The Return of Sherlock Holmes: by Arthur Conan Doyle

The return of Sherlock Holmes
By Arthur Conan Doyle
Part Three
" The return of Sherlock Holmes"
by Arthur Conan Doyle
Part Three
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The Return of Sherlock Holmes (Part Three) (UK Version)
VIII.--The Adventure of the Six Napoleons.
IT was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to come and visit us some evenings, and
his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes, for they helped him to keep in touch with all that was going
on at the police head-quarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always
ready to listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was engaged.
Occasionally he was able to offer some help, or without any active interference, to give some hint or
suggestion taken from his own vast knowledge and experience.
On this particular evening Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the newspapers. Then he had fallen
silent, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked at him intensely.
“Anything remarkable at work?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular.”
“Then tell me about it.”
Lestrade laughed.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there IS something on my mind. And yet it is such an
absurd business that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is
undoubtedly strange, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out of the common. But in my
opinion it comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”
“Disease?” said I.
“Madness, anyhow. And a strange madness too! You wouldn’t think there was anyone living at this time
who had such a hatred of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that he sees.”
Holmes sank back in his chair.
“That’s no business of mine,” said he.
“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary in order to break images which
are not his own, that brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”
Holmes sat up again.
“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”
Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory from its pages.
“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a
place for the sale of pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop for
an instant when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster statue of Napoleon, which stood with
several other works of art upon the counter, lying broken into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but,
although several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the shop, he could neither see
anyone nor could he find any means of identifying the criminal. It seemed to be one of those senseless
acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported to the police officer on duty as
such. The plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too
childish for any particular investigation.
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“The second case, however, was more serious and also even stranger. It happened only last night.
“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson’s shop, there lives a well-known
medical practitioner, named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices on the south side of the
Thames. His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a small surgery
and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of
Napoleon, and his house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. A short time ago he
purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the French
sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the
mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down this morning he was
astonished to find that his house had been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken apart
from the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been smashed savagely against the
garden wall, under which its splintered fragments were discovered.”
Holmes rubbed his hands.
“This is certainly very strange,” said he.
“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at
twelve o’clock, and you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window
had been opened in the night, and that the broken pieces of his second bust were all over the room. It had
been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as
to the criminal or lunatic who had done the crime. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got the facts.”
“They are unique, not to say fantastic,” said Holmes. “May I ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr.
Barnicot’s rooms were the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson’s shop?”
“They were taken from the same mould.”
“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them is influenced by any general hatred
of Napoleon. Considering how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is
too much to suppose such a coincidence as that the criminal should begin with these three specimens of
the same bust by chance.”
“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand, this Morse Hudson is the seller of busts in
that part of London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So,
although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable that these three
were the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What do you think,
Dr. Watson?”
“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I answered. “There is the condition which the
modern French psychologists have called the ‘idee fixe,’ which may be trivial in character, and
accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who
had possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such
an ‘idee fixe’ and under its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”
“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head; “for no amount of ‘idee fixe’ would
enable your interesting monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”
“Well, how do YOU explain it?”
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“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain logical method in the gentleman’s
eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the
bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there was less danger of an
alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly simple, and yet I dare call nothing trivial
when I reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising beginning. You will
remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by
the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford, therefore, to smile at
your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any
fresh developments of such a strange chain of events.”
The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an infinitely more tragic form
than he could have imagined. I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the
door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:--
“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.--Lestrade.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“Don’t know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the story of the statues. In that case our
friend, the image-breaker, has begun operations in another part of London. There’s coffee on the table,
Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little neighbourhood just beside one of the briskest
currents of London life. No. 131 was one of a row of respectable, and most unromantic houses. As we
drove up we found the railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled.
“By George! it’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will interest the London message-boy.
There’s an act of violence indicated in that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s this,
Watson? The top steps washed down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well,
there’s Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know all about it.”
The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly
untidy and agitated elderly man, wearing a dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was introduced
to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.
“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so
I thought perhaps you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much more serious
turn.”
“What has it turned to, then?”
“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has occurred?”
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.
“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have been collecting other people’s news, and
now that a real piece of news has come my own way I am so confused and troubled that I can’t put two
words together. If I had come in here as a journalist I would have interviewed myself and had two
columns in every evening paper. As it is I am giving away valuable news by telling my story over and
over to a string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heard your name,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain this strange business I shall be paid for my trouble by
telling you the story.”
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Holmes sat down and listened.
“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought for this very room about four months
ago. I picked it up cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors away from the High Street Station. A great
deal of my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early morning. That’s what
happened today. I was sitting in my office, which is at the back of the top of the house, at about three
o’clock, when I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not
repeated, and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five minutes later, there
came a most horrible yell--the most dreadful sound, that ever I heard, Mr. Holmes. It will ring in my ears
as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I grabbed the iron fire poker and went
downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed that the bust
was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such a thing is beyond my understanding,
for it was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.
“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window could reach the front doorstep
by taking a long stride. This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door.
Stepping out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who was lying there. I ran back for a light, and
there was the poor fellow, a great hole in his throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his
back, his knees up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had just time to blow on
my police-whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman
standing over me in the hall.”
“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.
“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall see the body at the mortuary, but we
have made nothing of it up to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is
poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled knife was lying in a pool of
blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man,
I do not know. There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets apart from an apple, some
string, a cheap map of London, and a photograph. Here it is.”
It was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera. It represented an alert, sharp-featured simian
man with thick eyebrows, and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face like the muzzle of a
baboon.
“And what happened to the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of this picture.
“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front garden of an empty house in
Campden House Road. It was broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?”
“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the carpet and the window. “The fellow had
either very long legs or was a most active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it wasn’t easy to reach
that window-ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with
us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”
The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.
“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no doubt that the first editions of the
evening papers are out already with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at
Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account
of it, for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep.”
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As we left the room we heard his pen travelling quickly over the paper.
The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a few hundred yards away. For the
first time our eyes saw this image of the great Emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and
destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered in splintered pieces on the grass. Holmes
picked up several of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and his
focused manner that at last he had found a clue.
“Well?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet--and yet--well, we have some suggestive facts to act
upon. The possession of this silly bust was worth more than a human life in the eyes of this strange
criminal.
That is one point. Then there is the strange fact that he did not break it in the house, or immediately
outside the house. Remember that we have the idea that breaking it was his only objective.” “He was
disturbed by meeting this other man. He hardly knew what he was doing.”
“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very particularly to the position of this house.
The bust was destroyed in its garden.”
Lestrade looked around him.
“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in the garden.”
“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he must have passed before he came to
this one. Why didn’t he break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased the
risk of someone catching him?”
“I give up. I have no idea,” said Lestrade.
Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.
“He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was his reason.”
“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken
not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what shall we do with that fact?”
“To remember it--to note it. We find something later which will be connected to it. What steps do you
propose to take now, Lestrade?”
“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify the dead man. There should be no
difficulty about that. When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good
start in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night. After that we may discover who it was who
met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker’s house. Don’t you think so?”
“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I would approach the case.”
“What would you do, then?”
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“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way! I suggest that you go on your line and I on mine. We
can compare notes afterwards, and each will supplement the other.”
“Very good,” said Lestrade.
“If you are going back to Pitt Street you might see Mr. Horace Harker. Tell him from me that I have quite
made up my mind, and that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic with Napoleonic delusions was
in his house last night. It will be useful for his article.”
Lestrade stared.
“You don’t seriously believe that?”
Holmes smiled.
“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers
of the Central Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we have a long and rather complex day’s work
before us. I would be glad, Lestrade, if you could meet us at Baker Street at six o’clock this evening.
Until then I would like to keep this photograph that I found in the dead man’s pocket. It is possible that I
may have to ask for your assistance on a small expedition tonight, if my chain of reasoning proves to be
correct. Until then, good-bye and good luck!”
Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where he stopped at the shop of Harding
Brothers, where the bust had been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be
absent until after noon, and that he was himself a newcomer who could give us no information. Holmes’s
face showed his disappointment and annoyance.
“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he said, at last. “We must come back in
the afternoon if Mr. Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised, trying to
trace these busts to their source, in order to find if there is not something peculiar which may account for
their remarkable fate. Let us go and see Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can
help us with the problem.”
A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s establishment. He was a small, solid man with a red
face and a lively manner.
“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates and taxes for I don’t know, when any
thug can come in and break one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.
Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot, that’s what I make it. No one but an Anarchist would go about breaking
statues. Red republicans, that’s what I call ‘em. Who did I get the statues from? I don’t see what that has
to do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder and Co., in Church Street,
Stepney. They are well-known in the trade, and have in business for twenty years. How many did I have?
Three--two and one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot’s and one smashed in broad daylight on my own
counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of
Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit and gild and frame,
and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since. No, I don’t know
where he came from nor where he went to. I didn’t have any problems with him while he was here. He
was gone two days before the bust was smashed.”
“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect to get from Morse Hudson,” said Holmes, as we emerged
from the shop. “We have this Beppo as a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that
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is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder and Co., of Stepney, the source and origin
of busts. I shall be surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”
In rapid succession we passed through the edge of fashionable London, hotel London, theatrical London,
literary London, commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a
hundred thousand inhabitants, where the tenement houses are full of the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a
broad road, once the home of wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture works. Outside was a large
yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or
moulding. The manager, a big blond German, received us politely, and gave a clear answer to all
Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed that hundreds of casts had been taken from a
marble copy of Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a
year or so before had been half of a batch of six, the other three had been sent to Harding Brothers, of
Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different to any of the other casts. He couldn’t
suggest any possible causes why anyone should wish to destroy them--in fact, he laughed at the idea.
Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in
two moulds from each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together
to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians in the room we were in. When
finished, the busts were put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all he could
tell us.
But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the manager. His face flushed with
anger, and his eyebrows met over his blue Teutonic eyes.
“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This has always been a respectable
establishment, and the only time that we have ever had the police in it was because of this very man. It
was more than a year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with
the police on his heels, and he was arrested here. Beppo was his name--his second name I never knew. It
was my fault for hiring a man with such a face. But he was a good workman, one of the best.”
“What prison sentence did he get?”
“The man lived and he only got a year. I have no doubt he is out now; but he has not dared to come here.
We have a cousin of his here, he could probably tell you where he is.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin--not a word, I beg you. The matter is very important,
and the farther I go with it the more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the
sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could you tell me the date when
Beppo was arrested?”
“I could tell you more or less by the pay-list,” the manager answered. “Yes,” he continued, after some
turning over of pages, “he was paid last on May 20th.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon your time and patience anymore.” With
a last word of caution that he should say nothing about our investigation we turned our faces westward
once more.
It was late in the afternoon before we were able to snatch a quick lunch at a restaurant. A news-poster at
the entrance announced “Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of the paper
showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with
a highly sensational and flowery account of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the salt and
pepper and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.
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“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this: ‘It is satisfactory to know that there can be no
difference of opinion upon this case. Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced members of the official
force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the conclusion that
the grotesque series of incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than
from deliberate crime. No other explanation can explain the facts.’ The Press, Watson, is a most valuable
institution if you know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will go back to Kensington
and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say about all this.”
The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little person, very elegant and quick, with
a clear head and a ready tongue.
“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours.
We supplied him with the bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder and
Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say by consulting our sales book we could
very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker, you see, and one to Mr. Josiah
Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove
Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the photograph. You would hardly
forget it, would you, sir? I’ve rarely seen anyone uglier than that. Have we got any Italians on the staff?
Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I dare say they could take a quick look at
that sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular reason for keeping that book a secret. Well, well,
it’s a very strange business, and I hope that you’ll let me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”
Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and I could see that he was thoroughly
satisfied by the way the investigation was going. Even so, all he said was that, unless we hurried, we
would be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the
detective was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of
importance showed that his day’s work had been successful.
“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”
“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my friend explained. “We have seen both
the retailers and also the wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning.”
“The busts!” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not
for me to say a word against them, but I think I have done a better day’s work than you. I have identified
the dead man.”
“You don’t say so?”
“And found a cause for the crime.”
“Splendid!”
“We have an inspector who know a lot about the Saffron Hill area and the Italian quarter. Well, this dead
man had some Catholic symbol round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was
from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci,
from Naples, and he is one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia, which,
as you know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder. Now you see how the affair
begins to become clearer. The other man is probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has
broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro was trying to find him. Probably the photograph we found in his
pocket is the man himself, so that he does not knife the wrong person. He follows the man, he sees him
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enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in the fight he receives his own death-wound. How is that,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.
“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite follow your explanation of the destruction
of the busts.”
“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six
months at the most. It is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all
the threads into my hands.”
“And the next stage?”
“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian quarter, find the man whose photograph we
have got, and arrest him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”
“I think not. I fancy we can get our result in a simpler way. I can’t say for certain, because it all depends--
well, it all depends on a factor which is completely outside of our control. But I have great hopes--in fact,
the betting odds are exactly two to one--that if you come with us tonight I shall be able to help you to
catch him.”
“In the Italian quarter?”
“No; I fancy Chiswick is an address which is where we are more likely to find him. If you will come with
me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I’ll promise to go to the Italian quarter with you tomorrow. No harm
will be done by the delay. And now I think that a few hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not
propose to leave before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back before morning. You’ll
dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome to use the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the
meantime, Watson, Could you ring for an express messenger? I have a letter to send, and it is important
that it goes at once.”
Holmes spent the evening searching among the files of the old daily papers with which one of our
lumber-rooms was full. When he at last descended he had triumph in his eyes. He didn’t say anything to
either of us about the result of his research. I had followed the methods by which he had traced the
various stages of this complex case step by step. I did not know the goal which we would reach but I
understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the two
remaining busts. I remembered that one of them was at Chiswick. No doubt the objective of our journey
was to catch him in the very act. I could not help but admire the cunning with which my friend had
inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his
scheme freely. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He
had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop which was his favourite weapon.
A carriage was at the door at eleven, and we drove in it to a spot at the other side of Hammersmith
Bridge. The driver was directed to wait there. A short walk brought us to a secluded road lined with
pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa”
upon the gate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently gone to bed. Everything was dark apart
from a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single circle on to the garden path. The wooden fence
which separated the grounds from the road gave a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and that was
where we crouched.
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“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may thank our stars that it is not raining. I
don’t think we can even risk smoking to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one chance that we get
something to pay us for our trouble.”
It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be as long as Holmes had suggested, and it ended in a very
sudden and singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden
gate swung open, and anagile, dark figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path. We
saw it whisk past the light from over the door and disappear against the black shadow of the house. There
was a long pause, during which we held our breath, and then we heard a very gentle creaking sound. The
window was being opened. The noise stopped, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was making
his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room. What he was looking
for was evidently not there, because again we saw the flash through another blind, and then through
another.
“Let us get to the open window. We will grab him as he climbs out,” Lestrade whispered.
But before we could move the man was outside again. As he came out into the glimmering patch of light
we saw that he carried something white under his arm. He looked all around him. The silence of the
deserted street reassured him. Turning his back to us he laid down his burden, and the next instant there
was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent on what he was
doing that he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass. With the bound of a tiger, Holmes was on
his back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist and the handcuffs had been fastened.
As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I
knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had captured.
But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was
engaged in most carefully examining the object which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust
of Napoleon like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments.
Holmes held each separate shard carefully to the light, but in no way did it differ from any other shattered
piece of plaster. He had just completed his examination when the hall lights came on, the door opened,
and the owner of the house, a cheerful, rotund figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.
“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note which you sent by the express
messenger, and I did exactly what you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited
developments. Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will
come in and have some refreshment.”
However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so within a few minutes our cab had
been summoned and we were all four on our way to London. Our captive didn’t speak; but he glared at us
from the shadow of his matted hair. Once, when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a
hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station to learn that a search of his clothing revealed
nothing save a few shillings and a long knife, the handle of which bore abundant traces of recent blood.
“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all these people, and he will know his name.
You’ll find that my theory of the Mafia will be right. But I’m sure I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr.
Holmes, for the strong way in which you caught him. I don’t quite understand it all yet.”
“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes. “Besides, there are one or two details
which are not finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end. If you
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will come round once more to my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow I think I shall be able to show you that
even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of this business. It presents some features which make
it absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of my little
problems, Watson, I foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of
the Napoleonic busts.”
When we met again next evening Lestrade had plenty of information about our prisoner. His name, it
appeared, was Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known criminal among the Italian colony.
He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and
had twice already been in gaol. Once for a petty theft and once, as we had already heard, for stabbing a
fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were still
unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the subject. However, the police had discovered
that these same busts might have been made by his own hands. It seemed possible because he had been
engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder and Co. Holmes listened to all this
information, much of which we already knew, with polite attention; but I, who knew him so well, could
clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere. I detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation
beneath that mask which he liked to assume. At last he moved in his chair and his eyes brightened. There
had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an elderly, red-faced man
with grey side-whiskers was shown in. In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he
placed upon the table.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”
My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?” said he.
“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late; but the trains were difficult. You wrote to me about a bust that is in
my possession.”
“Exactly.”
“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy of Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to
pay you ten pounds for the one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”
“Certainly.”
“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine how you knew that I owned such a
thing.”
“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding
Brothers, said that they had sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I
think you ought to know that before I take ten pounds from you.”
“I am sure the honesty shows your good nature, Mr. Sandeford. But I have named that price, so I intend to
stick to it.”
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“Well, it is very generous of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust with me, as you asked me to do. Here it
is!” He opened his bag, and at last we saw a complete specimen of that bust which we had already seen
more than once in fragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the table.
“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of these witnesses. It is simply to say
that you transfer every possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you see,
and you never know what might happen afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I
wish you a very good evening.”
When our visitor had disappeared Sherlock Holmes’s movements were fascinating. He began by taking a
clean white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly-acquired bust in
the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon on the top of the head.
The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent over the shattered remains eagerly. Next instant, with a
loud shout of triumph, he held up one piece, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a
pudding.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of the Borgias.”
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous impulse, we both broke out clapping
as at the excellent result. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the
master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he
ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same
uniquely proud and reserved nature which avoided popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its
depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.
“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now existing in the world. It has been my good
fortune, by a connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at
the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon which were
manufactured by Gelder and Co., of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel, and the useless efforts of the London police to recover it. I was
consulted about the case; but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell on the maid of the
Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace
any connection between them. The maid’s name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind
that this Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up the dates in the
old files of the newspaper, and I find that the disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the
arrest of Beppo for some crime of violence. Which event took place in the factory of Gelder and Co., at
the very moment when these busts were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though
you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo
had the pearl in his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro’s confederate,
he may have been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the
correct solution.
“The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment, when it was on his person, he was pursued
by the police. He made for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in
which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found on him when he was
searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an
instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a
few touches covered over the hole once more. It was an excellent hiding-place. No one could possibly
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find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts were sold
all over London. He could not tell which contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see.
Even shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would
adhere to it--as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his search with considerable
ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who
had bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and so tracked down three of
them. The pearl was not there. Then, with the help of some Italian, he succeeded in finding out where the
other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker’s. There he was confronted by his confederate, who
held Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed.”
“If he was his confederate why should he carry his photograph?” I asked.
“As a means of finding him if he wished to inquire about him from any third person. That was the
obvious reason. Well, after the murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so he hurried on before they could
get ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not
even concluded for certain that it was the pearl. It was evident to me, however, that he was looking for
something, since he carried the bust past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a
lamp overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three the chances were exactly as I told you, two to
one against the pearl being inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for
the London one first. I warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went
away with the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the Borgia pearl that
we were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only remained a
single bust--the Reading one--and the pearl must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner--
and there it lies.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle many cases, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew
a more workmanlike one than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very proud
of you, and if you come down tomorrow there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest
constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away it seemed to me that he was closer to
being moved by the softer human emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and
practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said he, “and get out the papers of the
Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your way I shall be happy,
if I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution.”
*****
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IX.--The Adventure of the Three Students.
IT was in the year ‘95 that a combination of events, into which I do not need to enter, caused Mr.
Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of our great University towns; and it was during
this time that the small but instructive adventure which I am about to relate happened to us. It will be
obvious that any details which would help you, the reader to identify the college or the criminal exactly
would be inappropriate. So painful a scandal may well be allowed to die out. With discretion the incident
itself may, however, be described, since it serves to illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend
was remarkable. I will try to avoid any direct references to the exact place I am talking about, or give a
clue as to the people concerned.
At the time we were living in furnished lodgings close to a library where Sherlock Holmes was doing
research into early English charters--research which led to such shocking results that they may be the
subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was that one evening we received a visit from an
acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke’s. Mr. Soames was a tall,
thin man, with a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known him to be restless in his
manner, but on this particular occasion he was in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear
something very unusual had occurred.
“I hope, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your valuable time. We have had a very
painful incident at St. Luke’s, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you are in the town, I would have been at a
loss what to do.”
“I am very busy just now, and I don’t want any distractions,” my friend answered. “I should much prefer
that you called for the aid of the police.”
“No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once the law is involved it cannot be
eliminated. This is just one of those cases where, for the reputation of the college, it is most essential to
avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well known as your excellence, and you are the one man in the world
who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can.”
My friend’s temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the familiar surroundings of Baker
Street. Without his scrap-books, his chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man.
He shrugged his shoulders in ungracious agreement, while our visitor in hurried words and with very
excited movementstold us his story.
“I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that tomorrow is the first day of the examination for the Fortescue
Scholarship. I am one of the examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists of a long
passage of Greek translation which the candidate has not seen. This passage is printed on the examination
paper, and it would naturally be an immense advantage if the candidate could prepare it in advance. For
this reason great care is taken to keep the paper secret.
“Today at about three o’clock, the originals of this paper arrived from the printers. The exercise consists
of half a chapter of Thucydides. I had to read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely correct. At
four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had, however, promised to take tea in a friend’s rooms, so I
left the proof upon my desk. I was away for more than an hour.
“You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double--a green one inside and a heavy oak one
outside. As I approached my outer door I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I imagined that I
had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I reslised that I had it. The only duplicate which
existed, so far as I knew, was that which belonged to my servant, Bannister, a man who has looked after
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my room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I found that the key was indeed
his, that he had entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key in
the door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been within a very few minutes of my
leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would have mattered little upon any other occasion, but on this
one day it has produced the most terrible consequences.
“The moment I looked at my table I was aware that someone had rummaged among my papers. The proof
was in three long slips. I had left them all together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on the floor,
one was on the side table near the window, and the third was where I had left it.”
Holmes moved for the first time.
“The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third where you left it,” said he.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know that?”
“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”
“For a moment I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable liberty of examining my papers. He
denied it, however, with the utmost sincerity, and I am convinced that he was telling the truth. The
alternative was that someone passing had observed the key in the door, had known that I was out, and had
entered to look at the papers. A large sum of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one,
and an unscrupulous man might very well take a risk in order to gain an advantage over the other
students.
“Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted when we found that the papers had
undoubtedly been touched. I gave him a little brandy and left him sitting in a chair while I made a careful
examination of the room. I soon saw that the intruder had left other signs of his presence besides the
rumpled papers. On the table in the window were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened.
A broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the rascal had copied the paper in a great hurry, had
broken his pencil, and had been forced to sharpen it.”
“Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his attention became more gripped by
the case. “Fortune has been your friend.”
“This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of red leather. I am prepared to swear,
and so is Bannister, that it was smooth and unstained. Now I found a cut in it about three inches long--not
a small scratch, but a cut. Not only this, but on the table I found a small ball of something black, maybe
clay, with specks of something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced that these marks were left
by the man who looked at the papers. There were no footmarks and no other evidence of his identity. I
was desperate, when suddenly the thought occurred to me that you were in the town, and I came here
directly to put the matter into your hands. Do help me, Mr. Holmes! You see my problem. Either I must
find the man or else the examination must be postponed until fresh papers are prepared. This cannot be
done without an explanation and then there will be a scandal, which will throw a cloud not only on the
college, but on the University. Above all things I want to settle the matter quietly and discreetly.”
“I shall be happy to look into it and to give you any advice I can,” said Holmes, standing up and putting
on his overcoat. “The case is not entirely without interest. Had anyone visited you in your room after the
papers came to you?”
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“Yes; young Daulat Ras, an Indian student who lives on the same stair, came in to ask me some
particulars about the examination.”
“Which is going to take?”
“Yes.”
“And the papers were on your table?”
“Yes, but I am certain that they were rolled up.”
“But he might have recognised them?”
“Possibly.”
“No one else in your room?”
“No.”
“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”
“No one apart from the printer.”
“Did this man Bannister know?”
“No, certainly not. No one knew.”
“Where is Bannister now?”
“He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him sitting in the chair. I was in such a hurry to come to you.”
“Did you leave your door open?”
“I locked up the papers first.”
“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames, that unless the Indian student recognised the roll as being proofs,
the man who touched them found them accidentally without knowing that they were there.”
“So it seems to me.”
Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.
“Well,” said he, “let us go and see. This is not one of your cases, Watson—this is mental, not physical.
But all right; come if you want to. Now, Mr. Soames—I am at your disposal!”
The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, window on to the ancient court of the old college. A
Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor was the tutor’s room. Above were
three students, one on each floor. It was already twilight when we reached the scene of our problem.
Holmes halted and looked seriously at the window. Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with
his neck craned, he looked into the room.
“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except the one pane,” said our learned
guide.
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“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a strange way as he looked at our companion. “Well, if there is
nothing to be learned here we had best go inside.”
The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We stood at the entrance while
Holmes made an examination of the carpet.
“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly hope for any on so dry a day. Your
servant seems to have quite recovered. You left him in a chair, you say; which chair?”
“By the window there.”
“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished with the carpet. Let us take the little
table first. Of course, what has happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by
sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the window table, because from there he could see if
you came across the courtyard, and so could make an escape.”
“As a matter of fact he could not,” said Soames, “I entered by the side door.”
“Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the three strips. No finger impressions--
no! Well, he carried over this one first and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using
every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less. Then he threw it down and picked up the next.
He was in the middle of that when your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat--VERY hurried,
because he didn’t have time to replace the papers which would tell you that he had been there. You were
not aware of any running feet on the stair as you entered the outer door?”
“No, I can’t say I was.”
“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as you observe, to sharpen it again. This is
of interest, Watson. The pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a soft lead. The
outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is
only about an inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man.
When I add that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have some additional help.”
Mr. Soames was quite confused by so much information. “I can follow the other points,” said he, “but
really, in this matter of the length----”
Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear wood after them.
“You see?”
“No, I ‘m sorry but even now----”
“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What could this NN be? It is at the end of
a word. You are aware that Johann Faber is the most common maker’s name. Is it not clear that there is
just as much of the pencil left as usually follows the Johann?” He held the small table sideways to the
electric light. “I was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote was thin, some trace of it might come
through upon this polished surface. No, I see nothing. I don’t think there is anything more to be learned
here. Now for the central table. This small pellet is, I presume, the black mass you spoke of. Roughly
pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say, there appear to be grains of sawdust in it.
Dear me, this is very interesting. And the cut--more accurately a tear, I see. It began with a thin scratch
and ended in a jagged hole. I am grateful to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames.
Where does that door lead to?”
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“To my bedroom.”
“Have you been in it since your adventure?”
“No; I came straight away for you.”
“I would like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned room! Perhaps you will kindly wait
a minute until I have examined the floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? Do you hang your
clothes behind it? If anyone were obliged to hide himself in this room he must do it there, since the bed is
too low and the wardrobe too small. No one there, I suppose?”
As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and alertness of his attitude, that he was
prepared for an emergency. As a matter of fact the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or four suits
of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away and suddenly bent to the floor.
“Halloa! What’s this?” said he.
It was a small pyramid of black stuff, exactly like the one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out
on his open palm in the glare of the electric light.
“Your visitor seems to have left signs in your bedroom as well as in your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”
“What could he have wanted there?”
“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and so he had no warning until you
were at the door. What could he do? He picked up everything which would betray him and he rushed into
your bedroom to hide himself.”
“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that all the time I was talking to Bannister in this
room we had the man prisoner if we had only known it?”
“I believe so.”
“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know whether you saw my bedroom window?”
“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging on hinge and large enough to
admit a man.”
“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be partly invisible. The man might have
entered there, left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and, finally, finding the door open have
escaped that way.”
Holmes shook his head impatiently.
“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand that you are saying that there are three students who use these
stairs and are in the habit of passing your door?”
“Yes, there are.”
“And they are all in for this examination?”
“Yes.”
“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?”
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Soames hesitated.
“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to throw suspicion where there is no proof.”
“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look for the proof.”
“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men who inhabit these rooms. The lower of
the three is Gilchrist, a fine scholar and athlete; plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for the
college, and got a prize for the hurdles and the long jump. He is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the
notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself by betting on horses. The son has been left very poor,
but he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.
“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a quiet, enigmatic fellow, as most of those
Indians are. He is well up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady and methodical.
“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow when he chooses to work--one of the
brightest intellects of the University, but he is rebellious, self-indulgent, and unprincipled. He was nearly
expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has been lazy all this term, and he must be very afraid
about the examination.”
“Then you suspect him?”
“I would not go so far as that. But of the three he is perhaps the least unlikely.”
“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant, Bannister.”
He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of fifty. He was still suffering from this
sudden disturbance of the quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his nervousness,
and his fingers could not keep still.
“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his master.
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very day when there were these papers
inside?”
“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same thing at other times.”
“When did you enter the room?”
“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’s tea time.”
“How long did you stay?”
“When I saw that he was absent I left at once.”
“Did you look at these papers on the table?”
“No, sir; certainly not.”
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“How did you manage to leave the key in the door?”
“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the key. Then I forgot.”
“Has the outer door a spring lock?”
“No, sir.”
“Then it was open all the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone in the room could get out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, were you very much disturbed?”
“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that I have been here. I nearly
fainted, sir.”
“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”
“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”
“That is strange, because you sat down in that chair over there near the corner. Why did you pass these
other chairs?”
“I don’t know, sir. It didn’t matter to me where I sat.”
“I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was looking very bad--quite terrible.”
“Did you stay here when your master left?”
“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my room.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is any gentleman in this University who is
capable of profiting by such an action. No, sir, I can’t believe it.”
“Thank you; that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You have not mentioned to any of the three
gentlemen whom you attend that anything is wrong?”
“No, sir; not a word.”
“You haven’t seen any of them?”
“No, sir.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle, if you please.” Three yellow
squares of light shone above us in the early darkness.
“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking up. “Halloa! What’s that? One of them
seems quite restless.”
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It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his blind. He was pacing swiftly up and
down his room.
“I would like to have a look at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is it possible?”
“No problem at all,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms is the oldest in the college, and it is not
unusual for visitors to look at them. Come along, and I will take you personally.”
“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s door. A tall, fair-haired, slim young
fellow opened it, and made us welcome when he understood our request. There were some really curious
pieces of mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he
insisted on drawing it on his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one from our host, and finally
borrowed a knife to sharpen his own. The same strange accident happened to him in the rooms of the
Indian--a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us suspiciously and was obviously glad when
Holmes’s architectural studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had come
upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the third did our visit prove useless. The outer door
would not open to our knock, and nothing more than a violent flow of bad language came from behind it.
“I don’t care who you are. You can go to blazes!” roared the angry voice. “Tomorrow’s the exam, and I
won’t be distracted by anyone.”
“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we went down the stairs. “Of course, he did not
realize that it was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very impolite, and, indeed,
under the circumstances rather suspicious.”
Holmes’s response was a curious one.
“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.
“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot say. He is taller than the Indian, not as tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot
six would be about it.”
“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I wish you good-night.”
Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not
going to leave me so suddenly! You don’t seem to realize my difficult position. Tomorrow is the
examination. I must take some definite action tonight. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of
the papers has been seen. The situation must be solved.”
“You must leave it as it is. I will call round early tomorrow morning and chat the matter over. It is
possible that I may be in a position to indicate some course of action then. Meanwhile don’t change
anything--nothing at all.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”
“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some way out of your difficulties. I will
take the black clay with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”
When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle we again looked up at the windows. The Indian still
paced his room. The others were invisible.
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“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came out into the main street. “Quite a
little parlour game--sort of three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one of them.
You take your choice. Which is yours?”
“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst record. And yet that Indian was a sly
fellow also. Why should he be pacing his room all the time?”
“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to learn something by heart.”
“He looked at us in a strange way.”
“So would you if a group of strangers came in on you when you were preparing for an examination next
day, and every moment was of value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives--all was
satisfactory. But that fellow DOES puzzle me.”
“Who?”
“Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his role in all this?”
“He seemed to be a perfectly honest man.”
“So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly honest man--well, well, here’s a large
stationer’s shop. We shall begin our research here.”
There were only four stationers of any importance in the town, and at each one, Holmes produced his
pencil chips and requested a duplicate. All said that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual size
of pencil and that it was rarely kept in stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure, but
shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.
“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little
doubt that we can build up a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine, and the
landlady spoke of green peas at seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your
irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to quit and that I shall share your downfall--not,
however, before we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless servant, and the three
enterprising students.”
Holmes made no further reference to the matter that day, though he sat lost in thought for a long time
after our late dinner. At eight in the morning he came into my room just as I finished washing.
“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went to St. Luke’s. Can you do without breakfast?”
“Certainly.”
“Soames will be in a terrible state until we are able to tell him something positive.”
“Have you anything positive to tell him?”
“I think so.”
“Have you formed a conclusion?”
“Yes, my dear Watson; I have solved the mystery.”
“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”
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“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at the untimely hour of six. I have put in
two hours’ hard work and covered at least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at that!”
He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of black, doughy clay.
“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday!”
“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3 came from is also the source of
Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come along and put our friend Soames out of his pain.”
The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of agitation when we found him in his rooms. In a few hours
the examination would commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the facts public and
allowing the guilty person to compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand still, so great
was his mental agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with two excited hands outstretched.
“Thank Heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up in despair. What am I to do? Shall
the examination proceed?”
“Yes; let it proceed by all means.”
“But this rascal----?”
“He shall not compete.”
“You know him?”
“I think so. If this matter is not to become public we must give ourselves certain powers, and become,
ourselves, a small private court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson, you here! I’ll take the
arm-chair in the middle. I think that we are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty man’s
heart. Kindly ring the bell!”
Bannister entered, and fell back in evident surprise and fear at our judicial appearance.
“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister, will you please tell us the truth about
yesterday’s incident?”
The man turned white to the roots of his hair.
“I have told you everything, sir.”
“Nothing to add?”
“Nothing at all, sir.”
“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down on that chair yesterday, did you
do so in order to conceal some object which would have shown who had been in the room?”
Bannister’s face was terrible.
“No, sir; certainly not.”
“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit that I am unable to prove it. But it seems
probable enough, since the moment that Mr. Soames’s back was turned, you released the man who was
hiding in that bedroom.”
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Bannister licked his dry lips.
“There was no man, sir.”
“Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the truth, but now I know that you have lied.”
The man’s face set in grim defiance.
“There was no man, sir.”
“Come, come, Bannister!”
“No, sir; there was no one.”
“In that case you can give us no further information. Would you please remain in the room? Stand over
there near the bedroom door. Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go up to
the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him to come down into yours.”
An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student. He was a fine figure of a man, tall,
flexible, and agile, with a springy step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at each of
us, and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.
“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all quite alone here, and no one need ever
know one word of what passes between us. We can be perfectly honest with each other. We want to
know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit such an action as that of
yesterday?”
The unfortunate young man staggered back and gave a look full of horror and reproach at Bannister.
“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir; I never said a word--never one word!” cried the servant.
“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that after Bannister’s words your position
is hopeless, and that your only chance lies in an honest confession.”
For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his moving features. The next he had thrown
himself on his knees beside the table and, burying his face in his hands, he had burst into passionate
tears.
“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly; “it is human to err, and at least no one can accuse you of being a
heartless criminal. Perhaps it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you
can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don’t trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I
do you no injustice.
“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not even Bannister, could have told that
the papers were in your room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer I could, of
course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of. If
the proofs were in a roll he could not possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it seemed an
unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by chance on that very day the
papers were on the table. I dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How
did he know?
“When I approached your room I examined the window. You amused me by supposing that I was
contemplating the possibility of someone having in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite
©
rooms, forced himself through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to
be in order to see as he passed what papers were on the central table. I am six feet high, and I could do it
with an effort. No one less than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to think that if
one of your three students was a man of unusual height he was the most worth watching of the three.
“I entered and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of the side table. Of the centre table I
could make nothing, until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a long-distance
jumper. Then the whole thing came to me in an instant, and I only needed extra proof, which I speedily
obtained.
“What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his afternoon at the athletic grounds, where
he had been practising the jump. He returned carrying his jumping shoes, which are provided, as you are
aware, with several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by means of his great height, these
papers upon your table, and guessed what they were. No harm would have been done had it not been that
as he passed your door he perceived the key which had been left by the carelessness of your servant. A
sudden impulse came over him to enter and see if they were indeed the exam papers. It was not a
dangerous idea, for he could always pretend that he had simply looked in to ask a question.
“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that he gave in to temptation. He put his
shoes on the table. What was it you put on that chair near the window?”
“Gloves,” said the young man.
Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on the chair, and he took the exam papers,
sheet by sheet, to copy them. He thought the tutor must return by the main gate, and that he would see
him. As we know, he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was no
possible escape. He forgot his gloves, but he picked up his shoes and ran into the bedroom. You observe
that the scratch on that table is light at one side, but deepens in the direction of the bedroom door. That in
itself is enough to show us that the shoe had been dragged in that direction and that the culprit had hidden
there. The earth around the spike had been left on the table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in
the bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this morning, saw that black clay is used
in the jumping-pit, and carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan or sawdust which
is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”
The student had stood up as tall as he could.
“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.
“Good heavens, have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.
“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr.
Soames, which I wrote to you early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I knew
that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that I have said, ‘I have decided not to go in for
the examination. I have been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South
Africa at once.”
“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by your unfair advantage,” said Soames.
“But why did you change your purpose?”
Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.
“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.
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“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you from what I have said that only you could
have let this young man out, since you were left in the room, and must have locked the door when you
went out. As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible. Can you not clear up the last point in this
mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?”
“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known; but with all your cleverness it was impossible that you
could know. Time was, sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman’s father.
When he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I never forgot my old employer because he was
down in the world. I watched his son all I could for the sake of the old days. Well, sir, when I came into
this room yesterday when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr. Gilchrist’s tan gloves
lying in that chair. I knew those gloves well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, he
would have known who had been here. I sat down in that chair, and nothing would move me until Mr.
Soames went for you. Then my poor young master came out and confessed it all to me. Wasn’t it natural,
sir, that I should save him, and wasn’t it natural also that I should try to speak to him as his dead father
would have done, and make him understand that he could not benefit by such a deed? Could you blame
me, sir?”
“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. “Well, Soames, I think we have cleared up your
little problem, and our breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust that a bright
future awaits you in Rhodesia. This once you have fallen low. Let us see in the future how high you can
rise.”
*****
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X.--The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez.
WHEN I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our work for the year 1894 I
confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a large quantity of material, to select the cases which
are most interesting in themselves and at the same time most conducive to a display of those peculiar
powers for which my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages I see my notes upon the repulsive story
of the red leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here, also I find an account of the Addleton
tragedy and the strange contents of the ancient British hill. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case
comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin--an
exploit which won for Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of
the Legion of Honour. Each of these would fill a book, but on the whole I am of opinion that none of
them unite so many unique points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only
the sad death of young Willoughby Smith, but also the later developments which gave such strange
information about the causes of the crime.
It was a wild, stormy night near the end of November. Holmes and I sat together in silence all the
evening. He was busy with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a
palimpsest and I was fascinated by a recent publication about surgery. Outside the wind howled down
Baker Street, while the rain beat against the windows. It was strange there in the very depths of the town,
with ten miles of man-made constructions on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be
conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields.
I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps shone on the muddy
road and shining pavement. A single taxi was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.
“Well, Watson, it’s a good thing that we don’t need to go out tonight,” said Holmes, putting down his
lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I’ve done enough for now. It is tiring work for the eyes. So far as I
can make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey’s accounts dating from the second half of the
fifteenth century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s this?”
Amid the howling of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse’s hoofs and the long grind of a
wheel as it rubbed against the kerb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.
“What can he want?” I cried, as a man stepped out of it.
“Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and boots, and every help that man ever
invented to fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There’s the taxi off again! There’s hope yet. He’d have
kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all good people
have been long in bed.”
When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had no difficulty in recognising him. It
was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a
very practical interest.
“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.
“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope you have no need for us to leave the
house on a night like this.”
The detective went up the stairs, and our lamp shone on his shining waterproof coat. I helped him out of it
while Holmes knocked the logs in the grate in order to make the fire come back to life.
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“Now, my dear Hopkins, come to the fire and warm your toes,” said he. “Here’s a cigar, and the doctor
has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must
be something important which has brought you out in such a gale.”
“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a busy afternoon, I promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley
case in the latest editions of the newspapers?”
“I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century today.”
“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not missed anything. I haven’t let the
grass grow under my feet. It’s down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I
was sent for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at five, conducted my investigation, was back at
Charing Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab.”
“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?”
“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can see it is the most complicated case I
have ever seen , and yet at first it seemed so simple that I couldn’t go wrong. There’s no motive, Mr.
Holmes. That’s what bothers me--I can’t find a motive. Here’s a man dead--there’s no denying that--but,
so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”
Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.
“Let us hear about it,” said he.
“I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I want now is to know what they all mean.
The story, so far as I can make it out, is like this. Some years ago, this country house, Yoxley Old Place,
was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, staying in his
bed half the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being pushed about the
grounds by the gardener in a wheel chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him,
and he has the reputation of being a very educated man. His household used to consist of an elderly
housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him since his arrival,
and they seem to be women of excellent character. The Professor is writing a educational book, and he
found it necessary about a year ago to hire a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but
the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the University, seems to have been just
what his employer wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor’s dictation, and
he usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages to use in the next day’s work. This
Willoughby Smith has nothing negative against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at
Cambridge. I have seen his references. From the start he was a decent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no
weak spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the Professor’s study
under circumstances which can point only to murder.”
The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to the fire while the young
inspector slowly and point by point told his strange story.
“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose you could find a household more self-
contained or free from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the
garden gate. The Professor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew
nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two women had nothing to
take them from the house. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the Professor’s chair, is an Army
pensioner--an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the house, but in a three-
©
roomed cottage at the other end of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the
grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is a hundred yards from the main
London to Chatham road. It opens with a simple latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from
walking in.
“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only person who can say anything
positive about the matter. It was in the late morning, between eleven and twelve. She was occupied at the
time by hanging some curtains in the front upstairs bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed because
when the weather is bad he rarely rises before midday. The housekeeper was busy with some work in the
back of the house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room; but the
maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend to the study immediately below her.
She did not see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm steps. She did not hear
the study door close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild,
hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a man or a woman. At the
same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The maid stood
petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut,
and she opened it. Inside young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched out on the floor. At first she could
see no injury, but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of his neck.
It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument
with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-
wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was
always on the Professor’s own desk.
“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on pouring some water from the carafe
over his forehead he opened his eyes for an instant. ‘The Professor,’ he murmured--‘it was she.’ The maid
is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he
held his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead.
“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived on the scene, but she was just too late to catch the
young man’s dying words. Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the Professor’s room. He was
sitting up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him that something terrible had
occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the Professor was still in his night-clothes, and, indeed, it
was impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve
o’clock. The Professor declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give
no explanation of the young man’s last words, ‘The Professor--it was she,’ but imagines that they were
the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give
no reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer the gardener for the local police. A little
later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and strict orders were given
that no one should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your
theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.There was really nothing wanting.”
“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat bitter smile. “Well, let us hear
about it. What sort of job did you make of it?”
“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which will give you a general idea of the
position of the Professor’s study and the various points of the case. It will help you in following my
investigation.”
He unfolded the rough chart, and he laid it across Holmes’s knees. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I
studied it over his shoulder.
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“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which seem to me to be essential. All the rest
you will see later for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the house, how did he
or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access to
the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been
made along that line, for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan as she ran
downstairs and the other leads straight to the Professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at
once to the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain and would certainly show any footmarks.
“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal. No footmarks were
to be found on the path. There could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass
border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find
anything in the nature of a definite impression, but the grass was trodden down and someone had
undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had
been there that morning and the rain had only begun during the night.”
“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”
“To the road.”
“How long is it?”
“A hundred yards or so.”
“At the point where the path passes through the gate you could surely pick up the tracks?”
“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”
“Well, on the road itself?”
“No; it was all trodden into mud.”
“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or going?”
“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”
“A large foot or a small?”
“You could not distinguish.”
Holmes gave an cry of impatience.
“It has been pouring with rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,” said he. “It will be harder to read now
than that palimpsest. Well, well, it can’t be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain
that you had made certain of nothing?”
“I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that someone had entered the house cautiously
from outside. I next examined the corridor. It is lined with coconut matting and showed no impression of
any kind. This brought me into the study itself. It is a poorly-furnished room. The main article is a large
writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double column of drawers with a central small
cupboard between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were
always open, and nothing of value was kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the
cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been touched, and the Professor assures me that nothing
was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been committed.
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“I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the bureau, and just to the left of it, as
marked upon that chart. The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind forwards, so that it is
almost impossible that it could have been self-inflicted.”
“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.
“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet away from the body, so that seems
impossible. Then, of course, there are the man’s own dying words. And, finally, there was this very
important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man’s right hand.”
From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-
nez, with two broken ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby Smith had
excellent sight,” he added. “There can be no question that this was snatched from the face of the
assassin.”
Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with the utmost attention and interest.
He held them on his nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street
with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated
himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley
Hopkins.
“That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be of some use.”
The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:--
“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which
are set close upon either side of it. She has a wrinkled forehead, a peering expression, and probably
rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the
last few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very numerous, there
should be no difficulty in tracing her.”
Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been reflected upon my features.
“Surely my deductions are simplicity itself,” said he. “It would be difficult to name any articles which
give a finer opportunity for inference than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That
they belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of course, from the last words of the dying
man. As to her being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive, handsomely
mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be scruffy in
other respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your nose, showing that the lady’s nose was
very broad at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there are a sufficient
number of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my
description. My own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, or near
the centre, of these glasses. Therefore the lady’s eyes are set very near to the sides of the nose. You will
perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so
extremely bad all her life is sure to have the physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the
forehead, the eyelids, and the shoulders.”
“Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess, however, that I am unable to understand
how you arrive at the double visit to the optician.”
Holmes took the glasses in his hand.
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“You will see,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the
nose. One of these is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new. Evidently one has
fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that the older of them has not been there more than a few
months. Theyexactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the same establishment for the
second.”
“By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of admiration. “To think that I had all that
evidence in my hand and never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the London
opticians.”
“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us about the case?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do now--probably more. We have had
inquiries made as to any stranger seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have heard of
none. My biggest problem is finding a motive for the crime. Nobody can suggest a ghost of a motive for
the murder.”
“Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want us to come out tomorrow?”
“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the
morning, and we should be at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine.”
“Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of great interest, and I shall be delighted to
look into it. Well, it’s nearly one, and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I dare say you can manage all
right on the sofa in front of the fire. I’ll light my lamp and give you a cup of coffee before we start.”
The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitterly cold morning when we started our journey.
We saw the cold winter sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long, gloomy reaches of
the river, which I shall forever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of
our career. After a long and tiring journey we got off at a small station some miles from Chatham. While
a horse was being put into a cart at the local inn we ate a hurried breakfast, and so we were all ready for
business when we at last arrived at Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.
“Well, Wilson, any news?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
“No reports of any stranger seen?”
“No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger either came or went yesterday.”
“Have you had inquiries made at inns and accommodation?”
“Yes, sir; there is no one that we cannot account for.”
“Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay there, or take a train without being
observed. This is the garden path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I’ll give my word there was no mark on
it yesterday.”
“On which side were the marks on the grass?”
“This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the flower-bed. I can’t see the traces
now, but they were clear to me then.”
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“Yes, yes; someone has passed along,” said Holmes, bending over the grass border. “Our lady must have
picked her steps carefully, mustn’t she? On the one side she would leave a track on the path, and on the
other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”
“Yes, sir, she must have been quite an expert.”
I saw a look of concentration pass over Holmes’s face.
“You say that she must have come back this way?”
“Yes, sir; there is no other.”
“On this strip of grass?”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”
“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance--very remarkable. Well, I think we have exhausted the path.
Let us go farther. This garden door is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had to do nothing
but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would have provided herself with some
sort of weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this
corridor, leaving no traces upon the coconut matting. Then she found herself in this study. How long was
she there? We have no means of guessing.”
“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Marker, the housekeeper, had been in
there tidying not very long before--about a quarter of an hour, she says.”
“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room and what does she do? She goes over to the writing-
table. What for? Not for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking it would
surely have been locked up. No; it was for something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch
upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?”
The mark which he was examining began upon the brass work on the right-hand side of the keyhole, and
extended for about four inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.
“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes. But you’ll always find scratches round a keyhole.”
“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is cut. An old scratch would be the same
colour as the surface. Look at it through my lens. There’s the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a
furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”
A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.
“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you notice this scratch?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these shreds of varnish. Who has the key of
this bureau?”
“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”
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“Is it a simple key?”
“No, sir; it is a Chubb’s key.”
“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little progress. Our lady enters the room,
advances to the bureau, and either opens it or tries to do so. While she is busy with this, young
Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key she makes this scratch upon the
door. He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this knife, strikes at
him in order to make him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or
without the object for which she has come. Is Susan the maid there? Could anyone have got away through
that door after the time that you heard the cry, Susan?”
“No sir; it is impossible. Before I got down the stairs I’d have seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the
door never opened, because I would have heard it.”
“That eliminates this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she came. I understand that this other
passage only leads to the Professor’s room. There is no exit that way?”
“No, sir.”
“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the Professor. Halloa, Hopkins! this is very
important, very important indeed. The Professor’s corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”
“Well, sir, what of that?”
“Don’t you see any importance to the case? Well, well, I don’t insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And
yet it seems to me to be suggestive. Come with me and introduce me.”
We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which led to the garden. At the end
was a short flight of steps ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then showed us into the Professor’s
bedroom.
It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which had overflowed from the shelves and
lay in piles in the corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the centre of
the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more
remarkable-looking person. It was a thin, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing dark
eyes, which hid in deep hollows under overhung brows. His hair and beard were white, save that the latter
was curiously stained with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of white hair,
and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco-smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes I perceived
that it also was stained yellow with nicotine.
“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking well-chosen English with a strange, feminine accent. “Please
take a cigarette. And you, sir? I can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides of
Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I am sorry to say that I have to arrange for a fresh
supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work--that
is all that is left to me.”
Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances all over the room.
“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man exclaimed. “Alas! what a fatal interruption!
Who could have foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that after a
few months’ training he was an admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?”
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“I have not yet made up my mind.”
“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm
and invalid like myself such a blow is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But you are a
man of action--you are a man of affairs. It is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can preserve
your balance in every emergency.We are fortunate indeed in having you at our side.”
Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old Professor was talking. I observed
that he was smoking with extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host’s liking for the
fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.
“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my MAGNUM OPUS--the pile of papers on
the side table yonder. It is my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and
Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very foundations of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health
I do not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it now that my assistant has been taken from me.
Dear me, Mr. Holmes; why, you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”
Holmes smiled.
“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the box--his fourth--and lighting it from the
stub of that which he had finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination, Professor
Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of the crime and could know nothing about it. I
would only ask this. What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words: ‘The Professor--
it was she’?”
The Professor shook his head.
“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible stupidity of that class. I fancy that the
poor fellow murmured some incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into this meaningless
message.”
“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”
“Possibly an accident; possibly--I only breathe it among ourselves--a suicide. Young men have their
hidden troubles--some affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known about. It is a more
probable supposition than murder.”
“But the eye-glasses?”
“Ah! I am only a student--a man of dreams. I cannot explain the practical things of life. But still, we are
aware, my friend, that love may take strange shapes. By all means take another cigarette. It is a pleasure
to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan, a glove, glasses--who knows what article may be carried as a
token or treasured item when a man puts an end to his life? This gentleman speaks of footsteps in the
grass; but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it might well be thrown far
from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”
Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued to walk up and down for some
time, lost in thought and consuming cigarette after cigarette.
“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that cupboard in the bureau?”
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“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor wife, diplomas of Universities
which have done me honour. Here is the key. You can look for yourself.”
Holmes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant; then he handed it back.
“No; I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should prefer to go quietly down to your garden and
turn the whole matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide which you
have put forward. We must apologize for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that
we won’t disturb you until after lunch. At two o’clock we will come again and report anything to you
which may have happened in the interval.”
Holmes was curiously distracted, and we walked up and down the garden path for some time in silence.
“Have you got a clue?” I asked, at last.
“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is possible that I am completely mistaken.
The cigarettes will show me.”
“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth----”
“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm done. Of course, we always have the
optician clue to fall back upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker!
Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her.”
I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly ingratiating way with women,
and that he very readily established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which he had named
he had captured the housekeeper’s goodwill, and was chatting with her as if he had known her for years.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke a terrible lot. All day and sometimes all night, sir.
I’ve seen that room in the morning--well, sir, you’d have thought it was a London fog. Poor young Mr.
Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad as the Professor. His health--well, I don’t know if it’s better
or worse because of the smoking.”
“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”
“I suppose the Professor eats hardly anything?”
“Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”
“I imagine that he didn’t have breakfast this morning, and won’t face his lunch after all the cigarettes I
saw him consume.”
“Well, you’re wrong there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkably big breakfast this morning. I don’t
know when I’ve seen him eat a better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I’m
surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the
floor I couldn’t bear to look at food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the Professor hasn’t let it
take his appetite away.”
We passed the morning in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone down to the village to look into some
rumours of a strange woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous
morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had never known him
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handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that he had found
the children and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes’s
description, and wearing either spectacles or eye-glasses, failed to get any sign of interest. He was more
attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed Mr.
Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an hour before the
tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the relevance of this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes
was weaving it into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he sprang from his
chair and glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said he. “We must go up and speak with our
friend the Professor.”
The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish bore evidence to the good appetite
with which his housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his long, white
hair and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed
and was seated in an arm-chair by the fire.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved the large tin of cigarettes which stood
on a table beside him towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and
between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving
stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again I observed that Holmes’s eyes were shining
and his cheeks tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.
“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”
Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer came over the thin features of the old
Professor.
“Indeed! In the garden?”
“No, here.”
“Here! When?”
“This instant.”
“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You force me to tell you that this is too serious a matter to
be treated in such a fashion.”
“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram, and I am sure that it is sound. What
your motives are or what exact part you play in this strange business I am not yet able to say. In a few
minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your
benefit, so that you may know the information which I still require.
“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of possessing herself of certain
documents which were in your bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining
yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch made upon the varnish would have
produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without
your knowledge to rob you.”
The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most interesting and instructive,” said he. “Have you no
more to add? Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her.”
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“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was captured by your secretary, and stabbed him in order
to escape. This catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the
lady had no intention of inflicting so serious an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified by
what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her she had
lost her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was really helpless without
them. She ran down a corridor, which she imagined to be that by which she had come--both were lined
with coconut matting--and it was only when it was too late that she understood that she had taken the
wrong passage and that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not go back.
She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a
door, and found herself in your room.”
The old man sat with his mouth open staring wildly at Holmes. Amazement and fear were stamped upon
his expressive features. Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.
“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in
my room, and I never left it during the day.”
“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”
“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware that a woman had entered my
room?”
“I never said so. You WERE aware of it. You spoke with her. You recognised her. You aided her to
escape.”
Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his feet and his eyes glowed like
embers.
“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her to escape? Where is she now?”
“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the corner of the room.
I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over his grim face, and he fell back in
his chair. At the same instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a hinge, and a
woman rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she cried, in a strange foreign voice. “You are right! I
am here.”
She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come from the walls of her hiding-
place. Her face, too, was streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for
she had the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had guessed, with, in addition, a long chin. What
with her natural blindness, and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking
about her to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these disadvantages, there was a certain
nobility in the woman’s manner, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head, which compelled
something of respect and admiration. Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as
his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an overmastering dignity which compelled
obedience. The old man lay back in his chair, with a twitching face, and stared at her with brooding eyes.
“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I could hear everything, and I know that you
have learned the truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But you are right, it was an
accident. I did not even know that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched
anything from the table and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”
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“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you are far from well.”
She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark dust-streaks upon her face. She seated
herself on the side of the bed; then she resumed.
“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you to know the whole truth. I am this man’s
wife. He is not an Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”
For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he cried. “God bless you!”
She cast a look of the deepest contempt in his direction. “Why should you cling so hard to that wretched
life of yours, Sergius?” said she. “It has done harm to many and good to none--not even to yourself.
However, it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped. I have enough already upon my soul
since I crossed the threshold of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.
“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty and I a foolish girl of twenty when we
married. It was in a city of Russia, a University--I will not name the place.”
“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.
“We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand. He and I and many more. Then there
came a time of trouble, a police officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in
order to save his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his own wife and his
companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows and
some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to England with
his ill-gotten gains, and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he
was, not a week would pass before justice would be done.”
The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,”
said he. “You were always good to me.”
“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she. “Among our comrades of the Order there was
one who was the friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my husband was not. He hated
violence. We were all guilty--if that is guilt--but he was not. He wrote dissuading us from such a course of
action. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in which from day to day I had entered both
my feelings towards him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband found and kept both diary
and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to swear away the young man’s life. In this he failed, but Alexis
was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain,
you villain; now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not good enough to speak,
works and lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands and I let you go.”
“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing at his cigarette.
She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.
“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to get the diary and letters which, if sent
to the Russian Government, would guarantee my friend’s release. I knew that my husband had come to
England. After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, because
when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once criticising me and quoting some passages from its
pages. Yet I was sure that with his revengeful nature he would never give it to me of his own free will. I
must get it for myself. With this object I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my
husband’s house as secretary--it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He
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found that the papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got a copy of the key. He would not go farther.
He gave me with a plan of the house, and he told me that in the late morning the study was always empty,
as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took my courage in both hands and I came down to get
the papers for myself. I succeeded, but at what a cost!
“I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard when the young man seized me. I had seen him
already that morning. He had met me in the road and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram
lived, not knowing that he worked here.”
“Exactly! exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back and told his employer of the woman he had
met. Then in his last breath he tried to send a message that it was she--the ‘she’ whom he had just
discussed with him.”
“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice, and her face contracted as if in pain.
“When he had fallen I rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband’s
room. He spoke of giving me to the police. I showed him that if he did so his life was in my hands. If he
gave me to the law, I could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my own sake,
but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I said--that his own fate
was involved in mine. For that reason and for no other he protected me. He pushed me into that dark
hiding-place, a relic of old days, known only to him. He took his meals in his own room, and so was able
to give me part of his food. It was agreed that when the police left the house I would slip away by night
and come back no more. But in some way you have read our plans.” She tore from the bosom of her dress
a small packet. “These are my last words,” said she; “here is the packet which will save Alexis. I give it to
you and rely on your honour and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian
Embassy. Now I have done my duty, and----”
“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had wrenched a small bottle from her
hand.
“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the poison before I left my hiding-place.
My head swims! I am going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”
“A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one,” Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to
town. “It depended from the outset upon the pince-nez. Without the fortunate chance of the dying man
having seized these, I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me from
the strength of the glasses that the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when without them.
When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without once making a false
step I remarked, as you may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as
an impossible performance, except in the unlikely case that she had a second pair of glasses. I was forced,
therefore, to seriously consider the hypothesis that she had remained inside the house. On seeing the
similarity of the two corridors it became clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and in
that case it was evident that she must have entered the Professor’s room. I was on the alert, therefore, for
whatever would prove this supposition, and I examined the room in detail for anything in the shape of a
hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door.
There might well be a gap behind the books. As you are aware, such devices are common in old libraries.
I observed that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear. This,
then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends
itself very well to examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I
dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but
exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs and I discovered, in your presence, Watson, without you
©
realising the intention of my remarks, that Professor Coram’s consumption of food had increased--as one
would expect when he is supplying a second person. We then went to the room again, when, by knocking
over the cigarette-box, I got a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the
traces upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had, in our absence, come out from her hiding place. Well,
Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a
successful conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will drive
together to the Russian Embassy.”
*****
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VIII.--The Adventure of the Six Napoleons.

“Anything remarkable at work?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Holmes sank back in his chair.

“That’s no business of mine,” said he.

Holmes sat up again.

“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“This is certainly very strange,” said he.

“They were taken from the same mould.”

“Well, how do YOU explain it?”

“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.--Lestrade.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

“What has it turned to, then?”

Holmes sat down and listened.

“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

“Well?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

Lestrade looked around him.

“I give up. I have no idea,” said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“What would you do, then?”

“Very good,” said Lestrade.

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

“What prison sentence did he get?”

“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“You don’t say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“And the next stage?”

“In the Italian quarter?”

“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

“No, he did not.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

IX.--The Adventure of the Three Students.

Holmes moved for the first time.

“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“Which is going to take?”

“And the papers were on your table?”

“Yes, but I am certain that they were rolled up.”

“But he might have recognised them?”

“No one else in your room?”

“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”

“No one apart from the printer.”

“Did this man Bannister know?”

“No, certainly not. No one knew.”

“Where is Bannister now?”

“Did you leave your door open?”

“I locked up the papers first.”

“So it seems to me.”

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

“By the window there.”

“No, I can’t say I was.”