 CHAPTER III. OF THE ADVENTURES OF SHIRLOCK HOMES, BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE. A CASE OF IDENTITY My dear fellow, said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street. Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere common places of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand-in-hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations and leading to the most utre results, would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable. And yet I am not convinced of it, I answered. The cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic. A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect, remarked Holmes. This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which, to an observer, contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the common place. I smiled and shook my head. I can quite understand your thinking so, I said. Of course, in your position of unofficial advisor and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here, I picked up the morning paper from the ground. Let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. A husband's cruelty to his wife. There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude. Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument, said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. This is the Dundas separation case, and as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a tea totaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which you will allow is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average storyteller. Take a pinch of snuff, doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example. He held out his snuff box of old gold, with a great amethyst in the center of the lid. Its splendor was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it. Ah, said he, I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the king of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers, and the ring, I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger. It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems. And have you any on hand just now? I asked with interest. Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in an unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect, which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime, the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter, which has been referred to me from Marseille, there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken. He had risen from his chair, and was standing between the parted blinds, gazing down into the dull, neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite, there stood a large woman with a heavy fur bow around her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat, which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply, she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell. I have seen those symptoms before, said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affair to Coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication, and yet, even here, we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man, she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here, we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry, as perplexed or grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts. As he spoke, there was a tap at the door, and the boy and buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure, like a full-sailed merchant man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him. "'Do you not find?' he said, and with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting. "'I did it first,' she answered, but now I know where the letters are without looking. Then suddenly, realizing the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humored face. "'You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes,' she cried. "'Else, how could you know all that?' "'Never mind,' said Holmes, laughing. "'It is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?' "'I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etheridge, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead.' "'Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I'm not rich, but still. I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.' "'Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?' asked Sherlock Holmes, with his fingertips together and his eyes to the ceiling. Again, a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. "'Yes, I did bang out of the house,' she said, for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windebank, that is, my father, took it all. "'He would not go to the police, and he would not go to you. And so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it may be mad. And I just on with my things and came right away to you.' "'Your father,' said Holmes, your stepfather, surely, since the name is different.' "'Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself. And your mother is alive.' "'Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman. But when Mr. Windebank came, he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got forty-seven hundred pounds for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't near as much as father could have got if he had been alive. "'I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but on the contrary, he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.' "'Your own little income,' he asked. "'Does it come out of the business?' "'Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate, and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying four and a half percent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.' "'You interest me extremely,' said Holmes. "'And since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about sixty pound. I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes. But you understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windebank draws my interest every quarter, and pays it over to mother. And I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me two pence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day. "'You have made your position very clear to me,' said Holmes. "'This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.'" A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of a jacket. "'I met him first at the gas-fitter's ball,' she said. "'They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windebank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go, for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm. But we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel. "'I suppose,' said Holmes. "'Though when Mr. Windebank came back from France, he was very annoyed that you were having gone to the ball. Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way. I see. Then at the gas-fitter's ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel. "'Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe. And after that we met him, that is to say, Mr. Holmes. I met him, twice for walks. But after that, father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more. No. Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet. "'But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?' Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in the morning, so that there was no need for father to know. "'Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?' "'Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we took. Hosmer, Mr. Angel, was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street. And what office?' "'That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes. I don't know.' "'Where did he live, then?' "'He slept on the premises.' "'And you don't know his address?' "'No, except that it was Leadenhall Street.' "'Where did you address your letters, then?' "'To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He said that if they were sent to the office, he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady. So I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that. For he said that when I wrote them, they seemed to come from me. But when they were typewritten, he always felt that the machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of.' "'It was most suggestive,' said Holmes. "'It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?' "'He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He'd had the Quincy in swollen glands when he was young,' he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare. "'Well, and what happened when Mr. Windebank, your stepfather, returned to France?' "'Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again, and proposed that we should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest, and made me swear with my hands on the testament that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from the first, and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father. But they both said never to mind about father, but just tell him afterwards. And mother said that she would make it all right with him. "'I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me. But I didn't want to do anything on the sly. So I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices. But the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding. It missed him then. Yes, sir, for he had started to England just before it arrived. Ha! That was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged then for the Friday. Was it to be in church? Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's near King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterward at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a handsome, but as there were two of us, he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up, we waited for him to step out. But he never did. And when the cab man got down from the box and looked, there was no one there. The cab man said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes. And I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him. It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated, said Holmes. Oh, no, sir. He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that whatever happened, I was to be true, that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seems strange talk for a wedding morning. But what has happened since gives a meaning to it. Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him. Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened. But you have no notion as to what it could have been. None. One more question. How did your mother take the matter? She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again. And your father, did you tell him? Yes, and he seemed to think with me that something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason. But Hosmer was very independent about money, and never would look at a shilling of mind. And yet what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me half mad to think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night. She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff, and began to sob heavily into it. I shall glance into the case for you, said Holmes Rising, and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life. Then you don't think I'll see him again. I fear not. Then what has happened to him? You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him, and any letters of his which you can spare. I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle, said she. Here is the slip, and here are four letters from him. Thank you, and your address. Number 31, Lion Place, Camerwell. Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your father's place of business? He travels for West House and Marbank, the great Clareton Port of Venturech Street. Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life. You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back. For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table, and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned. 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 counselor, and having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud wreath spinning up from him, and a look of infinite langer in his face. Quite an interesting study that maiden, he observed. I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in seventy-seven, and there was something of the sort at the Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me, but the maiden herself was most instructive. You appeared to read a good deal upon her, which was quite invisible to me, I remarked. Not invisible, but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumbnails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot lace. Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it. Well, she had a slate-colored broad-brimmed straw hat with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee color, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were grayish 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 are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for color. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man, it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is the most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the type-rightist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing machine of the hand type leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and observing the dint of a Pond's nae at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and type-writing, which seemed to surprise her. It surprised me. But surely it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other. They were really odd ones, the one having a slightly decorated toe cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry. And what else, I asked, keenly interested, as I always was by my friend's incisive reasoning. I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home, but after being fully dressed, you observe that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with vial and ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to Business Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel? I held the little printed slip to the light. Missing, it said, on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel, about five feet, seven inches in height, strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the center, bushy, black side whiskers, and moustache, tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech, was dressed one last scene in black frock coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray Harris tweed trousers with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots, known to have been employed in an office in Leadon Hall Street. Anybody bringing? That will do, said Holmes. As to the letters, he continued glancing over them. They are very common place, absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you. They are type-written, I remarked. Not only that, but the signature is type-written. Look at the neat little Hosmer Angel at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription, except Leadon Hall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive. In fact, we may call it conclusive. Of what? My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case? I cannot say that I do, unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted. No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the matter. One is to affirm in the city, the other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windebank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim. I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy and action that I felt he must have had some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanor 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 of the Irene Adler photograph. But when I look back to the weird business of the sign of four and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the study in 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 the conviction that when I came again on the next evening, I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland. A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time. In the whole of next day, I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a handsome and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test tubes with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him. �Well, have you solved it?� I asked as I entered. �Yes, it was the bisulfate of Barita. � �No, no, the mystery!� I cried. �Oh, that!� I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel. �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 foot fall in the passage and a tap at the door. �This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windebank,� said Holmes. �He has written to me to say that he would be here soon. 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 gray 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 Windebank,� said Holmes. �I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o'clock. �Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sword in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel? �On the contrary,� said Holmes quietly. �I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel. �Mr. Windebank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. �I am delighted to hear it,� he said. �It is a nice 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 somewhere only on one side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windebank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the E and a slight defect in the tail of the R. There are 14 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. Windebank,� Holmes continued. �I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the typewriter in its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which report to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the E's slurred and R's tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the 14 other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well. Mr. Windebank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. �I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,� he said. �If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it.� �Certainly� said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. �I'll let you know, then, that I have caught him.� �Where?� shouted Mr. Windebank, 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, wobbly. �There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windebank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. �That's right. Sit down and let us talk it over.� Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. �It�s not actionable,� he stammered. �I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windebank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.� The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantel piece, 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 creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife, he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a mustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself. It was only a joke at first, groaned our visitor. We never thought that she would have been so carried away. Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away, and having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These pretend journeys to France were rather cumbersome. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind, and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windebank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hasmar 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 at one door of a four-wheeler, and out at the other. I think 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 an action for assault and illegal constraint. The law cannot, as you say, touch you, said Holmes, unlocking and throwing up in 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 site of the bitter sneer upon the man's face. It is not part of my duties of 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 Windebank 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 finds 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 step- but that the one always appeared when the other was away was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognize even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction. And how did you verify them? Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed description, I eliminated everything from it, which could be the results 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 travelers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the type writer, and I wrote to the man himself at his business address, asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from West House and Marbank, of French Church Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect with that of their employee, James Windebank. Voila, too. And Miss Sutherland? If I tell her, she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying, there is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for who so snatches a delusion from a woman. There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Boscombe Valley Mystery We were seated at breakfast one morning. My wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram, it was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way. Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley Tragedy? Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the eleven-fifteen. What do you say, dear? said my wife, looking across at me. Will you go? I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present. Oh, and Suther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good. And you are always so interested, Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases? I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of them, I answered. But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour. My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveler. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated, I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform. His tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey, traveling cloak, and close-fitting cloth camp. It is really very good of you to come, Watson, said he. It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biased. If you will keep the two corner seats, I shall get the tickets. We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack. Have you heard anything of the case? He asked. Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days. The London Press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult. That sounds a little paradoxical, but it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man. It is a murder, then. Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a very few words. Blascombe Valley is a country district, not very far from Ross and Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which was built, that of Hathorley, was led to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down, they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant, but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad at 18, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appeared to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthy's were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants, a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half- dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families, now for the facts. On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hathorley about the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream, which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment, he never came back alive. From Hathorley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a gamekeeper and the employee of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses deposed that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The gamekeeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass, he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred. The two McCarthy's were seen after the time when William Crowder, the gamekeeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and a breeze round the edge. A girl of 14, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodgekeeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, wasn't one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there, she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy, the elder, using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthy's quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodgekeeper. He was much excited without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt end of his son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of willful murder, having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday. He was on Wednesday, brought before the magistrates at Ross. He found the dead body stretched out of his hand, and the head had been brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next to sizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police court. I could hardly imagine a more damning case, I remarked. If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here. Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing, answered Holmes thoughtfully. It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equal point of view a little, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighborhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighboring land owner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the study in Scarlett, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour, instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home. I am afraid, said I, that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of this case. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact, he answered laughing. Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have even noted so self-evident a thing as that. How on earth? My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shade by the sunlight. But since your shading is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my Metier, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering. What are they? It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Haverly Farm. On the inspector of Constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, that it was no more than his desserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury. It was a confession, I ejaculated. No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence. Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious remark. On the contrary, said Holmes, it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self- restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his desserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had, that very day, so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even according to the little girl whose evidence is so important to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-approach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind, rather than of a guilty one. I shook my head. Many men had been hanged on far slider evidence, I remarked. So they have, and many men have been wrongfully hanged. What is the young man's own account of the matter? It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his followers, though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here and may read it for yourself. He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local herford shirt paper, and having turned down the sheet, he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way. Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called, and gave evidence as follows. I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday, the third. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb the groom. Shortly after my return, I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was none and strolled out in the direction of the boscombe pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warrant, which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the gamekeeper, as he had stated in his evidence, but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. Went about a hundred yards from the pool, I heard a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Haverly Farm. I had not gone more than a hundred and fifty yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner's lodgekeeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I had no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his body. I know nothing further of the matter. The Coroner. Did your father make any statement to you before he died? Witness. He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a rat. The Coroner. What did you understand by that? Witness. It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious. The Coroner. What was the case? Witness. I should prefer not to answer. The Coroner. I am afraid that I must press it. Witness. It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed. The Coroner. That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future matter. I must still refuse. The Coroner. I understand that the cry of Kui was a common signal between you and your father. Witness. It was. The Coroner. How was it then that he uttered it before he saw you and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol? Witness with considerable confusion. I do not know. Adjournment. Did you see your suspicions when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured? Witness. Nothing definite. The Coroner. What do you mean? Witness. I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open that I could think of nothing except of my father, yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was gone. Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help? Yes, it was gone. You cannot say what it was. No, I had a feeling something was there. How far from the body? A dozen yards or so? And how far from the edge of the wood? About the same. Then if it was removed it was while you were in a dozen yards of it. Yes, but with my back towards it. This concluded the examination of the witness. I see, said I, as I glance down the column, that the Coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention and with reason to the discrepancy about his father having signaled to him before seeing him. Also, to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father and his singular account of his father's words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the sun. Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushion seat. Both you and the Coroner have been at some pains, said he, to single out the very strongest points in the young man's favor. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too little if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury. Too much if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat and the incident of the Banishing Glock. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true and we shall see whether that hypothesis will lead us. And now, here is my pocket patrarch and not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes. It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful Strud Valley and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where room had already been engaged for us. I have ordered a carriage, said Lestrade, as we sat over a cup of tea. I knew your energetic nature and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime. It was very nice and complimentary of you, Holmes answered. It is entirely a question of barometric pressure. Lestrade looked startled. I do not quite follow, he said. How was the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind and not a cloud in the sky. I have a case full of cigarettes here which need smoking and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country-hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage tonight. Lestrade laughed indulgently. You have no doubt already formed your conclusions from the newspapers, he said. The case is as plain as a pike staff and the more one goes into it the planer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady and such a very positive one, too. She has heard of you and would have your opinion. Though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul, here is her carriage at the door. He had hardly spoken before they rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I had ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks. All thought of her natural reserve of excitement and concern. Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally with a woman's quick intuition fastening upon my companion. I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does, but he is too tender-hearted to her to fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him. I hope we may clear him, Mr. Turner, such Sherlock Holmes. You may rely upon my doing all that I can. But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion. Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent? I think that it is very probable. There now, she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. You hear? He gives me hopes. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions, he said. But he is right. Oh, I know that he is right. James never did it, and about his quarrel with his father. I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it. In what way? asked Holmes. There is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister. But of course, he is young and has seen very little of life yet. And, well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this I am sure was one of them. And your father, asked Holmes, was he in favor of such a union? No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favor of it. A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen questioning glances at her. Thank you for this information, said he. May I see your father if I call tomorrow? I am afraid the doctor won't allow it. The doctor? Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong but this has broken him down completely. He is taken to his bed and Dr. Willow says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria. Ah, in Victoria. That is important. Yes, at the mines. Quite so. At the gold mines where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money. Yes, certainly. Thank you, Mrs. Turner. You will tell me if you have any news tomorrow? No doubt you will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent. I will, Mr. Turner. I must go home now for dad is very ill and he misses me so if I leave him. Goodbye and God help you in your undertaking. She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street. I am ashamed of you, Holmes, said Lestrade, with dignity after a few minutes' silence. Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over tender of heart, but I call it cruel. I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy, said Holmes. Have you an order to see him in prison? Yes, but only for you and me. Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him tonight. For example. Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours. I walked down to the station with them and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellowback novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we are groping continually from the action to the fact that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father and the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade. It was something terrible and deadly. And what could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been brought from behind. That was to some extent in favor of the accused as when seen quarreling he was face to face with his father. Still it did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still it might be worthwhile to call Holmes's attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cuddled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true, the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight. It must have had the hardy head to return and to carry it away at the instant when the sun was kneeling with his back turned. Not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was. I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes's insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's innocence. It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town. The glass still keeps very high, he remarked as he sat down. It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that. And I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy. And what did you learn from him? Nothing. Could he throw no light? None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was screening him or her. He is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at, and I should think, sound at heart. I cannot admire his taste, I remarked. If it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner. Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly insanely in love with her. But some two years ago, when he was only a lad and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how magning it must be for him to be uprated for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was a sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda dockyard so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered. But if he is innocent, who has done it? Ah, who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now, let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until tomorrow. There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage and we set off for Haverly Farm in the Boscombe Pool. There is serious news this morning, Lestrade observed. It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is disparate of. An elderly man, I presume, said Holmes. About sixty, but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and I may add, a great benefactor to him. For I have learned that he gave him Haverly Farm rent-free. Indeed, that is interesting, said Holmes. Oh yes, in a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him. Really? Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal, and all else would follow. It is the more strange since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not to do something from that? We have got to the deductions and the inferences, said Lestrade, winking at me. I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies. You are right, said Holmes, demurely. You do find it very hard to tackle the facts. Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of, replied Lestrade with some warmth. And that is that McCarthy Sr. met his death from McCarthy Jr., and that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine. Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog, said Holmes, laughing. But I am very much mistaken if this is not Haverly Farm upon the left. Yes, that is it. It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with grey yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds in the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes' request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the suns, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the courtyard, from which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool. Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognize him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whip-corn in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground as is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes homes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. LaStraud and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end. The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt-sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On the haatherly side of the pool the woods grew very thick and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the breeds which lined the lake. LaStraud showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found and indeed, so moist was the ground that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who was picking up a scent and then turned upon my companion. What did you go into the pool for? he asked. I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth? Oh, tut tut, I had no time. That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here's where the party with the lodgekeeper came and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet. He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view talking all the time rather to himself than to us. These are young McCarthy's feet twice he was walking and once he ran swiftly so that the souls are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this then? It is the butt end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha ha! What have we here? Tiptoes, tiptoes, square too, quite unusual boots. They come, they go, they come again. Of course, that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from? He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beach, the largest tree in the neighborhood. He ran his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there turning over the leaves and dried sticks gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood to the high road where all traces were lost. It has been a case of considerable interest, he remarked, returning to his natural manner. I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran and perhaps write a little note. Having done that we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab and I shall be with you presently. It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, home still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood. This may interest you, Lestrade, he remarked, holding it out. The murder was done with it. I see no marks? There are none. How do you know, then? The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place once it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon. And the murderer landed, limps with the right leg, wears thick, sold shooting boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar holder, and carries a blunt penknife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search. Lestrade laughed. I am afraid that I am still a skeptic, he said. Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury. New Veron answered Holmes calmly. I shall be busy this afternoon and shall probably return to London by the evening train. And leave your case unfinished? No, finished. But the mystery? It is solved. Who is the criminal, then? The gentleman I describe. But who is he? Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populist neighborhood. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. I am a practical man, he said. And I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the laughingstock of Scotland Yard. All right, said Holmes quietly. I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Goodbye. I shall drop you a line before I leave. Having Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face as one who finds himself in a perplexing position. Look here, Watson, he said, when the cloth was cleared. Just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't know quite what to do and I should value your advice. Let a cigar let me expound. Pray do so. Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favor and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry cui before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son's ear. Now, from this double point our research must commence and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true. What of this cui, then? Well, obviously could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The cui was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But cui is a distinctly Australian cry and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia. What of the rat, then? Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. This is a map of the colony of Victoria, he said. I wired to Bristol for it last night. He put his hand over part of the map. What do you read? A rat, I read. And now he raised his hand. Bala rat. Quite so. That was the word the man uttered when his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer, so and so, of Bala rat. It is wonderful, I exclaimed. It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which, granting the son statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Bala rat with a grey cloak. And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate where strangers could hardly wander. Quite so. Then comes our expedition of today. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal. But how did you gain them? You know my method, it is founded upon the observation of trifles. His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces. Yes, they were peculiar boots. But his lame-ness. The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left. He put less weight on it. Why? Because he limped. He was lame. But his left-handedness. You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was left side. Now, how can that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between a father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of one hundred and forty different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam. And the cigar-holder. I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore, he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife. Holmes, I said. You have drawn a net round this man to escape, and you have saved an innocent human life, as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is... Mr. John Turner, cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor. The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance. But his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease. Pray, sit down on the sofa, said Holmes gently. You had my note. Yes, the lodgekeeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal. I thought people would talk if I went to the hall. And why did you wish to see me? He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes as though his question was already answered. Yes, said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. It is so, I know all about McCarthy. The old man sank his face in his hands. God help me, he cried. But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I'd give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the assizes. I'm glad to hear you say so, said Holmes gravely. I would have spoken now had it not come to your girl. It would break her heart. It will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested. It may not come to that, said Holmes. What? I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however. I am a dying man, said Old Turner. I have had diabetes for years. Doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a jail. Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. Just tell us the truth, he said. I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed. It's as well, said the old man. It's a question whether I shall live to the assizes, so it matters little to me. But I should wish to spare Alice the shock, and now I will make the thing clear to you. It has been a long time in the acting, but it will not take me long to tell. You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate, I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power. It was in the early sixties at the Diggings. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything. I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up the station from time to time. We're stopping the wagons on the road to the Diggings. Blackjack of Ballarat was the name I was under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat gang. One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and intact it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon driver, who was this very man, McCarthy. I wished the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, because wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married too, and though my wife died young, she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby, her wee hands seemed to lead me down the right path, as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me. I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back and a boot to his foot. Here we are, Jack, says he, touching me on the arm. We'll be as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don't, it's a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman with an hail. Well, down they came to the West Country. There was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent-free for my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness. Turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice. His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl. And as I was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lage had stepped into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine. Not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I was firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over. When I went down there, I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk, all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come up her most. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with his little regard as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I, and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have let a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry had brought back his son, but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred. Well, it is not for me to judge you, said Holmes, as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. I pray that we may never be exposed to such temptation. I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do? In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned, I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye, and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us. Farewell, then, said the old man solemnly. Your own deathbeds, when they come, are the things which you have given to mine. Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room. God help us, said Holmes after a long silence. Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this, that I do not think of Baxter's words and say, There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes. James McCarthy was acquitted of the Assizes on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the Defending Council. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead, and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past.