 Part 2 of Adventure 2 from the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. The Red-Headed League Part 2 We travelled by the underground as far as Aldersgate, and a short walk took us to Saxe Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a pokey, little, shabby, genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick-houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with Jabez Wilson in white letters upon a corner-house announced the place where our Red-Headed Client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side, and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Slowly he returned to the pawnbrokers, and having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow who asked him to step in. "'Thank you,' said Holmes, "'I only wish to ask you how you would go from here to the stand.' "'Third right, fourth left,' answered the assistant promptly, closing the door. "'Smart fellow that,' observed Holmes as we walked away. "'He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before.' "'Evidently,' said I, Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the red-headed league. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.' "'Not him.' "'What, then?' "'The knees of his trousers.' "'And what did you see?' "'What I expected to see.' "'Why did you beat the pavement?' "'My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it. The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square, presented as greater contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the city to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise, as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises, that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted. "'Let me see,' said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line. "'I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer's, the Tobaconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the city and suburban bank, the vegetarian restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we have done our work, so it's time we had some play—a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.' My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls, wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy. And as I knew well he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter additions. When it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look a scant at him, as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon, so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall, I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down. "'You want to go home, no doubt, doctor,' he remarked as we emerged. "'Yes, it would be as well. And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious. Why serious? A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it, but today being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night. At what time? Ten will be early enough. I shall be at Baker Street at ten. Very well. And I say, doctor, there may be some little danger. So kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd. I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. There I had heard what he had heard. I had seen what he had seen. And yet, from his words, it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened, but what was about to happen. While to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington, I thought over it all. From the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable man, a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair, and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation. It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home, and made my way across the park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two handsoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man with a very shiny hat, and depressively respectable frockcoat. Ha! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttering up his p-jacket, and taking his heavy hunting-crop from the rack. Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones of Scotland Yard. Let me introduce you to Mr. Merriweather, who is to be our companion in tonight's adventure. We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his consequential way. Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down. I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase," observed Mr. Merriweather gloomily. You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the police agent loftily. He has his own little methods, which are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that, once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the agrar treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force. Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger with deference. Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven and twenty years that I have not had my rubber. I think you will find, said Sherlock Holmes, that you will play for a higher stake tonight than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merriweather, the stake will be some thirty thousand pounds, and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you will wish to lay your hands. John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He is a young man, Mr. Merriweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He is a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eaton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet. I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If few two will take the first-handsome, Watson and I will follow in the second. Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive, and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gaslit streets, until we emerged into Farrington Street. We are close there now, my friend remarked. This fellow Meriwether is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon any one. Here we are, and they are waiting for us. We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and following the guidance of Mr. Meriwether, we passed down a narrow passage and threw a side door which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Meriwether stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes. You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked, as he held up the lantern and gazed about him. "'Nor from below," said Mr. Meriwether, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. "'Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow,' he remarked, looking up in surprise. "'I must really ask you to be a little more quiet,' said Holmes severely. "'You have already imperiled the whole success of our expedition. I'd I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere.'" The solemn Mr. Meriwether perched himself upon a crate with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor, and with the lantern and a magnifying lens began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds suffice to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket. "'We have at least an hour before us,' he remarked, for there can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work, the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, doctor, as no doubt you have divined, in the cellar of the city branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Meriwether is the Chairman of Directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present." "'It is our French gold,' whispered the Director. "'We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.' "'Your French gold?' "'Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources, and borrowed for that purpose thirty thousand Napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains two thousand Napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the Directors have had misgivings upon the subject." "'Which were very well justified,' observed Holmes. "'And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime, Mr. Meriwether, we must put the screen over that dark lantern." "'And sitting the dark?' "'I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that as we were at Partie-Carré, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then when I flush a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down. I placed my revolver cocked upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern, and left us in pitch darkness. Such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold, dank air of the vault. They have but one retreat, whispered Holmes. That is back through the house into Sax Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones. I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door. Then we have stopped all the holes, and now we must be silent and wait. Water! Time! It seemed, from comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position. Yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then without any warning or sound a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again, save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones. Its disappearance however was but momentary, with a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad white stones turned over upon its side, and left a square gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peaked a clean-cut, boyish face which looked keenly about it, and then with a hand on either side of the aperture drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole, and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair. "'It's all clear,' he whispered, "'have you the chisel and the bags?' "'Great Scott, jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it,' Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes' hunting-crop came down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. "'It's no use, John Clay,' said Holmes, blandly, "'you have no chance at all.' "'So I see,' the other answered with the utmost coolness, "'I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see that you have got his coat-tails.' "'There are three men waiting for him at the door,' said Holmes. "'Oh, indeed, you seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.' "'And are you?' Holmes answered. Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.' "'You'll see your pal again presently,' said Jones. "'He's quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbys.' "'I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,' remarked our prisoner, as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "'You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. "'Have the goodness also when you address me always to say, sir, and please.' "'All right,' said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. "'Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab, to carry your Highness to the police station?' "'That is better,' said John Clay, serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us, and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective. "'Really, Mr. Holmes,' said Mr. Meriwether, as we followed them from the cellar, "'I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.' "'I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,' said Holmes. "'I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the red-headed league. "'You see, Watson,' he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whiskey and soda in Baker Street, "'it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the league and the copying of the encyclopedia must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but really it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice's hair. The four pounds a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they managed to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation. "'But how could you guess what the motive was?' "'Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant, and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar, something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building. So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and as I hoped the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the city and suburban bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard, and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen. And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to night? I asked. Well, when they closed their league offices, that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence, in other words that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night. You reasoned it out beautifully, I exclaimed in unfamed admiration. It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true. It saved me from on we, he answered, yawning. Alas, I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the common places of existence. These little problems help me to do so. And you are a benefactor of the race, said I. He shrugged his shoulders. Well, perhaps, after all it is of some little use, he remarked, L'homme c'est rien, l'oeuvre c'est tout, as Gustave Flaubert wrote to Jean-Saint. My dear fellow, said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to concede the things which are really mere common places of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events working through generations, and leading to the most ultra-results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable. And yet I am not convinced of it, I answered. The cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bold enough and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is it must be confessed neither fascinating nor artistic. A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect, remarked Holmes. This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid perhaps upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace. I smiled and shook my head. I can quite understand your thinking so, I said. Of course in your position of unofficial advisor and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here, I picked up the morning paper from the ground. Let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come, a husband's cruelty to his wife. There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude. Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument, said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. This is the Dundas separation case, and as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler. There was no other woman. And the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife. Which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average storyteller. Take a pinch of snuff, doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example. He held out his snuff-box of old gold with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it. Ah! said he, I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia, in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers. And the ring, I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger. It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems. And have you any on hand just now? I asked with interest. Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious as a rule is the motive. In these cases save for one rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from must say. There is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken. He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull, neutral, tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur bur around her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she peaked up in a nervous hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road and we heard the sharp clang of the bell. I have seen those symptoms before, said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affair de coeur. She would like advice but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell-wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed or grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts. As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered to an aunt's Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him. Do you not find, he said, that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting? I did at first, she answered, but now I know where the letters are without looking. Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up with fear and astonishment upon her broad good-humoured face. You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes, she cried. Else how could you know all that? Never mind, said Holmes, laughing, it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me? I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etheridge, whose husband you found so easy when the police and every one had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I am not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel. Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry? asked Sherlock Holmes, with his fingertips together and his eyes to the ceiling. Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. Yes, I did bang out of the house, she said, for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windy Bank, that is, my father, took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing, and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you. Your father, said Holmes, your stepfather surely, since the name is different? Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself. And your mother is alive? Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman. But when Mr. Windy Bank came, he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got four thousand seven hundred for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't near as much as father could have got if he had been alive. I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but on the contrary he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention. Your own little income, he asked. Does it come out of the business? Oh, no, sir, it is quite separate, and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand's stock, paying four and a half percent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest. You interest me extremely, said Holmes, and since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little, and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about sixty pounds. I could do as much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windebank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me tuppence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day. You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. This is my friend Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel. A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. I met him first at the gas-fitters' ball, she said. They used to send farther tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us and sent them to mother. Mr. Windebank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go. For what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush, that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman. And it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel. I suppose, said Holmes, that when Mr. Windebank came back from France, he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball. Well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way. I see. Then at the gas-fitters' ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel. Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to say, Mr. Holmes—I met him, twice, for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more. No. Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family's circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet. But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you? Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for father to know. Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time? Oh yes, Mr. Holmes, we were engaged after the first walk that we took. Hosmer, Mr. Angel, was a cashier in an office in Leddenhall Street, and—what office? That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes. I don't know. Where did he live, then? He slept on the premises, and you don't know his address. No, except that it was Leddenhall Street. Where did you address your letters, then? To the Leddenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to type-write them, like he did his. But he wouldn't have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were type-written he always felt that the machine had come between us. That will just show you how font he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of. It was most suggestive, said Holmes. It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel? He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He had had the quincy and swollen glands when he was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare. Well, and what happened when Mr. Windy Bank, your stepfather, returned to France? Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again, and proposed that we should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest, and made me swear with my hands on the testament that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from the first, and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father. But they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me, but I didn't want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices. But the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding. It missed him then. Yes, sir, for he had started to England just before it arrived. Ah! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged then for the Friday. Was it to be in church? Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's near King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a handsome, but as there were two of us, he put us both into it, and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up, we waited for him to step out. But he never did, and when the cab man got down from the box and looked, there was no one there. The cab man said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then, to throw any light upon what became of him. It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated, said Holmes. Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that whatever happened, I was to be true, and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding morning. But what has happened since gives a meaning to it? Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him. Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened. But you have no notion as to what it could have been. None! One more question. How did your mother take the matter? She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again. And your father. Did you tell him? Yes, and he seemed to think with me that something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason. But Hosmer was very independent about money, and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me half mad to think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night. She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff, and began to sob heavily into it. I shall glance into the case for you, said Holmes, rising, and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life. Then you don't think I'll see him again? I fear not. Then what has happened to him? You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him, and any letters of his which you can spare. I advertised for him in last Saturday's chronicle, said she. Here is the slip, and here are four letters from him. Thank you. And your address. Number thirty-one, Lyon, place Camberwell. Mr. Angel's address you never heard, I understand. Where is your father's place of business? He travels for Westhouse and Marbank, the great Clarratt Importer's Adventure Street. Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life. You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back. For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table, and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned. End of the first part of Adventure Three, A Case of Identity. Part two of Adventure Three, From the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding. Adventure Two, A Case of Identity. Part two. Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes, with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face. Quite an interesting study that made him. He observed, I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in seventy-seven, and there was something of the sort at the Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me, but the maiden herself was most instructive. You appeared to read a good deal upon her, which was quite invisible to me, I remarked. Not invisible, but unnoticed Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumbnails, or the great issues that may hang from a bootlace. Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it. Well, she had a slate-coloured broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black-jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee-colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish, and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had small round hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well to do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way. Sherlock Holmes clapped his hand softly together and chuckled. Upon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust a general impression, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the type-rightist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing machine of the hand-type leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and observing the dint of a pounce-nay at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and type-writing. Which seemed to surprise her. It surprised me, but surely it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones, the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first third and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady otherwise neatly dressed has come away from home with odd boots half buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry. And what else, I asked keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend's incisive reasoning. I noted in passing that she had written a note before leaving home, but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary. But I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel? I held the little printed slip to the light. Missing, it said, on the morning of the fourteenth a gentleman named Hosmer Angel, about five feet seven inches in height, strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair a little bald in the centre, bushy black side whiskers and moustache, tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech, was dressed when last seen in black frock coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold albac chain, and grey harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leddenhall Street, anybody bringing—'That will do,' said Holmes. As to the letters, he continued glancing over them. They are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you. They are type-written, I remarked. Not only that, but the signature is type-written. Look at the neat little Hosmer Angel at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leddenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive. In fact, we may call it conclusive. Of what? My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case? I cannot say that I do, unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature, if an action for breach of promise were instituted. No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters which should settle the matter. One is to affirm in the city, the other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windybank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come. So we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim. I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy and action, that I felt that he must have had some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which he treated a singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph. But when I looked back to the weird business of the sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the study in Scarlett, I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel. I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that when I came again on the next evening, I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland. A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself free, and was able to spring into a handsome and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test tubes, with the pungent, cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him. Well, have you solved it? I asked as I entered. Yes, it was the bisulfate of the writer. No, no, the mystery! I cried. Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel. Oh, was he then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland? The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and a tap at the door. This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windybank, said Holmes. He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in. The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow some thirty years of age, clean shaven and sallow-skinned, with a bland insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow, sidled down into the nearest chair. Good evening, Mr. James Windybank! said Holmes. I think that this type-written letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o'clock? Yes, sir, I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this, noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel? On the contrary, said Holmes quietly, I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel. Mr. Windybank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. I am delighted to hear it, he said. It is a curious thing, remarked Holmes, that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windybank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the E, and a slight defect in the tail of the R. There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious. We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn. Our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes. And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windybank. Holmes continued. I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case not only are the E's slurred and the R's tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well. Mr. Windybank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes. He said, if you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it." Certainly, said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. I let you know, then, that I have caught him. What? Where? shouted Mr. Windybank, turning white to the lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap. Oh, it won't do! Really it won't! said Holmes, swavly. There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windybank. It is quite too transparent. And it was a very bad compliment, when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right. Sit down and let us talk it over. Our visitor collapsed into a chair with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. It's—it's not actionable, he stammered. I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windybank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way, as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong. The man sat huddled up in his chair with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece, and leaning back with his hands in his pockets began talking rather to himself as it seemed than to us. The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money, said he, and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal advantages and her little income she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now, her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year. So what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home, and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer for ever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife, he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself. It was only a joke at first, groaned our visitor. We never thought that she would have been so carried away. Very likely not. However, that may be the young lady was very decidedly carried away. And having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbersome. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind, and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windybank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate that for ten years to come at any rate she would not listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her. And then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windybank. Our visitor had recovered some of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face. I mean, maybe so, or it may be not, Mr. Holmes, said he. But if you are so very sharp, you want to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are breaking the law now and not me. I have done nothing actionable from the first. But as long as you keep that door locked, you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint. The law cannot, as you say, touch you, said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door. Yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove! He continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face. It is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting-crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to. He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windy Bank running at the top of his speed down the road. There's a cold-blooded scoundrel, said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more. That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest. I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning, I remarked. Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognize even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction. And how did you verify them? Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed description, I eliminated everything from it which could be the result of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice. And I sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business address, asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten, and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from Westhouse and Marbank of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect, with that of their employee, James Windebank. Voila, too! And Miss Sutherland! If I tell her she will not believe me, you may remember the old Persian saying, There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman. There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world. End of ADVENTURE 3 A CASE OF IDENTITY