 Section 6 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2. A Case of Identity, Part 2 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 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 lighted it he leaned back in his chair with thick blue cloud wreath spinning up from him and a look of infinite languor in his face. Quite an interesting study that made him, he observed. I found a 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 and over in 77, 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 appear to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me, I remarked. Not invisible, but unnoticed Watson. You didn't 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-brim straw hat with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewed upon it in 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 hands softly together and chuckled. Pond my word, Watson, you're coming along wonderfully. You've 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 a sleeve, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the type-rightist's 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 pince-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 very obvious. I was then much surprised and interested in 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, there's no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry. And what else? I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, 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, shallow 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 albert 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 etc. etc. That'll 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 typewritten, I remarked. Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. 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 of a 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. Winderbank, 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 mayor-relatives. And now, doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come in, so we may put a little problem upon the shelf or the interim. I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of reasoning, and extraordinary energy in action, that I felt that he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which he treated the 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 the Irene Adler photograph. But when I looked back to the weird business of the sign of the four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the study and scarlet, 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 a conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find at the 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 De Numa and 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 a 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 Bysulfate of Bereta. No, no, the mystery! I cried. Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I had 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. Who 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 Winderbank, 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 Winderbank, said Holmes. I think this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o'clock. Yes, sir. I'm afraid that I'm a little late, but I'm not quite my own master, you know. I'm 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's a very excitable, impossible girl, as you may have noticed, and she's not easily controlled when she's made up her mind in a point. Of course, I didn't mind you so much, as you're not connected with the official police. But it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noise to broad. Besides, it is a useless expense. For how could you possibly find this hozma angel? On the contrary, said Holmes quietly, I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hozma Angel. Mr. Winderbank gave a violent start, and dropped his gloves. I'm 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 will remark on this note of yours, Mr. Winderbank, that in every case there are some little slurring over 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. Winderbank. 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 type-britten. 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. Winderbank sprung 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? Shout at Mr. Winderbank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap. Oh, it won't do, really it won't! said Holmes, wildly. There is no possibility getting out of it, Mr. Winderbank. It is quite true 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 this brow. It is not actionable, he stammered. I am very much afraid that it is not, but between ourselves, Winderbank, 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 was 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 forever. 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 credible 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 an 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 our 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 illusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windebank 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 that was the chain of events Mr. Windebank. Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face. It may be so or it may not, Mr. Holmes, said he, but if you are so very sharp you ought 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 inaction 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 Winderbank 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 and 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 the 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 recognise 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 which it 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 tight written and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from West House and Marbank of Fenn Church Street to say that the description tallied in every respect with that of their employee James Winderbank. 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 take of the tiger cub and danger also for whoso snatcheth a delusion from a woman. There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horus and as much knowledge of the world. End of Section 6. Section 7 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2 by Julian Hawthorne Editor. Section 7. A Scandal in Bohemia by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a jib and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer, excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit, in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him and that woman was the late Irene Adler of dubious and questionable memory. I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness and the home-centered interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment were sufficient to absorb all my attention. While Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings, of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Tripof murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson Brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the Daily Press, I knew little of my former friend and companion. One night, it was on the 20th of March, 1888, I was returning from a journey to a patient, for I had now returned to civil practice, when my way led me through Baker Street, as I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing and with the dark incidents of the study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lighted, and even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own. His manner was not effusive. It seldom was, but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogen in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion. Wedlock suits you, he remarked. I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you. Seven, I answered. Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness. Then how did you know? I see it. I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl? My dear Holmes said I, this is too much. You would certainly have been burned had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess. But as I have changed my clothes, I can't imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice. But there again I fail to see how you work it out. He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together. It is simplicity itself, said he. My eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence you see my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather and that you had a particularly malignant, boot-slicking specimen of the London Slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms, smelling of idiiform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the side of his top hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull indeed if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession. I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. When I hear you give your reasons, I remarked, the thing always appears to me so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself. Though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process, and yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours. Quite so, he answered, lighting a cigarette and throwing himself down into an armchair. You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room. Frequently? How often? Well, some hundreds of times. Then how many are there? How many? I don't know. Quite so, you have not observed, and yet you have seen, that is just my point. Now I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this. He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note paper which had been lying open upon the table. It came by the last post, said he, read it aloud. The note was undated and without either signature or address. There will call upon you tonight, at a quarter to eight o'clock, it said, a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the Royal Houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber, then, at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wears a mask. This is indeed a mystery, I remarked. What do you imagine that it means? I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself, what do you deduce from it? I carefully examined the writing and the paper upon which it was written. The man who wrote it was presumably well to do, I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. Such paper could not be bought under half a crown of packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff. Peculiar, that is the very word, said Holmes. It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light. I did so, and saw a large E with a small G, a P and a large G with a small T woven into the texture of the paper. What do you make of that? asked Holmes. The name of the Maker, no doubt, or his monogram, rather. Not at all. The G, with the small T, stands for Gesellschaft, which is the German for Company. It is a customary contraction, like our Co. P, of course, stands for Papier. Now for the EG. Let us glance at our continental gazetteer. He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. Iglo, Iglinitz, here we are, Igria. It is in a German-speaking country, in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein and for its numerous glass factories and paper mills. Ha-ha! My boy, what do you make of that? His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette. The paper was made in Bohemia, I said. Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence? This account of you we have from all quarters received. A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncurtious to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts. As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses hooves and grading wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled. A pair by the sound, said he. Yes, he continued, glancing out of the window. A nice little broom and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else. I think I had better go, Holmes. Not a bit, doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell, and this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it. But your client— Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, doctor, and give us your best attention. A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap. Come in, said Holmes. A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich, with a richness which would in England be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrocan were slashed across the sleeves and front of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-colored silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming barrel. Boots which extended halfway up his calves and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones a black visored mask which he had apparently adjusted that very moment for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face, he appeared to be a man of strong character with a thick hanging lip and a long straight chin suggested of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy. You had my note, he asked, with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. I told you that I would call. He looked from one to the other of us as if uncertain which to address. Pray take a seat, said Holmes. This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address? You may address me as the Count von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman your friend is a man of honour and discretion whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone. I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. It is both or none, said he. You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me. The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. Then I must begin, said he, by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years. At the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight that it may have an influence upon European history. I promise, said Holmes, and I you will excuse this mask, continued our strange visitor. The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own. I was aware of it, said Holmes, dryly. The circumstances are of great delicacy and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great house of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia. I was also aware of that, murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. If your majesty would condescend to state your case, he remarked, I should be better able to advise you. The man sprung from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. You are right, he cried, I am the king. Why should I attempt to conceal it? Why indeed, murmured Holmes, your majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottzreich Sigismand von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Kasselfelstein and hereditary king of Bohemia. But you can understand, said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high, white forehead. You can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you. Then, pray, consult, said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more. The facts are briefly these. Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventurous Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you. Kindly look her up in my index, doctor, murmured Holmes, without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system for docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case, I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes. Let me see, said Holmes. Hmm, born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto, hmm. La Scala, hmm. Prima Donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw, yes. Retired from operatic stage, ha! Living in London quite so. Your majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters and is now desirous of getting those letters back. Precisely so, but how? Was there a secret marriage? None. No legal papers or certificates? None. Then I fail to follow your majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity? There is the writing. Oh, forgery. My private note paper? Stolen. My own seal. Imitated. My photograph. But we were both in the photograph. Oh, dear, that is very bad. Your majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion. I was mad, insane. You have compromised yourself seriously. I was only crowned prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now. It must be recovered. We have tried and failed. Your majesty must pay. It must be bought. She will not sell. Stolen, then. Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been way-laid. There has been no result. No sign of it? Absolutely none. Holmes laughed. It is quite a pretty little problem, said he. But a very serious one to me, returned the king reproachfully. Very indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph? To ruin me. But how? I am about to be married. So I have heard. To Clotilde Lothman von Saxmaningen, second daughter of the king of Scandinavia, you may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end. And Irene Adler? Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go. None. You are sure she has not sent it yet? I am sure. And why? Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday. Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn. That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will of course stay in London for the present. Certainly, you will find me at the Langham, under the name of the Count von Kram. Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress. Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety. Then, as to money? You have carte blanche. Absolutely. I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph. And for present expenses. The king took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table. There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes, he said. Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his notebook and handed it to him. And mad was El's address, he asked. Is Brienne Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood? Holmes took a note of it. One other question, said he thoughtfully, was the photograph a cabinet? It was. Then good night, Your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you. And good night, Watson, he added, as the wheels of the royal broom rolled down the street. If you will be good enough to call tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock, I should like to chat this little matter over with you. End of Section 7. Section 8 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2 by Julian Hawthorne Editor. Section 8. A Scandal in Bohemia by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Part 2. At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation and his keen incisive reasoning which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head. It was close upon four before the door opened and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend's amazing powers and the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes. Well, really, he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless in the chair. What is it? It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning or what I ended by doing. I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits and perhaps the house of Miss Irene Adler. Quite so, but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and free masonry among horsey men. Be one of them and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Bryony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in the front right up to the road, two stories. Chublock to the door, large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest. I then lounged down the street and I expected that there was a muse in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the hostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and I received in exchange tuppence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shagged tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighborhood, in whom I was not the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to. And what of Irene Adler, I asked? Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the serpentine muse to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton of the inner temple. See the advantages of a cadman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from serpentine muse and knew all about him. When I had listened to all that they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Brian E. Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign. This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer, that sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Brian E. Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in the temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties if you are to understand the situation. I am following you closely, I answered. I was still balancing the matter in my mind, when a handsome cab drove up to Brian E. Lodge, and a gentleman sprung out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and mustached, evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cab man to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home. He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurry than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly. Drive like the devil, he shouted, first to grossen hankies in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road, half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes. Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them, when up the lane came a neat little landow, the coachman with his coat only half buttoned and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman with a face that a man might die for. The Church of St. Monica, John, she cried, and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes. This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it or whether I should perch behind her landow when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. The Church of St. Monica said I and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes. It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind. My cabbie drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us. The cab and landow with their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle, like any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three of the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could toward me. Thank God, he cried, you'll do. Come, come. What then, I asked. Come, man, come. Only three minutes are up to you. You'll do. Come, man, come. Only three minutes or it won't be legal. I was half dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was, I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant. And there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, it was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion. One of affairs, said I, and what then? Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they separated, he driving back to the temple and she to her own house. I shall drive out in the park at five as usual, she said, as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements. Which are? Some cold beef and a glass of beer, he answered, ringing the bell. I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, doctor, I shall want your cooperation. I shall be delighted. You don't mind breaking the law? Not in the least. Nor running a chance of arrest. Not in a good cause. Oh, the cause is excellent. Then I am your man. I was sure that I might rely on you. But what is it you wish? When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray, I will make it clear to you. Now, he said, as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madam, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Bryony Lodge to meet her. And what then? You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand? I am to be neutral. To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window. Yes. You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you. Yes. And when I raise my hand so you will throw into the room what I give you to throw and will at the same time raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me. Entirely. It is nothing very formidable, he said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear. I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire and to wait you at the corner of the street. Precisely. Then you may entirely rely on me. That is excellent. I think perhaps it is almost time that I prepared for the new role I have to play. He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes after an amiable and simple-minded non-conformist clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equaled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, a reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime. It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Bryony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it. From Sherlock Holmes's succinct description, but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On the contrary, on the street in a quiet neighborhood it was remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths. You see, remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house. This marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, where are we to find the photograph? Where, indeed. It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet-size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress. She knows that the king is capable of having her way laid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her. Where, then? Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a businessman. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house. But it has twice been burglarized. Pasha, they did not know how to look. But how will you look? I will not look. What, then? I will get her to show me. But she will refuse. She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter. As he spoke, the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little land-out which rattled up to the door of Brian E. Lodge. It was up one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out which was increased by the two guardsmen who took sides with one of the loungers and by the scissors-grinder who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the center of a little knot Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady. But just as he reached her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other while a number of better-dressed people who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined in the hall, looking back into the street. "'Is the poor gentleman much hurt?' she asked. "'He is dead,' cried several voices. "'No, no, there's life in him,' shouted another. "'But he'll be gone before you can get him to the hospital.' "'He's a brave fellow,' said a woman. "'They would have had the lady's person watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang and a rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now. "'He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, Marm?' "'Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please.' Slowly and solemnly he was born into Bryony Lodge and laid out in the principal room while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lighted, but the blinds had not been drawn so that I could see homes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring or the grace and kindness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had entrusted to me. I hardened my heart and took the smoke rocket from under my Ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from injuring another. Holmes had sat upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of fire. The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill, gentlemen, hostlers, and servant-maids, joined in a general shriek of fire. Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd, I made my way to the corner of the street, and a few minutes was rejoice to find my friend's arm in mine and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which led toward the edge where road. You did it very nicely, doctor, he remarked. Nothing could have been better. It is all right. You have the photograph. I know where it is. And how did you find out? She showed me as I told you that she would. I am still in the dark. Take a mystery," said he, laughing. The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening. I guessed as much. Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick. That also I could fathom. Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch. I motioned for air. They were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance. How did that help you? It was all important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business, a married woman grabs at her baby, an unmarried one reaches for her jewel box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of today had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind the sliding panel just above the right bell-pole. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I had not seen her since. I rose, and making my excuses escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once, but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all. Now, I asked, our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the king to-morrow, and with you if you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his majesty to regain it with his own hands. And when will you call? At eight in the morning she will not be up so that we shall have a clear field. Besides we must be prompt, with life and habits, I must wire to the king without delay. We had reached Baker Street, and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said, Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by. I've heard that voice before, said Holmes, staring down the dimly-lighted street. Now I wonder who the deuce that could have been. I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning when the king of Bohemia rushed into the room. You have really got it, he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face. Not yet, but you have hopes. I have hopes. Then come, I am all impatient to be gone. We must have a cab. No, my broom is waiting. Then that will simplify matters. We descended and started off once more for Bryony Lodge. Irene Adler is married, remarked Holmes. Married when? Yesterday. But to whom? To an English lawyer named Norton. But she could not love him. I am in hopes that she does. And why in hopes? Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere in his plan. It is true. And yet, well I wish she had been of my own station, what a queen she would have made. He relapsed into a moody silence which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue. The door of Bryony Lodge was open and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with the sardonic eye as we stepped from the broom. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe, said she, I am Mr. Holmes, answered my companion, questioning in rather startled gaze. Indeed, my mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the five-fifteen train from Charing Cross for the Continent. What? Sherlock Holmes staggered back white with chagrin and surprise. Do you mean that she has left England? Never to return. And the papers, asked the king hoarsely, all is lost. We shall see. The letter was preserved by a servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the king and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction with dismantled shelves and open drawers as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter and plunging in his hand pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress. The letter was superscribed to be left till called for. My friend tore it open and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way. My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you really did it very well. You took me in completely until after the alarm of the fire I had not a suspicion. But then when I found how I had betrayed myself I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that if the king employed an agent it would certainly be you and your address had been given me. Yet with all this you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But you know I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John the coachman to watch you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes as I call them and left as you departed. Well I followed you to the door and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I rather imprudently wished you good night and started for the temple to see my husband. We both thought the best resource was flight when pursued by so formidable an antagonist so you will find the nest empty when you call tomorrow. As to the photograph your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The king may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself and preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, very truly yours, Irene Norton, Nay Adler. What a woman! Oh, what a woman! cried the king of Bohemia when we had all three read this epistle. Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level? From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very different level to your majesty, said Holmes coldly. I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your majesty's business to a more successful conclusion. On the contrary, my dear sir, cried the king, nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire. I am glad to hear your majesty say so. I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you, this ring. He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand. Your majesty has something which I should value even more highly, said Holmes. You have but to name it. This photograph. The king stared at him in amazement. Irene's photograph. He cried, certainly, if you wish it. I thank your majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good morning. He bowed and turning away without observing the hand which the king had stretched out to him. He set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler or when he refers to her photograph it is always under the honourable title of The Woman. End of Section 8. Section 9 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2 by Julian Hawthorne Editor Section 9 The Red-Headed League, Part 1 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle I had called upon my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson, he said cordially. I was afraid that you were engaged. So I am very much so. Then I can wait in the next room. Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also. The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat encircled eyes. Try the setty, said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together as was his custom when in judicial moods. I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures. Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me, I observed. You will remember that I remarked the other day just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination. A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting. You did, doctor, but nonetheless you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledge me to be right. Dr. J. Bez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected, not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally indeed where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you, not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique. The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper cut upon his knee, I took a good look at the man, and endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance. I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's check trousers, a not overclean black frock coat unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. All together, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man, save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features. Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he looked at my questioning glances. Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a freemason, that he is being in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else. Mr. J.Bez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper but his eyes upon my companion. How in the name of good fortune did you know all that, Mr. Holmes? he asked. How did you know, that I did manual labour? It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter. Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it and the muscles are more developed. Well, the snuff then, and the freemasonry? I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc and compass breastpin. Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing? What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rested upon the desk? Well, but China? The fish which you have tattooed immediately above your wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fish's scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple. Mr. J. Bez Wilson laughed heavily. Well, I never, said he. I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all. I begin to think, Watson, said Holmes, that I make a mistake in explaining. Omne-Ignotum Pro Magnifico, you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson? Yes, I have got it now," he answered, with his thick red finger planted halfway down the column. Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir. I took the paper from him and read as follows. To the Red-Headed League, on account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins of Lebanon-PA, USA, there is now another agency open, which entitles a member of the league to a salary of four pounds a week for purely nominal services. All Red-Headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the league, Seven Popes Court, Fleet Street. What on earth does this mean, I ejaculated, after I had twice read over the extraordinary paper. Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it, said he, and now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch, and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, doctor, of the paper and the date. It is the morning chronicle of April twenty-seventh, eighteen ninety, just two months ago. Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson. Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, said J. Bess Wilson, mopping his forehead. I have a small pawnbroker's business at Sachs-Kobrick Square near the city. It's not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one, and I would have a job to pay him, but that he is willing to come for half wages, so the business. What is the name of this obliging youth, asked Sherlock Holmes? His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes, and I know very well that he could better himself, and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head? Why, indeed, you see most fortunate in having an employee who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement. Oh, he has his faults, too, said Mr. Wilson. Never was such a fellow for photography snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault. But on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice in him. He is still with you, I presume. Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place clean. That's all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us, and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts if we do nothing more. The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks with this very paper in his hand, and he says, I wish to the Lord Mr. Wilson that I was a red-headed man. Why that, I ask? Why, says he, here's another vacancy on the league of the red-headed men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men so that the trustees are at their wits end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here's a nice little crib all ready to step into. Why, what is it, then, I asked? You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news. Have you never heard of the league of the red-headed men, he asked, with his eyes open? Never. Why, I wonder at that for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies. And what are they worth, I asked? Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight and it need not interfere very much with one's other occupations. Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy. Tell me all about it, said I. Well, said he, showing me the advertisement, you can see for yourself that the league has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the league was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men. So when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy births of men whose hair is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid pay, and very little to do. But, said I, there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply. Not so many as you might think, he answered. You see, it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then again I have heard it is of no use you're applying if your hair is light red or dark red or anything but real bright blazing fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in. But perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds. Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint. So that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter, I stood as good a chance as I had ever met. Vincent Spalding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful. So I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement. I never hoped to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west, every man who had a shade of red in his hair had into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like a costar's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of color they were. Straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish setter, liver, clay. But as Spalding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were waiting I would have given it up in despair, but Spalding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope and some coming back dejected, but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office. Your experience has been a most entertaining one, remarked Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. Pray continue your very interesting statement. There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter after all. However when our turn came, the little man was much more favorable to me than to any of the others and he closed the door as we entered so that he might have a private word with us. This is Mr. J. Bess Wilson, said my assistant, and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the league. And he is admirably suited for it, the other answered. He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine. He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, rung my hand and congratulated me warmly on my success. It would be injustice to hesitate, said he. You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution. With that he seized my hair in both his hands and tugged until I yelled with the pain. There is water in your eyes, said he as he released me. I perceive that all is as it should be, but we have to be careful for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobblers waxed which would disgust you with human nature. He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a redhead to be seen except my own and that of the manager. My name, said he, is Mr. Duncan Ross and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family? I answered that I had not. His face fell immediately. Dear me, he said, gravely, that is very serious indeed. I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the redheads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor. My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all. But after thinking it over for a few minutes, he said that it would be all right. In the case of another, said he, the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties? Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already, said I. Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson, said Vincent Spalding. I shall be able to look after that for you. What would be the hours, I asked? Ten to two. Now, upon broker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evenings, which is just before payday, so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up. That would suit me very well, said I, and the pay is four pounds a week, and the work is purely nominal. What do you call purely nominal? Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time. It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving, said I. No excuse will avail, said Mr. Duncan Ross, neither sickness, nor business, nor anything else. There, you must stay, or you lose your billet. And the work is to copy out the Encyclopedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready tomorrow? Certainly, I answered. I am Mr. J. Bess Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain. He bowed me out of the room, and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do. I was so pleased at my own good fortune. Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again, for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the Encyclopedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow. So I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill pen and seven sheets of fool's cap paper I started off for Pope's Court. To my surprise and delight everything was as right as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A and then he left me, but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he bade me good day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me. This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one and suited me so well that I would not risk the loss of it. Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about habits, and archery, and armor, and architecture, and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the bees before very long. It cost me something in fool's cap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings, and then suddenly the whole business came to an end. To an end. Yes, sir, and no later than this morning I went to my work as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked with a little square of cardboard hammered onto the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself. He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note paper. It read in this fashion, the red-headed league is dissolved October 9th, 1890. Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter. I cannot see that there is anything very funny, cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere. No, no, cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray, what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door? I was staggered, sir, I did not know what to do. Then I called at the office's round but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the red-headed league. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him. Well, said I, the gentleman at number four. What, the red-headed man? Yes. Oh, said he, his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday. Where could I find him? Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's. I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross. And what did you do then? asked Holmes. I went home to Sacks-Covering Square and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited here by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle. So, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you. And you did very wisely, said Holmes. Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight it. Grave enough, said Mr. J. Bess Wilson, why I have lost four pound a week. As far as you are personally concerned, remarked Holmes, I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some thirty pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them. Sir, but I want to find out about them and who they are and what their object was in playing this prank, if it was a prank upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them for it cost them two and thirty pounds. We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you, and first one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement, how long had he been with you? About a month then. How did he come? He answered to an advertisement. Was he the only applicant? No, I had a dozen. Why did you pick him? Because he was handy and would come cheap. At half wages, in fact. Yes. What does he like this Vincent Spalding? Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he's not short of thirty, has a white splash of acid upon his forehead. Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. I thought as much, said he. Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings? Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a lad. Hmm! said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. He is still with you. Oh, yes, sir. I have only just left him. And has your business been attended to in your absence? Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a morning. That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion. Well, Watson, said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, what do you make of it all? I make nothing of it, I answered frankly. It is a most mysterious business. As a rule, said Holmes, the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter. What are you going to do, then, I asked? To smoke, he answered. It is quite a three-pipe problem, and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes. He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed, and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who was made up his mind, and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece. Sirasate plays at St. James's Hall this afternoon, he remarked. What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours? I have nothing to do today. My practice is never very absorbing. Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the city first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the program, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along. End of Section 9. Section 10 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2 by Julian Hawthorne, Editor. Section 10. The Red-Headed League, Part 2 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. We traveled 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 with 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 J-Bez 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 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. Finally 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 and— 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 Sax 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 Sax Coburg Square presented as great a 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 realize, 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. We 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 tobacconist, 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 onto the other block. And now, Doctor, we've done our work so it's time we had some play, a sandwich and a cup of coffee, 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 unlike those of Holmes the sleuthhound, 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 langer 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. Then 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-scanse at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I was listening to 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 Saxe-Cobrig's Square is serious. Why serious? A considerable crime is in contemplation. 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. Here 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-Cobrig's Square and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. It was an internal 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 where 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 oppressively respectable frock coat. Ha! our party is complete! said Holmes, buttoning 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. Merryweather 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 do the running down. I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase, observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily. You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir, said the police agent loftily. He has his own little methods, which are, if you 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 the business of that shoalto-murder and the agra-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. Merryweather, the stake will be some thirty thousand pounds, and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands. John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young man, Mr. Merryweather, 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's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eaton in 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 you 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 Farringdon Street. We are close there now, my friend remarked. This fellow Maryweather 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 anyone. 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. Maryweather we passed down a narrow passage and through 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. Maryweather 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. Maryweather, 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. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes and not to interfere? The solemn Mr. Maryweather 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. You have at least an hour before us," he remarked, for they 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. Maryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London shall 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 Napoleon's 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 Napoleon's 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. Maryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern. And sit in the dark? I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, as we were a party carer. 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 yourself behind those. Then, when I flash 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, dang 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. What a 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 must have come. 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. I began to feel an apear in the middle around the kitchen door, and when my eyes were gone, theically blurs of the room had already emerged, and through the door I had gone back into the room, and I could notice the glass windows profiterously. From a distance from the kitchen door I would not see the bar, and for a second I could see almost a woman's face. From a distance from the kitchen door I could feel the glint of the room 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 peeped 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 scot! 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's 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 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 Darby's.' "'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. Maryweather, 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 had I 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 around the corner, saw that the city and suburban bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I have 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. J. Bess 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 ennui, 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. Long serienne, l'ur, c'est tu, as Gustav Flaubert wrote to Georges Sainte. End of section 10