 Part 1, Chapter 1 of A Study in Scarlet. Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it the Second Afghan War had broken out. On landing at Bombay I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes and was already deep in the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Kandahar in safety where I found my regiment and at once entered upon my new duties. The campaign brought honors and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires with whom I served at the fatal battle of my wand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray my orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines. Worn with pain and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed with a great train of wounded sufferers to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards and even to bask a little upon the veranda when I was struck down by enteric fever that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched accordingly in the troopship Orantes and landed a month later on Portsmouth Jetty with my health irretrievably ruined but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it. I had neither kith nor kin in England and was therefore as free as air or as free as an income of eleven chillings and six pence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand leading a comfortless, meaningless existence and spending such money as I had considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel and take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile. On the very day that I had come to this conclusion I was standing at the criterion bar when someone tapped me on the shoulder and turning round I recognized young Stamford who had been a dresser under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine but now I hailed him with enthusiasm and he in his turn appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy I asked him to lunch with me at the Holburn and we started off together in a handsome. Whatever have you been doing with yourself Watson? He asked in undisguised wonder as we rattled through the crowded London streets. You are as thin as a laugh and as brown as a nut. I gave him a short sketch of my adventures and had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached our destination. Poor devil he said commiseratingly after he had listened to my misfortunes. What are you up to now? Looking for lodgings I answered trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price. This is strange thing remarked my companion. You were the second man today that has used that expression to me. And who was the first? I asked. A fellow who was working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go haves with him in some nice rooms which he had found and which were too much for his purse. By Jove I cried if you really want someone to share the rooms and the expense I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone. Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine glass. You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet, he said. Perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion. Why, what is there against him? Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas, an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough. A medical student I suppose? He said I. No, I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy and he is a first class chemist. But as far as I know he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric but he has amassed a lot of out of the way knowledge which would astonish his professors. Did you never ask him what he was going in for? I asked. No, he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him. I should like to meet him, I said. If I am to lodge with anyone I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours? He is sure to be at the laboratory, returned my companion. He either avoids the place for weeks or else he works there from morning till night. If you like we will drive round together after luncheon. Certainly, I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other channels. As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Hallburn, Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to take as a fellow lodger. You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him, he said. I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You propose this arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible. If we don't get on it will be easy to part company, I answered. It seems to me, Stamford, I added, looking hard at my companion, that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow's temper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be mealy-mouthed about it. It is not easy to express the inexpressible, he answered, with a laugh. Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes. It approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid. Not out of malevolence you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do injustice I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge. Very right, too. Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting rooms with a stick it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape. Beating the subjects? Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes. And yet you say he is not a medical student? No, heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about him. As he spoke we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side door which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and done-colored doors. Near the farther end a low arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory. This was a lofty chamber lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about which bristled with retorts, test tubes, and little Bunsen lamps with their blue flickering flames. There was only one student in the room who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. I found it! I found it! he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a test tube in his hand. I have found a reagent which is precipitated by hemoglobin and by nothing else. Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shown upon his features. Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, said Stamford, introducing us. How are you? he said cordially, gripping my hand with the strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive. How on earth did you know that? I asked in astonishment. Never mind, said he, chuckling to himself. The question now is about hemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine? It is interesting chemically, no doubt, I answered, but practically. Why, man, it is the most practical medical legal discovery for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for bloodstains? Come over here now. He seized me by the coat sleeve in his eagerness and drew me over to the table at which he had been working. Let us have some fresh blood, he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. Now I add this small quantity of blood to a liter of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction. As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany color and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar. Ha-ha! he cried, clapping his hands and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy. What do you think of that? It seems to be a very delicate test, I remarked. Beautiful, beautiful! The old guayakum test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now this appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes. Indeed, I murmured. Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is suspected of a crime, months perhaps, after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains or mud stains or rust stains or fruit stains or what are they? That is the question which has puzzled many an expert. And why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes's test and there will no longer be any difficulty. His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination. You are to be congratulated, I remarked, considerably surprised at his enthusiasm. There was the case of von Bischoff at Frankfurt last year. He would certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford and the notorious Muller and Lefebvre of Montpellier and Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it would have been decisive. You seem to be a walking calendar of crime, said Stamford with a laugh. You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the police news of the past. Very interesting reading it might be made, too, remarked Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger. I have to be careful, he continued, turning to me with a smile, for I dabble with poisons a good deal. He held out his hand as he spoke and I noticed that it was all modelled over with similar pieces of plaster and discoloured with strong acids. We came here on business, said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged stool and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. My friend here wants to take diggings and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go haves with you, I thought that I had better bring you together. Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street, he said, which would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope? I always smoke ships myself, I answered. That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you? By no means. Let me see, what are my other shortcomings? I get into dumps at times and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone and I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together. I laughed at this cross-examination. I keep a bullpup, I said, and I object to rouse because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present. Do you include violin playing in your category of rouse? He asked anxiously. It depends on the player, I answered. A well-played violin is a treat for the gods, a badly-played one. Oh, that's all right, he cried, with a merry laugh. I think we may consider the thing as settled, that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you. When shall we see them? Call for me here at noon tomorrow, and we'll go together and settle everything, he answered. All right, noon exactly, said I, shaking his hand. We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards my hotel. By the way, I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stanford, how of a deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan? My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. That's just his little peculiarity, he said. A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out. Oh, a mystery is it, I cried, rubbing my hands. This is very pecan't. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. The proper study of mankind is man, you know. You must study him then, Stanford said, as he bade me goodbye. You'll find him a naughty problem, though. I'll wager he learns more about you than you about him. Goodbye. Goodbye, I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably interested in my new acquaintance. End of Part One, Chapter One. Part One, Chapter Two, of A Study in Scarlet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden. A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Cunn and Doyle. Part One, Chapter Two. The Science of Deduction. We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single large, airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate did the term seem when divided between us, that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession. That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done we gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new surroundings. Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him, but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy vacant expression in his eyes that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion. As the weeks went by my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded, and his thin hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which marked the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments. The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody when I confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity and how often I endeavored to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered how objectless was my life and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung about my companion and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it. He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question, confirm Stanford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree in science or any other recognized portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason for doing so. His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy, and politics he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlisle he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican theory and of the composition of the solar system. That any civilized human being in this 19th century should not be aware that the earth traveled round the sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it. You appear to be astonished, he said, smiling at my expression of surprise. Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it. To forget it? You see, he explained, I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones. But the solar system, I protested. What the deuce is it to me? He interrupted impatiently. You say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a penny worth of difference to me or to my work. I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something in his manner showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and endeavored to draw my deductions from it. He said that he would acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he was exceptionally well informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It ran in this way. Sherlock Holmes, his limits. 1. Knowledge of Literature. Nill. 2. Knowledge of Philosophy. Nill. 3. Knowledge of Astronomy. Nill. 4. Knowledge of Politics. Feeble. 5. Knowledge of Botany. Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening. 6. Knowledge of Geology. Practical but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers and told me by their color and consistency in what part of London he had received them. 7. Knowledge of Chemistry. Profound. 8. Knowledge of Anatomy. Accurate but unsystematic. 9. Knowledge of Sensational Literature. Immense. He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century. 10. Plays the violin well. 11. Is an expert single-stick player, boxer, and swordsman. 12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law. When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair. If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments and discovering a calling which needs them all, I said to myself. I may as well give up the attempt at once. I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could play pieces and difficult pieces I knew well because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn's leader and other favorites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his armchair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy, was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favorite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon my patience. During the first week or so we had no callers and I had begun to think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaintances and those in the most different classes of society. There was one little, sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew peddler, who appeared to me to be much excited and who was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion and on another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting-room and I would retire to my bedroom. He always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. I have to use this room as a place of business, he said, and these people are my clients. Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point-blank question and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject of his own accord. It was upon the fourth of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than usual and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table and attempted to while away the time with it while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the heading and I naturally began to run my eye through it. Its somewhat ambitious title was The Book of Life and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed, by a momentary expression, a twitch of muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he had arrived at them, they might well consider him as a necromancer. From a drop of water, said the writer, a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts, the science of deduction and analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest difficulties, let the inquirer begin by mastering more elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow mortal, learn at a glance to distinguish the history of the man and the trade or profession to which he belongs. Pure rile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation and teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's fingernails, by his coat sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser knees, by the velocities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt cuffs, by each of these things a man's calling is plainly revealed that all united should fail to enlighten the competent inquirer in any case is almost inconceivable. What ineffable twaddle, I cried, slapping the magazine down on the table. I never read such rubbish in my life. What is it? asked Sherlock Holmes. Why, this article, I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast. I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me, though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clap down in a third-class carriage on the underground and ask to give the trades of all his fellow-travelers. I would lay a thousand to one against him. You would lose your money, Holmes remarked calmly. As for the article, I wrote it myself. You? Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The theories which I have expressed there and which appear to you to be so comerical are really extremely practical, so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese. And how, I asked involuntarily. Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I am a consulting detective if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault, they come to me and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance about misdeeds and if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand in first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over a forgery case and that was what brought him here. And these other people? They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about something and want a little enlightening. I listen to their story. They listen to my comments and then I pocket my fee. But do you mean to say, I said, that without leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of although they have seen every detail for themselves? Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes. You see, I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem and which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deduction lay down in that article which aroused your scorn are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you on our first meeting that you had come from Afghanistan. You were told, no doubt. Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran. Here is a gentleman of a medical type but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor then. He has just come from the tropics for his face is dark and that is not the natural tint of his skin for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan. The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan and you were astonished. It is simple enough as you explain it, I said, smiling. You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories. Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to dupin, he observed. Now in my opinion dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friend's thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius no doubt, but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine. Have you read Gaborio's works? I asked. Does Lakoc come up to your idea of a detective? Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. Lakoc was a miserable bungler, he said, in an angry voice. He had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lakoc took six months or so. It might be made a textbook for detectives to teach them what to avoid. I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window and stood looking out into the busy street. This fellow may be very clever, I said to myself, but he is certainly very conceited. There are no crimes and no criminals in these days, he said, quarreulously. What is the use of having brains in our profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives, or has ever lived, who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or at most some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland yard official can see through it. I was still annoyed at his bombish style of conversation. I thought it best to change the topic. I wonder what that fellow was looking for, I asked, pointing to a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the street looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand and was evidently the bearer of a message. You mean the retired sergeant of marines, said Sherlock Holmes? Bragg and bounce, thought I to myself. He knows that I cannot verify his guess. The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below and heavy steps ascending the stair. For Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter. Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little thought of this when he made that random shot. May I ask my lad, I said in the blandest voice, what your trade may be? Commissionaire, sir, he said gruffly, uniform away for repairs. And you were, I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my companion. A sergeant, sir, royal marine light infantry, sir. No answer? Right, sir. He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and was gone. End of Part 1, Chapter 2. Part 1, Chapter 3 of A Study in Scarlet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden. A Study in Scarlet, by Sir Arthur Cunnandoyle. Part 1, Chapter 3, The Larriston Garden Mystery. I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powers of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a breach. That the whole thing was a prearranged episode intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have in taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him he had finished reading the note and his eyes had assumed the vacant lackluster expression which showed mental abstraction. How in the world did you deduce that, I asked? Did you swat, said he, petulantly? Why, that he was a retired sergeant of marines. I have no time for trifles, he answered, brusquely, then with a smile. Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts, but perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a sergeant of marines? No, indeed. It was easier to know it than to explain why I know it. If you were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage, however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of him. All facts which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant. Wonderful, I ejaculated. Commonplace, said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. I said just now that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong. Look at this. He threw me over the note which the Commissioner had brought. Why, I cried as I cast my eye over it. This is terrible. It does seem to be a little out of the common, he remarked calmly. Would you mind reading it to me aloud? This is the letter which I read to him. My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there has been a bad business during the night at three Lariston Gardens off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well-dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the name of Enoch J. Dreber, Cleveland, Ohio, USA. There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house. Indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left everything in status quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I shall give you fuller details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would favor me with your opinions. Yours faithfully, Tobias Gregson. Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders, my friend remarked. He and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but conventional, shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put upon the scent. I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. Surely there is not a moment to be lost, I cried. Shall I go and order you a cab? I am not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe-leather. That is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times. Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for. My dear fellow, what does it matter to me? Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade and company will pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage. But he begs you to help him. Yes, he knows that I am his superior and acknowledges it to me, but he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person. However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on. He hustled on his overcoat and bustled about in a way that showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one. Get your hat, he said. You wish me to come? Yes, if you have nothing better to do. A minute later we were both in a handsome, driving furiously for the Brixton Road. It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a done-colored veil hung over the housetops, looking like the reflection of the mud-colored streets beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits and praddled away about Cremona fiddles and the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon which we were engaged depressed my spirits. You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand, I said at last, interrupting Holmes's musical disquisition. No data yet, he answered. It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment. You will have your data soon, I remarked, pointing with my finger. This is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken. So it is. Stop, driver, stop! We were still a hundred yards or so from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey upon foot. Number three, Loriston Gardens wore an ill-oamened and mandatory look. It was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here and there a too-let card had developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the street and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in color, and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable surrounded by a small knot of loafers who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within. I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which under the circumstances seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement engaged vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses, and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile and heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clay soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it I was unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden from me. At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired man with a notebook in his hand who rushed forward and rung my companion's hand with effusion. It is indeed kind of you to come, he said. I have had everything left untouched. Except that, my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. If a herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this. I have had so much to do inside the house, the detective said evasively. My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look after this. Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. With two such minnows yourself and Lestrade upon the ground there will not be much for a third party to find out, he said. Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. I think we have done all I think we have done all that can be done, he answered. It's a queer case, though, and I knew your taste for such things. You did not come here in a cab, asked Sherlock Holmes. No, sir. Nor Lestrade. No, sir. Then let us go and look at the room, with which, in consequent remark, he strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed his astonishment. A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in and I followed him with that subdued feeling at my heart, which the presence of death inspires. It was a large, square room, looking all the larger from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar, flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull gray tinge to everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment. All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was centered upon the single, grim, motionless figure which lay stretched upon the boards, with vacant, sightless eyes staring up at the discolored ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with crisp, curling black hair and a short, stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy, broad cloth, frock coat and waistcoat, with light-colored trousers and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed in trim, was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked, as though his death struggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and, as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human features. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead, blunt nose and prognathous jaw, gave the dead man a singularly simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark, grimy apartment which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban London. Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway. And greeted my companion and myself. This case will make a stir, sir, he remarked. It beats anything I have seen, and I am no chicken. There is no clue, said Gregson. None at all, chimed in Lestrade. Sherlock Holmes approached the body and, kneeling down, examined it intently. You are sure that there is no wound, he asked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round. Positive, cried both detectives. Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual, presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Janssen in Utrecht in the year 34. Do you remember the case, Gregson? No, sir. Read it up. You really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before. As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination made that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally he sniffed the dead man's lips and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots. He has not been moved at all, he asked. No more than was necessary for the purpose of our examination. You can take him to the mortuary now, he said. There is nothing more to be learned. Gregson had a stretcher in four men at hand. At his call they entered the room and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes. There's been a woman here, he cried. It's a woman's wedding ring. He held it out as he spoke upon the palm of his hand. We all gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride. This complicates matters, said Gregson. Heaven knows they were complicated enough before. You're sure it doesn't simplify them? observed Holmes. There's nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his pockets? We have it all here, said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. A gold watch, number 97163, by Barad of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring with masonic device. Gold pin, Bulldogs head with Ruby's eyes. Russian leather card case with cards of Enoch J. Dreber of Cleveland, corresponding with the EJD upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of £7.13. Puckett edition of Boccaccio's Decameron with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the flyleaf. Two letters, one address to EJ Dreber and one to Joseph Stangerson. At what address? American Exchange, strand to be left till called for. They are both from the Guayan Steamship Company and refer to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to New York. Have you made any inquiries as to this man Stangerson? I did it at once, sir, said Gregson. I have had advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American Exchange, but he has not returned yet. Have you sent to Cleveland? We telegraphed this morning. How did you word your inquiries? We simply detailed the circumstances and said that we should be glad of any information which could help us. You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to be crucial? I asked about Stangerson. Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again? I have said all I have to say, said Gregson, in an offended voice. Sherlock Holmes chuckled to me, and appeared to be about to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner. Mr. Gregson, he said, I have just made a discovery of the highest importance and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a careful examination of the walls. The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his colleague. Come here, he said, bustling back into the room the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. Now stand there. He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall. Look at that, he said triumphantly. I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts, and this particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word, R-A-C-H-E. What do you think of that? cried the detective, with the air of a showman exhibiting his show. This was overlooked because it was in the darkest corner of the room and no one thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled down the wall. That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write a don? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece? It was lit at the time, and if it was lit, this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of the wall. And what does it mean now that you have found it? asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice. Mean? Why it means that the writer was going to put the female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You mark my words. When this case comes to be cleared up, you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best when all is said and done. I really beg your pardon, said my companion, who had ruffled the little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. You certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out, and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the other participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now. As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him, I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded, well-trained fox sound as it dashes backward and forward through the cupboard, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a little pile of gray dust from the floor, and packed it away in an envelope. Finally he examined with its glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This done he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket. They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains, he remarked with a smile. It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work. Gregson and Lestrade had watched the maneuvers of their amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed to appreciate the fact which I had begun to realize that Sherlock Holmes's smallest actions were all directed towards some definite and practical end. What do you think of it, sir? They both asked. It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I were to presume to help you, remarked my friend. You are doing so well now, but it would be a pity for anyone to interfere. There was a world of sarcasm in his voice, as he spoke. If you will let me know how your investigations go, he continued, I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime, I should like to speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address? Lestrade glanced at his notebook. John Rantz, he said, he is off duty now. You will find him at 46 Oddley Court, Kensington Parkgate. Holmes took a note of the address. Come along, doctor, he said. We shall go and look him up. I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case. He continued, turning to the two detectives. There had been a lot of confusion there has been a murder done, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his height, wore coarse square-toed boots, and smoked a Trichonopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his off foreleg. And all probability, the murderer had a floored face, and the fingernails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you. Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile. If this man was murdered, how was it done? asked the former. Poison, said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. One other thing, Lestrade, he added, turning round at the door. Raquet is the German for revenge, so don't lose your time looking for Miss Rachel. With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals open-mouthed behind him. End of Part 1, Chapter 3 Part 1, Chapter 4 of A Study in Scarlet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Cunnendoyle Part 1, Chapter 4 What John Rants Had to Tell It was one o'clock when we left Number 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram. He then hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take us to the address given us by Lestrade. There is nothing like first-hand evidence, he remarked. As a matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still we may as well learn all that is to be learned. You amaze me, Holmes, said I. Surely you are not as sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave. There's no room for a mistake, he answered. The very first thing which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts with its wheels close to the curb. Now up to last night we have had no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep impression must have been there during the night. There were the marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began and was not there at any time during the morning— I have Gregson's word for that— it follows that it must have been there during the night, and therefore that it brought those two individuals to the house. That seems simple enough, said I. But how about the other man's height? Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his instinct leads him to write above the level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play. And his age, I asked. Well, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the smallest effort, he can't be quite in the seer in yellow. That was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked across. Patent leather boots had gone round and square toes had hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts of observation and deduction, which I advocated in that article. Is there anything else that puzzles you? The fingernails and the trichinopoly, I suggested. The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in color and flaky. Such an ash is only made by a trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes. In fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such details that the skill detective differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type. And the floored face, I asked. Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair. I passed my hand over my brow. My head is in a whirl, I remarked. The more one thinks of it, the more mysterious it grows. How came these two men, if there were two men, into an empty house? What has become of the cab-man who drove them? How could one man compel another to take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman's ring there? Above all, why should the second man write up the German word Rache before decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible way of reconciling all these facts. My companion smiled approvingly. You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well, he said. There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade's discovery, it was simply a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion. Now a real German invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not going to tell you much more of the case, doctor. You know a conjurer gets no credit when once he has explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual, after all. I shall never do that, I answered. You have brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world. My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty. I'll tell you one other thing, he said. Patent leathers and square toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway together as friendly as possible, arm in arm in all probability. When they got inside, they walked up and down the room, or rather, patent leathers stood still while square toes walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust, and I could read that as he walked he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of his strides. He was talking all the while and working himself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon. This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary byways. In the dingiest and drearyest of them, our driver suddenly came to a stand. That's Audley Court in there, he said, pointing to a narrow slit in the line of dead-colored brick. You'll find me here when you come back. Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty children and through lines of discolored linen until we came to number forty-six, the door of which was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was engraved. On inquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we were shown into a little front parlor to await his coming. He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in his slumbers. I made my report at the office, he said. Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively. We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own lips, he said. I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can, the constable answered, with his eyes upon the little golden disc. Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred. Rance sat down on the horse-hair sofa and knitted his brows as though determined not to omit anything in his narrative. I'll tell it you from the beginning, he said. My time is from ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the white heart, but far that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o'clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Mercher, him who has the Holland Grove beat, and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street, a-talking. Presently, maybe about two or a little after, I thought I would take a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious, dirty, and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a caberto went past me. I was a strolling down, thinking, between ourselves, how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now I knew that them two houses in Lariston Gardens was empty, on account of him that owns them who won't have the drain-seed to, though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died of typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the door, you stopped and then walked back to the garden gate, my companion interrupted. What did you do that for? Rance gave a violent jump and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost amazement upon his features. Why, that's true, sir, he said, though how you come to know it, heaven only knows. You see, when I got up to the door, it was so still and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the worse for someone with me. I ain't afeard of anything on this side of the grave, but I thought that maybe it was him that died of the typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind of turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I could see Mercher's lantern. But there wasn't no sign of him, nor of anyone else. There was no one in the street? Not a living soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burning. There was a candle flickering on the mantelpiece, a red wax one, and by its light I saw. Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried the kitchen door, and then— John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in his eyes. Where was you hid to see all that? he cried. It seems to me that you know a deal more than you should. Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable. Don't go arresting me for the murder, he said. I am one of the hounds and not the wolf. Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do next? Rance resumed his seat, without, however, losing his mystified expression. I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought merger and two more to the spot. Was the street empty then? Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes. What do you mean? The constable's features broadened into a grin. I have seen many a drunk chap in my time, he said, but never anyone so cry and drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, leaning up again the railings and a singing at the pitch of his lungs about Columbine's new-fangled banner or some such stuff. He couldn't stand far less help. What sort of a man was he? asked Sherlock Holmes. John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. He was an uncommon drunk sort of man, he said. He'd have found himself in the station if we hadn't been so took up. His face, his dress, didn't you notice them? Holmes broke in impatiently. I should think I did notice them seeing that I had to prop him up, me and Mercher between us. He was a long chap with a red face, the lower part muffled round. That will do, cried Holmes, what became of him. We'd enough to do without looking after him, the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. All wager he found his way home all right. How was he dressed? A brown overcoat. Had he a whip in his hand? A whip? No. He must have left it behind, muttered my companion. You didn't happen to see or hear a cab after that? No. There's a half sovereign for you, my companion said, standing up and taking his hat. I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You might have gained your sergeant's stripes last night. The man whom you held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now. I tell you that it is so. Come along, doctor. We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable. The blundering fool, Holmes said bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings. Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking advantage of it. I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way of criminals. The ring, man, the ring! That was what he came back for. If we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I shall have him, doctor. I'll lay you two to one that I have him. I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever came across. A study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon? There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colorless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it and isolate it and expose every inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin she plays so magnificently? Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound curled away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind. End of Part 1, Chapter 4. Part 1, Chapter 5 of A Study in Scarlet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden. A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Cunnandoyle. Part 1, Chapter 5. Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor. Our morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes's departure for the concert, I lay down upon the sofa, and endeavored to get a couple of hours sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that had occurred, and the strange fancies and surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted, baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the impression which that face had produced upon me that I found it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drepper of Cleveland. Still, I recognized that justice must be done, and that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the eyes of the law. The more I thought of it, the more extraordinary did my companion's hypothesis that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remember how he had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to the idea. Then again, if not poison, what had caused the man's death, since there was neither wound nor marks of strangulation. But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet, self-confident manner convinced me that he had already formed a theory which explained all the facts, though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture. He was very late in returning, so late that I knew that the concert could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table before he appeared. It was magnificent, he said, as he took his seat. Do you remember what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human race long before the power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood. That's rather a broad idea, I remarked. One's ideas must be as broad as nature if they are to interpret nature, he answered. What's the matter? You're not looking quite yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you. To tell the truth, it has, I said. I ought to be more case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hack to pieces at my wand without losing my nerve. I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the imagination, where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have you seen the evening paper? No. It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the fact that when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding-ring fell upon the floor. It is just as well it does not. Why? Look at this advertisement, he answered. I had one sent to every paper this morning immediately after the affair. He threw the paper across to me, and I glanced at the place indicated. It was the first announcement in the found column. In Brixton Road this morning, it ran, a plain gold wedding-ring found in the roadway between the White Heart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson to 21 B Baker Street between 8 and 9 this evening. Excuse my using your name, he said. If I used my own, some of these dunderheads would recognize it and want to meddle in the affair. That is all right, I answered. But supposing any one applies, I have no ring. Oh, yes you have, said he, handing me one. This will do very well, it is almost a facsimile. And who do you expect will answer this advertisement? Why, the man in the brown coat, our floored friend with the square toes. If he does not come himself, he will send an accomplice. Would he not consider it as too dangerous? Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose the ring. According to my notion, he dropped it while stooping over Drebber's body and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house, he discovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that man's place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving the house. What would he do then? He would eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring should be connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see him within an hour. And then, I asked, Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms? I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges. You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man, and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything. I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with the pistol, the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his favorite occupation of scraping upon his violin. The plot thickens, he said, as I entered. I have just had an answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one. And that is, I asked eagerly. My fiddle would be the better for new strings, he remarked. Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes, speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard. It is eight o'clock now, I said, glancing at my watch. Yes, he will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you. This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday, De Jury and her Gintes, published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands in 1642. Charles's head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume was struck off. Who is the printer? Who is the printer? Philippe Decroy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf in very faded ink is written Ex Libres, Yule only White. I wonder who William White was. Some pragmatical 17th-century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think. As he spoke, there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she opened it. Does Dr. Watson live here? Asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We could not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and someone began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble tap at the door. Come in, I cried. At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsy, she stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do to keep my countenance. The old crone drew out an evening paper and pointed at our advertisement. It's this as has brought me, good gentleman, she said, dropping another curtsy. A gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelve months, which her husband is steward aboard a union boat, and what he'd say if he comes home and found her without her ring is more than I can think, he being short enough at the best of times, but more especially when he has the drink. If it pleased you, she went to the circus last night along with— Is that her ring? I asked. The Lord be thanked, cried the old woman. Sally will be a glad woman this night, that's the ring. And what may your address be? I inquired, taking up a pencil. Thirteen Duncan Street, Houndsditch, a weary way from here. The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch, said Sherlock Holmes sharply. The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little red-brimmed eyes. The gentleman asked me for my address, she said. Sally lives in lodgings at three Mayfield Place, Peckham. And your name is? My name is Sawyer, hers is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her, and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no steward in the company more thought of. But when on shore, what with the women, and what with the liquor shops? Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer. I interrupted, in obedience to a sign from my companion. It clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner. With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude, the old crone packed it away in her pocket and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds, enveloped in an Ulster and a cravat. I'll follow her, he said hurriedly. She must be an accomplice and will lead me to him. Wait up for me. The hall door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair. Looking through the window, I could see her walking feebly along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance behind. Either his whole theory is incorrect, I thought to myself, or else he will be led now to the heart of the mystery. There was no need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his adventure. It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might be, but I sat, stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages of Henri Merger's V de Bohème. Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the maid as she padded off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the landlady past my door, bound for the same destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day and he burst into a hearty laugh. I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world, he cried, dropping into his chair. I have chaffed them so much that they would never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I know that I will be even with them in the long run. What is it then, I asked. Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being foot sore. Presently she came to a halt and hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the address, but I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to be heard at the other side of the street. Drive to thirteen Duncan Street houndstitch, she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind. That's an art which every detective should be an expert at. Well away we rattled and never drew rain until we reached the street in question. I hopped off before we came to the door and strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down and I saw him open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out, though. When I reached him he was groping about frantically in the empty cab and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at number thirteen we found that the house belonged to a respectable paper-hanger named Kezik and that no one of the name either O'Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there. You don't mean to say, I cried in amazement, that that tottering feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion without either you or the driver seeing her? Old woman be damned, said Sherlock Holmes sharply. We were the old women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man and an active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risk something for him. Now, doctor, you were looking done up. Take my advice and turn in. I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I left Holmes seated in front of the smoldering fire, and long into the watches of the night I heard the low melancholy wailings of his violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem which he had set himself to unravel. End of Part One, Chapter Five Part One, Chapter Six of a Study in Scarlet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden. A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Cunn and Doyle. Part One, Chapter Six. Tobias Gregson shows what he can do. The papers next day were full of the Brixton mystery as they termed it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had leaders upon it in addition. There was some information in them which was new to me. I still retain in my scrapbook numerous clippings and extracts bearing upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them. The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political refugees and revolutionists. The socialists had many branches in America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten laws and been tracked down by them. After alluding eerily to the Vimgrist, Aquatofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Bronvier, the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliffe Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the government and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England. The standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sort usually occurred under a liberal administration. They arose from the unsettling of the minds of the masses and the consequent weakening of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman who had been residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday, the fourth instant, and departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool Express. They were afterward seen together upon the platform. Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was, as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the whereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard are both engaged upon the case, and it is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily throw light upon the matter. The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being a political one. The despotism and hatred of liberalism, which animated the continental governments, had had the effect of driving to our shores a number of men who might have made excellent citizens were they not soured by the recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these men there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was punished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of the address of the house at which he had boarded, a result which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard. Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement. I told you that whatever happened Lestrade and Gregson would be sure to score. That depends on how it turns out. Oh bless you it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught it will be on account of their exertions. If he escapes it will be in spite of their exertions. Its heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do they will have followers. What on earth is this? I cried, for at this moment there came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady. It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force, said my companion gravely, and as he spoke they rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on. Ten chun! cried Holmes in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. In future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins? No, sir, we haint, said one of the youth. I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are your wages. He handed each of them a shilling. Now off you go and come back with a better report next time. He waved his hand and they scampered away downstairs like so many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street. There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of the force, Holmes remarked. The mere sight of an official looking person seals men's lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too. All they want is organization. Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them? I asked. Yes, there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a matter of time. Hello, we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance. Here is Gregson coming down the road with B attitude written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is. There was a violent peel at the bell, and in a few seconds the fair-haired detective came up the stairs three steps at a time and burst into our sitting-room. My dear fellow, he cried, ringing Holmes's unresponsive hand. Congratulate me. I have made the whole thing as clear as day. A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's expressive face. Do you mean that you are on the right track? he asked. The right track? Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key. And his name is? Arthur Charpentier, sublutinent in Her Majesty's navy, cried Gregson, pompously rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest. Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief and relaxed into a smile. Take a seat and try one of these cigars, he said. We are anxious to know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water? I don't mind if I do, the detective answered. The tremendous exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both brain workers. You do me too much honour, said Holmes gravely. Let us hear how you arrived at this most gratifying result. The detective seated himself in the armchair and puffed complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of amusement. The fun of it is, he cried, that that fool Astrod, who thinks himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this time. The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked. And how did you get your clue? Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Dr. Watson, this is strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to contend with was the finding of this American's antecedents. Some people would have waited until their advertisements were answered, or until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson's way of going to work. You remember the hat beside the dead man? Yes, said Holmes, by John Underwood and Sons, 129 Camberwell Road. Gregson looked quite crestfallen. I had no idea that you noticed that, he said. Have you been there? No. Ha! cried Gregson in a relieved voice. You should never neglect a chance, however small it may seem. To a great mind nothing is little, remarked Holmes, sententiously. Well, I went to Underwood and asked him if he had sold a hat of that size in description. He looked over his books and came on it at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drever residing at Charpentier's boarding establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address. Smart, very smart, murmured Sherlock Holmes. I next called upon Madame Charpentier, continued the detective. I found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room, too, an uncommonly fine girl she is, too. She was looking right about the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape my notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the right scent, a kind of thrill in your nerves. Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late border, Mr. Enoch J. Drever of Cleveland? I asked. The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word. The daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew something of the matter. At what o'clock did Mr. Drever leave your house for the train? I asked. At eight o'clock, she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her agitation. His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two trains, one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first. And was that the last which you saw of him? A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds before she could get out the single word, yes, and when it did come it was in a husky, unnatural tone. There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm, clear voice. No good can ever come a falsehood mother, she said. Let us be frank with this gentleman. We did see Mr. Drever again. God forgive you, cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and sinking back in her chair. You have murdered your brother. Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth, the girl answered firmly. You had best tell me all about it now, I said, half-confidences or worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of it. On your head be it Alice, cried her mother, and then, turning to me. I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on behalf of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand in this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to be compromised. That, however, is surely impossible. His high character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it. Your best way is to make a clean rest of the facts, I answered. Depend upon it. If your son is innocent, he will be none the worse. Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together, she said, and her daughter withdrew. Now, sir, she continued, I had no intention of telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it, I have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you all without omitting any particular. It is your wisest course, said I. Mr. Dreber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been traveling on the continent. I noticed a Copenhagen label upon each of their trunks, showing that that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet, reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits, and brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival, he became very much the worse for drink. And indeed, after twelve o'clock in the day, he could hardly ever be said to be sober. His manners toward the maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way which, fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he actually seized her in his arms and embraced her, an outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly conduct. But why did you stand all this, I asked? I suppose that you can get rid of your borders when you wish. Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. Would to God that I had given him notice on the very day that he came, she said. But it was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day each, fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in the navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the best. This last was too much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was the reason of his going. Well? My heart grew light when I saw him drop away. My son is on leave just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed the door behind him a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr. Dreber had returned. He was much excited and evidently the worst for drink. He forced his way into the room where I was sitting with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed his train. He then turned to Alas, and before my very face proposed to her that she should fly with him. You are of age, he said, and there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the old girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You shall live like a princess. Poor Alas was so frightened that she shrunk away from him, but he called her by the wrist and endeavored to draw her towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room. What happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway, laughing with a stick in his hand. I do not think that fine fellow will trouble us again, he said. I will just go after him and see what he does with himself. With those words he took his hat and started off down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr. Dreber's mysterious death. This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gaffes and pauses. At time she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words. I made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that there should be no possibility of a mistake. It's quite exciting, said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. What happened next? When Mrs. Charpentier paused, the detective continued, I saw that the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way which I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour her son returned. I do not know, she answered. Not know? No, he has a latch key and he let himself in. After you went to bed? Yes. When did you go to bed? About eleven. So your son was gone at least two hours? Yes. Possibly four or five? Yes. What was he doing during that time? I do not know, she answered, turning white to her very lips. Of course, after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to come quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass. I suppose you are arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel drubber, he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect. Very, said Holmes. He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as having with him when he followed drubber. It was a stout oak cudgel. What is your theory then? Well, my theory is that he followed drubber as far as the Brixton Road. When there a fresh altercation arose between them, in the course of which drubber received a blow from the stick. In the pit of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty house. As to the candle and the blood and the writing on the wall and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the police on to the wrong scent. Well done, said Holmes in an encouraging voice. Really, Gregson, you are getting along. We shall make something of you yet. I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly, the detective answered proudly. The young man volunteered a statement in which he said that after following drubber some time the latter perceived him and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What amuses me is to think of Lestrade who had started off upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of it. Why, by Jove, here's the very man himself. It was indeed Lestrade who had ascended the stairs while we were talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness which generally marked his demeanor in dress were, however, wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for unperceiving his colleague he appeared to be embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. This is a most extraordinary case, he said at last, a most incomprehensible affair. Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade, cried Gregson triumphantly. I thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson? The secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson, said Lestrade gravely, was murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning. End of Part One, Chapter Six