 CHAPTER V. OF THE ADVENTURES OF SHIRLOCK HOLMs. by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPPS When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years 82 and 90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise that on the absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in connection with it which never have been and probably never will be entirely cleared up. The year 87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Following my headings under this one twelve months, I find an account of the adventure of the Paretole Chamber, of the amateur mendicant society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British bark, Sophie Anderson, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patterson's in the Island of Utha, and finally of the Camberwell Poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time, a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them presents such singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe. It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed, and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great handmade London we are forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognize the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilization, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and saw up like a child in the chimney. The clock-homes sat mootly at one side of the fireplace, cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street. Why, said I, glancing up at my companion, that was surely the bell. Who could come to-night, some friend of yours perhaps? Except yourself I have none, he answered. I do not encourage visitors. A client, then? If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day, and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady's. Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit. Come in, said he. The man who entered was young, some two and twenty at the outside, well groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof, told of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety. I owe you an apology, he said, raising his golden ponsne to his eyes. I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber. Give me your coat and umbrella, said Holmes. They may rest here on the hook, and will be dry presently. You have come up from the south-west, I see. Yes, from Horsham. That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive. I have come for advice. That is easily got, and help. That is not always so easy. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal. Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards. He said that you could solve anything. He said too much. That you are never beaten? I have been beaten four times, three times by men, and once by a woman. But what is that compared with the number of your successes? It is true that I have been generally successful. Then you may be so with me. I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire, and favour me with some details as to your case. It is no ordinary one. None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal. And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened to my own family. You fill me with interest, said Holmes. Pray, give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important. The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze. My name, said he, is John Openshaw. But my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter, so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair. You must know that my grandfather had two sons, my uncle Elias, and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw Unbreakable Tire, and his business meant with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence. My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms, my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the Negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if he ever set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own brother. He didn't mind me, in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him, and he was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and drafts with me, and he would make me his representative, both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber room up among the attics, which was invariably locked, in which he would never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such a room. One day it was in March 1883, a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the Colonel's plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. From India, he said as he took it up. Pondicherry postmark, what can this be? Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the color of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand. K-K-K, he shrieked, and then, my God, my God, my sins have overtaken me. What is it, Uncle? I cried. Death, said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum. The letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cash box in the other. They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still, said he with an oath. Tell Mary that I shall want to fire in my room today, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer. I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black fluffy ashes as a burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed with a start that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope. I wish you, John, said my uncle, to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, once it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good. If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn things are going to take. Only sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you. I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man and that he would not be cooped up like a sheep in a pen by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush to tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin. Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of suicide. But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much adieu to persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some fourteen thousand pounds, which lay to his credit at the bank. One moment, Holmes interposed. Your statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide. The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2. Thank you. Pray, proceed. When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K, K, K, repeated upon it, and letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register, written beneath. These we presume indicated the nature of the papers, which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic, save a great many scattered papers and notebooks, bearing upon my uncle's life in America. Some of them were of the wartime, and showed that he had done his duty well, and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the southern states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bagged politicians who had been sent down from the north. Well, it was the beginning of 84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of 85. On the fourth day after the new year, I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand, and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what we call my cock-and-bowl story about the Colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself. Why, what on earth does this mean, John? He stammered. My heart had turned to lead. It is KKK, said I. He looked inside the envelope. So it is, he cried. Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them? Put the papers on the sundial, I read, peeping over his shoulder. What papers? What sundial? he asked. The sundial in the garden. There is no other, said I. But the papers must be those that are destroyed. Pooh, said he, gripping hard at his courage. We are in a civilized land here. We can't have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does this thing come from? From Dundee, I answered, glancing at the postmark. Some preposterous practical joke, said he. What if I had to do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense. I should certainly speak to the police, I said. Then be laughed at for my pains, nothing of the sort. Then let me do so? No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such nonsense. It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings. On the third day after the coming of the letter, my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, major free body, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portston Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence, I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk pits, which abound in the neighborhood, and was lying senseless with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Ferrum in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of death from accidental causes. Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads, and yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well nice certain that some foul plot had been woven round him. In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it. I answer because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another. It was in January 85 that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived aptly at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however. Yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father. The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table, he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips. This is the envelope, he continued. The postmark is London, Eastern Division. Within are the very words which were upon my father's last message. KKK, and then put the papers on the sundial. What have you done, asked Holmes. Nothing, nothing. To tell the truth, he sank his face into his thin white hands. I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless inexorable evil which no foresight and no precautions can guard against. Tut, tut, cried Sherlock Holmes. You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair. I have seen the police. Ah, but they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings. Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. Incredible imbecility, he cried. They have, however, allowed me a policeman who may remain in the house with me. Has he come with you tonight? No, his orders were to stay in the house. Again, Holmes raved in the air. Why did you come to me? He cried. And above all, why did you not come at once? I did not know. It was only today that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you. It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us. No suggestive detail which might help us. There is one thing, said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat pocket and drawing out a piece of discolored blue tinted paper he laid it out upon the table. I have some remembrance, said he, that on the day when my uncle burned the papers, I observed that the small unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular color. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's. Holmes moved the lamp and we both bent over the sheet of paper which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed March 1869 and beneath were the following enigmatic notices. Fourth, Hudson came, same old platform. Seventh, set the pips on Macaulay, Paramore and John Swain of St. Augustine. Ninth, Macaulay cleared. Tenth, John Swain cleared. Twelfth, visited Paramore, all well. Thank you, said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. And now you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and act. What shall I do? There's but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial as directed. Do you understand? Entirely. Do not think of revenge or anything of the sort of present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law, but we have our web to weave while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties. I thank you, said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise. Do not lose an instant and above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back? By train from Waterloo. It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety and yet you cannot guard yourself too closely. I am armed. That is well. Tomorrow I shall set to work upon your case. I shall see you at Horsham, then. No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it. Then I shall call upon you in a day or in two days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular. He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and padded against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements, blown in upon us like a sheet of seaweed in a gale, and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more. Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe and leaning back in his chair, he watched the blue smoke rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling. I think, Watson, he remarked at last, that of all our cases, we have had none more fantastic than this. Save, perhaps, the sign of four? Well, yes, save, perhaps that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Schultos. But have you, I asked, formed any definite conception as to what these perils are? There can be no question as to their nature, he answered. Then what are they? Who is this KKK? And why does he pursue this unhappy family? Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair with his fingertips together. The ideal reason, he remarked, would when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone. So the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilize all the facts which have come to his knowledge and this in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge which even in these days of free education and encyclopedias is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work and this I have endeavored in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion in the early days of our friendship to find my limits in a very precise fashion. Yes, I answered laughing. It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany, variable, geology profound as regards the mud stains from any region within 50 miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy, unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis. Holmes grinned at the last item. Well, he said, I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain addict stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use and the rest he can put away in the lumber room of his library where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us tonight, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American Encyclopedia which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now, let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life did not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something. So we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters? The first was from Ponticherry, the second from Dundee and the third from London. From East London. What do you deduce from that? They are all seaports. That the rider was on board of a ship. Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability, the strong probability, is that the rider was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Ponticherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfillment. In Dundee, it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything? A greater distance to travel. But the letter had also a greater distance to come. Then I do not see the point. There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Ponticherry in a steamer, they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mail boat, which brought the letter, and the sailing vessel, which brought the rider. It is possible. More than that, it is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time, which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay. Good God, I cried. What can it mean, this relentless persecution? The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have be the holder of them who it may. In this way, you see KKK ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society. But of what society? Have you never, said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice. Have you never heard of the Klu Klux Klan? I never have. Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. Here it is, he said presently. Klu Klux Klan, a name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern States after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorizing of the Negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic, but generally recognized shape, a sprig of oak leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this, the victim might either openly abjure his former ways or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organization of the society and so systematic its methods that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years, the organization flourished in spite of the efforts of the United States government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date. You will observe, said Holmes, laying down the volume, that the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered. Then the page we have seen is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, sent the pips to A, B, and C. That is, sent the society's warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared or left the country. And finally, that C was visited with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I thank doctor that we may let some light into this dark place. And I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There's nothing more to be said or to be done tonight. So hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow men. It had cleared in the morning and the sun was shining with the subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down. You will excuse me for not waiting for you, city. I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaws. What steps will you take? I asked. It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham after all. You will not go there first? No. I shall commence with the city. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee. As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart. Holmes, I cried. You are too late. Ah, said he, laying down his cup. I feared as much. How was it done? He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved. My eye caught the name of Openshaw and the heading, Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge. Here is the account. Between nine and 10 last night, police constable Cook of the H Division on duty near Waterloo Bridge heard a cry for help and a splash on the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy so that in spite of the help of several passers by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given and by the aid of the water police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station and that in his haste in the extreme darkness, he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing stages. We sat in silence for some minutes, homes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him. That hurts my pride, Watson, he said at last. It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now and if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gain. That he should come to me for help and that I should send him away to his death. He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his salad cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long, thin hands. They must be cunning devils, he exclaimed at last. How could they have decoyed him down there? The embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I'm going out now. To the police? No, I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web, they may take the flies, but not before. All day I was engaged in my professional work and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly 10 o'clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard and tearing a piece from the loaf, he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draft of water. You are hungry, I remarked. Starving, it had escaped my memory. I've had nothing since breakfast. Nothing, not a bite. I had no time to think of it. And how have you succeeded? Well, you have a clue? I have them in the hollow of my hand, young Open Shaw shall not long remain unevented. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trademark upon them. It is well thought of. What do you mean? He took an orange from the cupboard and tearing it to pieces, he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote, S-H for J-O. Then he sealed it and addressed it to Captain James Calhoun, Spark, Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia. That will await him when he enters port, said he, chuckling. It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Open Shaw did before him. And who is this Captain Calhoun? The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first. How did you trace it, then? He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names. I have spent the whole day, said he, overloids registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched a podicherry in January and February in 83. There were 36 ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union. Texas, I think. I was not, and I'm not sure which, but I knew that the ship must have an American origin. What then? I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the Bark Lone Star was there in January, 85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London. Yes? The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly, I have no doubt that she has now passed the good ones and not very far from the Isle of Wight. What will you do then? Oh, I have my hand upon it. He and the two mates are, as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know also that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the Stevedor, who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing ship reaches Savannah, the mail boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder. There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips, which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did it last year that somewhere far out in the Atlantic, a shattered stern post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters L-S carved upon it. And that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star. End of chapter five. Chapter six of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. The man with the twisted lip. Iso Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., principal of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college. For having read DeQuincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with lotinum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of. And for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now with yellow pasty face, drooping lids and pinpoint pupils, all huddled in a chair, with the wreck and ruin of a noble man. One night, it was in June, 89, there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needlework down in her lap, and made a little face of disappointment. A patient, said she, you'll have to go out. I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day. We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady clad in some dark-colored stuff with a black veil entered the room. You will excuse me calling so late, she began. And then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward through her arms about my wife's neck and sobbed upon her shoulder. Oh, I'm in such trouble, she cried. I do so want a little help. Why? said my wife, pulling up her veil. It is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate? I had not an idea who you were when you came in. I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you. That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife, like birds to a lighthouse. It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed? Oh, no, no. I want the doctor's advice and help too. It's about Issa. He has not been home for two days. I'm so frightened about him. It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's trouble. To me, as a doctor, to my wife, as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her? It seemed that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the city. Hitherto, his orgies had always been confined to one day and he had come back, twitching and shattered in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight and 40 hours and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the bar of gold in Upper Swandong Lake. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the Ruffians who surrounded him? There was the case and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Iso Whitney's medical advisor and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in 10 minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting room behind me and was speeding eastward in a handsome on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time. Though the future only could show how strange it was to be. But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandong Lake is a vile alley lurking behind the high warbs which lined the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop shop and a gin shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the center by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet, and by the light of a flickering oil lamp above the door, I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke and terraced with wooden birds like the forecastle of an immigrant ship. Through the gloom, one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies laying in strange, fantastic poses. Bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and shins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lackluster eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows, there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves and others talked together in a strange, low monotonous voice. Their conversation coming in gushes and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbor. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which, on a three-legged wooden stool, there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire. As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth. Thank you, I have not come to stay, said I. There's a friend of mine here, Mr. Issa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him. There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard and unkempt, staring out at me. My God, it's Watson, said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a Twitter. I say, Watson, what o'clock is it? Nearly eleven. Of what day? Of Friday, June 19th. Good heavens, I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What do you want to frighten a chap for? He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high trouble key. I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself. So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I've only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes. I forget how many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate. Poor little Kate, give me your hand. Have you a cab? Yes, I have one waiting. Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off-color. I can do nothing for myself. I walk down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug and looking about for the manager. As I pass the tall man who sat by the brazier, I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt and a low voice whispered. I walk past me and then look back at me. The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half-round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility. Holmes, I whispered, what on earth are you doing in this den? As low as you can, he answered, I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that soddish friend of yours, I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you. I have a cab outside. Then pray, send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes. It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab, my mission was practically accomplished, and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend and one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes, I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time, a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets, he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter. I suppose, Watson, said he, that you imagine that I have added opium smoking to cocaine injections and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favored me with your medical views. I was certainly surprised to find you there, but not more so than I to find you. I came to find a friend, and I to find an enemy. An enemy? Yes, one of my natural enemies, or shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sorts, as I have done before now. Had I been recognized in that den, my life would not have been worth an hour's purchase, for I'd used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Laskar, who runs it, has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trapped door at the back of that building near the corner of Pulse Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights. What, you do not mean bodies? I, bodies Watson, we should be rich men if we had 1,000 pounds for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here. He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly, a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses hooves. Now Watson, said Holmes, as a tall dog cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. You'll come with me, won't you? If I can be of use. Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use, and a chronicler is still more so. My room at the Cedars is a double bedded one. The Cedars? Yes, that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I'm staying there while I conduct the inquiry. Where is it then? Nearly in Kent. We have a seven mile drive before us. But I am all in the dark. Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John, we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out for me tomorrow, about 11. Give her her head, so long then. He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless accession of somber and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustrated bridge with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy regular footfalls of the policemen, where the songs and shouts of some belated party of revelers. A dull rack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who has lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be, which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best. You have a grand gift of silence, Watson, said he. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. Upon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman tonight when she meets me at the door. You forget that I know nothing about it. I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me. Proceed, then. Some years ago, to be definite, in May 1884, there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees, he made friends in the neighborhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 514 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now 37 years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, and a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds to 10 shillings, while he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the capital and county's bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind. Last Monday, Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town, rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the mayor's chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value, which he had been expecting, was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandham Lane, where you found me tonight. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the city, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 435, walking through Swandham Lane, on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far? It is very clear. If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, and she did not like the neighborhood in which she found herself. While she was walking in this way, down Swandham Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her, and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town him, he had on neither collar nor necktie. Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps, for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me tonight, and running through the front room, she attempted to ascend the stairs, which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a dain, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane, and, by rare good fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor, there was no one to be found, save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded, when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home. This discovery and the evident confusion which the cripple showed made the inspector realize that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting room, and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide, but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one, and opened from below. On examination, chases of blood were to be seen upon the window sill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom, thrust away behind a curtain in the front room, were all the clothes of Mr. Newell St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Newell St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy. And now, as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter, the Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents. But as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband's appearance at the window. He could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defense was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes. So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who is certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the city. He's a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations, he pretends to a small trade in waxbestos. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged, with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle, a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather camp which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance you see is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the color of his hair. All mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants, and so too does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passer's by. This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest. But a cripple, said I, what could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of his life? He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp, but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical experience will tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others. Pray, continue your narrative. Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charged the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made and not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend, the lascar. But this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched without anything being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood stains upon his right-shirt sleeve, but he pointed to his ring finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair, and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue. And it did, though they hardly found upon the mudbank what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the pockets? I cannot imagine. No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half pennies, 421 pennies and 270 half pennies. It is no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide, but a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the warp and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river. But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone? No, sir. But the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window. There is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? It would, of course, instantly strike him that he must get rid of the telltale garments. He would seize the coat then and be in the act of throwing it out when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his last guard Confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure the coat's sinking. He throws it out and would have done the same with the other garments, had not he heard the rush of steps below and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared. It certainly sounds feasible. Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands present and the questions which have to be solved. What Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den? What happened to him when there? Where is he now? And what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties. While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages where a few lights still glimmered in the windows. We are on the outskirts of Lee, said my companion. We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is the cedars. And beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet. But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street? I ask. Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here, Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her Watson when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa there, whoa. We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable boy had run out to the horse's head and springing down, I followed homes of the small winding gravel drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half raised in her eagerness. Her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question. Well, she cried. Well? And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged her shoulders. No good news. None. No bad? No. Thank God for that. But come in, you must be weary for you have had a long day. This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He's been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation. I am delighted to see you, said she, pressing my hand warmly. You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us. My dear madam, said I. I am an old campaigner, and if I were not, I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy. Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, said the ladies, we entered a well-lit dining room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out. I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer. Certainly, madam. Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion. Upon what point? In your heart of hearts. Do you think that Neville is alive? Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. Frankly now, she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down on him as he leaned back in a basket chair. Frankly then, madam? I do not. You think that he is dead. I do. Murdered? I do not say that, perhaps. And on what day did he meet his death? On Monday. Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him today. Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair, as if he had been galvanized. What? he roared. Yes, today, she stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air. May I see it? Certainly. He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table, he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one, and was stamped with the grave-send postmark, and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight. Course writing, remembered Holmes. Surely this is not your husband's writing, madam? No, but the enclosure is. I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address. How can you tell that? The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the grayish color, which shows that blotting paper has been used. If it had been written straight off and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! There has been an enclosure here. Yes, there was a ring, his signet ring, and you are sure that this is your husband's hand. One of his hands? One. His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well. Dearest, do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error, which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience. Neville. Written in pencil upon the fly leaf of a book. Octavo size. No watermark. Hmm. Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam. None. Neville wrote those words. And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lightened, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over. But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes. Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him. No, no. It is. It is his very own writing. Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday, and only posted to-day. That is possible. If so, much may have happened between. Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last, he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle, and yet be ignorant of his death? I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner, and in this letter you certainly have a strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you? I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable. And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you. No. And you were surprised to see him in Swandham Lane. Very much so. Was the window open? Yes. Then he might have called to you. He might? He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry. Yes. A call for help, you thought? Yes. He waved his hands. But it might have been a cry of surprise, astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands. It is possible. And you thought he was pulled back. He disappeared so suddenly. He might have left back. You did not see anyone else in the room. No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the last guy was at the foot of the stairs. Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on. But without his collar or tie, I distinctly saw his bare throat. Had he ever spoken of Swandham Lane? Never. Had he ever shown any signs of having taken opium? Never. Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wish to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day tomorrow. A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days and even for a week without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing gown, and then wandered about the room, collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these, he constructed a sort of eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shagged tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. And the dim light of the lamp, I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night. Awake, Watson? He asked. Yes? Game for a morning drive. Certainly. Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out. He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the somber thinker of the previous night. As I dressed, I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse. I want to test a little theory of mine, said he, pulling on his boots. I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross, but I think I have the key of the affair now. And where is it? I asked, smiling. In the bathroom, he answered. Oh yes, I am not joking, he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock. We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. And the road stood our horse in trap, with the half-clad stable boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London road. A few country carts were stirring, burying in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream. It has been in some points a singular case, said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all. In town, the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road, we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street, wheeled sharply to the right, and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse's head, while the other let us in. —Who's on duty? asked Holmes. —Inspector Bradstreet, sir. —Ah, Bradstreet, how are you? A tall stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. —I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet. —Certainly Mr. Holmes, step into my room here. It was a small office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk. —What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes? —I called about that beggarman, Boone, the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair of Lee. —Yes, he was brought up and remanded for further inquiries. —And so I heard. You have him here. —In the cells? —Is he quiet? —Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel. —Dirty? —Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker's. —Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath. And I think if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it. —I should like to see him very much. —Would you? —That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag. —No, I think that I'll take it. —Very good. Come this way, if you please. —He let us down a passage. —Opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewash corridor with a line of doors on each side. —The third on the right is his, said the inspector. —Here it is. —He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door, and glanced through. —He is asleep, said he. You can see him very well. —We both put our eyes to the grading. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a colored shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheel from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead. —He's a beauty, isn't he? —said the inspector. —He certainly needs a wash, remarked Holmes. I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me. He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath sponge. —Haha! You are a funny one! —chuckled the inspector. —Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure. —Well, I don't know why not, —said the inspector. —He doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he? He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell, the sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously, across and down the prisoner's face. —Let me introduce you, —he shouted, to Mr. Neville St. Clair of Flee in the county of Kent. Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. God was the coarse-brown tint. God, too, was the horrid scar which had seemed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face. A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then, suddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a scream, and threw himself down with his face to the pillow. —Great heavens! —cried the inspector. —It is indeed the missing man. I know him from the photograph. The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny. —Be it so, —said he. —And pray, what am I charged with? —With making away with Mr. Neville St. —Oh, come. You can't be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it, —said the inspector with a grin. —Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake. If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed, and that therefore I am illegally detained. —No crime but a very great error has been committed, —said Holmes. —You would have done better to have trusted your wife. —It was not the wife. It was the children, —grown the prisoner. —God help me. I would not have them ashamed of their father. —My God! What an exposure! What can I do? —Shulak Holmes sat down beside him on the couch, and patted him kindly on the shoulder. —If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up, —said he. —Of course, you can hardly avoid publicity. —On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, —I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. —Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us, and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all. —God bless you! cried the prisoner passionately. —I would have endured imprisonment, I even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family plot to my children. —You were the first who have ever heard my story. —My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I traveled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor, I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green room for my skill, I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible, I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-colored plaster. Then, with a red head of hair and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller, but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening, I found in my surprise that I had received no less than twenty-six shilling, four pence. I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend, and had a writ served upon me for twenty-five pounds. I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the city under my disguise. In ten days I had the money, and had paid the debt. Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at two pounds a week, when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting, and sat day after day in the corner, which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandham Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar, and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, Alaska, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession. Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn seven hundred pounds a year, which is less than my average takings, but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice, and made me quite a recognized character in the city. All day a stream of pennies, buried by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take two pounds. As I grew richer, I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the city. She little knew what. Last Monday I had finished for the day, and was dressing in my room above the opium den, when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw out my arms to cover my face, and rushing to my confidant, Alaska, and treated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence the small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers, which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confessed to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer. I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear. That note only reached her yesterday, said Holmes. Good God! What a week she must have spent! The police have watched this Lascar, said Inspector Bradstreet, and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days. That was it, said Holmes, nodding approvingly. I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging? Many times. But what was a fine to me? It must stop here, however, said Bradstreet. If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone. I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take. In that case, I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how to reach your results. I reached this one, said my friend, by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast. End of Chapter 6