 Part two of Adventure Five from the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. Adventure Five, The Five Orange Pips Part two Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward, and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and, leaning back in his chair, he watched the blue smoke-rings, as they chased each other up to the ceiling. "'I think, Watson,' he remarked at last, "'that of all our cases we have had none more fantastic than this. Save, perhaps, the sign of four.' "'Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that.' And yet this drawn open-shore seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Shaltoes.' "'But, have you,' I asked, formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?' "'There can be no question as to their nature,' he answered. Then what are they? Who is this KKK, and why does he pursue this unhappy family?' Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair with his fingertips together. "'The ideal reasoner,' he remarked, "'would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it, but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents, should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reasoner alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge, and this in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which even in these days of free education and encyclopedias is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you, on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion. Yes, I answered, laughing, it was a singular document, philosophy, astronomy and politics were marked at zero, I remember, botany, variable, geology profound as regards the mud stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature, and crime records unique, violin player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco, those I think were the main points of my analysis. Holmes grinned at the last item. Well, he said, I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American Encyclopedia which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now, let us consider the situation, and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place we may start with a strong presumption, that Colonel Openshore had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits, and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something. So we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters? The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London. From East London. What do you deduce from that? They are all seaports, that the writer was on board of a ship. Excellent! We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability, the strong probability, is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment. In Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything? A greater distance to travel. But the letter had also a greater distance to come. Then I do not see the point. There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mailboat which brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer. It is possible. More than that, it is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case. And why I urged young Openshore to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London and therefore we cannot count upon delay. Good God! I cried. What can it mean this relentless persecution? The papers which Openshore carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see KKK ceases to be the initials of an individual, and becomes the badge of a society. But of what society? Have you never, said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice? Have you never heard of the Cool Cluck's clan? I never have. Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. Here it is, said he presently. Cool Cluck's clan, a name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes principally for the terrorizing of the Negro voters, the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man, in some fantastic but generally recognized shape. A sprig of oak leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pits in others. On receiving this the victim might either openly abdure his former ways or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organization of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years the organization flourished in the spite of the efforts of the United States government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually in the year 1869 the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date. You will observe, said Holmes, laying down the volume, that the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of open shore from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered. Then the page we have seen is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, sent the pips to A, B and C, that is, sent the society's warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country. And finally that C was visited, with I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young open shore has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done tonight, so hand me over my violin, and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather, and the still more miserable ways of our fellow men. It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down. You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he. I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young open shores. What steps will you take? I asked. It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham after all. You will not go there first? No. I shall commence with the city. Just ring the bell, and the maid will bring up your coffee. As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart. Holmes, I cried, you are too late! Ah! said he, laying down his cup. I feared as much. How was it done? He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved. My eye caught the name of open shore, and the heading Tragedy near Waterloo Bridge. Here is the account. Between nine and ten last night, police Constable Cook of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that in spite of the help of several passes by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and by the aid of the water police the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshore, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path, and walked over the edge of one of the small landing places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing stages. We sat in silence for some minutes, holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him. It hurts my pride, Watson, he said at last. It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and if God sends me health I shall set my hand upon this gang, that he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death. He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his cello-cheeks, and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long, thin hands. They must be cunning devils, he exclaimed at last. How could they have decoyed him down there? The embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded even on such a night for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now. To the police? No, I shall be my own police. And I have spun the web, they may take the flies, but not before. All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and, tearing a piece from the loaf, he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water. You are hungry, I remarked. Starving, it had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast. Nothing? Not a bite. I had no time to think of it. And how have you succeeded? Well, you have a clue. I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young open shore shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trademark upon them. It is well thought of. What do you mean? He took an orange from the cupboard, and, tearing it to pieces, he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote, S.H., for J.O. Then he sealed it, and addressed it to Captain James Colhoun, bark-lone star, Savannah, Georgia. That will await him when he enters port, said he, chuckling. It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as open shore did before him. And who is this Captain Colhoun? The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first. How did you trace it, then? He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names. I have spent the whole day, said he, over Lloyd's registers and files of the old papers, following the future career, of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in 83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these one, the lone star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union. Texas, I think? I was not, and I'm not sure which, but I knew that the ship must have an American origin. What then? I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the bark lone star was there in January 85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London. Yes? The lone star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Graves End, and learned that she had passed some time ago. And as the wind is easterly, I have no doubt that she has now passed the Good Winds, and not very far from the Isle of Wight. What will you do then? Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates are, as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship, the others are Finns and Germans. I know also that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing ship reaches Savannah, the mailboat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here, upon a charge of murder. There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans. And the murderers of John Openshore were never to receive the orange-pips, which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctral gales that year. We waited long for news of the lone star of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic, a shattered stern post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters L-S carved upon it. And that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the lone star. End of Adventure 5 The Five Orange Pips Adventure 6 The Man with the Twisted Lip Iser Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney D.D., principal of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college. For having read De Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with Lordinum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow pasty face, drooping lids and pinpoint pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man. One night, it was in June 89, there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needlework down in her lap, and made a little face of disappointment. "'A patient,' said she, "'you'll have to go out.'" I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day. We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Her own door flew open, and a lady clad in some dark-colored stuff, with a black veil, entered the room. "'You will excuse my calling so late,' she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "'Oh, I'm in such trouble,' she cried. "'I do so want a little help.'" "'Why?' said my wife, pulling up her veil. "'It is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate. I had not an idea who you were when you came in.' "'I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you.'" That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse. "'It was very sweet of you to come. Now you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably, and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?' "'Oh, no, no, I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about Iso. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him.'" It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her? It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the city. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back twitching and shattered in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight and forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison, or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the bar of gold in Upper Swandham Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place, and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him? There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours, if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so, in ten minutes, I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a handsome, honest, strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be. But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high hogs which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slot shop and a gin shop, approached by a steep flight of steps, leading down to a black gap, like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. During my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet. And by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door, I found the latch, and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the focsel of an emigrant ship. Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange, fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lacklustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others taught together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts, and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which, on a three-legged wooden stool, there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire. As I entered, a sallow mullet attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me, and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth. Thank you, I have not come to stay," said I. There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him. There was a movement, and an exclamation from my right, and, peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me. My God, it's Swattson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a Twitter. I say, Watson, what o'clock is it? Nearly eleven. Oh, what day? Of Friday, June the nineteenth. Good heavens, I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What do you want to frighten a chap for? He sank his face onto his arms, and began to sob in a high treble key. I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting these two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself. So I am. But you've gone mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours. Three pipes, four pipes. I forget how many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate. Poor little Kate. Give me your hand. Have you a cab? Yes, I have one waiting. Then I shall go in it. But I must know something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself. I walked down the narrow passage between the double-rowed sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier, I felt a sudden clock at my skirt and a low voice whispered, not past me and then look back at me. The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkles, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His thorn had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half-round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering loose-lip senility. Holmes, I whispered, What on earth are you doing in this den? As low as you can, he answered, I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours, I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you. I have a cab outside. Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mystery. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife, to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes. It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab, my mission was practically accomplished, and for the rest I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot, then glancing quickly round he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter. I suppose Watson said he that you imagine that I have added opium smoking to cocaine injections and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views. I was certainly surprised to find you there. But not more so than I to find you. I came to find a friend and I to find an enemy. An enemy? Yes, one of my natural enemies. Or shall I say my natural prey? Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these thoughts as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den, my life would not have been worth an hour's purchase. For I have used it before now for my own purposes and the rascal Alaska who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trapped door at the back of that building near the corner of Paul's Wharf which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights. What, you do not mean bodies? Aye, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had a thousand pounds for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murdered trap on the whole riverside and I fear that Neville Sinclair has entered it never to leave it more but our trap should be here. He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horse's hooves. Now, Watson, said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its sidelines, you all come with me, won't you? If I can be of use. Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use and a chronicler still more so. My room at the Seeders is a double-bedded one. The Seeders? Yes, that is Mr. Sinclair's house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry. Where is it, then? Near Lee in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us. But I am all in the dark. Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John, we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then. He flipped the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of somber and deserted streets, which widened gradually until we were flying across a broad balustrated bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy regular footfall of the policemen, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revelers. A dull rack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who was lost in thought. While I sat beside him curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best. You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. Upon my word it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman tonight when she meets me at the door. You'll forget that I know nothing about it. I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get the end of it into my hand. Now I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me. Proceed, then. Some years ago, to be definite in May 1884, there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville Sinclair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies, and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 514 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. Sinclair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to eighty-eight pounds ten shillings, while he has two hundred and twenty pounds standing to his credit in the capital and county's bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind. Last Monday Mr. Neville Sinclair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. And now, by the nearest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value, which she had been expecting, was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandham Lane, where you found me tonight. Mrs. Sinclair had her lunch, started for the city, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4.35, walking through the Swandham Lane, on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far? It is very clear. If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. Sinclair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandham Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her, and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she described as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window, so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie. Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps, for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me tonight, and running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs, which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this laska scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back, and aided by a den who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street, filled with the most maddening doubts and fears she rushed down the lane, and by rare good fortune met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor they made their way to the room in which Mr. Sinclair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found, save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the laska stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered and had almost come to believe that Mrs. Sinclair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home. This discovery and the evident confusion which the cripple showed made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting room and led into a small bedroom looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville Sinclair with the exception of his coat, his boots, his socks, his hat and his watch all were there. There were no signs of violence on any of these garments and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville Sinclair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming for the tide was at its very highest point of the tragedy. And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter. The Lasca was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents but as by Mrs. Sinclair's story he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband's appearance at the window and likely have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defense was one of absolute ignorance and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes. So much for the Lasca manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville Sinclair. His name is Hugh Boone and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the city. He is a professional beggar though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestors. Some little distance down Thread Needle Street upon the left-hand side there is as you may have remarked a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance you see is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar which by its contraction has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip a bulldog chin and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so too does his wit for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the path as by. This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest. But a cripple said I what could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life? He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man surely your medical experience would tell you Watson that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others. Pray continue your narrative. Mrs. Sinclair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window and she was escorted home in a cab by the police as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case made a very careful examination of the premises but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the lascar but this fault was soon remedied and he was seized and searched without anything being found which could incriminate him. There were it is true some blood stains upon his right shirt sleeve but he pointed to his ring finger which had been cut near the nail and explained that the bleeding came from there adding that he had been to the window not long before and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville Sinclair and swore that the presence of the cloves in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. Sinclair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed loudly protesting to the police station while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue. And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud bank what they had feared to find. It was Neville Sinclair's coat and not Neville Sinclair which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the pockets? I cannot imagine. No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and hapenies, 421 pennies and 270 hapenies. It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide but a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stooped body had been sucked away into the river. But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone? No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville Sinclair through the window. There is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do, then? It would, of course, instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up and perhaps he had already heard from his lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret horde where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat sinking. He throws it out and would have done the same with the other garments, had not he heard the rush of steps below and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared. It certainly sounds feasible. Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him. He had, for years, been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present and the questions which have to be solved, what Neville Sinclair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where he is now and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties. While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages where a few lights still glimmered in the windows. We are on the outskirts of Lee, said my companion. We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is the cedars and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horses feet. But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street? I asked. Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here, Mrs. Sinclair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her Watson when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there! Whoa! End of Part 1 of Adventure 6 The Man with the Twisted Lip Part 2 of Adventure 6 from the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding Adventure 6 The Man with the Twisted Lip Part 2 We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable boy had run out to the horse's head and, springing down, I followed Holmes up the small winding gravel drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question. Well! she cried. Well! And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. No good news. None. No bad. No. Thank God for that! You must be weary for you have had a long day. This is my friend Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases. And a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation. I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us. My dear madam," said I, I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here I shall indeed be happy. Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady, as we entered a well-lit dining-room upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out. I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions to which I beg that you will give a plain answer. Certainly, madam. Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion. Upon what point? In your heart of hearts. Do you think that Neville is alive? Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. Frankly now," she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket chair. Frankly then, madam, I do not. You think that he is dead? I do. Murdered? I don't say that, perhaps. And on what day did he meet his death? On Monday. Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day. Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised. What! he roared. Yes, to-day. She stood, smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air. May I see it? Certainly. He snatched it from her in his eagerness and smoothing it out upon the table. He drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the grave's end postmark and with the date of that very day or rather of the day before for it to as considerably after midnight. Cors writing, murmured Holmes, surely this is not your husband's writing, madam? No, but the enclosure is. I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address. How can you tell that? The name you see is in perfectly black ink which has dried itself. The rest is of the grayish colour which shows that blotting paper has been used. If it had been written straight off and then blotted none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ah, there has been an enclosure here. Yes, there was a ring, his signet ring. And are you sure that this is your husband's hand? One of his hands. One? His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing and yet I know it well. Dearest, do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience. Never, written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no watermark. Hmm, posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha, and the flap has been gummed if I am not very much in error by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that this is your husband's hand, madam. None, Neville, wrote those words. And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. Sinclair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over. But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes. Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent, the ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him. No, no, it is, it is, it's very own writing. Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day. That is possible. If so much may have happened between. Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death? I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you? I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable. And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you? No. And you were surprised to see him in Swandham Lane? Very much so. Was the window open? Yes. Then he might have called to you? He might. He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry. Yes. A call for help, you thought? Yes. He waved his hands. But it might have been a cry of surprise. A astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands. It is possible. And you thought he was pulled back? He disappeared so suddenly. He might have left back. You did not see anyone else in the room? No. But this horrible man confessed to having been there and the lascar was at the foot of the stairs. Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on? But without his collar or tie I distinctly saw his bare throat. Had he ever spoken of Swindom Lane? Never. Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium? Never. Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow. A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days and even for a week without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and arm-chairs. With these he constructed a sort of eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged with an ounce of shagged tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward and the room was full of a dent tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night. Awake, Watson, he asked. Yes. Game for a morning drive. Certainly. Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps and we shall soon have the chap out. He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the somber thinker of the previous night. As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse. I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his boots. I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now. And where is it? I asked, smiling. In the bathroom, he answered, Oh yes, I am not joking. He continued seeing my look of incredulity. I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock. We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and chap with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in and away we dashed down the London road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream. It has been in some point a singular case, said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all. In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets on the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river and dashing up Wellington Street we yield sharply to the right and found ourselves in both street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in. Who is on duty? asked Holmes. Inspector Bradstreet, sir. Ah! Bradstreet! How are you? A tall, star-official had come down the stone-flagged passage in a peaked cap and frog jacket. I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet. Certainly, Mr. Holmes, step into my room here. It was a small office-like room with a huge ledger upon the table and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk. What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes? I call about that beggar-man Boone, the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville Sinclair of Lee. Yes, he was brought up and remanded for further inquiries. So I heard, you have him here, in the cells. Is he quiet? Oh, he gives no trouble, but he is a dirty scoundrel. Dirty? Yes, it's all we can do to make him wash his hands and his face is as black as a tinker's. Well, once his case has been settled he will have a regular prison bath, and I think if you saw him you would agree with me that he needed it. I should like to see him very much. Would you? That is easily done. Come this way, you can leave your bag. No, I think that I'll take it. Very good. Come this way, if you please. He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a white-washed corridor with a line of doors on each side. The third on the right is his, said the Inspector. Here it is. He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through. He is asleep, said he. You can see him very well. We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the Inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheel from an old scar ran right across it from eyed to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead. He's a beauty, isn't he? said the Inspector. He certainly needs a wash, remarked Holmes. I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me. He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke and took out to my astonishment a very large bath-sponge. Ha-ha! You are a funny one! chuckled the Inspector. Now, if you'll have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure. Well, I don't know why not, said the Inspector. He doesn't look a credit to the boastery cells, does he? He slipped his key into the lock and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner's face. Let me introduce you! he shouted. Mr. Neville Sinclair of Lee in the county of Kent. Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse-brown tint, gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seemed it across and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face. A twitch brought away the tangled red hair and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then, suddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow. Great heavens! cried the inspector. It is indeed the missing man. I know him from the photograph. The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandoned himself to his destiny. Be it so, said he, I pray, what am I charged with? With making away with Mr. Nevelson. Oh, come, you can't be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it, said the inspector with a grin. Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake. If I am Mr. Nevelsoncler, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed and that therefore I am illegally detained. No crime, but a very great error has been committed, said Holmes. You would have done better to have trusted your wife. It was not the wife, it was the children, groaned the prisoner. God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God, what an exposure! What can I do? Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder. If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up, said he, of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all. God bless you! cried the prisoner passionately. I would have endured imprisonment, I even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family block to my children. You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield where I had received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging us an amateur that I could get the facts on which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up and had been famous in the green room for my skill, I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face and to make myself as pitiable as possible. I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair and an appropriate dress I took my station in the business part of the city ostensibly at a match-seller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I applied my trade and when I returned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than twenty-six shillings and fourpence. I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until some time later I'd back to Bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for twenty-five pounds. I was at my wit's end where to get the money but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the creditor asked for a holiday from my employers and spent the time in begging in the city under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt. Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at two pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint laying my cap on the ground and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money but the dollars won at last and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandham Lane where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, Alaska, was well paid by me for his rooms so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession. Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn seven hundred pounds a year which is less than my average takings but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up and also in a facility repartee which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in the city. All day a stream of pennies varied by silver poured in upon me and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take two pounds. As I grew richer I grew more ambitious took a house in the country and eventually married without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the city and she little knew what. Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw to my horror and astonishment that my wife was standing in the street with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise threw up my arms to cover my face and rushing to my confidant, the Alaska treated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair and a few minutes after I found rather I confess to my relief that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville Sinclair I was arrested as his murderer. I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious I slipped off my ring and confided it to the lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me together with a hurried scrawl telling her that she had no cause to fear. That note only reached her yesterday said Holmes. Good God! What a week she must have spent! The police have watched this lascar said Inspector Bradstreet and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his who forgot all about it for some days. That was it said Holmes nodding approvingly. I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging? Many times, but what was a fine to me? It must stop here, however, said Bradstreet. If the police are to hush this thing up there must be no more a few boon. I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take. In that case I think it is probable that no further steps may be taken if you are found again and all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results. I reached this one, said my friend, by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think Watson as if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast. End of Adventure Six The Man with the Twisted Lip