 Preface, and part number one of His Last Bow. The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn that he is still alive and well, though somewhat crippled by occasional attacks of rheumatism. He has for many years lived in a small farm upon the Downs five miles from Eastburn, where his time is divided between philosophy and agriculture. During this period of rest he has refused the most princely offers to take up various cases, having determined that his retirement was a permanent one. The approach of the German war caused him, however, to lay his remarkable combination of intellectual and practical activity at the disposal of the government, with historical results which are recounted in His Last Bow. Several previous experiences which have lain long in my portfolio have been added to His Last Bow so as to complete the volume. John H. Watson, M.D. The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge, Part One The singular experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles. I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply. He made no remark but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters, said he. How do you define the word grotesque? Strange, remarkable, I suggested. He shook his head at my definition. There is surely something more than that, said he. Some underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a long-suffering public you will recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of that little affair of the red-headed man. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or again, there was that most grotesque affair of the five orange pips which led straight to a murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert. Have you it there, I asked? He read the telegram aloud. Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult you, Scott Eccles, post office, chairing Cross? Man or woman, I asked. Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply paid telegram. She would have come. Will you see him? My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace. The papers are sterile, audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our client. A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later, a stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was ushered into the room. His life history was written in his heavy features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed spectacles he was a conservative, a churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces in his bristling hair, his flushed angry cheeks, and his flurried excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business. I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes, said he. Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It is most improper, most outrageous. I must insist upon some explanation. He swelled and puffed in his anger. Pray, sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles, said Holmes in a soothing voice. May I ask in the first place why you came to me at all? Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard your name. Quite so. But in the second place why did you not come at once? What do you mean? Holmes glanced at his watch. It is a quarter-past, too, he said. Your telegram was dispatched about one, but no one can glance at your toilet and attire without seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking. Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven chin. You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent was paid up all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge. Come, come, sir, said Holmes, laughing. You are like my friend Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong and foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know in their due sequence exactly what those events are, which have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat butt and rye in search of advice and assistance. Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional appearance. I am sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But I will tell you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me. But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic gallant and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baines of the Surrey Constabulary. We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this direction. He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. Are you Mr. John Scott Eccles of Popham House, Lee? I am. We have been following you about all the morning. You traced him through the telegram, no doubt, said Holmes. Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross Post Office and came on here. But why do you follow me? What do you want? We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which led up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia of Wisteria Lodge, near Escher. Our client had sat up with staring eyes, and every tinge of color struck from his astonished face. Dead? Did you say he was dead? Yes, sir, he is dead. But how? An accident? Murder, if ever there was one upon earth. Good God, this is awful! You don't mean—you don't mean that I have suspected. A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we know by it that you had planned to pass last night at his house. So I did. Oh, you did, did you? Out came the official notebook. Wait a bit, Gregson, said Sherlock Holmes. All you desire is a plain statement, is it not? And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used against him. Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I think Watson, a brandy in soda, would do him no harm. Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have done had you never been interrupted. Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the color had returned to his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook he plunged at once into his extraordinary statement. I am a bachelor, said he, and being of a sociable turn I cultivate a large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired brewer called Melville, living at Albemarle Mansion, Kensington. It was at his table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the Embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life. In some way we struck up quite a friendship this young fellow and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at his house with Stereo Lodge, between Escher and Oxshot. Yesterday evening I went to Escher to fulfill this engagement. He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought. I drove to the place about two miles on the south side of Escher. The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a curving drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an old, tumbled-down building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the man-servant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner was tet-a-tet, and though my host did his best to be entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him. He continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner itself was neither well-served nor well-cooked, and the gloomy presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven us. I can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back to Lee. One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more distraught and strange than before. He gave up all pretense at conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door. The room was dark at the time, and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this, and slept soundly all night. And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang again and again with the same result. Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order. I huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then I ran from room to room, all were deserted. My host had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door. No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all had vanished in the night. That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge. Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes. Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique, said he. May I ask, sir, what you did then? I was furious. My first idea was that I had been a victim of some absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door behind me, and set off for Escher with my bag in hand. I called at Allen Brothers, the chief land agents in the village, and found that it was from this firm that the village had been rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a fool of me and that the main object must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so a quarter days at hand. But this theory would not work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning but told me that the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the Spanish Embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went to see Melville at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I found that he really knew rather less about him than I did. Finally, when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand from what you said when you entered the room that you can carry the story on and that some tragedy has occurred. I can assure you that every word I have said is the truth and that outside of what I have told you I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in every possible way. I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles, I am sure of it, said Inspector Gregson, in a very amiable tone. I am bound to say that everything which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it? Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire. What do you say to that, Mr. Baines? The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man whose face was only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes, almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow smile, he drew a folded and discolored scrap of paper from his pocket. It was a dog-grade, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this out unburned from the back of it. Holmes smiled his appreciation. You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single pellet of paper. I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson? The Londoner nodded. The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark. It is a quarter sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips with short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly, and pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia Wisteria Lodge. It says, our own colors, green and white, green open, white shut, main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green bays, godspeed, D. It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp pointed pen, but the address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is thicker and bolder, as you see. A very remarkable note said Holmes, glancing it over. I must compliment you, Mr. Baines, upon your attention to detail and your examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link. What else is of such shape? The scissors were bent nail-scissors. Short as the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each. The country detective chuckled. I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there was a little over, he said. I'm bound to say that I make nothing of the note, except that there was something on hand, and that a woman, as usual, was at the bottom of it. Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation. I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story, said he, but I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household. As to Garcia, said Gregson, that is easily answered. He was found dead this morning upon Ockshot Common, nearly a mile from his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within a quarter mile of the spot. He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals. Robbed? No, there was no attempt at robbery. This is very painful. Very painful and terrible, said Mr. Scott Eccles in a querulous voice, but it is really uncommonly hard upon me, I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case? Very simply, sir, Inspector Baines answered. The only document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you, saying that she would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man's name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are. I think now, said Gregson, rising, we had better put this matter into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing. Finally I will come at once, but I retain your services, Mr. Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the truth. My friend turned to the county inspector. I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with you, Mr. Baines. Highly honoured, sir, I'm sure. You appear to have been very prompt and business-like in all that you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that the man met his death? He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that time, and his death had certainly been before the rain. But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baines, cried our client. His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour. Remarkable, but by no means impossible, said Holmes, smiling. You have a clue, asked Gregson. On the face of it, the case is not a very complex one, though it certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baines, did you find anything remarkable besides this note in your examination of the house? The detective looked at my friend in a singular way. There were, said he, one or two very remarkable things. Perhaps when I had finished at the police station you would care to come out and give me your opinion of them. I am entirely at your service, said Sherlock Holmes, ringing the bell. You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly send the boy with this telegram. He used to pay a five-shilling reply. We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left. Holmes smoked hard, with his brows drawn down over his keen eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of the man. Well, Watson, he asked, turning suddenly upon me, what do you make of it? I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles. But the crime? Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's companions, I should say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled from justice. That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants should have been in a conspiracy against him, and should have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They had him alone at their mercy every other night in the week. Then why did they fly? Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. The big fact is the remarkable experience of our clients, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an explanation which would cover both these big facts? If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very curious phraseology, why? Then it would be worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution. But what is our hypothesis? Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes. You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection with them. But what possible connection? Let us take it link by link. There is on the face of it something unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got him down to Escher. Now what did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particularly intelligent, not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of conventional British respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress another Britain. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors dreamed of questioning his statement extraordinary as it was. But what was he to witness? Nothing as things turned out, but everything had they gone another way. That is how I read the matter. I see. He might have provided an alibi. Exactly, my dear Watson, he might have proved an alibi. We will suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of Osteria Lodge are Confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. By some juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that they may have got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought, but in any case it is likely that when Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was one, it was really not more than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be back by the hour mentioned, he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation. Here was this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of law that the accused was in his house all the time. It was an insurance against the worst. Yes, yes, I see that, but how about the disappearance of the others? I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit your theories. And the message? How did it run? Our own colors, green and white, sounds like racing. Green, open, white, shut. That is clearly a signal. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green bays. This is an assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said God's speed had it not been so. D, that should be a guide. The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that D stands for Dolores, a common female name in Spain. Good, Watson, very good, but quite inadmissible. A Spaniard would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly English. Well, we can only possess our souls in patience until this an excellent inspector comes back for us. Meanwhile, we can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a few short hours from the inseparable fatigues of idleness. An answer had arrived to Holmes' telegram before our Surrey officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it across with a laugh. We are moving in exalted circles, said he. The telegram was a list of names and addresses. Lord Herringby, the Dingle, Sir George Foliott, Ockshot Towers, Mr. Heinz, Heinz, JP, Purdy Place, Mr. James Baker Williams, Fortin Old Hall, Mr. Henderson, High Gable, Reverend Joshua Stone, Nether Walsling. This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations at Holmes. No doubt Baines, with his methodical mind, has already adopted some similar plan. I don't quite understand. Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that the message received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in order to keep this trist, one has to ascend a main stair and seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that the house is a very large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be more than a mile or two from Ockshot, since Garcia was walking in that direction and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid up to one o'clock. As the number of large houses close to Ockshot must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled skein must lie among them. It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the pretty surrey village of Escher, with Inspector Baines as our companion. Holmes and I had taken things for the night and found comfortable quarters at the bull. Finally, we set out in the company of the detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us. End of the Adventure of Wisteria Lodge Part 1 Part 2 of the Adventure of Wisteria Lodge from His Last Bough. His Last Bough by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge Part 2 The Tiger of San Pedro A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a high wooden gate which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts. The curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch black against a slate-colored sky. From the front window upon the left of the door there peeped a glimmer of feeble light. There's a constable in possession, said Baines. I'll knock at the window. He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with his hand on the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a chair beside the fire and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An instant later a white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the door, the candle wavering in his trembling hand. What's the matter, Walters? asked Baines sharply. The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and gave a long sigh of relief. I'm glad you've come, sir. It's been a long evening and I don't think my nerve is as good as it was. Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve in your body. Well, sir, it's this lonely silent house and the queer thing in the kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had come again. That what had come again? The devil, sir, for all I know it was at the window. What was at the window? And when? It was just about two hours ago. The light was fading. I was sitting, reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look up, but there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane. Lord, sir, what a face it was. I'll see it in my dreams. Tutt, tutt, Walters, this is not talk for a police constable. I know, sir, I know. But it shook me, sir, and there's no use to deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any color that I knew but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of milk in it. Then there was the size of it. It was twice yours, sir, and the look of it, the great staring goggle eyes and the line of white teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn't move a finger nor get my breath till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and threw the shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there. If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a black mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself, a constable on duty should never thank God that he could not lay hands upon him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision and a touch of nerves. That, at least, is very easily settled, said Holmes, lighting his little pocket lantern. Yes, he reported, after a short examination of the grass-bed, a number twelve shoe, I should say, if he was all on the same scale as his foot he must certainly have been a giant. What became of him? He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the road. Well, said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face, whoever he may have been and whatever he may have wanted, he's gone for the present, and we have more immediate things to attend to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission I will show you around the house. The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or nothing with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest details had been taken over with the house. A good deal of clothing with the stamp of Marx and company, High Holbern, had been left behind. Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which showed that Marx knew nothing of his customers save that he was a good payer. Odds and ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them in cash, an old-fashioned pin-fire revolver, and a guitar were among the personal property. Nothing in all this, said Baines, stalking, candle in hand from room to room. But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention to the kitchen. It was a gloomy, high-ceiling room at the back of the house, with a straw litter in one corner which served apparently as a bed for the cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and dirty plates, the debris of last night's dinner. Look at this, said Baines, what do you make of it? He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood at the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and withered that it was difficult to say what it might have been. One could but say that it was black and leathery and that it bore some resemblance to a dwarfish human figure. At first, as I examined it, I thought that it was a mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very twisted and ancient monkey. I was left in doubt as to whether it was animal or human. A double band of white shells was strung round the centre of it. Very interesting, very interesting indeed, said Holmes, peering at the sinister relic. Anything more? In silence Baines led the way to the sink and held forward his candle. The limbs and body of some large white bird, torn savagely to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all over it. Holmes pointed to the waddles on the severed head. A white cock, said he, most interesting. It is really a very curious case. But Mr. Baines had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last. From under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a quantity of blood. Then from the table he took a platter, heaped with small pieces of charred bone. Something has been killed and something has been burned. We raked all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this morning. He says that they are not human. Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands. I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive and instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without offence, seem superior to your opportunities. Inspector Baines' small eyes twinkled with pleasure. You're right, Mr. Holmes, we stagnate in the provinces. A case of this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take it. What do you make of these bones? A lamb, I should say, or a kid. And a white cock? Curious, Mr. Baines, very curious. I should say almost unique. Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with some very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did his companions follow and kill him? If they did, we should have them, for every port is watched. But my own views are different. Yes, sir, my own views are very different. You have a theory, then? I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due to my own credit to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make mine. I should be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had solved it without your help. Holmes laughed good-humoredly. Well, well, Inspector, said he, do you follow your path, and I will follow mine. My results are always very much at your service if you care to apply to me for them. I think that I have seen all that I wish in this house, and that my time may be more profitably employed elsewhere. Au revoir, and good luck. I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost upon any one but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As impassive as ever to the casual observer, there were, nonetheless, a subdued eagerness and suggestion of tension in his brightened eyes and brisk or manner, which assured me that the game was afoot. After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked no questions, sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my humble help to the capture without distracting that intent brain with needless interruption. All would come round to me in due time. I waited, therefore, but to my ever-deepening disappointment I waited in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step forward. One morning he spent in town, and I learned from a casual reference that he had visited the British Museum. Saved for this one excursion he spent his days in long and often solitary walks or in chatting with a number of village gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated. I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to you, he remarked, and it is very pleasant to see the first green shoots upon the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again. With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on botany there are instructive days to be spent here. He prowled about with his equipment himself, but it was a poor show of plants which he would bring back of an evening. Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baines. His fat red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes glittered as he greeted my companion. He said little about the case, but from that little we gathered that he also was not dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit, however, that I was somewhat surprised when some five days after the crime I opened my morning paper to find in large letters. The ox shot mystery, a solution, a rest of supposed assassin. Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read the headlines. By Jove, he cried, you don't mean that Baines has got him! Apparently said I as I read the following report. Great excitement was caused in Escher and the neighboring district when it was learned late last night that an arrest had been affected in connection with the ox shot murder. It will be remembered that Mr. Garcia of Wisteria Lodge was found dead on ox shot common, his body showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the same night his servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their participation in the crime. It was suggested but never proved that the deceased gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their abstraction was the motive of the crime. Every effort was made by Inspector Baines, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding place of the fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they had not gone far, but were lurking in some retreat which had been already prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of one or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the window, was a man of most remarkable appearance, being a huge and hideous mulatto, with the yellowish features of a pronounced necroid type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was detected and pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening, when he had the audacity to revisit with Wisteria Lodge. Inspector Baines, considering that such a visit must have some purpose in view, and was likely therefore to be repeated, abandoned the house, but left in ambuscade in the shrubbery. The man walked into the trap and was captured last night after a struggle in which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage. We understand that when the prisoner is brought before the magistrates, a remand will be applied for by the police, and that great developments are hoped from his capture. Really, we must see Baines at once, cried Holmes, picking up his hat. We will just catch him before he starts. We hurried down the village street and found, as we had expected, that the inspector was just leaving his lodgings. You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes, he asked, holding one out to us? Yes, Baines, I've seen it. Pray, don't think at a liberty if I give you a word of friendly warning. Of warning, Mr. Holmes? I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not convinced that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to commit yourself too far unless you are sure. You're very kind, Mr. Holmes. I assure you I speak for your good. It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an instant over one of Mr. Baines's tiny eyes. We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes, that's what I'm doing. Oh, very good, said Holmes, don't blame me. No, sir, I believe you mean well by me, but we all have our own systems, Mr. Holmes, you have yours, and maybe I have mine. Let us say no more about it. You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect savage, as strong as a cart horse and as fierce as the devil. He chewed Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master him. He hardly speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of him but grunts. And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late master? I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes, I didn't say so. We all have our little ways. You try yours, and I will try mine. That's the agreement. Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. I can't make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well, as he says, we must each try our own way and see what comes of it. But there's something in Inspector Baines which I can't quite understand. Just sit down in that chair, Watson, said Sherlock Holmes, when we had returned to our apartment at the Bull. I want to put you in touch with the situation, as I may need your help tonight. Let me show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been able to follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading features, it has nonetheless presented surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest. There are gaps in that direction which we have still to fill. We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon the evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baines's that Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter. The proof of this lies in the fact that it was he who had arranged for the presence of Scott Eccles which could only have been done for the purpose of an alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the course of which he met his death. I say criminal because only a man with a criminal enterprise desires to establish an alibi. Who then is most likely to have taken his life? Surely the person against whom the criminal enterprise was directed. So far it seems to me that we are on a safe ground. We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's household. They were all Confederates in the same unknown crime. If it came off when Garcia returned any possible suspicion would be warded off by the Englishman's evidence, and all would be well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia did not return by a certain hour it was probable that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been arranged, therefore, that in such a case his two subordinates were to make for some prearranged spot where they could escape investigation and be in a position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully explain the facts, would it not? The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me. I wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me before. But why should one servant return? We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something precious, something which he could not bear to part with, had been left behind. That would explain his persistence, would it not? Well, what is the next step? The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It indicates a Confederate at the other end. Now where was the other end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in some large house, and that the number of large houses is limited. My first days in this village were devoted to a series of walks in which in the intervals of my botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all the large houses and an examination of the family history of the occupants. One house and only one riveted my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean Grange of High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshot, and less than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy. The other mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable people who live far aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson of High Gable was by all accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures might befall. I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and his household. A singular set of people, Watson, the man himself the most singular of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deep-set brooding eyes that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black eyebrows, the step of a deer, and the air of an emperor, a fierce, masterful man with a red-hot spirit behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless but tough as a whip-cord. His friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate brown, wily, suave, and cat-like, with a poisonous gentleness of speech. You see, Watson, we have come of already upon two sets of foreigners, one at Busteria Lodge and one at High Gable, so our gaps are beginning to close. These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of the household, but there is one other person who for our immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two children, girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a Miss Burnett, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is also one confidential man-servant. This little group forms the real family, for they travel about together, and Henderson is a great traveller always on the move. It is only within the last few weeks that he has returned after a year's absence to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his whims may be, he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his house is full of butlers, footmen, maid-servants, and the usual overfed, underworked staff of a large, English country-house. So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my own observation. There are no better instruments than discharged servants with agreevance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I not been looking out for it. As Bain's remarks we all have our systems. It was my system which enabled me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment of temper by his imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master. So I had my key to the secrets of the establishment. Curious people, Watson, I don't pretend to understand it all yet, but very curious people, anyway. It's a double-winged house, and the servants live on one side, the family on the other. There's no link between the two save for Henderson's own servant who serves the family's meals. Everything is carried to a certain door which forms the one connection. Governors and children hardly go out at all except into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks alone. His dark secretary is like his shadow. The gossip among the servants is that their master is terribly afraid of something. Hold his soul to the devil in exchange for money, says Warner, and expects his creditors to come up and claim his own. Where they came from or who they are nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts. Well now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new information. We may take it that the letter came out of this strange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note? It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then but Miss Burnett the governess? All our reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate we may take it as a hypothesis and see what consequences it would entail. I may add that Miss Burnett's age and character make it certain that my first idea that there might be a love interest in our story is out of the question. If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and confederate of Garcia. What then might she be expected to do if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious enterprise her lips might be sealed. Still in her heart she must retain bitterness and hatred against those who had killed him and would presumably help so far as she could to have revenge upon them. Could we see her then and try to use her? That was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact. Miss Burnett has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the friend whom she had subbed? Or is she merely a prisoner? There is the point which we still have to decide. You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson. There is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before our magistrate. The woman's disappearance counts for nothing, since in that extraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for a week. And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of her life. All I can do is to watch the house and leave my agent Warner on guard at the gates. We can't let such a situation continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk ourselves. What do you suggest? I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of an out-house. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if we can strike at the very heart of the mystery. It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old house, with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position, all combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning of homes which made it impossible to shrink from any adventure which he might recommend. One knew that thus and only thus could a solution be found. I clasped his hand in silence, and the die was cast. But it was not destined that our investigation should have so adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the shadows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excited rustic rushed into our room. They've gone, Mr. Holmes, they went by the last train. The lady broke away, and I've got her in a cab downstairs. Excellent warner, cried Holmes, bringing to his feet. Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly. In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion. She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as she raced it and turned her dull eyes upon us, I saw that her pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad grey iris. She was drugged with opium. I watched at the gate, same as you advise, Mr. Holmes, at our emissary, the discharged gardener. When the carriage came out, I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way out again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are. I shan't forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away. I'd have a short life if he had his way, the black-eyed scowling yellow devil. We carried her upstairs, later on the sofa, and a couple of cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of the drug. Baines had been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly explained to him. Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want, said the Inspector Warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. I was on the same scent as you from the first. What? You were after Henderson? Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you down below. It was just who would get his evidence first. Then why did you arrest the mulatto? Baines chuckled. I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting it, Miss Burnett. Holmes laid his hand upon the Inspector's shoulder. You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition, said he. Baines flushed with pleasure. I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all week. Wherever the High Gable folk go, he will keep them in his sight. But he must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnett broke away. However, your man picked her up and it all ends well. We can't arrest without her evidence, that's clear, so the sooner we get a statement the better. Every minute she gets stronger, said Holmes, glancing at the governess. But tell me, Baines, who is this man, Henderson? Henderson, the Inspector answered, is Don Murillo, once called the Tiger of San Pedro. The Tiger of San Pedro. The whole history of the man came back to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country with a pretense to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious devices upon a cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terror through all Central America. At the end of that time there was a universal rising against him. But he was as cunning as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them. From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press. Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro, said Baines, if you look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where his ship came in in eighty-six. They have been looking for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to find him out. They discovered him a year ago, said Miss Burnett, who had sat up and was now intently following the conversation. Once already his life has been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now again it is the noble chivalrous Garcia who has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet another, until some day justice will be done. That is as certain as the rise of tomorrow's sun. Her thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched with the passion of her hatred. But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnett, asked Holmes? How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair? I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the ship-load of treasure which this man had stolen? To you they are like crimes committed in some other planet, we know. We have learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry for vengeance. No doubts, at Holmes, he was, as you say. I have heard that he was atrocious, but how are you affected? I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was to murder, on one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband—yes, my real name is Signora Víctor Durando—was the San Pedro minister in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never lived upon the earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His estates were confiscated and I was left with a pittance and a broken heart. Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have just described, but the many whose lives he had ruined, whose nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands, would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into a society which should never be dissolved until the work was done. It was my part, after we had discovered in the transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his household and keep the others in touch with his movements. This I was able to do by securing the position of governance in his family. He little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's notice into eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zigzagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the pursuers and finally returned to this house which he had taken upon his first arrival in England. But here also the ministers of justice were waiting, knowing that he would return there, Garcia, who was the son of the former highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty companions of humble station, all three fired with the same reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his satellite, Lucas, or Lopez, as he was known in the days of his greatness. At night however he slept alone, and the Avenger might find him. On a certain evening which had been prearranged I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all was safe, or if the attempt had better be postponed. But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited the suspicion of Lopez the secretary. He crept up behind me and sprang upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon me as a convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the consequences of the deed. Finally after much debate they concluded that my murder was too dangerous, but they determined to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that he might have twisted it off had I understand what it would mean to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was Murillo's hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to guard me. I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes through which the path winds, and struck him down as he passed. At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to kill him as a detected burglar, but they argued that if they were mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be publicly disclosed, and they would be open to further attacks. With the death of Garcia the pursuit might cease, since such a death might frighten others from the task. All would now have been well for them had it not been for my knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to break my spirit. See this stab on my shoulder and the bruises from end to end of my arms, and a gag was thrust into my mouth on the one occasion when I tried to call from the window. For five days this cruel imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good lunch was brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been drugged. In a sort of dream I remembered being half led, half carried to the carriage. In the same state I was conveyed to the train. Only then when the wheels were almost moving did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the help of this good man who led me to the cab, I should never have broken away. Now thank God I am beyond their power for ever. We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It was Holmes who broke the silence. Our difficulties are not over, he remarked, shaking his head. Our police work ends, but our legal work begins. Exactly, said I, a plausible lawyer could make it out as an act of self-defense. There may be a hundred crimes in the background, but it is only on this one that they can be tried. Come, come, said Bane's cheerly, I think better of the law than that. Self-defense is one thing. To entice a man in cold blood with the object of murdering him is another, whatever danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified when we see the tenets of High Gable at the next Guilford Assises. It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still to elapse before the tiger of San Pedro should meet with his desserts. Wily and bold he and his companion threw their pursuer off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street and leaving by the back gate into Curson Square. From that day they were seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards the Marques of Montalva and Signor Ruli, his secretary, were both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid. The crime was ascribed to nihilism, and the murderers were never arrested. Inspector Bane's visited us at Baker Street with a printed description of the dark face of the secretary and of the masterful features, the magnetic black eyes and the tufted brows of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had come at last. A chaotic case, my dear Watson, said Holmes over an evening pipe, it will not be possible for you to present it in that compact form which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents, concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is further complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia had a scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a perfect jungle of possibilities, we, with our worthy collaborator, the Inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials, and so been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any point which is not quite clear to you? The object of the mulatto cooks return. I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for it. The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his companion and he had fled to some pre-arranged retreat, already occupied no doubt by a Confederate, the companion had persuaded him to leave so compromising an article of furniture, but the mulatto's heart was with it, and he was driven back to it next day, when, on reconnoitering through the window, he found policemen Walters in possession. He waited three days longer, and then his piety or his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector Baines, who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the incident before me, had really recognized its importance and left a trap into which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson? The torn bird, the pale of blood, the charred bones, and all the mystery of that weird kitchen? Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his notebook. I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and other points. Here is a quotation from Ekerman's Voodooism and the Negroid Religions. The true Voodoo worshipper attempts nothing of importance without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites take the form of human sacrifices followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims are a white cock which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat whose throat is cut and body burned. So you see, our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual. It is grotesque, Watson, Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his notebook, but as I have had occasion to remark, there is but one step from the grotesque to the horrible. End of the Adventure at Busteria Lodge, Part 2. Part 1 of the Adventure of the Red Circle. From his last bow. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gesina. His Last Bow by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Adventure of the Red Circle. Part 1. Well, Mrs. Warren, I cannot see that you have any particular cause for uneasiness, nor do I understand why I, whose time is of some value, should interfere in the matter. I really have other things to engage me. So spoke Sherlock Holmes and turned back to the great scrap book in which he was arranging and indexing some of his recent material. Not the landlady had the paternacity and also the cunning of her sex. She held her ground family. He arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last year, she said, Mr. Fairdale Hobbs. Ah, yes, a simple matter. But he would never cease talking of it, your kindness, sir, and the way in which you brought light into the darkness. I remembered his words when I was in doubt and darkness myself. I know you could, if you only would. Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery and also to to him justice upon the side of kindliness. The two forces made him lay down his gum brush with a sigh of resignation and push back his chair. Very well, Mrs. Warren, let us hear about it, then. You don't object to tobacco, I take it. Thank you, Watson. The matches. You are uneasy, as I understand, because your new lodger remains in his rooms, and you cannot see him. Why, I bless you, Mrs. Warren, if I were your lodger, you often would not see me for weeks on end. No doubt, sir, but this is different. It frightens me, Mr. Holmes. I can't sleep for fright. To hear his quick step, moving here and moving there from early morning to late at night, and yet never to catch so much as a glimpse of him. It's more than I can stand. My husband is as nervous over it as I am, but he is out at his work all day while I get no rest from it. What is he hiding for? What has he done? Except for the girl, I am all alone in the house with him, and it's more than my nerves can stand. Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin fingers upon the woman's shoulder. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing when he wished. The scared look faded from her eyes, and her agitated features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She sat down in the chair which he had indicated. If I take it up, I must understand every detail, said he, take time to consider. The smallest point may be the most essential. You say that the man came ten days ago and paid you a fortnight's board and lodging? He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a week. There is a small sitting-room and bedroom, and all complete, at the top of the house. Well? He said, I'll pay you five pounds a week if I can have it on my own terms. I'm a poor woman, sir, and Mr. Warren Anne's little, and the money meant much to me. He took out a ten-pound note, and he held it out to me then and there. You can have the same every fortnight for a long time to come if you keep the terms, he said. If not, I'll have no more to do with you. What were the terms? Well, sir, they were that he was to have a key of the house. That was all right. Lodgers often have them. Also that he was to be left entirely to himself and never upon any excuse to be disturbed. Nothing wonderful in that, truly. Not in reason, sir, but this is out of all reason. He has been there for ten days, and neither Mr. Warren nor I, nor the girl, has once set eyes upon him. We can hear that quick step of his pacing up and down, night, morning, and noon, but except on that first night he has never once gone out of the house. Oh, he went out the first night, did he? Yes, sir, and returned very late, after we were all in bed. He told me after he had taken the rooms that he would do so, and asked me not to bar the door. I heard him come up the stair after midnight. But his meals. It was his particular direction that we should always, when he rang, leave his meal upon a chair outside his door. Then he rings again when he has finished, and we take it down from the same chair. If he wants anything else, he prints it on a slip of paper and leaves it. Prints it? Yes, sir, prints it in pencil. Just the word, nothing more. Here's one I brought to show you. Soap. Here's another. Match. This is one he left the first morning, daily gazette. I'll leave that paper with his breakfast every morning. Dear me, Watson, said Holmes, staring with great curiosity at the slips of full scab which the landlady had handed to him, this is certainly a little unusual. Seclusion I can understand, but why print? Printing is a clumsy process. Why not write? What would it suggest, Watson? That he desired to conceal his handwriting. But why? What can it matter to him that his landlady should have a word of his writing? Well it may be, as you say. Then again, why such laconic messages? I cannot imagine. It opens a pleasing field for intelligent speculation. The words are written with a broad pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a not unusual pattern. You will observe that the paper is torn away at the side here after the printing was done, so that the s of soap is partly gone. Suggestive, Watson, is it not? Of caution? There was evidently some mark, some some print, something which might give a clue to the person's identity. Now, Mrs. Warren, you say that the man was of middle-sized, dark and bearded. What age would he be? Youngish, sir, not over thirty. Well can you give me no further indications? He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he was a foreigner by his accent. And he was well dressed? Very smartly dressed, sir, quite the gentleman. Look, clothes, nothing he would note. He gave no name? No, sir. And he has no letters or callers? None. But surely you or the girl enter his room of a morning? No, sir, he looks after himself entirely. Dear me, that is certainly remarkable. What about his luggage? He had one big brown bag with him, nothing else. Well, we don't seem to have much material to help us. Do you say nothing has come out of that room? Absolutely nothing. The landlady drew an envelope from her bag, from which she shook out two burnt matches and a cigarette end upon the table. They were on his tray this morning. I brought them because I had heard that you can read great things out of small ones. Holmes shrugged his shoulders. There is nothing here, said he. The matches have, of course, been used to light cigarettes. That is obvious from the shortness of the butt end. Half the matches consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar. But dear me, this cigarette stub is certainly remarkable. The gentleman was bearded and moustached, you say? Yes, sir. I don't understand that. I should say that only a clean-shaven man could have smoked this. Why Watson, even your modest moustache, would have been singed. A holder? I suggested. No, no, the end is matted. I suppose there could not be two people in your room as Mrs. Warren. No, sir. He eats so little that I often wonder it can keep life in one. Well, I think we must wait for a little more material. After all, you have nothing to complain of. You have received your rent, and he is not a troublesome lodger, though he is certainly an unusual one. He pays you well, and if he chooses to lie concealed, it is no direct business of yours. We have no excuse for an intrusion upon his privacy, until we have some reason to think that there is a guilty reason for it. I've taken up the matter, and I won't lose sight of it. Report to me if anything fresh occurs, and rely upon my assistance if it should be needed. There are certainly some points of interest in this case, Watson, he remarked, when the landlady had left us. It may, of course, be trivial, individual eccentricity, or it may be very much deeper than appears on the surface. The first thing that strikes one is the obvious possibility that the person now in the rooms may be entirely different from the one who engaged them. Why should you think so? Well, apart from this cigarette end, was it not suggestive that the only time the lodger went out was immediately after he is taking the rooms? He came back, or someone came back, when all witnesses were out of the way. We have no proof that the person who came back was the person who went out. And again the man who took the rooms spoke English well. This other, however, prints match when it should have been matches. I can imagine that the word was taken out of a dictionary, which would give the noun but not the plural. The laconic style may be to conceal the absence of knowledge of English. Yes, Watson, there are good reasons to suspect that there has been a substitution of lodgers. But for what possible end? Ah, there lies our problem. There is one rather obvious line of investigation. He took down the great book in which, day by day, he filed the agony columns of the various London journals. Dear me! said he, turning over the pages. What a chorus of groans, cries and bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the most valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the unusual. This person is alone and cannot be approached by letter without a breach of that absolute secrecy which is desired. How is any news or any message to reach him from without? Obviously by advertisements through a newspaper. There seems no other way, and fortunately we need concern ourselves with the one paper only. Here are the daily gazette extracts of the last fortnight. Lady with a black bower at Prince's skating club. That we may pass. Surely Jimmy will not break his mother's heart. It appears to be irrelevant. If the lady who fainted in the Brixton bus, she does not interest me. Every day my heart longs, bleat, Watson, unmitigated, bleat. Ah! This is a little more possible. Listen to this. Be patient. We'll find some sure means of communication, meanwhile this column, G. That is two days after Mrs. Warren's lodge arrived. It sounds plausible, does it not? The mysterious one could understand English, even if you could not print it. Let us see if we can pick up the trace again. Yes, here we are, three days later. I am making successful arrangements. Patience and prudence. The clouds will pass. G. Nothing for a week after that. Then comes something much more definite. The path is clearing. If I find chance signal message, remember code agreed, 1A2B and so on. You will hear soon, G. That was in yesterday's paper, and there is nothing in today's. It's all very appropriate to Mrs. Warren's lodge. If we wait a little, Watson, I don't doubt that the affair will grow more intelligible. So it proved, for in the morning I found my friend standing on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire and a smile of complete satisfaction upon his face. How's this, Watson? he cried, picking up the paper from the table. High red house with white stone facings, third floor, second window left, after dusk, G. That is definite enough. I think after breakfast we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs. Warren's neighborhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren, what news do you bring us this morning? Our client had certainly burst into the room with an explosive energy which told of some new and momentous development. It's a police matter, Mr. Holmes, she cried. I'll have no more of it. He shall pack out of there with his baggage. I would have gone straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but fair to you to take your opinion fast, but I'm at the end of my patience and when it comes to knocking my old man about—knocking Mr. Warren about—using him roughly anyway. But who used him roughly? Ah, that's what we want to know. It was this morning, sir, Mr. Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Wailights in Tottenham Court Road. He has to be out of the house before seven. While this morning he had gone ten paces down the road when two men came up behind him, threw a coat over his head and bundled him into a cab that was beside the curb. They drove him an hour and then opened the door and shot him out. He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he never saw what became of the cab. When he picked himself up he found that he was on Hamstead Heath, so he took a bus home and there he lies now on the sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what had happened. Most interesting, said Holmes, did he observe the appearance of these men? Did he hear them talk? No, he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as if by magic and dropped as if by magic. Two at least were in it and maybe three. And you connect this attack with your lodger? Well, we've lived there fifteen years and no such happenings ever came before. I've had enough of him. Money's not everything. I'll have him out of my house before the day is done. Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think that this affair may be very much more important than appeared at first sight. It is now clear that some danger is threatening your lodger. It is equally clear that his enemies, lying and wait for him near your door, mistook your husband for him in the foggy morning light. On discovering their mistake they released him. What they would have done had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture. Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes? I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Warren. I don't see how that is to be managed, unless you break in the door. I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after I leave the tray. He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves and see him do it. The landlady thought for a moment. Well, sir, there's the box-room opposite. I could arrange a looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door, excellent, said Holmes. When does he lunch? About one, sir. Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For the present, Mrs. Warren, good-bye. At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs. Warren's house, a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great Orm Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the British Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street, it commands a view down House Street, with its more pretentious houses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential flats, which projected so that they could not fail to catch the eye. See Watson, said he. High-red house with stone facings. There is the signal station all right. We know the place and we know the code, so surely our task should be simple. There's a to-let card in that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which the confederate has access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what now? I have it all ready for you. If you will both come up and leave your boots below on the landing, I'll put you there now. It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged. The mirror was so placed that, seated in the dark, we could very plainly see the door opposite. We had hardly settled down in it, and Mrs. Warren left us, when a distant tinkle announced that our mysterious neighbor had rung. Presently the landlady appeared with a tray, laid it down upon a chair beside the closed door, and then, trading heavily, departed. Crushing together in the angle of the door, we kept our eyes fixed upon the mirror. Suddenly, as the landlady's footsteps died away, there was the creak of a turning key, the handle revolved, and two thin hands darted out and lifted the tray from the chair. An instant later it was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a dark, beautiful, horrified face, glaring at the narrow opening of the box-room. Then the door crashed, too, the key turned once more, and all was silence. Homes twitched, must leave, and together we stalled down the stair. I will call again in the evening, said he to the expectant landlady. I think, Watson, we can discuss this business better in our own quarters. My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct, said he, speaking from the depth of his easy chair. There has been a substitution of lodges. What I did not foresee is that we should find a woman, and no ordinary woman, Watson. She saw us. Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is certain. The general sequence of events is pretty clear, is it not? A couple seek refuge in London from a very terrible and instant danger. The measure of that danger is the rigor of their precautions. The man, who has some work which he must do, desires to leave the woman in absolute safety while he does it. It is not an easy problem, but he solves it in an original fashion, and so effectively that her presence was not even known to the landlady who supplies her with food. The printed messages, as is now evident, were to prevent her sex being discovered by her writing. The man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide their enemies to her. Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he has recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far all is clear. But what is at the root of it? Ah, yes, Watson, severely practical as usual. What is at the root of it all? Mrs. Warren's whimsical problem enlarges somewhat and assumes a more sinister aspect as we proceed. This much we can say. That it is no ordinary love escapade. You saw the woman's face at the sign of danger. We have heard, too, of the attack upon the landlord, which was undoubtedly meant for the lodger. His alarms and the desperate need for secrecy argue that the matter is one of life or death. The attack upon Mr. Warren further shows that the enemy, whoever they are, are themselves not aware of the substitution of the female lodger for the male. It is very curious and complex, Watson. Why should you go further in it? What have you to gain from it? What indeed? It is art for art's sake, Watson. I suppose when you doctored you find yourself studying cases without sort of a fee? For my education, Holmes. Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with the greatest for the last. This is an instructive case. There is neither money nor credit in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it up. When dusk comes, we should find ourselves one stage advanced in our investigation. When we returned to Mrs. Warren's rooms, a gloom of a London winter evening had thickened into one grey curtain, a dead monotone of color broken only by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and the blurred halos of the gas lamps. As we peered from the darkened sitting-room of the lodging-house, one more dim light glimmered high up through the obscurity. Someone is moving in that room, said Holmes in a whisper, his gaunt and eager face thrust forward to the window pane. Yes, I can see his shadow. There he is again. He has a candle in his hand. Now he is peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on the lookout. Now he begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may check each other. A single flash, that is A, surely. Now then, how many did you make it? Twenty. So did I. That would mean T. A-T. That's intelligible enough. Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a second word. Now then, T-E-N-T-A, dead stop. That can't be all, Watson. A tenter gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words at tentar. Unless T. A. are a person's initials. There it goes again. What's that? A-T-T-E, why it's the same message over again. Curious, Watson, very curious. Now he is off once more. A-T. Why, he is repeating it for the third time. A tenter three times. How often will he repeat it? No, that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn from the window. What do you make of it, Watson? A cipher-message, Holmes. My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension. And not a very obscure cipher, Watson. Said he. Why, of course, he is Italian. The A means that it is addressed to a woman. Beware, beware, beware. How is that, Watson? I believe you have hit it. Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, twice repeated, to make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit, he is coming to the window once more. Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk of the small flame against the window as the signals were renewed. They came more rapidly than before. So rapid that it was hard to follow them. Pericolo. Pericolo. Eh, what's that, Watson? Danger, isn't it? Yes, by a joke, it's a danger signal. Here he goes again. Peri—hello, what on earth? The light had suddenly gone out. The glimmering square of window had disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the lofty building, with its tears of shining casements. The last warning cry had suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same thought occurred on the instant to us both. Homes sprang up from where he crouched by the window. This is serious, Watson, he cried. There is some devoury going forward. Why should such a message stop in such a way? I should put Scotland Yard in touch with this business, and yet it is too pressing for us to leave. Shall I go for the police? We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear some more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go cross ourselves and see what we can make of it. End of The Adventure of the Red Circle, Part 1. Recorded by Gazine in October 2007. The Adventure of the Red Circle, Part 2. From his last bow. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gazine. His Last Bow by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Adventure of the Red Circle, Part 2. As we walked rapidly down Howe Street, I glanced back at the building which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing tensely, rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street's flats, a man muffled in a cravat and great coat, was leaning against the railing. He started as the whole light fell upon our faces. Homes! he cried. Why, Gregson, said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland Yard Detective. Journeys end with lovers' meetings. What brings you here? The same reasons that bring you, I expect, said Gregson. How you got onto it, I can't imagine. Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I've been taking the signals. Signals? Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to see the reason, but, since it is safe in your hands, I see no object in continuing the business. Wait a bit, cried Gregson eagerly. I'll do you this justice, Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel stronger for having you on my side. There's only the one exit to these flats, so we have him safe. Who is he? Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us best this time. He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on which a cab man, his whip in his hand, sorted over from a four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. May I introduce you to Mr. Charlotte Holmes, he said to the cab man. This is Mr. Leviton, of Pinkerton's American Agency. The hero of the Long Island Cave mystery, said Holmes, sir, I am pleased to meet you. The American, a quiet, business-like young man, with a clean-shaven, hatched face, flushed up at the words of commendation. I am on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes, said he. If I can get Gorgiano. What? Gorgiano of the Red Circle? Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all about him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from New York, and I've been close to him for a week in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Grexen and I ran him to ground in that big, tenement house, and there's only the one door, so he can't slip us. There's three folk come out since he went in, but I'll swear he wasn't one of them. Mr. Holmes talks of signals, said Grexen. I expect as usual he knows a great deal that we don't. In a few clear words, Holmes explained the situation as it had appeared to us. The Americans struck his hands together with vexation. He's on to us, he cried. Why do you think so? Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out messages to an accomplice. There are several of his gang in London. Then suddenly, just as by your own account, he was telling them that there was danger, he broke short of. What could it mean except that from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was, and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes? That we go up at once and see for ourselves, but we have no warrant for his arrest. He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances, said Grexen. That is good enough for the moment. When you have him by the heels, we can see if New York can't help us to keep him. I'll take the responsibility of arresting him now. Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but never in that of courage. Grexen climbed the stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolute quiet and business-like bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but Grexen had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege of the London force. The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing ajar. Grexen pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal-boards of the capitalist floor there was outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Grexen flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered eagerly over his shoulders. In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely horrible in its contortion, and his head encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and from the centre of his broad brown upturned throat there projected the white haft of a knife-driven blade deep into his body. Jined as he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor and near it a black-kid glove. Why, George, it's Black Gorgiano himself, cried the American detective. Someone has got ahead of us this time. Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes, said Grexen. Why, whatever are you doing? Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor. I rather think that will be helpful, said he. He came over and stood in deep thought, while the two professionals were examining the body. He say that three people came out from the flat while you were waiting downstairs, said he had lost. Did you observe them closely? Yes, I did. Was there a fellow who was thirty, black-bearded, dark of middle size? Yes, he was the last to pass me. That is your man, a fancy. I can give you his description, and we have a very excellent outline of his foot-mark. That should be enough for you. Would much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London? Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to your aid. We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman. The mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension. Her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor. You have killed him! She muttered. Oh, dear Mio, you have killed him! Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning stare. But you, you are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so? We are police, madam. She looked round into the shadows of the room. But where, then, is Genaro? She asked. He is my husband, Genaro Luca. I am Emilia Luca, and we are both from New York. Where is Genaro? He called me this moment from the window, and I ran with all my speed. It was I who called, said Holmes. You? How could you call? Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was desirable. I knew that I had only to flash Vieny, and you would surely come. The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion. I do not understand how you know these things, she said. Giuseppe Gorgiano, how did he—? She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up with pride and delight. Now I see it. My Genaro, my splendid beautiful Genaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it with his own strong hand he killed the monster. Oh, Genaro, how wonderful you are! What woman could ever be worthy of such a man? Well, Mrs. Luca, said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon the lady's sleeve, with as little sentiment as if she were a knotting-hill hooligan. I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are, but you've said enough to make it very clear that we should want you at the yard. One moment, Gregson, said Holmes, I rather fancy that this lady may be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for the death of the man who lies before us? What you say may be used in evidence. But if he thinks that he has acted from motives which are not criminal and which he would wish to have us known, then you cannot serve him better than by telling us the whole story. Father, Gorgiano is dead, we fear nothing, said the lady. He was a devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would punish my husband for having killed him. In that case, said Holmes, my suggestion is that we lock this door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room, and form our opinion after we have heard what it is she has to say to us. Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small sitting-room of Signora Luca, listening to her remarkable narrative of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chance to witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent, but very unconventional English, which for the sake of clearness I will make grammatical. I was born in Possilippo, near Naples, said she, and was the daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of that part. Genaro was in my father's employment and I came to love him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor position, nothing but his beauty and strength and energy, so my father forbade the match. We fled together, were married at Barelli, and sold my jewels to gain the money which would take us to America. This was four years ago, and we have been in New York ever since. Fortune was very good to us at first. Genaro was able to do a service to an Italian gentleman. He saved him from some ruffians in the place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name was Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who were the chief fruit importers of New York. Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all power within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men. He took my husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed his goodwill towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Genaro was his son, and both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. We had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which was soon to overspread our sky. One night when Genaro returned from his work, he brought a fellow countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for he have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a giant, but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked or rather roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowered with a mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you at his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man. I thank God that he is dead. He came again and again, yet I was aware that Genaro was no more happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit pale and listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon social questions which made up our visitors' conversation. Genaro said nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in his face some emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought that it was dislike, and then gradually I understood that it was more than dislike. It was fear, a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night, the night that I read his terror, I put my arms round him and I implored him by his love for me and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from me and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so. He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor Genaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed against him and his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule, no escape was possible. When we had fled to America, Genaro thought that he had casted all off forever. What was his horror one evening, to meet in the streets the very man who had initiated him to Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned the name of death in the south of Italy, for he was read to the elbow in murder. He had come to New York to avoid the Italian police, and he had already planted a branch of this dreadful society in his new home. All this Genaro told me, and showed me a summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle drawn upon the head of it, telling him that a lodge would be held upon a certain date, and that his presence at it was required and ordered. That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly did in the evening, he spoke much to me, and even when his words were to my husband, those terrible glaring wild-beast eyes of his were always turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what he called love within him, the love of a brute, a savage. Genaro had not yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his mighty arms, hugged me in his bears and brace, covered me with kisses, and implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and screaming when Genaro entered and attacked him. He struck Genaro senseless and fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It was a deadly enemy that we made that night. A few days later came the meeting. Genaro returned from it with a face which told me that something dreadful had occurred. It was worse than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society were raised by blackmailing rich Italians, and threatening them with violence should they refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our dear friend and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to yield to threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was resolved now that such an example should be made of him as would prevent any other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was arranged that he and his house should be blown up with dynamite. There was a drawing of lots as to who should carry out the deed. Genaro saw our enemy's cruel face smiling as him as he dipped his hand in the bag. No doubt it had been pre-arranged in some fashion, for it was the fatal disk, with a red circle upon it, the mandate for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend, or he was to expose himself and me to the vengeance of his comrades. It was part of their fengish system to punish those whom they feared or hated by injuring not only their own persons, but those whom they loved, and it was the knowledge of this which hung as a terror over my poor Genaro's head and drove him nearly crazy with apprehension. All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very next evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband and I were on our way to London, but not before he had given our benefactor full warning of his danger and had also left such information for the police as would safeguard his life for the future. The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves, we were sure that our enemies would be behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his private reasons for vengeance, but in any case we knew how ruthless, cunning and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full of stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exited it would be now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our start had given us, in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no possible danger could reach me. For his own part he wished to be free that he might communicate both with the American and with the Italian police. I do not myself know where he lived or how. All that I learned was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I looked through my window I saw two Italians watching the house and I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found out our retreat. Finally Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he would signal to me from a certain window, but when the signals came they were nothing but warnings which were suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew Gorgiano to be close upon him and that, thank God, he was ready for him when he came. And now, gentlemen, I would ask you whether we have anything to fear from the law or whether any judge upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for what he has done. Well, Mr. Grexon, said the American, looking across at the official, I don't know what your British point of view may be, but I guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive a pretty general vote of thanks. She will have to come with me and see the chief, Grexon answered. If what she says is grob-rated, I do not think she or her husband has much to fear. But what I can't make head of tail of, Mr. Holmes, is how on earth you got yourself mixed up in the matter. Education, Grexon, education. Still seeking knowledge at the old university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic and grotesque to add to your collection. By the way, it is not eight o'clock and a Wagner night at Covent Garden. If we hurry, we might be in time for the second act. End of The Adventure of the Red Circle, part two, recorded by Gazine in October 2007.