 Part 2 of the Adventure of the Three Students from the Return of Sherlock Holmes. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Zara. The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Adventure of the Three Students. Part 2. Three yellow squares of light, shown above us in the gathering gloom. Your three birds are all in their nests, said Holmes, looking up. Hello! What's that? One of them seems restless enough. It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room. I should like to have a peep at each of them, said Holmes. Is it possible? No difficulty in the world, Holmes answered. The set of rooms is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors to go over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you. No names, please, said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of medieval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one from our host, and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the Indian, a silent little hook-nose fellow, who eyed us a scance, and was obviously glad when Holmes' architectural studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the third door did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad language came from behind it. I don't care who you are. You can go to Blazes! word the angry voice. Tomorrow is the exam, and I won't be drawn by any one. A rude fellow said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew down the stair. Of course he did not realize that it was I who was knocking, but nonetheless his conduct was very uncurrious, and indeed under the circumstances rather suspicious. Holmes' response was a curious one. Can you tell me his exact height? he asked. Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five-foot-six would be about it. That is very important, said Holmes. And now, Mr. Sohms, I wish you good night. Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. Good gracious, Mr. Holmes! You are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt fashion. You don't seem to realize the position. Tomorrow is the examination. I must take some definite action to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of the papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced. You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow morning, and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile you changed nothing. Nothing at all. Very good, Mr. Holmes. You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some way of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me, also the pencil cuttings. Goodbye. When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again looked up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were invisible. Well, Watson, what do you think of it? Holmes asked, as we came out onto the main street. Quite a little parlor game. Sort of three-card trick, isn't it? There are your three men. It must be one of them. You take your choice, which is yours. The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst record. And yet the Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be pacing his room all this time? There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to learn anything by heart. He looked at us in a queer way. So would you if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were preparing for examination next day, and every moment was of value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives all was satisfactory. But that fellow does puddle me. Who? Why Bannister, the servant? What's his game in the matter? He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man. So did he me. That's the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly honest man? Well, well, here's a large stationers. We shall begin our researches here. There were only four stationers of any consequence in the town, and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips and bid high for a duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged his shoulders in half humorous resignation. No good, my dear Watson. This the best and only final clue has run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a sufficient case without it. By Joe, my dear fellow, it's nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven thirty. What, with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get noticed to quit and that I shall share your downfall. Not, however, before we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless servant, and the three enterprising students. Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At eight in the morning he came into my room just as I finished my toilette. Well, Watson, he said he, it is time we went down to St. Luke's. Can you do without breakfast? Certainly. Holmes will be in a dreadful fidget until we were able to tell him something positive. Have you anything positive to tell him? I think so. You have formed a conclusion. Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery. But what fresh evidence could you have got? Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours' hard work and covered at least five miles with something to show for it. Look at that! He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of black, doughy clay. Why, Holmes, you only had two yesterday. And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever number three came from is also the source of numbers one and two. Eh, Watson? Well, come along and put friend Holmes out of his pain. The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination would commence and he was still in the dilemma between making the facts public and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand still so great was his mental agitation and he ran towards Holmes with two eager hands outstretched. Thank heaven that you have come. I feared that you had given it up in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed? Yes, let it proceed by all means. But this rascal? He shall not compete. You know him? I think so. If this matter is not to become public we must give ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small private court-martial. You there, if you please, Holmes. Watson, you here. I'll take the arm-chair in the middle. I think that we are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly ring the bell. Bannister entered and shrank back an evident surprise and fear at our judicial appearance. You will kindly close the door, said Holmes. Now, Bannister, will you please tell us the truth about yesterday's incident? The man turned white to the roots of his hair. I have told you everything, sir. Nothing to add? Nothing at all, sir. Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you when you sat down on that chair yesterday. Did you do so in order to conceal some object which would have shown who had been in the room? Bannister's face was ghastly. No, sir, certainly not. It is only a suggestion, said Holmes, swavly. I frankly admit that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough since the moment that Mr. Somes' back was turned you released the man who was hiding in the bedroom. Bannister licked his dry lips. There was no man, sir. Ah, that's a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the truth, but now I know that you have lied. The man's face set in sullen defiance. There was no man, sir. Come, come, Bannister. No, sir. There was no one. In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door. Now, Somes, I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist and ask him to step down into yours. An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student. He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy step and a pleasant open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at each of us and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner. Just close the door, said Holmes. Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all quite alone here, and Noah need ever know one word of what passes between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honorable man, ever came to commit such an action as that of yesterday. The unfortunate young man staggered back and cast a look full of horror and reproach at Bannister. No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir. I never said a word. Never one word!" cried the servant. No, but you have now, said Holmes. Now, sir, you must see that after Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and that your only chance lies in frank confession. For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside the table, and, burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a storm of passionate sobbing. Come, come, said Holmes kindly. It is human to err, and at least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Somes what occurred, and you can check me where I'm wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don't trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do you know injustice. From the moment Mr. Somes, that you said to me that no one, not even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by chance, on that very day, the papers were on the table. I dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How did he know? When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused me by supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having in broad daylight under the eyes of all those opposite rooms forced himself through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in order to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to think that if one of your three students was a man of unusual height, he was the most worth watching of the three. I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of the side table. Of the center table, I could make nothing until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to me in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative proofs, which I speedily obtained. What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practicing the jump. He returned, carrying his jumping shoes, which are provided, as you are aware, with several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by means of his great height, these proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they were. No harm would have been done had it not been that as he passed your door he perceived the key which had been left by the carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to enter and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a dangerous exploit, for he could always pretend that he had simply looked in to ask a question. Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it you put on that chair near the window? Gloves, said the young man. Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. He put his gloves on the chair, and he took the proof sheet by sheet to copy them. He thought the tutor must return by the main gate and that he would see him. As we know he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves, but we caught up his shoes and darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch on that table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe had been drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken refuge there. The earth round the spike had been left on the table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this morning, and saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping pit and carried away a specimen of it. Together with some of the fine tan or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?" The student had drawn himself erect. "'Yes, sir. It's true,' said he. "'Good heavens! Have you nothing to add?' cried Soames. "'Yes, sir. I have. But the shock of this disgraceful exposure has bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I knew that my sin had found me out. "'Here it is, sir. You will see that I have said I have determined not to go in for the examination. I have been offered a commission in the Rhodesian police, and I am going out to South Africa at once. I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by your unfair advantage, said Soames. But why did you change your purpose?' Gilchrist pointed to Bannister. "'There is the man who set me in the right path,' said he. "'Come now, Bannister,' said Holmes. "'It would be clear to you, from what I have said, that only you could have let this young man out since you were left in the room, and must have locked the door when you went out. As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible. Can you not clear up the last point in this mystery and tell us the reasons for your action?' "'It was simple enough, sir. If you only had known, but with all your cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman's father. When he was ruined, I came to the college as servant, but I never forgot my old employer because he was down in the world. I watched his son all I could for the sake of the old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room yesterday, when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr. Gilchrist's tan gloves aligning that chair. I knew those gloves well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, the game was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would budge me until Mr. Soames, he went for you. Then out came my poor young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all to me. Wasn't it natural, sir, that I should save him? And wasn't it natural also that I should try to speak to him as his dead father would have done, and make him understand that he could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?' "'No, indeed,' said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. "'Well, Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson, as to you, sir, I trust that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen low, let us see in the future how high you can rise.' End of THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS, PART 2 Recording by Zara, in June of 2007. Part 1 of THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PANSNE from THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOMES This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Kristen Hughes THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOMES by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PANSNE, PART 1 When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes, which contain our work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most interesting in themselves, and at the same time most conductive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the Red Leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I find an account of the Adleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British Barrow. The famous Smith Mortimer succession case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Hewrett, the boulevard assassin, an exploit which won for Holmes an autographed letter of thanks from the French President, and the Order of the Legion of Honor. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that none of them unites so many singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the causes of the crime. It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November. Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening. He engaged with a powerful lens, deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palm-sessed, I, deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind hulled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces, all London was no more than the mole-hills that dot the fields. I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end. Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out tonight, said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palm-sessed. I've done enough from one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating from the second half of the 15th century. Hello, hello, hello, what's this? Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse's hooves and the long grinding of a wheel as it rasped against the curb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door. What can he want? I ejaculated as a man stepped out of it. Want? He wants us, and we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and rovats and glashes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather. Wait a bit, though. There's the cab off again. There's hope yet. He'd have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed. When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very practical interest. Is he in? He asked eagerly. Come up, my dear sir, said Holmes's voice from above. I hope you have no designs upon us such a night as this. The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked a blaze out of the logs in the grate. Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes, said he. Here's a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something important which has brought you out in such a gale. It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions? I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century today. Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my feet. It's down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I was wired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at five, conducted my investigation, was back at Sharing Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab. Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case. It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled. And yet, at first, it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong. There's no motive, Mr. Holmes. That's what bothers me. I can't put my hand on a motive. Here's a man dead. There's no denying that. But so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm. He's lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair. Let us hear about it, said he. I've got my facts pretty clear, said Stanley Hopkins. All I want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man who gave the name of Professor Quorum. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the time and the other half hobbling around the house with a stick, or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a bath chair. He was well liked by the few neighbors who called upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarleton. These have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character. The Professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes, but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the university, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor's dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages which bore upon the next day's work. This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him, either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a decent, quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the Professor's study, under circumstances which can point only to murder. The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed his singular narrative. If you were to search all England, said he, I don't suppose you could find a household more self-contained or freer from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them go past the garden gate. The Professor was buried in his work, and existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the neighborhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the gardener, who wields the bath-chair, is an army pensioner, an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham Road. It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in. Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarleton, who is the only person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the forenoon between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Corum was still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busy with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room. But the maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick firm tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild horse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come from either a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut and she opened it. Inside young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound which had divided the carotid artery, the instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small ceiling wax knives to be found on old fashioned writing-tables with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor's own desk. At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes for an instant. The professor, he murmured, it was she. The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead. In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but she was just too late to catch the young man's dying words. Seeing Susan with the body she hurried to the professor's room. He was sitting up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the professor was still in his night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve o'clock. The professor declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the young man's last words. The professor, it was she. But imagines that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer, the gardener, for the local police. A little later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really nothing wanting. "'Except, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,' said my companion with a somewhat bitter smile, "'Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job did you make of it?' "'I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which will give you a general idea of the position of the professor's study in the various points of the case. It will help you in following my investigation.' He unfolded the rough chart which I hear reproduce, and laid it across Holmes's knee. I rose, and standing behind Holmes studied it over his shoulder. "'It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which seem to me to be essential. All of the rest you will see later for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been made along that line, for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs, and the other leads straight to the professor's bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain, and would certainly show any footmarks. My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down, and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the night. One moment, said Holmes, where does this path lead to? To the road. How long is it? A hundred yards or so? At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could surely pick up the tracks. Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point. Well on the road itself. No, it was all trodden into mire. Tot tot. Well then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or going? It was impossible to say. There was never any outline. A large foot or a small. You could not distinguish. Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience. It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since, said he. It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well, it can't be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing? I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next examined the corridor. It is lined with coconut matting, and had taken no impression of any kind. This brought me to the study itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article is a large writing table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double column of drawers, with a central small cupboard between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing of value was kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been committed. I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the bureau and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The stab was on the right side of the neck from behind forward, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been self-inflicted. Unless he fell upon the knife, said Holmes. Exactly. The idea crossed my mind, but we found the knife some feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there are the man's own dying words. And finally, there was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's right hand. From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it and disclosed a golden pastene, with two broken ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it. Willoughby Smith had excellent sight, he added. There can be no question that this was snatched from the face or the person of the assassin. Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined them with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavored to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp. And finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins. That's the best I can do for you, said he. It may prove to be of some use. The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows. Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength and his opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficult in tracing her. Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been reflected upon my features. Surely my deductions are simplicity itself, said he. It would be difficult to name any article which afforded a finer field for inference than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That they belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy and also, of course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her being a person of refinement and well-dressed, they are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be slattenly in other respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your nose, showing that the lady's nose was very broad at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there is a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my description. My own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into the very centre, nor near the centre of these glasses. Therefore, the lady's eyes are set very near to the sides of the nose. You will perceive Watson that the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead, the eyelids, and the shoulders. Yes, I said, I can follow each of your arguments. I confess, however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double visit to the optician. Holmes took the glasses in his hand. You will perceive, he said, that the clips are lined with tiny bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new. Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that the older of them has not been there more than a few months. They exactly correspond, so I gathered that the lady went back to the same establishment for the second. By George it's marvellous, cried Hopkins in an ecstasy of admiration, to think that I had all that evidence in my hand and never knew it. I had intended, however, to go the round of the London opticians. Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us about the case? Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do now, probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any strangers seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have heard of none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest. Ah, there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want us to come out tomorrow. If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes, there is a train from Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine. Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of great interest. And I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours sleep. I dare say you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire. I'll light my spirit lamp and give you a cup of coffee before we start. End of the Adventure of the Golden Pansne, part one. Part two of the Adventure of the Golden Pansne from the Return of Sherlock Holmes. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Adventure of the Golden Pansne, part two. The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the early days of our career. After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was being put into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast. And so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate. Well, Wilson, any news? No, sir, nothing. No reports of any stranger scene? No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger either came or went yesterday. Have you had inquiries made at the inns and lodgings? Yes, sir. There is no one that we cannot account for. Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay there or take a train without being observed. This is the garden path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I'll pledge my word there was no mark on it yesterday. On which side were the marks on the grass? This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the flower bed. I can't see the traces now, but they were clear to me then. Yes, yes, someone has passed along, said Holmes, stooping over the grass border. Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed. Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand. I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face. You say that she must have come back this way? Yes, sir, there is no other. On this strip of grass. Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Hmm. It was a very remarkable performance. Very remarkable. Well, I think we've exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is usually kept open, I suppose. Then this visitor had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would have provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no traces upon the coconut matting. Then she found herself in this study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging. Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long before. About a quarter of an hour, she says. Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what does she do? She goes over to the writing-table, what for? Not for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking, it would surely have been locked up. No, it was for something in that wooden bureau. Hello! What is this scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins? The mark which he was examining began upon the brasswork on the right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface. I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you'll always find scratches round a keyhole. This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is cut? An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there? A sad-faced elderly woman came into the room. Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning? Yes, sir. Did you notice this scratch? No, sir, I did not. I'm sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau? The professor keeps it on his watch chain. Is it a simple key? No, sir, it is a chub's key. Very good, Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either opens it or tries to do so, while she is thus engaged young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key, she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. She falls and she escapes, either with or without the object for which she has come. Is Susan the maid there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the time that you heard the cry, Susan? No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair I'd have seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or I would have heard it. That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the professor's room. There is no exit that way? No, sir. We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor. Hello, Hopkins. This is very important, very important indeed. The professor's corridor is also lined with coconut matting. Well, sir, what of that? Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well, I don't insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be suggestive. Come with me and introduce me. We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps ending in a door. Our guide knocked and then ushered us into the professor's bedroom. It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or were all stacked round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with yellow around his mouth, a cigarette glowed amid the tangle of white hair, and the air of the room was fatted with stale tobacco smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it also was stained with yellow nicotine. A smoker, Mr. Holmes, said he, speaking in well-chosen English, with a curious little mincing accent. Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir, I can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionidas of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad. But an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work, that is all that is left to me. Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances all over the room. Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco. The old man exclaimed, Alas! What a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that after a few months' training he was an admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes? I have not yet made up my mind. I shall indeed be indebted to you, if you can throw a light where all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself, such a blow is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But you are a man of action. You are a man of affairs. It is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every emergency. We are fortunate indeed in having you at our side. Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host's liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes. Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow, said the old man. That is my magnum opus, the pile of papers on the side-table yonder. It is my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very foundation of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health, I do not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that my assistant has been taken from me. Dear me, Mr. Holmes, why, you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself. Holmes smiled. I am a connoisseur," said he, taking another cigarette from the box, his fourth, and lighting it from the stub of that which he had finished. I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination, Professor Quorum, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of the crime and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this. What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words, the professor it was she? The professor shook his head. Susan is a country girl," said he, and you know the incredible stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some incoherent, delirious words, and that she twisted them into this meaningless message. I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy. Possibly an accident. Possibly—I only breathe it among ourselves—a suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles—some affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable supposition than murder. But the eyeglasses—ah, I am only a student, a man of dreams. I cannot explain the practical things of life. But still we are aware, my friend, that love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means, take another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan, a glove, glasses—who knows what article may be carried as a token or treasure, when a man puts an end to his life. This gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass. But after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand. Holmes seems struck by the theory thus put forward. He continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming cigarette after cigarette. Tell me, Professor Corum, said he at last, what is in that cupboard in the bureau? Nothing that would help a thief. Only papers, letters from my poor wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour. Here is the key. You can look for yourself." Holmes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant. Then he handed it back. No, I hardly think that it would help me, said he. I should prefer to go quietly down to your garden and turn the whole matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide which you have put forward. We must apologise for having intruded upon you, Professor Corum, and I promise that we won't disturb you until after lunch. At two o'clock we will come again and report to you anything which may have happened in the interval. Holmes was curiously distraught, and we walked up and down the garden path for some time in silence. Have you a clue? I asked at last. It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked, said he. It is possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me. My dear Holmes, I exclaimed, how on earth? Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm done. Of course we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker. Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her. I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which he had named, he had captured the housekeeper's goodwill and was chatting with her as if he had known her for years. Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something terrible, all day and sometimes all night, sir. I've seen that room of a morning. Well, sir, you'd have thought it was a London fog. Poor young Mr. Smith. He was a smoker also, but not as bad as the professor. His health, well, I don't know that it's better nor worse for the smoking. Ah, said Holmes, but it kills the appetite. Well, I don't know about that, sir. I suppose the professor eats hardly anything? Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him. A wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face his lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume. Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable big breakfast this morning, and I don't know when I've known him make a better one. And he's ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I'm surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor, I couldn't bear to look at food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn't let it take his appetite away. We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman, who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that he had found the children, and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes's description, and wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed to rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he sprang up from his chair and glanced at his watch. Two o'clock, gentlemen, said he, we must go up and have it out with our friend the Professor. The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had credited him. He was indeed a weird figure as he turned his white mane in his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette smoldered in his mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an armchair by the fire. Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet? He shoved the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him, towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I observed Holmes's eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle signals flying. Yes, said he, I have solved it. Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement, something like a sneer quivered over the gaunt features of the old Professor. Indeed, in the garden? No, here. Here when? This instant. You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a fashion. I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Corham, and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or what exact part you play in this strange business, I am not yet able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is passed for your benefit, so that you may know the information which I still require. A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch upon the varnish would have produced. You are not an accessory therefore, and she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge, to rob you. The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. This is most interesting and instructive," said he. Have you no more to add? Surely having traced this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her. I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted, she was really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor which she imagined to be that by which she had come. Both were lined with coconut madding, and it was only when it was too late that she understood that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found herself in your room. The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at homes. Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter. All very fine, Mr. Holmes, said he, but there is one little flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it during the day. I am aware of that, Professor Corum. And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware that a woman had entered my room? I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her, you recognized her. You aided her to escape. Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers. You are mad! He cried. You are talking insanely. I helped her to escape? Where is she now? She is there, said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the corner of the room. I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. You are right! She cried in a strange foreign voice. You are right! I am here! She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come from the wall of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural blindness, and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these disadvantages, there is a certain nobility in the woman's bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head, which compelled something of respect and admiration. Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an overmastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay back in his chair with a twitching face, and stared at her with brooding eyes. Yes, sir, I am your prisoner, she said. From where I stood I could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But you are right. You who say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a knife which I held in my hand. For in my despair I snatched anything from the table and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell. Madam, said Holmes, I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you are far from well. She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark dust streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the bed, then she resumed. I have only a little time here, she said, but I would have you know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell. For the first time the old man stirred. God bless you, Anna. He cried, God bless you. She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. Why should you cling so hard to that wretched life of your sergius? Said she, it has done harm to many and good to none. Not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped before God's time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late. I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a university I will not name the place. God bless you, Anna. murmured the old man again. We were reformers, revolutionists, nihilists. You understand? He and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble. A police officer was killed. Many were arrested. Evidence was wanted and in order to save his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his own wife and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows and some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to England with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing well that if the brotherhood knew where he was not a week would pass before justice would be done. The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a cigarette. I am in your hands, Anna, said he. You were always good to me. I have not yet told you the height of his villainy, said she. Among our comrades of the order there was one who was the friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving, all that my husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty of that as guilt, but he was not. He wrote forever dissuading us from such a course. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings towards him and view which each of us had taken. My husband found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to swear away the young man's life. In this he failed, but Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia, where now at this moment he works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you villain! Now, now at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works, and lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands. And I will let you go. You were always a noble woman, Anna, said the old man, puffing at his cigarette. She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain. I must finish, she said. When my term was over, I set myself to get the diary and letters, which, if sent to the Russian government, would procure my friend's release. I knew that my husband had come to England. Over months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure that, with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of his own free will. I must get it for myself. With this object I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my husband's house as his secretary. It was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key. He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the house. He told me that in the forenoon the study was always empty. As the secretary was employed up here, so at last I took my carriage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for myself. I succeeded, but at what a cost! I had just taken the paper, and was locking the cupboard when the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Corum lived, not knowing that he was in his employ. Exactly, exactly, said Holmes. The secretary came back and told his employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last breath, he tried to send a message that it was she, the she whom he had just discussed with him. You must let me speak, said the woman, in an imperative voice, and her face contracted as if in pain. When he had fallen I rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband's room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so, his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law, I could give him to the brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I said, that his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason and for no other he shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place, a relic of old days, none only to himself. He took his meals in his own room, and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that when the police left the house, I should slip away by night and come back no more. But in some way you have read our plans. She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. These are my last words, she said. There is the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice. Take it. You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now, I have done my duty, and— Stop her! cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had wretched a small file from her hand. Too late, she said, sinking back on the bed. Too late. I took the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims. I am going. I charge you so to remember the packet. A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one. Holmes remarked as we travelled back to town. It hinged from the outset upon the pants-nay, but for the fortunate chance of the dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an impossible performance. Save in the unlikely case that she had a second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider seriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house. On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and in that case it was evident that she must have entered the professor's room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would bear out of this supposition, and I examined the room narrowly, for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuously and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear. This then might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a done colour, which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs and I ascertained in your presence, Watson, without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Corum's consumption of food had increased, as one would expect when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette-ash, that the prisoner had, in our absence, come out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are going to headquarters, no doubt. I think Watson, you and I, will drive together to the Russian Embassy. End of The Adventure of the Golden Pansne, Part 2 Part 1 of The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter, from the return of Sherlock Holmes. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Sarah Jennings. The Return of Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter, Part 1. We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy February morning some seven or eight years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran thus. Please await me, stop. Terrible misfortune, stop. Right wing, three-quarter missing. Indispensable tomorrow, stop. Overton. Strand, postmark, and dispatched 1036, said Holmes, reading it over and over. Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked through the times, and then we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days. Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one, and the waking near, when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep set and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life. As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders and looked from one of us to the other with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety. Mr. Sherlock Holmes? My companion bowed. I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police. Brace it down and tell me what's the matter. It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful. I wonder my hair isn't gray. Godfrey Staunton, you've heard of him, of course. He's simply the hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the pack and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's passing or tackling or dribbling, there's no one to touch him. And then he's got the head and can hold us all together. What am I to do? That's what I ask, you Mr. Holmes. There's Moorehouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges right on in into the scrum instead of keeping out on the touch line. He's a fine place kick, it's true, but then he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford Flyers could romp around him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the 25 line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton. My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigor and earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker's knee. When our visitor was silent, Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter S of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of varied information. There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger, said he, and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me. It was our visitor's turn to look surprised. Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things, said he. I suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you don't know Cyril overton either. Holmes shook his head good humoredly. Great Scott, cried the athlete. Why, I was first reserved for England against Wales, and I've skipped the varsity all this year. But that's nothing. I didn't know there was a soul in England who didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five internationals. Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, where have you lived? Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment. You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a sweeter and healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of society, but never I'm happy to say and to amateur sport, which is the best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is that has occurred and how you desire that I should help you. Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by degrees with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us. It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the Rugger team of Cambridge varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man. Tomorrow we play Oxford. Yesterday, we all came up and we settled at Bentley's private hotel. At 10 o'clock, I went round and saw that the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a man fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He said it was all right, just a touch of headache. I bathed him good night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells me that a rough looking man with a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and the note was taken to his room. Godfrey read it and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me. But Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the direction of the strand. This morning, Godfrey's room was empty. His bed had never been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night before. He'd gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger and nowhere'd has come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No, I feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him again. Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular narrative. What did you do? He asked. I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of them there. I've had an answer. No one has seen him. Could he have got back to Cambridge? Yes, there is a late train, quarter past 11. But so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it. No, he has not been seen. What did you do next? I wired to Lord Mount James. Why to Lord Mount James? Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount James is his nearest relative, his uncle, I believe. Indeed, this throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount James is one of the richest men in England. So I've heard Godfrey say, and your friend was closely related. Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly 80, crammed full of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard cue with his knuckles, never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute miser. But it will all come to him all right. Have he heard from Lord Mount James? No. What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount James? Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do with money, it is possible he would make for his nearest relative who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it. Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his relative, Lord Mount James, you have then to explain the visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour in the agitation that was caused by his coming. Sir Overton pressed his hands to his head. I can make nothing of it, said he. Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the matter, said Holmes. I should strongly recommend that you make your preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which torn him away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step round together to this hotel and see if the porter can throw any fresh light upon the matter. Sherlock Holmes was a past master in the art of putting a humble witness at his ease, and very soon in the privacy of Godfrey Stanton's abandoned room he had extracted all that the porter had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither was he a working man. He was simply what the porter described as a medium-looking chap, a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey Stanton had crammed the note into his pocket. Stanton had not shaken hands with the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences of which the porter had only distinguished one word, time. Then they had hurried off and the man had described. It was just half past ten by the hall-clock. Let me see, said Holmes, sitting himself on Stanton's bed. You are the day porter, are you not? Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven. The night porter saw nothing, I suppose. No, sir, one theatre party came in late, no one else. Were you on duty all day yesterday? Yes, sir. Did you take any messages to Mr. Stanton? Yes, sir, one telegram. Ah, that's interesting. What o'clock was this? About six. Where was Mr. Stanton when he received it? Here in his room. Were you present when he opened it? Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer. Well, was there? Yes, sir, he wrote an answer. Did you take it? No, he took it himself. But he wrote it in your presence. Yes, sir, I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at that table. When he had written it, he said, all right, porter, I will take this myself. What did he write it with? A pen, sir. Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table? Yes, sir, it was the top one. Homes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window and carefully examined that which was uppermost. It is a pity he did not write in pencil, said he, throwing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. As you have no doubt frequently observed Watson, the impression usually goes through, the fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad pointed quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting pad. Ah, yes, surely, this is the very thing. He tore off a strip of the blotting paper and turned towards us with hieroglyphics. Cyril Overton was much excited. Hold it to the glass, he cried. That is unnecessary, said Holmes. The paper is thin, and the reverse will give the message. Here it is. He turned it over and we read, stand by us for God's sake. So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least six words of the message which have escaped us, but what remains, stand by us for God's sake, proves that this young man saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which someone else could protect him. Us, mark you, another person was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced bearded man who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What then is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man, and what is the third source from which each of them sought for help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to that. We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed, I suggested. Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your notice that if you walk into a post office and demand to see the counterfoil of another man's message, there may be some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you. There's so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse, the end may be obtained. Meanwhile, I should liken your presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these papers which have been left upon the table. There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks which Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting, penetrating eyes. Nothing here, he said at last. By the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow. Nothing amiss with him? Sound as a bell. Have you ever known him ill? Not a day. He's been laid up with a hack and he once slipped his kneecap, but that was nothing. Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think you may have had some secret trouble. With your scent, I will put one or two of these papers in my pocket in case they should bear upon our future inquiry. One moment, one moment! Quite a queerless voice, and we looked up to find a queer little old man jerking and twitching in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty black with a very broad, brimmed top hat and a loose white necktie, the whole effect being that of a very rustic person or of an undertaker's mute. Yet in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle and his manner a quick intensity which commanded attention. Who are you, sir? And by what right do you touch this gentleman's papers? he asked. I am a private detective and I am endeavouring to explain his disappearance. Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh? This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by Scotland Yard. Who are you, sir? I am Cyril Overton. Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount James. I came round as quickly as the base water bus would bring me. So you have instructed a detective? Yes, sir. And are you prepared to meet the cost? I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be prepared to do that. But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that. In that case, no doubt his family. Nothing of the sort, sir, screamed to the little man. Don't look to me for a penny, not a penny. You understand that, Mr. Detective? I am all the family this young man has got and I tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations, it is due to the fact that I have never wasted money and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to account for what you do with them. Very good, sir, said Sherlock Holmes. May I ask in the meanwhile whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man's disappearance? No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after himself and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him. I quite understand your position, said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Perhaps you don't quite understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for anything for which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord, not James, and it is entirely possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, or your treasure. The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his neckcloth. Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such a villainy. What inhuman rogues there are in the world, but Godfrey is a fine lad, a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I'll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime, spare no pains, Mr. Detective. I beg you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver, or even a tenor goes, you can always look to me. Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a copy of this in hand, a home set forth to find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them. There was a telegraph office at a short distance from the hotel. We halted outside it. It's worth trying, Watson, said Holmes. Of course, with a warrant we could demand to see the counter-foils, but we have not reached that stage yet. I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us venture it. I am sorry to trouble you, said he in his blandest manner, to the young woman behind the grating. There is some small mistake about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if this was so? The young woman turned over a sheaf of counter-foils. What o'clock was it? she asked. A little after six. Whom was it, too? Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. The last words in it were, for God's sake, he whispered confidentially. I am very anxious at getting no answer. The young woman separated one of the forms. This is it. There is no name, said she, smoothing it out upon the counter. Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer, said Holmes. Dear me, how very stupid of me to be sure. Good morning, Miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind. He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the street once more. Well, I asked. We progress, my dear Watson. We progress. I had seven different schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to succeed the very first time. And what have you gained? A starting point for our investigation, he hailed a cab. King's Cross station, said he, end of part one of Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter. Part two of Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter, from the return of Sherlock Holmes. This is the LibriVox recording. All the LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sarah Jennings. Return of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter, part two. We have a journey then? Yes. I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the indications seem to me to point in that direction. Tell me, I asked, when we had rattled up Grey's Inn Road, have you any suspicion yet as to the cause of his disappearance? I don't think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure. Surely you don't really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy uncle. I confess, my dear Watson, that does not appeal to me as a very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person. It certainly did that, but what are your alternatives? You could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be coincidence, but it is interesting. Water sport is free from bedding, but a good deal of outside bedding goes on among the public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's while to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a horse race. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one is that this young man really is the heir of a great property, however modest his means may yet present be, and it is not impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted. These theories take no account of the telegram. Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it. It was already dark when we reached the old university city. The ruffians took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later we had stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait we were at last admitted to the consulting room, where we found the doctor seated behind his table. It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical schools of the university, but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square massive face, the brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable, so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend's card in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features. I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your profession, one of which I by no means approve. In that doctor you will find yourself in agreement with every criminal in the country, said my friend quietly. So far as your efforts are directed against the suppression of crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply sufficient for this purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing with you. No doubt, doctor, and yet the conversation may prove more important than the treatise. Incidentally I may tell you that we are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer who goes in front of the regular forces of the country. I've come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton. What about him? You know him, do you not? He is an intimate friend of mine. You are aware that he has disappeared. Ah, indeed! There was no change of expression in the rugged features of the doctor. He left his hotel last night. He has not been heard of. No doubt he will return. Tomorrow is the varsity football match. I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man's fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football match does not come within my horizon at all. I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton's fate. Do you know where he is? Certainly not. You have not seen him since yesterday. No, I have not. Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man? Absolutely. Did you ever know him ill? Never. Homes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes. Then perhaps you will explain this receded bill for thirteen guineas paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers upon his desk. The doctor flushed with anger. I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an explanation to you, Mr. Holmes. Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. If you prefer a public explanation, it must come sooner or later, said he. I have already told you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence. I know nothing about it. Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London? Certainly not. Dear me, dear me, the post office again! Homeside-wearily. A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening, a telegram which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance, and yet you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office here and register a complaint. Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk and his dark face was crimson with fury. I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir, said he. You can tell your employer, Lord Mount James, that I do not wish to have anything to do with either him or his agents. No, sir, not another word. He rang the bell furiously. John, show these gentlemen out. A pompous butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out laughing. Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character, said he. I have not seen a man who, if he turned his talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap lest by the illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor wads, and here we are, stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn, just opposite Armstrong's house, is singularly adapted to our needs. If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries. These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until nearly nine o'clock. He was pale and ejected, stained with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and his pipe alight, he was ready to take that half-comic and holy philosophic view, which was natural to him, when his affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and glance out of the window. A bruggeman pair of greys under the glare of a gas lamp stood before the doctor's door. It's been out three hours, said Holmes, started at half past six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and he does it once, sometimes twice a day. No unusual thing for a doctor in practice, but Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then, does he make these long journeys which must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is it that he visits? His coachman. My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity, or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question. All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor's habits and of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his words, the carriage came round to the door. Could you not follow it? Excellent, Watson! You were scintillating this evening. The idea did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then keeping at a discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until we were clear of the town. We had got well out onto the country road, when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage stopped, the doctor elighted, and walked swiftly back to where I had also halted and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he feared the road was narrow and that he hoped his carriage did not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been more admirable than his way of putting it. I had once rode past the carriage, and keeping to the main road I went on for a few miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it became evident that I had turned down one of several side roads which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of course I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these journeys with the disappearance of God Restawnton, and was only inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us. But now I find that he keeps so keen a lookout upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made the matter clear. Can we follow him tomorrow? Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over tonight is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed tonight. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name, the obliging young lady at the office, allowed me to read upon the counterfoil of Stondin's urgent message. He knows where the young man is, to that I'll swear, and if he knows, then it must be our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and as you are aware what's, and it is not my habit to leave the game in that condition. And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes passed across to me with a smile. Sir, it ran. I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a window at the back of my Brugam, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride, which will lead you to the spot which you started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Stondin, and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that gentleman is to return at once to London, and to report to your employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge will certainly be wasted. Yours faithfully, Leslie Armstrong. An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor, said Holmes. Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know more before I leave him. His carriage is at his door now, said I. There he is, stepping into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose I try my luck upon the bicycle. No, no, my dear Watson. With all respect for your natural acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own devices, as the appearance of two inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable report to you before evening. Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He came back at night weary and unsuccessful. I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor's general direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton, Histon, Water Beach, and Okington have each been explored and have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a bruggamon pair could hardly have been overlooked in such sleepy hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there a telegram for me? Yes, I opened it. Here it is. Ask for Pompeii from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College. I don't understand it. Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in answer to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn. By the way, is there any news of the match? Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its last edition. Oxford won by a goal in two tries. The last sentences of the description say, The defeat of the light blues may be entirely attributed to the unfortunate absence of the crack international, Godfrey Stanton, whose want was felt at every instant of the game, the lack of combination in their three-quarter line, and their weakness both in attack and defense, more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy and hard-working pack. Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified, said Holmes. Personally, I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed tonight, Watson, before I foresee that tomorrow may be an eventful day. I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I associated that instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the table. No, no, dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small scouting expedition, and everything is favorable. Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's trail today, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food until I run him to his burrow. In that case, said I, we had best carry our breakfast with us, for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door. Never mind, let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs with me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in the work that lies before us. When we descended, I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where he opened the door of a loose box and let out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tanned dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound. Let me introduce you to Pompey, he said. Pompey is the pride of the local draghounds. No very great flyer, as his build will show, but a staunch hound on the set. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come along and show what you can do. He led him across to the doctor's door. The dogs sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill line of excitement started off down the street, tugging at his leash and his efforts to go faster. In half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country road. What have you done, Holmes, I asked. A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion, I walked into the doctor's yard this morning and shot my syringe full of anise seed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow anise seed from here to John O'Groats, and our friend Armstrong would have to drive through the can before he would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal, this is how he gave me the slip the other night. The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther, this opened into a broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the direction of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of the town and continued in the opposite direction to that in which we were started. This day tour has been entirely for our benefit then, said Holmes. No wonder that my inquiries among those villages led to nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one would like to know the reason for such elaborate deception. This should be the village of Trumpington to the right of us, and by Jove, here is the brugam coming round the corner. Quick, Watson, quick, or we are done. He sprang through a gate into the field, dragging the reluctant Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my companion's graver face that he also had seen. I fear there is some dark ending to our quest, said he. It cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey. Ah, it is the cottage in the field. There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our journey. Pompey ran about and wind eagerly outside the gate where the marks of the brugam's wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the hedge and we hastened onwards. My friend knocked on the little rustic door and knocked again without response. And yet the cottage was not deserted for a low sound came to our ears, a kind of drone of misery and despair which was indescribably melancholy. Holmes paused, irresolute, and then he glanced back at the road which we had just traversed. A brugam was coming down it and there could be no mistaking those gray horses. Bye, Joe, the doctor is coming back, cried Holmes. That settles it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes. He opened the door and we stepped into the hall. The droning sounds swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long deep wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up and I followed him. He pushed upon a half-closed door and we both stood appalled at the sight before us. A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her calm pale face with dim, wide-opened blue eyes looked upwards from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed, half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was a young man whose frame was wracked by his sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief that he never looked up until Holmes' hand was on his shoulder. Are you, Mr. Godfrey Staunton? Yes, yes, I am, but you are too late. She is dead. The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistants. Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation and to explain the alarm which had been caused to his friends by his sudden disappearance, when there was a step upon the stairs and there was the heavy, stern, questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at the door. So, gentlemen, said he, you have attained your end and have certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can assure you that if I were a younger man, your monstrous conduct would not pass with impunity. Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong. I think we are a little at cross purposes, said my friend with dignity. If you could step downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light to the other upon this miserable affair. A minute later the grim doctor and ourselves were in the sitting-room below. Well, sir, said he, I wish you to understand in the first place that I am not employed by Lord Mount James and that my sympathies in this matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing criminal, I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the papers. Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and rung homes by the hand. You are good fellows, said he. I had misjudged you. I thank heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Stanton all alone in this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do the situation is very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Stanton lodged in London for a time and became passionately attached to his landlady's daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be ashamed of such a wife, but Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed old nobleman and it was quite certain that the news of his marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the lad well and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very best to keep the thing from everyone. For one once such a whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it. Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one safe to me and to one excellent servant who has at present gone for assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he could not get out of it without explanations which would expose his secret. I tried to cheer him up by a wire, and he sent me one in reply imploring me to do all I could. This was the telegram which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to the girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey. The result was that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that of your friend. Holmes grasped the doctor's hand, come Watson, said he, and we passed from that house of grief into the pale sunlight of the winter day. End of The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter, Part Two