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Sherlock Holmes
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ADVENTURE I. A SCANDAL IN BO-
HEMIA
I.
“Seven!” I answered.
“Frequently.”
“How often?”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for
‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Com-
pany.’ It is a customary contraction like our
‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for
the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazet-
teer.” He took down a heavy brown volume
from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we
are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—
in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable
as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein,
and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-
mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of
that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great
blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.
“And I.”
“None.”
“None.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“I was mad—insane.”
“Stolen, then.”
“Absolutely none.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“I am sure.”
“And why?”
“Then, as to money?”
“Absolutely?”
“It was.”
II.
“What is it?”
“Which are?”
“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he an-
swered, ringing the bell. “I have been too busy
to think of food, and I am likely to be busier
still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall
want your co-operation.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“I am to be neutral?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Entirely.”
“Precisely.”
“Where, indeed?”
“What then?”
“I will get her to show me.”
“I guessed as much.”
III.
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were
engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morn-
ing when the King of Bohemia rushed into the
room.
“Not yet.”
“I have hopes.”
“Married! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“Never to return.”
“This photograph!”
“ ‘Never.’
“ ‘Ten to two.’
“ ‘Is £4 a week.’
“ ‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“To an end?”
IS
DISSOLVED.
October 9, 1890.
“ ‘Yes.’
“Yes.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I
have every reason to believe that we shall be in
time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather
complicates matters. I shall want your help to-
night.”
“What office?”
“None.”
“I fear not.”
“Of what?”
“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may
remember the old Persian saying, ‘There is dan-
ger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and dan-
ger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a
woman.’ There is as much sense in Hafiz as in
Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.”
“How on earth—”
“The doctor?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Ample.”
“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will
find it very slow, but I shall only be away a
couple of hours.”
“Nothing.”
“No, finished.”
“It is solved.”
“Pray do so.”
“Well, now, in considering this case there are
two points about young McCarthy’s narrative
which struck us both instantly, although they
impressed me in his favour and you against
him. One was the fact that his father should,
according to his account, cry ‘Cooee!’ before
seeing him. The other was his singular dying
reference to a rat. He mumbled several words,
you understand, but that was all that caught
the son’s ear. Now from this double point our
research must commence, and we will begin it
by presuming that what the lad says is absolu-
tely true.”
“ARAT,” I read.
“BALLARAT.”
“Certainly.”
“Quite so.”
“What?”
“A client, then?”
“And help.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Ah!”
“I am armed.”
“It is possible.”
“I never have.”
“Nothing?”
“Well.”
“Texas, I think.”
“What then?”
“Yes?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“An enemy?”
“Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say,
my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the
midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have
hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ram-
blings of these sots, as I have done before now.
Had I been recognised in that den my life
would not have been worth an hour’s purchase;
for I have used it before now for my own pur-
poses, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has
sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a
trap-door at the back of that building, near the
corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it
upon the moonless nights.”
“The Cedars?”
“Proceed, then.”
“I cannot imagine.”
“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every poc-
ket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies—421
pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder
that it had not been swept away by the tide. But
a human body is a different matter. There is a
fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It
seemed likely enough that the weighted coat
had remained when the stripped body had
been sucked away into the river.”
“None.”
“No bad?”
“No.”
“Certainly, madam.”
“I do.”
“Murdered?”
“On Monday.”
“What!” he roared.
“Certainly.”
“One?”
“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very
unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it
well.”
“That is possible.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He might.”
“Yes.”
“It is possible.”
“Never.”
“Never.”
“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the prin-
cipal points about which I wished to be absolu-
tely clear. We shall now have a little supper
and then retire, for we may have a very busy
day to-morrow.”
“Yes.”
“Is he quiet?”
“Dirty?”
“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his
hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s.
Well, when once his case has been settled, he
will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if
you saw him, you would agree with me that he
needed it.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I cannot tell.”
“Nothing.”
“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair
in his excitement.
“Not particularly.”
“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a
supper and follow up this clue while it is still
hot.”
“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our
geese.”
“That’s no good.”
“Who by?”
“I say it is.”
“Well?”
“Here?”
“ ‘Which dealer’s?’
“What, then?”
“Perfectly so.”
“ ‘Never,’ said I.
“ ‘I suppose that you could not possibly whis-
tle, yourself, in your sleep?’
“Always.”
“And why?”
“Yes, all.”
“By no means.”
“I cannot think.”
“I cannot imagine.”
“So it appears.”
“Won’t it ring?”
“Certainly.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
“No.”
I nodded again.
“By no means.”
“ ‘Yes, I promise.’
“ ‘Most admirably.’
“ ‘Where to?’
“ ‘Very good.’
“ ‘Entirely.’
“Tired-looking or fresh?”
“Dr. Becher’s.”
“ ‘ST. SIMON.’
“And it is—”
“No, I am descending.”
“I beg pardon.”
“Pray do so.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“A confidential servant?”
“And how?”
“Here?”
“ ‘Ample.’
“ ‘Certainly not.’
“ ‘Stolen!’ he cried.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, he did.”
“And he is a man with a wooden leg?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Where to?”
“To the man who loves art for its own sake,”
remarked Sherlock Holmes, tossing aside the
advertisement sheet of the Daily Telegraph, “it is
frequently in its least important and lowliest
manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be
derived. It is pleasant to me to observe, Wat-
son, that you have so far grasped this truth that
in these little records of our cases which you
have been good enough to draw up, and, I am
bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you
have given prominence not so much to the ma-
ny causes célèbres and sensational trials in which
I have figured but rather to those incidents
which may have been trivial in themselves, but
which have given room for those faculties of
deduction and of logical synthesis which I have
made my special province.”
“And yet,” said I, smiling, “I cannot quite hold
myself absolved from the charge of sensationa-
lism which has been urged against my re-
cords.”
“VIOLET HUNTER.”
“Not I.”
“ ‘Yes, sir.’
“ ‘As governess?’
“ ‘Yes, sir.’
“ ‘Oh, no.’
“ ‘JEPHRO RUCASTLE.’
“HUNTER.”
“Yes.”
“I will do it.”
“But how?”
“He has come back and done it. I tell you that
he is a clever and dangerous man. I should not
be very much surprised if this were he whose
step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson,
that it would be as well for you to have your
pistol ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And brought Miss Hunter down from London
in order to get rid of the disagreeable persis-
tence of Mr. Fowler.”