nut."
  I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly
concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.
  "Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened
to my misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"
  "Looking for lodgings," I answered. "Trying to solve the
problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a
reasonable price."
  "That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are
the second man today that has used that expression to me."
  "And who was the first?" I asked.
  "A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the
hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he
could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms
which he had found, and which were too much for his purse."
  "By Jove!" I cried; "if he really wants someone to share the
rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should
prefer having a partner to being alone."
  Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-
glass. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "per-
haps you would not care for him as a constant companion."
  "Why, what is there against him?"
  "Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little
queer in his ideas -- an enthusiast in some branches of science.
As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough."
  "A medical student, I suppose?" said I.
  "No -- I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he
is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far
as I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical
classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has
amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would aston-
ish his professors."
  "Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.
  "No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can
be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."
  "I should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with
anyone, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am
not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had
enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my
natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?"
  "He is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion.
"He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there
from morning till night. If you like, we will drive round together
after luncheon."
  "Certainly," I answered, and the conversation drifted away
into other channels.
  As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn,
Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman
whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.
  "You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he
said; "I know nothing more of him than I have learned from
meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this
arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible."
  "If we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I
answered. "It seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at
my companion, "that you have some reason for washing your
hands of the matter. Is this fellow's temper so formidable, or
what is it? Don't be mealymouthed about it."
  "It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered
with a laugh. "Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes -- it
approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a
friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of
malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of
inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do
him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same
readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact
knowledge."
  "Very right too."
  "Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to
beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is
certainly taking rather a bizarre shape."
  "Beating the subjects!"
  "Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I
saw him at it with my own eyes."
  "And yet you say he is not a medical student?"
  "No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But
here we are, and you must form your own impressions about
him." As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed
through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of the great
hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding
as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down
the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and dun-
coloured doors. Near the farther end a low arched passage
branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.
  This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless
bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled
with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue
flickering flames. There was only one student in the room, who
was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the
sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a
cry of pleasure. "I've found it! I've found it," he shouted to my
companion, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. "I
have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and
by nothing else." Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight
could not have shone upon his features.
  "Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, intro-
ducing us.
  "How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a
strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You
have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."
  "How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.
  "Never mind," said he, chuckling to himselfl "The question
now is about haemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of
this discovery of mine?"
  "It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but
practically
  "Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery
for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for
blood stains? Come over here now!" He seized me by the
coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and drew me over to the table at
which he had been working. "Let us have some fresh blood,"
he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and drawing off
the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. "Now, I add
this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that
the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The
proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have
no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the character-
istic reaction." As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few
white crystals, and then added some drops of a transparent fluid.
In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogahy colour, and a
brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.
  "Ha! ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted
as a child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"
  "It seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.
  "Beautiful! beautiful! The old guaiacum test was very clumsy
and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood
corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours
old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the blood is old or
new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now
walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of
their crimes."
  "Indeed!" I murmured.            
  "Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point.
A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been
committed. His linen or clothes are examined and brownish
stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or mud
stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a
question which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because
there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes's
test, and there will no longer be any difficulty."
  His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over
his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up
by hls imagination.
  "You are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably
surprised at his enthusiasm.
  "There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year.
He would certainly have been hung had this test been in exis-
tence. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious
Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Or-
leans. I could name a score of cases in which it would have been
decisive."
 _"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford
with a laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the
'Police News of the Past.' "
  "Very interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked
Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick
on his finger. "I have to be careful," he continued, turning to
me with a smile, "for I dabble with poisons a good deal." He
held out his hand as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all
mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with
strong acids.
  "We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on
a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direc-
tion with his foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings; and
as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves
with you, I thought that I had better bring you together."
  Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his
rooms with me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he
said, "which would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind
the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"
  "I always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.
  "That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and
occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"
  "By no means."
  "Let me see -- what are my other shortcomings? I get in the
dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You
must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and
I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It's just as
well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before
they begin to live together."
  I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I
said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I
get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I
have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the
principal ones at present."
  "Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?" he
asked, anxiously.
  "It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played
violin is a treat for the gods -- a badly played one --"
  "Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think
we may consider the thing as settled -- that is if the rooms are
agreeable to you."
  "When shall we see them?"
  "Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together
and settle everything," he answered.
  "All right -- noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.
  We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked
together towards my hotel.
  "By the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon
Stamford, "how the deuce did he know that I had come from
Afghanistan?"
  My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his
little peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted
to know how he finds things out."
  "Oh! a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is
very piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together.
'The proper study of mankind is man,' you know."
  "You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me
good-bye. "You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager
he learns more about you than you about him. Good-bye."
  "Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, consid-
erably interested in my new acquaintance.

                       Chapter 2
              The Science of Deduction

  We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at
No. 22lB, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting.
They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single
large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by
two broad windows. So desirable in every way were the apart-
ments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided be-
tween us, that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we
at once entered into possession. That very evening I moved my
things round from the hotel, and on the following morning
Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portman-
teaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking
and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we
gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to
our new surroundings.
  Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was
quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him
to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and
gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his
day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-
rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take
him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could exceed
his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and
again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would
lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or
moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I
have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I
might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some
narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life
forbidden such a notion.
  As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as
to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very
person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the
most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and
so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His
eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of
torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave
his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin,
too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of
determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and
stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary
delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I
watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.
  The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I
confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how
often I endeavoured to break through the reticence which he
showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judg-
ment, however, be it remembered how objectless was my life,
and how little there was to engage my attention. My health
forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exception-
ally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and
break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circum-
stances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my
companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to
unravel it.
  He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a
question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither
did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which might
fit him for a degree, in science or any other recognized portal
which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet
his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric
limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute
that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man
would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he
had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom
remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens
his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason
for doing so.
  His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of con-
temporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know
next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired
in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My
surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally
that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the compo-
sition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in
this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth trav-
elled round the sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary
fact that I could hardly realize it.
  "You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my ex-
pression of surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best
to forget it."
  "To forget it!"
  "You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain
originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it
with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber
of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which
might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up
with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his
hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as
to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the
tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has
a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a
mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can
distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when
for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you
knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to
have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."
  "But the Solar System!" I protested.
  "What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently:
"you say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it
would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my
work."
  I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but
something in his manner showed me that the question would be
an unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation
however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He
said that he would acquire no knowledge which did not bear
upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed
was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own
mind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he
was exceptionally well informed. I even took a pencil and jotted
them down. I could not help smiling at the document when I had
completed it. It ran in this way:

             Sherlock Holmes -- his limits
     1. Knowledge of Literature. -- Nil.
     2.   "    "     Philosophy. -- Nil.
     3.   "    "     Astronomy. -- Nil.
     4.   "    "     Politics. -- Feeble.
     5.   "    "     Botany. -- Variable.
          Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally.
          Knows nothing of practical gardening.
     6. Knowledge of Geology. -- Practical, but limited.
          Tells at a glance different soils from each other.
          After walks has shown me splashes upon his trou-
          sers, and told me by their colour and consistence in
          what part of London he had received them.
     7. Knowledge of Chemistry. -- Profound.
     8.    "    "    Anatomy. -- Accurate, but unsystematic
     9.    "    "    Sensational Literature. -- Immense.
          He appears to know every detail of every horror
          perpetrated in the century.
    10. Plays the violin well.
    11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
    12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

  When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in
despair. "If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by
reconciling all these accomplishments, and discovering a calling
which needs them all," I said to myself, "I may as well give up
the attempt at once."
  I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin.
These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces,
I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of
Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to him-
self, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt
any recognized air. Leaning back in his armchair of an evening,
he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which
was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sono-
rous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheer-
ful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but
whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing
was simply the result of a whim or fancy, was more than I could
determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos
had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in
quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight
compensation for the trial upon my patience.
  During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun
to think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was
myself. Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaint-
ances, and those in the most different classes of society. There
was one little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow, who was
introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four
times in a single week. One morning a young girl called, fash-
ionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same
afternoon brought a gray-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a
Jew peddler, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who
was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another
occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with
my companion; and on another, a railway porter in his velveteen
uniform. When any of these nondescript individuals put in an
appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the
sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom. He always
apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. "I have
to use this room as a place of business," he said, "and these
people are my clients." Again I had an opportunity of asking
him a point-blank question, and again my delicacy prevented me
from forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined at the
time that he had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he
soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject of his
own accord.
  It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to
remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found
that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast. The
landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits that my
place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unrea-
sonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt
intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from
the table and attempted to while away the time with it, while my
companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles had
a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye
through it.
  Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it
attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by
an accurate and systematic examination of all that came in his
way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness
and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but the
deductions appeared to me to be far fetched and exaggerated.
The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a
muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's inmost thoughts.
Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one
trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as
infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would
his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned the
processes by which he had arrived at them they might well
consider him as a necromancer.
  "From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could
infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having
seen or heard of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the
nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link
of it. Like all other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis
is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor
is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest
possible perfection in it. Before turning to those moral and
mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest difficul-
ties, let the inquirer begin by mastering more elementary prob-
lems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to
distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to
which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it
sharpens the faculties of observation, and teaches one where to
look and what to look for. By a man's finger-nails, by his
coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by the callosities
of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt-
cuffs -- by each of these things a man's calling is plainly re-
vealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent
inquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."
  "What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine
down on the table; "I never read such rubbish in my life."
  "What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
  "Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my eggspoon as
I sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since
you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It
irritates me, though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair
lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclu-
sion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him
clapped down in a third-class carriage on the Underground, and
asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a
thousand to one against him."
  "You would lose your money," Holmes remarked calmly.
"As for the article, I wrote it myself."
  "You!"
  "Yes; I have a turn both for observation and for deduction.
The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to
you to be so chimerical, are really extremely practical -- so prac-
tical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese."
  "And how?" I asked involuntarily.
  "Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one
in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand
what that is. Here in London we have lots of government detec-
tives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault,
they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent.
They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by
the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them
straight. There is a strong family resemblance about misdeeds,
and if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger ends,
it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade is a
well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over a
forgery case, and that was what brought him here."
  "And these other people?"
  "They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They
are all people who are in trouble about something and want a
little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my
comments, and then I pocket my fee."
  "But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your
room you can unravel some knot which other men can make
nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?"
  "Quite so. l have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again
a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to
bustle about and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a
lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem, and
which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deduction
laid down in that article which aroused your scorn are invaluable
to me in practical work. Observation with me is second nature.
You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our first
meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan."
  "You were told, no doubt."
  "Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan.
From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my
mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of
intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of
reasoning ran, 'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with
the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has
just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not
the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has
undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly.
His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural
manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have
seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Af-
ghanistan.' The whole train of thought did not occupy a second.
I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were
astonished."
  "It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You
remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such
individuals did exist outside of stories."
  Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think
that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he
observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior
fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts
with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is
really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical ge-
nius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as
Poe appeared to imagine."
  "Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq
come up to your idea of a detective?"
  Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a misera-
ble bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing
to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me
positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown
prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took
six months or so. It might be made a textbook for detectives to
teach them what to avoid."
  I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had
admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the
window and stood looking out into the busy street. "This fellow
may be very clever," I said to myself, "but he is certainly very
conceited."
  "There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he
said, querulously. "What is the use of having brains in our
profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my name
famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the
same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of
crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no
crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a
motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see
through it."
  I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I
thought it best to change the topic.
  "I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing
to a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was walking slowly
down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the
numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was
evidently the bearer of a message.
  "You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock
Holmes.
  "Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I
cannot verify his guess."
  The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the
man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our
door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud
knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.
  "For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room
and handing my friend the letter.
  Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He
little thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I
ask, my lad," I said, in the blandest voice, "what your trade
may be?"
  "Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform away for
repairs."
  "And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at
my companion.
  "A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No an-
swer? Right, sir."
  He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and
was gone.

                     Chapter 3
            The Lauriston Garden Mystery

  I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of
the practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for
his powers of analysis increased wondrously. There still re-
mained some lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the
whole thing was a prearranged episode, intended to dazzle me,
though what earthly object he could have in taking me in was
past my comprehension. When I looked at him, he had finished
reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant, lack-
lustre expression which showed mental abstraction.
  "How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.
  "Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.
  "Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."
  "I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely, then
with a smile, "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my
thoughts; but perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able
to see that that man was a sergeant of Marines?"
  "No, indeed."
  "It was easier to know it than to explain why I know it. If you
were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find
some difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even
across the street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the
back of the fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a
military carriage, however, and regulation side whiskers. There
we have the marine. He was a man with some amount of
self-importance and a certain air of command. You must have
observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane.
A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of
him -- all facts which led me to believe that he had been a
sergeant."
  "Wonderful!" I ejaculated.
  "Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his
expression that he was pleased at my evident surprise and admi-
ration. "I said just now that there were no criminals. It appears
that I am wrong -- look at this!" He threw me over the note
which the commissionaire had brought.
  "Why," I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"
  "It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked,
calmly. "Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"
  This is the letter which I read to him, --

       "MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:
         "There has been a bad business during the night at 3,
       Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the
       beat saw a light there about two in the morning, and as the
       house was an empty one, suspected that something was
       amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room,
       which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentle-
       man, well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing
       the name of 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.'
       There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to
       how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the
       room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a
       loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the
       whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the
       house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I
       have left everything in statu quo until I hear from you. If
       you are unable to come, I shall give you fuller details, and
       would esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me
       with your opinions.
                                                  "Yours faithfully,
                                                    "TOBIAS GREGSON.

  "Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend
remarked; "he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are
both quick and energetic, but conventional -- shockingly so. They
have their knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a
pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this
case if they are both put upon the scent."
  I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely
there is not a moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order
you a cab?"
  "I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incura-
bly lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather -- that is, when the
fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times."
  "Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."
  "My dear fellow, what does it matter to me? Supposing I
unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade,
and Co. will pocket all the credit. That comes of being an
unofficial personage."
  "But he begs you to help him."
  "Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it
to me; but he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to
any third person. However, we may as well go and have a look.
I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them
if I have nothing else. Come on!"
  He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that
showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.
  "Get your hat," he said.
  "You wish me to come?"
  "Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we
were both in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
  It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung
over the housetops, looking like the reflection of the mud-
coloured streets beneath. My companion was in the best of
spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddles and the differ-
ence between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I was
silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon
which we were engaged depressed my spirits.
  "You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in
hand," I said at last, interrupting Holmes's musical disquisition.
  "No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to
theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
  "You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with
my finger; "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I
am not very much mistaken."
  "So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards
or so from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished
our journey upon foot.
  Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and mina-
tory look. It was one of four which stood back some little way
from the street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter
looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which
were blank and dreary, save that here and there a "To Let" card
had developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small
garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants
separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed
by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting appar-
ently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was
very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night.
The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe
of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a
stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope
of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
  I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have
hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery.
Nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With an air of
nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to me to
border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement,
and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses
and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he pro-
ceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass
which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground.
Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him
utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of
footsteps upon the wet clayey soil; but since the police had been
coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my compan-
ion could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive facul-
ties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was
hidden from me.
  At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed
forward and wrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is
indeed kind of you to come," he said, "I have had everything
left untouched."
  "Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway.
"If a herd of buffaloes had passed along, there could not be a
greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own
conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this."
  "I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective
said evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had
relied upon him to look after this."
  Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.
  "With two such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground
there will not be much for a third party to find out," he said.
  Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we
have done all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer
case, though, and I knew your taste for such things."
  "You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
  "No, sir."
  "Nor Lestrade?"
  "No, sir."
  "Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconse-
quent remark he strode on into the house followed by Gregson,
whose features expressed his astonishment.
  A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen
and offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the
right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks.
The other belonged to the dining-room, which was the apartment
in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in,
and I followed him with that subdued feeling at my heart which
the presence of death inspires.
  It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the
absence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the
walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here and
there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing
the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy
fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white mar-
ble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax
candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy
and uncertain, giving a dull gray tinge to everything, which was
intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole
apartment.
  All these details I observed afterwards. At present my atten-
tion was centred upon the single, grim, motionless figure which
lay stretched upon the boards, with vacant, sightless eyes staring
up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-
three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad-shouldered,
with crisp curling black hair, and a short, stubbly beard. He was
dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with
light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top
hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the floor beside
him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad,
while his lower limbs were interlocked, as though his death
struggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face there stood
an expression of horror, and, as it seemed to me, of hatred, such
as I have never seen upon human features. This malignant and
terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead, blunt nose,
and prognathous jaw, gave the dead man a singularly simious
and ape-like appearance, which was increased by. his writhing,
unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never
has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that
dark, grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of the main
arteries of suburban London.
  Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the
doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.
  "This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats
anything I have seen, and I am no chicken."
  "There is no clue?" said Gregson.
  "None at all," chimed in Lestrade.
  Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down,
examined it intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he
asked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which
lay all round.
  "Positive!" cried both detectives.
  "Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual --
presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It
reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van
Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case,
Gregson?"
  "No, sir."
  "Read it up -- you really should. There is nothing new under
the sun. It has all been done before."
  As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while
his eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already
remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination made, that one
would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was
conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then
glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.
  "He has not been moved at all?" he asked.
  "No more than was necessary for the purpose of our exam-
ination."
  "You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is
nothing more to be learned."
  Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they
entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As
they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.
  "There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's
wedding ring."
  He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all
gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that
that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.
  "This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows,
they were complicated enough before."
  "You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes.
"There's nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you
find in his pockets?"
  "We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of
objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold
watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain,
very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold
pin -- bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather cardcase,
with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with
the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the
extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio's
'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the flyleaf.
Two letters -- one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph
Stangerson."
  "At what address?"
  "American Exchange, Strand -- to be left till called for. They
are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the
sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortu-
nate man was about to return to New York."
  "Have you made any inquiries as to this man Stangerson?"
  "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertise-
ments sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to
the American Exchange, but he has not returned yet."
  "Have you sent to Cleveland?"
  "We telegraphed this morning."
  "How did you word your inquiries?"
  "We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we
should be glad of any information which could help us."
  "You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared
to you to be crucial?"
  "I asked about Stangerson."
  "Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole
case appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"
  "I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended
voice.
  Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be
about to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the
front room while we were holding this conversation in the hall,
reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and
self-satisfied manner.
  "Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the
highest importance, and one which would have been overlooked
had I not made a careful examination of the walls."
  The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evi-
dently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point
against his colleague.
  "Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the
atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly
inmate. "Now, stand there!"
  He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
  "Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.
  I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off,
leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare
space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word --

                       RACHE

  "What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air
of a showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked be-
cause it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one
thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with his or
her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled down the
wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was that
corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See that candle on
the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this corner
would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of the
wall."
  "And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked
Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
  "Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the
female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time
to finish. You mark my words, when this case comes to be
cleared up, you will find that a woman named Rachel has
something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old
hound is the best, when all is said and done."
  "I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had
ruffled the little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of
laughter. "You certainly have the credit of being the first of us
to find this out and, as you say, it bears every mark of having
been written by the other participant in last night's mystery. I
have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your
permission I shall do so now."
  As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round
magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he
trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occa-
sionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So en-
grossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have
forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself under
his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclama-
tions, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encourage-
ment and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded
of a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound, as it dashes backward
and forward through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it
comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he
continued his researches, measuring with the most exact care the
distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and
occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally incom-
prehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a
little pile of gray dust from the floor, and packed it away in an
envelope. Finally he examined with his glass the word upon the
wall, going over every letter of it with the most minute exact-
ness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his
tape and his glass in his pocket.
  "They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,"
he remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does
apply to detective work."
  Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their
amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some con-
tempt. They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had
begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes's smallest actions were
all directed towards some definite and practical end.
  "What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.
  "It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I were to
presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so
well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There
was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let
me know how your investigations go," he continued, "I shall be
happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like
to speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me
his name and address?"
  Lestrade glanced at his notebook. "John Rance," he said.
"He is off duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court,
Kennington Park Gate."
  Holmes took a note of the address.
  "Come along, Doctor," he said: "we shall go and look him
up. I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he
continued, turning to the two detectives. "There has been mur-
der done, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six
feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his height,
wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar.
He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was
drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his
off fore-leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and
the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These
are only a few indications, but they may assist you."
  Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredu-
lous smile.
  "If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the
former.
  "Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One
other thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door:
" 'Rache,' is the German for 'revenge'; so don't lose your time
looking for Miss Rachel."
  With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two
rivals open mouthed behind him.

                     Chapter 4
            What John Rance Had to Tell

  It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens.
Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence
he dispatched a long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered
the driver to take us to the address given us by Lestrade.
  "There is nothing like first-hand evidence," he remarked; "as
a matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but
still we may as well learn all that is to be learned."
  "You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as
sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars which you
gave."
  "There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very
first thing which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had
made two ruts with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last
night, we have had no rain for a week, so that those wheels
which left such a deep impression must have been there during
the night. There were the marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the
outline of one of which was far more clearly cut than that of the
other three, showing that that was a new shoe. Since the cab was
there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during
the morning -- I have Gregson's word for that -- it follows that it
must have been there during the night, and therefore, that it
brought those two individuals to the house."
  "That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the
other man's height?"
  "Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be
told from the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation
enough, though there is no use my boring you with figures. I had
this fellow's stride both on the clay outside and on the dust
within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation. When a
man writes on a wall, his instinct leads him to write above the
level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just over six feet
from the ground. It was child's play."
  "And his age?" I asked.
  "Well, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the
smallest effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That
was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had
evidently walked across. Patent-leather boots had gone round,
and Square-toes had hopped over. There is no mystery about it at
all. I am simply applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts
of observation and deduction which I advocated in that article. Is
there anything else that puzzles you?"
  "The finger-nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.
  "The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger
dipped in blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster
was slightly scratched in doing it, which would not have been
the case if the man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some
scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and flaky --
such an ash is only made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a
special study of cigar ashes -- in fact, I have written a monograph
upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a
glance the ash of any known brand either of cigar or of tobacco.
It is just in such details that the skilled detective differs from the
Gregson and Lestrade type."
  "And the florid face?" I asked.
  "Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that
I was right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the
affair."
  I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I
remarked; "the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it
grows. How came these two men -- if there were two men -- into
an empty house? What has become of the cabman who drove
them? How could one man compel another to take poison?
Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the
murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the wom-
an's ring there? Above all, why should the second man write up
the German word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I
cannot see any possible way of reconciling all these facts."
  My companion smiled approvingly.
  "You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and
well," he said. "There is much that is still obscure, though I
have quite made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor
Lestrade's discovery, it was simply a blind intended to put the
police upon a wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and secret
societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if you noticed,
was printed somewhat after the German fashion. Now, a real
German invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we may
safely say that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy
imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert
inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not going to tell you much
more of the case, Doctor. You know a conjurer gets no credit
when once he has explained his trick and if I show you too
much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion
that I am a very ordinary individual after all."
  "I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought
detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in
this world."
  My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the
earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that
he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl
could be of her beauty.
  "I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent-leathers and
Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the
pathway together as friendly as possible -- arm-in-arm, in all
probability. When they got inside, they walked up and down the
room -- or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes
walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust; and I could
read that as he walked he grew more and more excited. That is
shown by the increased length of his strides. He was talking all
the while, and working himself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then
the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I know myself now, for
the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working
basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want
to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon."
  This conversation had occurred while our cab had been thread-
ing its way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary
byways. ln the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly
came to a stand. "That's Audley Court in there," he said,
pointing to a narrow slit in the line of dead-coloured brick.
"You'll find me here when you come back."
  Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow pas-
sage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by
sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty
children, and through lines of discoloured linen, until we came
to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small slip
of brass on which the name Rance was engraved. On inquiry we
found that the constable was in bed, and we were shown into a
little front parlour to await his coming.
  He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being dis-
turbed in his slumbers. "I made my report at the office," he
said.
  Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with
it pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from
your own lips," he said.
  "I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the
constable answered, with his eyes upon the little golden disc.
  "Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."
  Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows
as though determined not to omit anything in his narrative.
  "I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from
ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at
the White Hart; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At
one o'clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher -- him who
has the Holland Grove beat -- and we stood together at the corner
of Henrietta Street a-talkin'. Presently -- maybe about two or a
little after -- I thought I would take a look round and see that all
was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and
lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or
two went past me. I was a-strollin' down, thinkin' between
ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be,
when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window
of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston
Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who
won't have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant what
lived in one of them died o' typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a
heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected
as something was wrong. When I got to the door --"
  "You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my
companion interrupted. "What did you do that for?"
  Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes
with the utmost amazement upon his features.
  "Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to
know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see when I got up to the door,
it was so still and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the
worse for someone with me. I ain't afeared of anything on this
side o' the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him that died
o' the typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought
gave me a kind o' turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I
could see Murcher's lantern, but there wasn't no sign of him nor
of anyone else."
  "There was no one in the street?"
  "Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled
myself together and went back and pushed the door open. All
was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was
a-burnin'. There was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece -- a
red wax one -- and by its light I saw --"
  "Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room
several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you
walked through and tried the kitchen door, and then --"
  John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and
suspicion in his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he
cried. "It seems to me that you knows a deal more than you
should."
  Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the
constable. "Don't go arresting me for the murder," he said. "I
am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr.
Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do
next?"
  Rance resumed his seat, without, however, losing his mysti-
fied expression. "I went back to the gate and sounded my
whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to the spot."
  "Was the street empty then?"
  "Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good
goes."
  "What do you mean?"
  The constable's features broadened into a grin, "I've seen
many a drunk chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so
cryin' drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came out,
a-leanin' up ag'in the railings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his
lungs about Columbine's New-fangled Banner, or some such
stuff. He couldn't stand, far less help."
  "What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
  John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digres-
sion. "He was an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said.
"He'd ha' found hisself in the station if we hadn't been so took
up."
  "His face -- his dress -- didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke
in impatiently.
  "I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop
him up -- me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with
a red face, the lower part muffled round --"
  "That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"
  "We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the police-
man said, in an aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way
Londra all right."
  "How was he dressed?"
  "A brown overcoat."
  "Had he a whip in his hand?"
  "A whip -- no."
  "He must have left it behind," muttered my companion.
"You didn't happen to see or hear a cab after that?"
  "No."
  "There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said,
standing up and taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you
will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be for use
as well as ornament. You might have gained your sergeant's
stripes last night. The man whom you held in your hands is the
man who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are
seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell you that it
is so. Come along, Doctor."
  We started off for rhe cab together, leaving our informant
incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
  "The blundering fool!" Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove
back to our lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an
incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking advantage of it."
  "I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of
this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this
mystery. But why should he come back to the house after
leaving it? That is not the way of criminals."
  "The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If
we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait our
line with the ring. I shall have him, Doctor -- I'll lay you two to
one that I have him. I must thank you for it all. I might not have
gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever
came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little
art jargon. There's the scarlet thread of murder running through
the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and
isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And now for lunch, and
then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splen-
did. What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays so magnifi-
cently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."
  Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled
away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of
the human mind.

                        Chapter 5
            Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor

  Our morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health,
and I was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes's departure
for the concert, I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get
a couple of hours' sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had
been too much excited by all that had occurred, and the strangest
fancies and surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed
my eyes I saw before me the distorted, baboon-like countenance
of the murdered man. So sinister was the impression which that
face had produced upon me that I found it difficult to feel
anything but gratitude for him who had removed its owner from
the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most
malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber,
of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and
that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the eyes
of the law.
  The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my
companion's hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, ap-
pear. I remembered how he had sniffed his lips, and had no
doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to the
idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the man's
death, since there was neither wound nor marks of strangulation?
But, on the otner hand, whose blood was that which lay so
thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor
had the victim any weapon with which he might have wounded
an antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved, I
felt that sleep would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or
myself. His quiet, self-confident manner convinced me that he
had already formed a theory which explained all the facts,
though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture.
  He was very late in returning -- so late that I knew that the
concert could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on
the table before he appeared.
  "It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you
remember what Darwin says about music? He claims that the
power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human
race long before the power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that
is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There are vague
memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world
was in its childhood."
  "That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.
  "One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to
interpret Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not
looking quite yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."
  "To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more
case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own
comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve."
  "I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimu-
lates the imagination; where there is no imagination there is no
horror. Have you seen the evening paper?"
  "No."
  "It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not
mention the fact that when the man was raised up a woman's
wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is just as well it does not."
  "Why?"
  "Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent
to every paper this morning immediately after the affair."
  He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place
indicated. It was the first announcement in the "Found" col-
umn. "In Brixton Road, this morning," it ran, "a plain gold
wedding ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart
Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221 B, Baker
Street, between eight and nine this evening."
  "Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own,
some of these dunderheads would recognize it, and want to
meddle in the affair."
  "That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone ap-
plies, I have no ring."
  "Oh, yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do
very well. It is almost a facsimile."
  "And who do you expect will answer this advertisement?"
  "Why, the man in the brown coat -- our florid friend with the
square toes. If he does not come himself, he will send an
accomplice."
  "Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"
  "Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every
reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything
than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while
stooping over Drebber's body, and did not miss it at the time.
After leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried back,
but found the police already in possession, owing to his own
folly in leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be
drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have been
aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that
man's place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred
to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road
after leaving the house. What would he do then? He would
eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it
among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon
this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There
would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring
should be connected with the murder. He would come. He will
come. You shall see him within an hour."
  "And then?" I asked.
  "Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any
arms?"
  "I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."
  "You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate
man; and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be
ready for anything."
  I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I
returned with the pistol, the table had been cleared, and Holmes
was engaged in his favourite occupation of scraping upon his
violin.
  "The plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had an
answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the
correct one."
  "And that is?" I asked eagerly.
  "My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he re-
marked. "Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow
comes, speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me.
Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard."
  "It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.
  "Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the
door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside.
Thank you! This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall
yesterday -- De Jure inter Gentes -- published in Latin at Liege in
the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles's head was still firm on his
shoulders when this little brown-backed volume was struck off."
  "Who is the printer?"
  "Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-
leaf, in very faded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I
wonder who William Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth-
century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it.
Here comes our man, I think."
  As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock
Holmes rose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the
door. We heard the servant pass along the hall, and the sharp
click of the latch as she opened it.
  "Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh
voice. We could not hear the servant's reply, but the door
closed, and someone began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was
an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over
the face of my companion as he listened to it. It came slowly
along the passage, and there was a feeble tap at the door.
  "Come in," I cried.
  At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we
expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the
apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of
light, and after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us with
her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous, shaky
fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face had assumed
such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do to keep
my countenance.
  The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
advertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen,"
she said, dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the
Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only
this time twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard a
Union boat, and what he'd say if he comes 'ome and found her
without her ring is more than I can think, he being short enough
at the best o' times, but more especially when he has the drink.
If it please you, she went to the circus last night along with --"
  "Is that her ring?" I asked.
  "The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be
a glad woman this night. That's the ring."
  "And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a
pencil.
  "13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."
  "The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and
Houndsditch," said Sherlock Holmes sharply.
  The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from
her little red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for my
address," she said. "Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield
Place, Peckham."
  "And your name is?"
  "My name is Sawyer -- hers is Dennis, which Tom Dennis
married her -- and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea,
and no steward in the company more thought of; but when on
shore, what with the women and what with liquor shops --"
  "Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience
to a sign from my companion; "it clearly belongs to your
daughter, and I am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful
owner."
  With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude
the old crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off
down the stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment
that she was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in a few
seconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. "I'll follow her,"
he said, hurriedly; "she must be an accomplice, and will lead me
to him. Wait up for me." The hall door had hardly slammed
behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair. Look-
ing through the window I could see her walking feebly along the
other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance
behind. "Either his whole theory is incorrect," I thought to
myself, "or else he will be led now to the heart of the mystery."
There was no need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I
felt that sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his
adventure.
  It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how
long he might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and
skipping over the pages of Henri Murger's Vie de Boheme. Ten
o'clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the maid as she
pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the
landlady passed my door, bound for the same destination. It was
close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of his latchkey.
The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not been
successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for
the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he
burst into a hearty laugh.
  "I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,"
he cried, dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much
that they would never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford
to laugh, because I know that I will be even with them in the
long run."
  "What is it then?" I asked.
  "Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature
had gone a little way when she began to limp and show every
sign of being footsore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a
four-wheeler which was passing. I managed to be close to her so
as to hear the address, but I need not have been so anxious, for
she sang it out loud enough to be heard at the other side of the
street, 'Drive to 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,' she cried.
This begins to look genuine, I thought, and having seen her
safely inside, I perched myself behind. That's an art which every
detective should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and
never drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped
off before we came to the door, and strolled down the street in
an easy, lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped
down, and I saw him open the door and stand expectantly.
Nothing came out though. When I reached him, he was groping
about frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to the finest
assorted collection of oaths that ever I listened to. There was no
sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it will be some time
before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13 we found that
the house belonged to a respeetable paperhanger, named Keswick,
and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever
been heard of there."
  "You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that
tottering, feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while
it was in motion, without either you or the driver seeing her?"
  "Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply.
"We were the old women to be so taken in. It must have been a
young man, and an active one, too, besides being an incompara-
ble actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he was fol-
lowed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me the slip. It
shows that the man we are after is not as lonely as I imagined he
was, but has friends who are ready to risk something for him.
Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my advice and turn
in.
  I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction.
I left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long
into the watches of the night I heard the low melancholy wailings
of his violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the
strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.

                    Chapter 6
         Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do

  The papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they
termed it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had
leaders upon it in addition. There was some information in them
which was new to me. I still retain in my scrapbook numerous
clippings and extracts bearing upon the case. Here is a condensa-
tion of a few of them:
  The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime
there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger
features. The German name of the victim, the absence of all
other motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall, all pointed
to its perpetration by political refugees and revolutionists. The
Socialists had many branches in America, and the deceased had
no doubt, infringed their unwritten laws, and been tracked down
by them. After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana,
Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory,
the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the
article concluded by admonishing the government and advocating
a closer watch over foreigners in England.
  The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages
of the sort usually occurred under a Liberal administration. They
arose from the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the
consequent weakening of all authority. The deceased was an
American gentleman who had been residing for some weeks in
the metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house of Madame
Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was accompa-
nied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson.
The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th
inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention
of catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen
together upon the platform. Nothing more is known of them until
Mr. Drebber's body was, as recorded, discovered in an empty
house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How he
came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are still
involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the whereabouts of
Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr.
Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and
it is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will
speedily throw light upon the matter.
  The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the
crime being a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberal-
ism which animated the Continental governments had had the
effect of driving to our shores a number of men who might have
made excellent citizens were they not soured by the recollection
of all that they had undergone. Among these men there was a
stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was pun-
ished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary,
Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of
the deceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of
the address of the house at which he had boarded -- a result
which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy of Mr.
Gregson of Scotland Yard.
  Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at
breakfast, and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.
  "I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson
would be sure to score."
  "That depends on how it turns out."
  "Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is
caught, it will be on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it
will be in spite of their exertions. It's heads I win and tails you
lose. Whatever they do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve
toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.' "
  "What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there
came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs,
accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon the part of
our landlady.
  "It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force,"
said my companion gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into
the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street
Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.
  " 'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty
little scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statu-
ettes. "In future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and
the rest of you must wait in the street. Have you found it,
Wiggins?"
  "No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.
  "I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you
do. Here are your wages." He handed each of them a shilling.
"Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next
time."
  He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like
so many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the
street.
  "There's more work to be got out of one of those little
beggars than out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked.
"The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men's lips.
These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear everything.
They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want is organization."
  "Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I
asked.
  "Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a
matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with
a vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the road with beati-
tude written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I
know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!"
  There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
burst into our sitting-room.
  "My dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes's unresponsive
hand, "congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as
day."
  A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's
expressive face.
  "Do you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.
  "The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and
key."
  "And his name is?"
  "Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy,"
cried Gregson pompously rubbing his fat hands and inflating his
chest.
  Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief and relaxed into a
smile.
  "Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said. "We are
anxious to know how you managed it. Will you have some
whisky and water?"
  "I don't mind if I do," the detective answered. "The tremen-
dous exertions which I have gone through during the last day or
two have worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you
understand, as the strain upon the mind. You will appreciate
that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both brain-workers."
  "You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely. "Let
us hear how you arrived at this most gratifying result."
  The detective seated himself in the armchair, and puffed com-
placently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a
paroxysm of amusement.
  "The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade, who
thinks himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track
altogether. He is after the secretary Stangerson, who had no
more to do with the crime than the babe unborn. I have no doubt
that he has caught him by this time."
  The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he
choked.
  "And how did you get your clue?"
  "Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Dr. Watson, this is
strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to
contend with was the finding of this American's antecedents.
Some people would have waited until their advertisements were
answered, or until parties came forward and volunteered infor-
mation. That is not Tobias Gregson's way of going to work. You
remember the hat beside the dead man?"
  "Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129,
Camberwell Road."
  Gregson looked quite crestfallen.
  "I had no idea that you noticed that," he said. "Have you
been there?"
  "No."
  "Ha!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never
neglect a chance, however small it may seem."
  "To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes,
sententiously.
  "Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a
hat of that size and description. He looked over his books, and
came on it at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber,
residing at Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, Torquay Ter-
race. Thus I got at his address."
  "Smart, -- very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.
  "I next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the
detective. "I found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter
was in the room, too -- an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she
was looking red about the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke
to her. That didn't escape my notice. I began to smell a rat. You
know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon
the right scent -- a kind of thrill in your nerves. 'Have you heard
of the mysterious death of your late boarder Mr. Enoch J.
Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.
  "The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word.
The daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these
people knew something of the matter.
  " 'At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the
train?' I alsked.
  " 'At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep
down her agitation. 'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that
there were two trains -- one at 9:15 and one at 11. He was to
catch the lfirst.'
  " 'And was that the last which you saw of him?'
  "A terible change came over the woman's face as I asked the
question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some sec-
onds before she could get out the single word 'Yes' -- and when
it did come it was in a husky, unnatural tone.
  "There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter
spoke in a calm, clear voice.
  " 'No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said.
'Let us be frank with this gentleman. We did see Mr. Drebber
again.'
  " 'God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up
her hands and sinking back in her chair. 'You have murdered
your brother.'
  " 'Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl
answered firmly.
  " 'Yqu had best tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-
confidences are worse than none. Besides, you do not know how
much we know of it.'
  " 'On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then
turning to me, 'I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my
agitation on behalf of my son arises from any fear lest he should
have had a hand in this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of
it. My dread is, however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of
others he may appear to be compromised. That, however, is
surely impossible. His high character, his profession, his ante-
cedents would all forbid it.'
  " 'Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I
answered. 'Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be
none the worse.'
  " 'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said,
and her daughter withdrew. 'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no
intention of telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has
disclosed it I have no alternative. Having once decided to speak,
I will tell you all without omitting any particular.'
  " 'It is your wisest course,' said I.
  " 'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and
his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Conti-
nent. I noticed a Copenhagen label upon each of their trunks,
showing that that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson
was a quiet, reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say,
was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his
ways. The very night of his arrival he became very much the
worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve o'clock in the day he
could hardly ever be said to be sober. His manners towards the
maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all,
he speedily assumed the same attitude towards my daughter,
Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way which, fortu-
nately, she is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he
actually seized her in his arms and embraced her -- an outrage
which caused his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly
conduct.'
  " 'But why did you stand all this?' I asked. 'I suppose that
you can get rid of your boarders when you wish.'
  "Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would
to God that I had given him notice on the very day that he
came,' she said. 'But it was a sore temptation. They were paying
a pound a day each -- fourteen pounds a week, and this is the
slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost
me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the best. This
last was too much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on
account of it. That was the reason of his going.'
  " 'Well?'
  " 'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is
on leave just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for
his temper is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister.
When I closed the door behind them a load seemed to be lifted
from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ring at the
bell, and I learned that Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much
excited, and evidently the worse for drink. He forced his way
into the room, where I was sitting with my daughter, and made
some incoherent remark about having missed his train. He then
turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her that
she should fly with him. "You are of age," he said, "and there
is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never
mind the old girl here, but come along with me now straight
away. You shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so fright-
ened that she shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the
wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the door. I screamed,
and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room. What
happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused
sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I
did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, with
a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine fellow will trouble us
again," he said. "I will just go after him and see what he does
with himself." With those words he took his hat and started off
down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber's
mysterious death.'
  "This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many
gasps and pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly
catch the words. I made shorthand notes of all that she said
however, so that there should be no possibility of a mistake."
  "It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn.
"What happened next?"
  "When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued,
"I saw that the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with
my eye in a way which I always found effective with women, I
asked her at what hour her son returned.
  " 'I do not know,' she answered.
  " 'Not know?'
  " 'No; he has a latchkey, and he let himself in.'
  " 'After you went to bed?'
  " 'Yes.'
  " 'When did you go to bed?'
  " 'About eleven.'
  " 'So your son was gone at least two hours?'
  " 'Yes.'
  " 'Possibly four or five?'
  " 'Yes.'
  " 'What was he doing during that time?'
  " 'I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very
lips.
  "Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I
found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers
with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder
and warned him to come quietly with us, he answered us as bold
as brass, 'I suppose you are arresting me for being concerned in
the death of that scoundrel Drebber,' he said. We had said
nothing to him about it, so that his alluding to it had a most
suspicious aspect."
  "Very," said Holmes.
  "He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described
him as having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a
stout oak cudgel."
  "What is your theory, then?"
  "Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the
Brixton Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between
them, in the course of which Drebber received a blow from the
stick, in the pit of the stomach perhaps, which killed him without
leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no one was about,
so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty
house. As to the candle, and the blood, and the writing on the
wall, and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the
police on to the wrong scent."
  "Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really,
Gregson, you are getting along. We shall make something of you
yet."
  "I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the
detective answered, proudly. "The young man volunteered a
statement, in which he said that after following Drebber some
time, the latter perceived him, and took a cab in order to get
away from him. On his way Londra he met an old shipmate, and
took a long walk with him. On being asked where this old
shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I
think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What amuses
me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon the wrong
scent. I am afraid he won't make much of it. Why, by Jove,
here's the very man himself!"
  It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we
were talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and
jauntiness which generally marked his demeanour and dress
were, however, wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled,
while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had evidently
come with the intention of consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for
on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be embarrassed and
put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling nervously
with his hat and uncertain what to do. "This is a most extraordi-
nary case," he said at last -- "a most incomprehensible affair."
  "Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson, trium-
phantly. "I thought you would come to that conclusion. Have
you managed to find the secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"
  "The secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade, gravely,
"was murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this
morning."

                        Chapter 7
                 Light in the Darkness

  The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momen-
tous and so unexpected that we were all three fairly dumfounded.
Gregson sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his
whisky and water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose
lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.
"Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."
  "It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, tak-
ing a chair, "I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of
war."
  "Are you -- are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stam-
mered Gregson.
  "I have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the
first to discover what had occurred."
  "We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes
observed. "Would you mind letting us know what you have seen
and done?"
  "I have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself.
"I freely confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was
concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh development has
shown me that I was completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I
set myself to find out what had become of the secretary. They
had been seen together at Euston Station about half-past eight on
the evening of the 3rd. At two in the morning Drebber had been
found in the Brixton Road. The question which confronted me
was to find out how Stangerson had been employed between
8:30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of him
afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of
the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American
boats. I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-
houses in the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if
Drebber and his companion had become separated, the natural
course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the vicinity
for the night, and then to hang about the station again next
morning."
  "They would be likely to agree on some meeting place be-
forehand," remarked Holmes.
  "So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in
making inquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began
very early, and at eight o'clock I reached Halliday's Private
Hotel, in Little George Street. On my inquiry as to whether a
Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once answered me in
the affirmative.
  " 'No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,'
they said. 'He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'
  " 'Where is he now?' I asked.
  " 'He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'
  " 'I will go up and see him at once,' I said.
  "It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his
nerves and lead him to say something unguarded. The boots
volunteered to show me the room: it was on the second floor
and there was a small corridor leading up to it. The boots pointed
out the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I
saw something that made me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty
years' experience. From under the door there curled a little red
ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the passage and
formed a little pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a
cry, which brought the boots back. He nearly fainted when he
saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our
shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was
open, and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a
man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some
time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him
over, the boots recognized him at once as being the same gentle-
man who had engaged the room under the name of Joseph
Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side,
which must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the
strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the
murdered man?"
  I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming
horror, even before Sherock Holmes answered.
  "The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said,
  "That was it," said Lestrade, in an awestruck voice, and we
were all silent for a while.
  There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible
about the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh
ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough
on the field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.
  "The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy,
passing on his way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane
which leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed
that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised against one of
the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. After
passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the ladder. He
came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to
be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel. He took no
particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that it
was early for him to be at work. He has an impression that the
man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long,
brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some little time
after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin,
where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where
he had deliberately wiped his knife."
  I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer
which tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no
trace of exultation or satisfaction upon his face.
  "Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue
to the murderer?" he asked.
  "Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but
it seems that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was
eighty-odd pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever
the motives of these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly
not one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in the
murdered man's pocket, except a single telegram, dated from
Cleveland about a month ago, and containing the words, 'J. H.
is in Europe.' There was no name appended to this message."
  "And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.
  "Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he
had read himself to sleep, was lying upon the bed, and his pipe
was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the
table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box contain-
ing a couple of pills."
  Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of
delight.
  "The last link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete."
  The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
  "I have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently,
"all the threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of
course, details to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main
facts, from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the
station, up to the discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had
seen them with my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my
knowledge. Could you lay your hand upon those pills?"
  "I have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box;
"I took them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have
them put in a place of safety at the police station. It was the
merest chance my taking these pills, for I am bound to say that I
do not attach any importance to them."
  "Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to
me, "are those ordinary pills?"
  They certainly were not. They were of a pearly gray colour,
small, round, and almost transparent against the light. "From
their lightness and transparency, I should imagine that they are
soluble in water," I remarked.
  "Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind
going down and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which
has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted you to put
out of its pain yesterday?"
  I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its
laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far
from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it
had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed
it upon a cushion on the rug.
  "I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes, and
drawing his penknife he suited the action to the word. "One half
we return into the box for future purposes. The other half I will
place in this wineglass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You
perceive that our friend, the doctor, is right, and that it readily
dissolves."
  "This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured
tone of one who suspects that he is being laughed at; "I cannot
see, however, what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph
Stangerson."
  "Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it
has everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make
the mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find
that he laps it up readily enough."
  As he spoke he turned the contents of the wineglass into a
saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it
dry. Sherlock Holmes's earnest demeanour had so far convinced
us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal intently, and
expecting some startling effect. None such appeared, however.
The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in
a laboured way, but apparently neither the better nor the worse
for its draught.
  Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed
minute without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and
disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip,
drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other
symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion that I
felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled
derisively, by no means displeased at this check which he had
met.
  "It can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from
his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is
impossible that it should be, a mere coincidence. The very pills
which I suspected in the case of Drebber are actually found after
the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What can it
mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been
false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the
worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!" With a perfect shriek of delight
he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it,
added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate
creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it
before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid
and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.
  Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspira-
tion from his forehead. "I should have more faith," he said; "I
ought to know by this time that when a fact appears to be
opposed to a long train of deductions, it invariably proves to be
capable of bearing some other interpretation. Of the two pills in
that box, one was of the most deadly poison, and the other was
entirely harmless. I ought to have known that before ever I saw
the box at all."
  This last statement appeared to me to be so startling that I
could hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was
the dead dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been
correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were
gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vague
perception of the truth.
  "All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because
you failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance
of the single real clue which was presented to you. I had the
good fortune to seize upon that, and everything which has oc-
curred since then has served to confirm my original supposition,
and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it. Hence things which
have perplexed you and made the case more obscure have served
to enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake
to confound strangeness with mystery. The most commonplace
crime is often the most mysterious, because it presents no new or
special features from which deductions may be drawn. This
murder would have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had
the body of the victim been simply found lying in the roadway
without any of those outre and sensational accompaniments which
have rendered it remarkable. These strange details, far from
making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of
making it less so."
  Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with consider-
able impatience, could contain himself no longer. "Look here,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to acknowl-
edge that you are a smart man, and that you have your own
methods of working. We want something more than mere theory
and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking the man. I have
made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young Charpentier
could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestrade went
after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too.
You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to
know more than we do, but the time has come when we feel that
we have a right to ask you straight how much you do know of
the business. Can you name the man who did it?"
  "I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked
Lestrade. "We have both tried, and we have both failed. You
have remarked more than once since I have been in the room that
you had all the evidence which you require. Surely you will not
withhold it any longer."
  "Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might
give him time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity."
  Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution.
He continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk
on his chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when
lost in thought.
  "There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping
abruptly and facing us. "You can put that consideration out of
the question. You have asked me if I know the name of the
assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a small thing,
however, compared with the power of laying our hands upon
him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes of
managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a thing
which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desper-
ate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to
prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this
man has no idea that anyone can have a clue there is some
chance of securing him- but if he had the slightest suspicion, he
would change his name, and vanish in an instant among the four
million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning to hurt
either of your feelings, I am bound to say that T consider these
men to be more than a match for the official force, and that is
why I have not asked your assistance. If I fail, I shall, of course,
incur all the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared
for. At present I am ready to promise that the instant that I can
communicate with you without endangering my own combina-
tions, I shall do so."
  Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this
assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police.
The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while
the other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment.
Neither of them had time to speak, however, before there was a
tap at the door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, young
Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and unsavoury person.
  "Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab
downstairs."
  "Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you intro-
duce this pattern at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair
of steel handcuffs from a drawer. "See how beautifully the
spring works. They fasten in an instant."
  "The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we
can only find the man to put them on."
  "Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cab-
man may as well help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step
up, Wiggins."
  I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he
were about to set out on a journey, since he had not said
anything to me about it. There was a small portmanteau in the
room, and this he pulled out and began to strap. He was busily
engaged at it when the cabman entered the room.
  "Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said,
kneeling over his task, and never turning his head.
  The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air,
and put down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a
sharp click, the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang
to his feet again.
  "Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce
you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and
of Joseph Stangerson."
  The whole thing occurred in a moment -- so quickly that I had
no time to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of
Holmes's triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the
cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering
handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his wrists.
For a second or two we might have been a group of statues.
Then with an inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched
himself free from Holmes's grasp, and hurled himself through
the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; but
before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes
sprang upon him like so many staghounds. He was dragged back
into the room, and then commenced a terrific conflict. So power-
ful and so fierce was he that the four of us were shaken off again
and again. He appeared to have the convulsive strength of a man
in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled by
his passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in
diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in
getting his hand inside his neckcloth and half-strangling him that
we made him realize that his struggles were of no avail; and even
then we felt no security until we had pinioned his feet as well as
his hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and panting.
  "We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to
take him to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued,
with a pleasant smile, "we have reached the end of our little
mystery. You are very welcome to put any questions that you
like to me now, and there is no danger that I will refuse to
answer them."


                        PART 2
              The Country of the Saints


                       Chapter 1
              On the Great Alkali Plain

  In the central portion of the great North American Continent
there lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long
year served as a barrier against the advance of civilization. From
the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River
in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is a region of
desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood through-
out this grim district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty moun-
tains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing
rivers which dash through jagged canons; and there are enormous
plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are
gray with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the
common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
  There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of
Pawnees or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to
reach other hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are
glad to lose sight of those awesome plains, and to find them-
selves once more upon their prairies. The coyote skulks among
the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and the
clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks
up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. These are the
sole dwellers in the wilderness.
  In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that
from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye
can reach stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with
patches of alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish
chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long
chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with
snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor
of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue
heaven, no movement upon