The-Return-of-Sherlock-Holmes

sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet
does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool
of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether
it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no name on his clothing,
and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string, a shilling map of London,
and a photograph. Here it is.”

It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It represented an
alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick eyebrows and a very peculiar
projection of the lower part of the face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of this
picture.

“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front garden
of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken into fragments. I am
going round now to see it. Will you come?”

“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the carpet and the
window. “The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active man,” said
he. “With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach that window ledge and
open that window. Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with
us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no doubt that
the first editions of the evening papers are out already with full details. It’s like
my luck! You remember when the stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only
journalist in the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it, for
I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a murder done on my
own doorstep.”

As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a few
hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this presentment of
the great emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and destructive hatred in
the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass.
Holmes picked up several of them and examined them carefully. I was
convinced, from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last he was
upon a clue.

“Well?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well, we have
some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling bust was worth
more, in the eyes of this strange criminal, than a human life. That is one point.
Then there is the singular fact that he did not break it in the house, or
immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole object.”

“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly knew
what he was doing.”

“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very particularly
to the position of this house, in the garden of which the bust was destroyed.”

Lestrade looked about him.

“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in the
garden.”

“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he must
have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it there, since it is
evident that every yard that he carried it increased the risk of someone meeting
him?”

“I give it up,” said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there. That was his
reason.”

“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to think of it, Dr.
Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what
are we to do with that fact?”

“To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something later which will
bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?”

“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify the dead
man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we have found who he is
and who his associates are, we should have a good start in learning what he was
doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on the
doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”

“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach the
case.”

“What would you do then?”

“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that you go on
your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and each will
supplement the other.”

“Very good,” said Lestrade.

“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace Harker. Tell
him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is certain that a
dangerous homicidal lunatic, with Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last
night. It will be useful for his article.”

Lestrade stared.

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

Holmes smiled.

“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will interest Mr. Horace
Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think
that we shall find that we have a long and rather complex day’s work before us. I
should be glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker
Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then I should like to keep this
photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask
your company and assistance upon a small expedition which will have be
undertaken to-night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until
then good-bye and good luck!”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where we stopped
at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been purchased. A young
assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be absent until afternoon, and that
he was himself a newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes’s face
showed his disappointment and annoyance.

“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he said, at
last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr. Harding will not be here until
then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to
their source, in order to find if there is not something peculiar which may
account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the
Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light upon the problem.”

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s establishment. He was a
small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates and taxes for I
don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and break one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was
I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot—that’s
what I make it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red
republicans—that’s what I call ’em. Who did I get the statues from? I don’t see
what that has to do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from
Gelder & Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the

trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and one
are three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad daylight on my own
counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s
Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the
shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left
me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since. No, I don’t know where he
came from nor where he went to. I had nothing against him while he was here.
He was gone two days before the bust was smashed.”

“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,” said
Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as a common
factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a ten-mile drive.
Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of
the busts. I shall be surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London, hotel
London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London, and, finally,
maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls,
where the tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here,
in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we found the
sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of
monumental masonry. Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were
carving or moulding. The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and
gave a clear answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed
that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine’s head of
Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so
before had been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding
Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different
from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause why anyone
should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at the idea. Their wholesale
price was six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was
taken in two moulds from each side of the face, and then these two profiles of
plaster of Paris were joined together to make the complete bust. The work was
usually done by Italians, in the room we were in. When finished, the busts were
put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all he could
tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the
manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his blue
Teutonic eyes.

“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This has

always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we have ever
had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was more than a year ago now.
He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the
police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his name—his second
name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a man with such a face. But he
was a good workman—one of the best.”

“What did he get?”

“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out now, but
he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his here, and I
daresay he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I beg of you.
The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it, the more important it
seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the sale of those casts I
observed that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date
when Beppo was arrested?”

“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered. “Yes,” he
continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was paid last on May 20th.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon your time
and patience any more.” With a last word of caution that he should say nothing
as to our researches, we turned our faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty
luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced “Kensington
Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of the paper showed that Mr.
Horace Harker had got his account into print after all. Two columns were
occupied with a highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.
Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice
he chuckled.

“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:

“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of opinion upon this
case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced members of the official
force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have each
come to the conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have ended
in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from deliberate crime. No
explanation save mental aberration can cover the facts.

“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only know how to
use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back to Kensington and
see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say on the matter.”

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little person,
very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.

“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr. Horace
Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some months ago.
We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all
sold now. To whom? Oh, I daresay by consulting our sales book we could very
easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker you see, and
one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and
one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen
this face which you show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it,
would you, sir, for I’ve seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff?
Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay they
might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular
reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it’s a very strange
business, and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your
inquiries.”

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and I could
see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs were taking. He
made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried, we should be late for our
appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the
detective was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever of
impatience. His look of importance showed that his day’s work had not been in
vain.

“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my friend
explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale
manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning.”

“The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but I think I
have done a better day’s work than you. I have identified the dead man.”

“You don’t say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the Italian
Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his neck, and
that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the South. Inspector Hill
knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from

Naples, and he is one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with
the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees
by murder. Now, you see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is
probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in
some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we found in
his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He
dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in the
scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite follow your
explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After all, that is
nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is the murder that we are really
investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”

“And the next stage?”

“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian Quarter, find the
man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the charge of murder.
Will you come with us?”

“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can’t say for
certain, because it all depends—well, it all depends upon a factor which is
completely outside our control. But I have great hopes—in fact, the betting is
exactly two to one—that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to help
you to lay him by the heels.”

“In the Italian Quarter?”

“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him. If you
will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I’ll promise to go to the
Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by the delay. And
now I think that a few hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to
leave before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back before
morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome to the sofa
until it is time for us to start. In the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you
would ring for an express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is
important that it should go at once.”

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old daily
papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last he
descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to either of us as
to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had followed step by step the

methods by which he had traced the various windings of this complex case, and,
though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I understood
clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon
the two remaining busts, one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No
doubt the object of our journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not
but admire the cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the
evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his scheme
with impunity. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my
revolver with me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was
his favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a spot at the
other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed to wait. A
short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant houses, each
standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum
Villa” upon the gate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to
rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single
blurred circle on to the garden path. The wooden fence which separated the
grounds from the road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here
it was that we crouched.

“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may thank our
stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even venture to smoke to pass the
time. However, it’s a two to one chance that we get something to pay us for our
trouble.”

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had led us
to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In an instant, without
the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a
lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path. We
saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door and disappear against the
black shadow of the house. There was a long pause, during which we held our
breath, and then a very gentle creaking sound came to our ears. The window was
being opened. The noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow
was making his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern
inside the room. What he sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the
flash through another blind, and then through another.

“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,” Lestrade
whispered.

But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came out into
the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried something white under his

arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the deserted street
reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next
instant there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and rattle. The
man was so intent upon what he was doing that he never heard our steps as we
stole across the grass plot. With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back,
and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had
been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with
writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that it was indeed the man
of the photograph whom we had secured.

But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.
Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining that
which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the
one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken into similar
fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in no way
did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He had just completed his
examination when the hall lights flew up, the door opened, and the owner of the
house, a jovial, rotund figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.

“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note which
you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you told me. We
locked every door on the inside and awaited developments. Well, I’m very glad
to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and
have some refreshment.”

However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so within a
few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four upon our way to
London. Not a word would our captive say, but he glared at us from the shadow
of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped
at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station to learn that
a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath
knife, the handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood.

“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all these gentry,
and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my theory of the Mafia will
work out all right. But I’m sure I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes,
for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon him. I don’t quite
understand it all yet.”

“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes. “Besides,
there are one or two details which are not finished off, and it is one of those

cases which are worth working out to the very end. If you will come round once
more to my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able to show you
that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of this business, which
presents some features which make it absolutely original in the history of crime.
If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I
foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure
of the Napoleonic busts.”

When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo, second
name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well among the Italian colony.
He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest living, but he had
taken to evil courses and had twice already been in jail—once for a petty theft,
and once, as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could
talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were still
unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the subject, but the
police had discovered that these same busts might very well have been made by
his own hands, since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of
Gelder & Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew, Holmes
listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that
his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and
expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started
in his chair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute
later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-faced man with grizzled
side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned
carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?” said
he.

“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were awkward. You wrote
to me about a bust that is in my possession.”

“Exactly.”

“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy of Devine’s
Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one which is in your
possession.’ Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine how you
knew that I owned such a thing.”

“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very simple.
Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you their last copy, and
he gave me your address.”

“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”

“No, he did not.”

“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave fifteen
shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that before I take ten pounds
from you.

“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have named that
price, so I intend to stick to it.”

“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up with me,
as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his bag, and at last we saw placed
upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which we had already seen more
than once in fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the table.

“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of these
witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible right that you ever
had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you see, and you never know what
turn events might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your
money, and I wish you a very good evening.”

When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements were such
as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth from a drawer
and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly acquired bust in the centre
of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp
blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent
eagerly over the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he
held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a
pudding.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of the
Borgias.”

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous impulse,
we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of
colour sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master
dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such moments that

for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love
for admiration and applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature
which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being
moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now existing in the
world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of inductive
reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre Hotel,
where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon
which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You will remember,
Lestrade, the sensation caused by the disappearance of this valuable jewel and
the vain efforts of the London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon
the case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the
maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a
brother in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The
maid’s name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this
Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up
the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the disappearance of the
pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of Beppo, for some crime of
violence—an event which took place in the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very
moment when these busts were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence
of events, though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in
which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession.
He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro’s confederate, he
may have been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to
us which is the correct solution.

“The main fact is that he had the pearl, and at that moment, when it was on his
person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory in which he
worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to conceal this
enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found on him when he
was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of
them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a small hole in
the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches covered over the
aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly
find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the
meanwhile his six busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which
contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would
tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would
adhere to it—as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his

search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who
works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought the busts. He
managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in that way tracked down
three of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with the help of some Italian
employee, he succeeded in finding out where the other three busts had gone. The
first was at Harker’s. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo
responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which
followed.”

“If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?” I asked.

“As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him from any third
person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I calculated that
Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his movements. He would fear
that the police would read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should
get ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found the pearl in
Harker’s bust. I had not even concluded for certain that it was the pearl, but it
was evident to me that he was looking for something, since he carried the bust
past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp
overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances were exactly as
I told you—two to one against the pearl being inside it. There remained two
busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the London one first. I warned the
inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, with
the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the
Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one
event with the other. There only remained a single bust—the Reading one—and
the pearl must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and there
it lies.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases, Mr. Holmes,
but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than that. We’re not
jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very proud of you, and if you
come down to-morrow, there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the
youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it seemed to
me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I had ever
seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker once more. “Put
the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-
Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your
way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS

It was in the year ’95 that a combination of events, into which I need not enter,
caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of our
great university towns, and it was during this time that the small but instructive
adventure which I am about to relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details
which would help the reader exactly to identify the college or the criminal would
be injudicious and offensive. So painful a scandal may well be allowed to die
out. With due discretion the incident itself may, however, be described, since it
serves to illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was remarkable. I
will endeavour, in my statement, to avoid such terms as would serve to limit the
events to any particular place, or give a clue as to the people concerned.

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library where
Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early English
charters—researches which led to results so striking that they may be the subject
of one of my future narratives. Here it was that one evening we received a visit
from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and lecturer at the College of St.
Luke’s. Mr. Soames was a tall, spare man, of a nervous and excitable
temperament. I had always known him to be restless in his manner, but on this
particular occasion he was in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was
clear something very unusual had occurred.

“I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your valuable time.
We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke’s, and really, but for the happy
chance of your being in town, I should have been at a loss what to do.”

“I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my friend answered. “I
should much prefer that you called in the aid of the police.”

“No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once the law
is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of those cases where, for
the credit of the college, it is most essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is
as well-known as your powers, and you are the one man in the world who can
help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can.”

My friend’s temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the
congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrapbooks, his chemicals,
and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He shrugged his

shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor in hurried words and
with much excitable gesticulation poured forth his story.

“I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day of the
examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the examiners. My
subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists of a large passage of Greek
translation which the candidate has not seen. This passage is printed on the
examination paper, and it would naturally be an immense advantage if the
candidate could prepare it in advance. For this reason, great care is taken to keep
the paper secret.

“To-day, about three o’clock, the proofs of this paper arrived from the printers.
The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I had to read it over
carefully, as the text must be absolutely correct. At four-thirty my task was not
yet completed. I had, however, promised to take tea in a friend’s rooms, so I left
the proof upon my desk. I was absent rather more than an hour.

“You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double—a green baize
one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached my outer door, I was
amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I imagined that I had left my own there,
but on feeling in my pocket I found that it was all right. The only duplicate
which existed, so far as I knew, was that which belonged to my servant,
Bannister—a man who has looked after my room for ten years, and whose
honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I found that the key was indeed his, that
he had entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly
left the key in the door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been
within a very few minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key
would have mattered little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has
produced the most deplorable consequences.

“The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had rummaged
among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had left them all together.
Now, I found that one of them was lying on the floor, one was on the side table
near the window, and the third was where I had left it.”

Holmes stirred for the first time.

“The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third where you left
it,” said he.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know that?”

“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable liberty
of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the utmost earnestness, and

I am convinced that he was speaking the truth. The alternative was that someone
passing had observed the key in the door, had known that I was out, and had
entered to look at the papers. A large sum of money is at stake, for the
scholarship is a very valuable one, and an unscrupulous man might very well run
a risk in order to gain an advantage over his fellows.

“Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted when
we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I gave him a little
brandy and left him collapsed in a chair, while I made a most careful
examination of the room. I soon saw that the intruder had left other traces of his
presence besides the rumpled papers. On the table in the window were several
shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened. A broken tip of lead was lying
there also. Evidently the rascal had copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken
his pencil, and had been compelled to put a fresh point to it.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his
attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has been your friend.”

“This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of red leather.
I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was smooth and unstained.
Now I found a clean cut in it about three inches long—not a mere scratch, but a
positive cut. Not only this, but on the table I found a small ball of black dough or
clay, with specks of something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced
that these marks were left by the man who rifled the papers. There were no
footmarks and no other evidence as to his identity. I was at my wits’ end, when
suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that you were in the town, and I
came straight round to put the matter into your hands. Do help me, Mr. Holmes.
You see my dilemma. Either I must find the man or else the examination must be
postponed until fresh papers are prepared, and since this cannot be done without
explanation, there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud not
only on the college, but on the university. Above all things, I desire to settle the
matter quietly and discreetly.”

“I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I can,” said
Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The case is not entirely devoid of
interest. Had anyone visited you in your room after the papers came to you?”

“Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the same stair, came
in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”

“For which he was entered?”

“Yes.”

“And the papers were on your table?”

“To the best of my belief, they were rolled up.”
“But might be recognized as proofs?”
“Possibly.”
“No one else in your room?”
“No.”
“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”
“No one save the printer.”
“Did this man Bannister know?”
“No, certainly not. No one knew.”
“Where is Bannister now?”
“He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I was in such a
hurry to come to you.”
“You left your door open?”
“I locked up the papers first.”
“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian student
recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them came upon
them accidentally without knowing that they were there.”
“So it seems to me.”
Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.
“Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases, Watson—mental, not
physical. All right; come if you want to. Now, Mr. Soames—at your disposal!”

The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed window on to
the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic arched door led to a
worn stone staircase. On the ground floor was the tutor’s room. Above were
three students, one on each story. It was already twilight when we reached the
scene of our problem. Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window. Then
he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the
room.

“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except the one
pane,” said our learned guide.

“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced at our
companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be learned here, we had best go inside.”

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We stood

at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.

“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly hope for any
upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite recovered. You left him in a
chair, you say. Which chair?”

“By the window there.”

“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished with the
carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what has happened is very
clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central
table. He carried them over to the window table, because from there he could see
if you came across the courtyard, and so could effect an escape.”

“As a matter of fact, he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered by the side
door.”

“Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the three
strips. No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried over this one first, and he
copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using every possible
contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less. Then he tossed it down and seized the
next. He was in the midst of that when your return caused him to make a very
hurried retreat—very hurried, since he had not time to replace the papers which
would tell you that he had been there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet
on the stair as you entered the outer door?”

“No, I can’t say I was.”

“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as you observe,
to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The pencil was not an ordinary
one. It was above the usual size, with a soft lead, the outer colour was dark blue,
the maker’s name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is only
about an inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have
got your man. When I add that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you
have an additional aid.”

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. “I can
follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this matter of the length——”

Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear wood
after them.

“You see?”

“No, I fear that even now——”

“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What could
this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that Johann Faber is the

most common maker’s name. Is it not clear that there is just as much of the
pencil left as usually follows the Johann?” He held the small table sideways to
the electric light. “I was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote was thin,
some trace of it might come through upon this polished surface. No, I see
nothing. I don’t think there is anything more to be learned here. Now for the
central table. This small pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke
of. Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say, there
appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very interesting. And the cut
—a positive tear, I see. It began with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I
am much indebted to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames.
Where does that door lead to?”

“To my bedroom.”

“Have you been in it since your adventure?”

“No, I came straight away for you.”

“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned room!
Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until I have examined the floor. No, I see
nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your clothes behind it. If anyone
were forced to conceal himself in this room he must do it there, since the bed is
too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one there, I suppose?”

As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and
alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As a matter of
fact, the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or four suits of clothes
hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away, and stooped suddenly to the
floor.

“Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the one upon the
table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm in the glare of the electric
light.

“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in your
sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

“What could he have wanted there?”

“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and so he
had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he do? He caught up
everything which would betray him, and he rushed into your bedroom to conceal
himself.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the time I was

talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man prisoner if we had only known
it?”

“So I read it.”

“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know whether you
observed my bedroom window?”

“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging on
hinge, and large enough to admit a man.”

“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be partly
invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there, left traces as he
passed through the bedroom, and finally, finding the door open, have escaped
that way.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that there are three
students who use this stair, and are in the habit of passing your door?”

“Yes, there are.”

“And they are all in for this examination?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?”

Soames hesitated.

“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to throw suspicion
where there are no proofs.”

“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men who
inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine scholar and
athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for the college, and got his
Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He is a fine, manly fellow. His father
was the notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My scholar
has been left very poor, but he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.

“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a quiet,
inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is well up in his work,
though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady and methodical.

“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow when he
chooses to work—one of the brightest intellects of the university; but he is
wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was nearly expelled over a card
scandal in his first year. He has been idling all this term, and he must look

forward with dread to the examination.”
“Then it is he whom you suspect?”
“I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps the least unlikely.”
“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant, Bannister.”
He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of fifty. He

was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the quiet routine of his life.
His plump face was twitching with his nervousness, and his fingers could not
keep still.

“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his master.
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very day when
there were these papers inside?”
“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same thing at
other times.”
“When did you enter the room?”
“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’ tea time.”
“How long did you stay?”
“When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once.”
“Did you look at these papers on the table?”
“No, sir—certainly not.”
“How came you to leave the key in the door?”
“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the key. Then
I forgot.”
“Has the outer door a spring lock?”
“No, sir.”
“Then it was open all the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone in the room could get out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?”

“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that I have
been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder near the
corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

“I don’t know, sir, it didn’t matter to me where I sat.”

“I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was looking very
bad—quite ghastly.”

“You stayed here when your master left?”

“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my room.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is any gentleman in
this university who is capable of profiting by such an action. No, sir, I’ll not
believe it.”

“Thank you, that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You have not
mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that anything is
amiss?”

“No, sir—not a word.”

“You haven’t seen any of them?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle, if you
please.”

Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.

“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking up. “Halloa!
What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”

It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his blind. He
was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is it possible?”

“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms is quite the
oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors to go over them. Come
along, and I will personally conduct you.”

“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s door. A tall,
flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome when he

understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of mediæval
domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he
insisted on drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one from
our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own. The same curious
accident happened to him in the rooms of the Indian—a silent, little, hook-nosed
fellow, who eyed us askance, and was obviously glad when Holmes’s
architectural studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case
Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the third
did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to our knock, and
nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad language came from behind it. “I
don’t care who you are. You can go to blazes!” roared the angry voice.
“Tomorrow’s the exam, and I won’t be drawn by anyone.”

“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew down the
stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was knocking, but none the
less his conduct was very uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances
rather suspicious.”

Holmes’s response was a curious one.

“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the Indian,
not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be about it.”

“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I wish you
good-night.”

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good gracious, Mr.
Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt fashion! You don’t
seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the examination. I must take some
definite action to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of the
papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced.”

“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow morning and
chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a position then to indicate
some course of action. Meanwhile, you change nothing—nothing at all.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some way out
of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me, also the pencil cuttings.
Good-bye.”

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again looked up at
the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were invisible.

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came out into
the main street. “Quite a little parlour game—sort of three-card trick, is it not?
There are your three men. It must be one of them. You take your choice. Which
is yours?”

“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst record. And
yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be pacing his room all the
time?”

“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to learn
anything by heart.”

“He looked at us in a queer way.”

“So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were
preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of value. No, I
see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives—all was satisfactory. But that fellow
does puzzle me.”

“Who?”

“Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”

“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

“So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly honest man—
well, well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin our researches here.”

There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town, and at each
Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for a duplicate. All were agreed
that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual size of pencil and that it
was seldom kept in stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his
failure, but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run to
nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a sufficient case
without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of
green peas at seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your
irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to quit, and that I shall
share your downfall—not, however, before we have solved the problem of the
nervous tutor, the careless servant, and the three enterprising students.”

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he sat lost in
thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At eight in the morning, he came
into my room just as I finished my toilet.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s. Can you do

without breakfast?”
“Certainly.”
“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him something

positive.”
“Have you anything positive to tell him?”
“I think so.”
“You have formed a conclusion?”
“Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery.”
“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”
“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at the untimely

hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work and covered at least five miles,
with something to show for it. Look at that!”

He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of black, doughy
clay.

“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday.”
“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3 came
from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come along and put
friend Soames out of his pain.”

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation when we
found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination would commence,
and he was still in the dilemma between making the facts public and allowing
the culprit to compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand still so
great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with two eager hands
outstretched.

“Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up in
despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

“Yes, let it proceed, by all means.”
“But this rascal?”
“He shall not compete.”
“You know him?”
“I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must give ourselves
certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small private court-martial. You
there, if you please, Soames! Watson you here! I’ll take the armchair in the

middle. I think that we are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty
breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear at our judicial
appearance.

“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister, will you
please tell us the truth about yesterday’s incident?”

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

“I have told you everything, sir.”

“Nothing to add?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down on that
chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some object which would have
shown who had been in the room?”

Bannister’s face was ghastly.

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit that I am
unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the moment that Mr.
Soames’s back was turned, you released the man who was hiding in that
bedroom.”

Bannister licked his dry lips.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the truth, but
now I know that you have lied.”

The man’s face set in sullen defiance.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Come, come, Bannister!”

“No, sir, there was no one.”

“In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you please
remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door. Now, Soames, I am
going to ask you to have the great kindness to go up to the room of young
Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into yours.”

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student. He was a
fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy step and a pleasant,
open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at each of us, and finally rested with
an expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.

“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all quite alone
here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes between us. We can
be perfectly frank with each other. We want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an
honourable man, ever came to commit such an action as that of yesterday?”

The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full of horror and
reproach at Bannister.

“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word—never one word!” cried the
servant.

“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that after
Bannister’s words your position is hopeless, and that your only chance lies in a
frank confession.”

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his writhing
features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside the table, and
burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a storm of passionate sobbing.

“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly, “it is human to err, and at least no one
can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would be easier for you if
I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you can check me where I am
wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don’t trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I
do you no injustice.

“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not even
Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room, the case began to
take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one could, of course, dismiss. He
could examine the papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of.
If the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what they were. On the
other hand, it seemed an unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter
the room, and that by chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I
dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How did
he know?

“When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused me by
supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having in broad
daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced himself through it.
Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in
order to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table. I am six feet
high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less than that would have a chance.
Already you see I had reason to think that, if one of your three students was a
man of unusual height, he was the most worth watching of the three.

“I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of the side

table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in your description of
Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a long-distance jumper. Then the whole
thing came to me in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative proofs,
which I speedily obtained.

“What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his afternoon at
the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the jump. He returned
carrying his jumping-shoes, which are provided, as you are aware, with several
sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by means of his great height,
these proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they were. No harm would
have been done had it not been that, as he passed your door, he perceived the key
which had been left by the carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came
over him to enter, and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a dangerous
exploit for he could always pretend that he had simply looked in to ask a
question.

“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that he
yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it you put on that
chair near the window?”

“Gloves,” said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on the chair, and
he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He thought the tutor must return
by the main gate and that he would see him. As we know, he came back by the
side gate. Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was no possible escape.
He forgot his gloves but he caught up his shoes and darted into the bedroom.
You observe that the scratch on that table is slight at one side, but deepens in the
direction of the bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe
had been drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken refuge there. The
earth round the spike had been left on the table, and a second sample was
loosened and fell in the bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the athletic
grounds this morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit
and carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan or sawdust
which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from slipping. Have I told the truth,
Mr. Gilchrist?”

The student had drawn himself erect.

“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

“Good heavens! have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has bewildered me.
I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you early this morning in the

middle of a restless night. It was before I knew that my sin had found me out.
Here it is, sir. You will see that I have said, ‘I have determined not to go in for
the examination. I have been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and
I am going out to South Africa at once.’”

“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by your unfair
advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your purpose?”

Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you, from what I
have said, that only you could have let this young man out, since you were left in
the room, and must have locked the door when you went out. As to his escaping
by that window, it was incredible. Can you not clear up the last point in this
mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?”

“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all your
cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when I was
butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman’s father. When he was
ruined I came to the college as servant, but I never forgot my old employer
because he was down in the world. I watched his son all I could for the sake of
the old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room yesterday, when the alarm
was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr. Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying in that
chair. I knew those gloves well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames
saw them, the game was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would
budge me until Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out came my poor young
master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all to me. Wasn’t it
natural, sir, that I should save him, and wasn’t it natural also that I should try to
speak to him as his dead father would have done, and make him understand that
he could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?”

“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. “Well, Soames, I
think we have cleared your little problem up, and our breakfast awaits us at
home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust that a bright future awaits you in
Rhodesia. For once you have fallen low. Let us see, in the future, how high you
can rise.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ

When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our work
for the year 1894, I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a wealth of
material, to select the cases which are most interesting in themselves, and at the
same time most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my
friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my notes upon the repulsive
story of the red leech and the terrible death of Crosby, the banker. Here also I
find an account of the Addleton tragedy, and the singular contents of the ancient
British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within
this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin
—an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from the
French President and the Order of the Legion of Honour. Each of these would
furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that none of them unites so
many singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which
includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also
those subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the causes
of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November. Holmes and
I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a powerful lens
deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a
recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while
the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in the very
depths of the town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on every side of us, to
feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces
all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps gleamed on
the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab was splashing its
way from the Oxford Street end.

“Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said Holmes,
laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I’ve done enough for one
sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more
exciting than an Abbey’s accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth
century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s this?”

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse’s hoofs,
and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the curb. The cab which I had
seen had pulled up at our door.

“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

“Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats
and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather. Wait a
bit, though! There’s the cab off again! There’s hope yet. He’d have kept it if he
had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all
virtuous folk have been long in bed.”

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I had no
difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising
detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very practical
interest.

“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope you have no
designs upon us such a night as this.”

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining
waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked a blaze out of the logs
in the grate.

“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he. “Here’s a
cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon, which
is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something important which has
brought you out in such a gale.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I promise you. Did
you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?”

“I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not missed
anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my feet. It’s down in Kent, seven
miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I was wired for at 3:15,
reached Yoxley Old Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing
Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?”

“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can see, it is
just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet at first it seemed so simple
that one couldn’t go wrong. There’s no motive, Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers
me—I can’t put my hand on a motive. Here’s a man dead—there’s no denying

that—but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him
harm.”

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Let us hear about it,” said he.

“I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I want now is to
know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out, is like this. Some
years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man,
who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half
the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being
pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a Bath chair. He was well liked by
the few neighbours who called upon him, and he has the reputation down there
of being a very learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly
housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been
with him since his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character.
The professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary, about a year
ago, to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes, but the
third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the university,
seems to have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in
writing all the morning to the professor’s dictation, and he usually spent the
evening in hunting up references and passages which bore upon the next day’s
work. This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him, either as a boy at
Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and
from the first he was a decent, quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak spot in
him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the
professor’s study under circumstances which can point only to murder.”

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to
the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed his
singular narrative.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose you could find a
household more self-contained or freer from outside influences. Whole weeks
would pass, and not one of them go past the garden gate. The professor was
buried in his work and existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in
the neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two women
had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the gardener, who wheels
the Bath chair, is an army pensioner—an old Crimean man of excellent
character. He does not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the
other end of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the
grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is a

hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It opens with a latch, and
there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in.

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only person
who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the forenoon, between
eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in hanging some curtains in
the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the
weather is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied with
some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom,
which he uses as a sitting-room, but the maid heard him at that moment pass
along the passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not
see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. She
did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful
cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural
that it might have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there
was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The maid
stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran
downstairs. The study door was shut and she opened it. Inside, young Mr.
Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury,
but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside
of his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had
divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had been
inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax
knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a
stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor’s own desk.

“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on pouring
some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes for an instant.
‘The professor,’ he murmured—‘it was she.’ The maid is prepared to swear that
those were the exact words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he
held his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead.

“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but she
was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words. Leaving Susan with the
body, she hurried to the professor’s room. He was sitting up in bed, horribly
agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him that something terrible had
occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the professor was still in his
night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to dress without the help of
Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve o’clock. The professor declares
that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no
explanation of the young man’s last words, ‘The professor—it was she,’ but

imagines that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby
Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for the crime. His
first action was to send Mortimer, the gardener, for the local police. A little later
the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and strict
orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It
was a splendid chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. There was really nothing wanting.”

“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat bitter
smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job did you make of it?”

“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which will
give you a general idea of the position of the professor’s study and the various
points of the case. It will help you in following my investigation.”

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it across
Holmes’s knee. I rose and, standing behind Holmes, studied it over his shoulder.

Professor's-Study

“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which seem to
me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for yourself. Now, first of all,
presuming that the assassin entered the house, how did he or she come in?
Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from which there is direct
access to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly complicated.
The escape must have also been made along that line, for of the two other exits
from the room one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other
leads straight to the professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at
once to the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain, and would
certainly show any footmarks.

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert
criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no
question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which lines
the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track. I could not
find anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden
down, and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the
murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been there that
morning, and the rain had only begun during the night.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”

“To the road.”

“How long is it?”

“A hundred yards or so.”

“At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could surely pick up
the tracks?”

“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”

“Well, on the road itself?”

“No, it was all trodden into mire.”

“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or going?”

“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”

“A large foot or a small?”

“You could not distinguish.”

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

“It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,” said he. “It will
be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well, it can’t be helped. What
did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that you had made certain of
nothing?”

“I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that someone had
entered the house cautiously from without. I next examined the corridor. It is
lined with cocoanut matting and had taken no impression of any kind. This
brought me into the study itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article
is a large writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double
column of drawers, with a central small cupboard between them. The drawers
were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were always open, and
nothing of value was kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the
cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the
professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has
been committed.

“I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the bureau, and
just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The stab was on the right side of
the neck and from behind forward, so that it is almost impossible that it could
have been self-inflicted.”

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet away
from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there are the man’s
own dying words. And, finally, there was this very important piece of evidence
which was found clasped in the dead man’s right hand.”

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it
and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of black silk cord
dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby Smith had excellent sight,” he added.
“There can be no question that this was snatched from the face or the person of
the assassin.”

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined them with the
utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavoured to read
through them, went to the window and stared up the street with them, looked at
them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle,
seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he
tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

“That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be of some use.”

The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either
side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression,
and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she
has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few
months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength, and as
opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in
tracing her.”

Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been
reflected upon my features. “Surely my deductions are simplicity itself,” said he.
“It would be difficult to name any articles which afford a finer field for inference
than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That they belong
to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of course, from the last words of
the dying man. As to her being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are,
as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that
anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other respects. You will find
that the clips are too wide for your nose, showing that the lady’s nose was very
broad at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there is
a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic or from
insisting upon this point in my description. My own face is a narrow one, and yet
I find that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, nor near the centre, of these
glasses. Therefore, the lady’s eyes are set very near to the sides of the nose. You
will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A

lady whose vision has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have
the physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead, the
eyelids, and the shoulders.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess, however, that I
am unable to understand how you arrive at the double visit to the optician.”

Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

“You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny bands of cork
to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is discoloured and worn to
some slight extent, but the other is new. Evidently one has fallen off and been
replaced. I should judge that the older of them has not been there more than a
few months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the
same establishment for the second.”

“By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of admiration. “To
think that I had all that evidence in my hand and never knew it! I had intended,
however, to go the round of the London opticians.”

“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us about
the case?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do now—probably
more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger seen on the country roads
or at the railway station. We have heard of none. What beats me is the utter want
of all object in the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.”

“Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want us to
come out to-morrow?”

“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from Charing Cross
to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at Yoxley Old Place between
eight and nine.”

“Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of great interest,
and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it’s nearly one, and we had best get
a few hours’ sleep. I daresay you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the
fire. I’ll light my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee before we start.”

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning when we
started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise over the dreary
marshes of the Thames and the long, sullen reaches of the river, which I shall
ever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our
career. After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a small station some miles

from Chatham. While a horse was being put into a trap at the local inn, we
snatched a hurried breakfast, and so we were all ready for business when we at
last arrived at Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

“Well, Wilson, any news?”

“No, sir—nothing.”

“No reports of any stranger seen?”

“No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger either came or
went yesterday.”

“Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”

“Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for.”

“Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay there or
take a train without being observed. This is the garden path of which I spoke,
Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word there was no mark on it yesterday.”

“On which side were the marks on the grass?”

“This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the flower-
bed. I can’t see the traces now, but they were clear to me then.”

“Yes, yes: someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over the grass
border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must she not, since on
the one side she would leave a track on the path, and on the other an even clearer
one on the soft bed?”

“Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face.

“You say that she must have come back this way?”

“Yes, sir, there is no other.”

“On this strip of grass?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance—very remarkable. Well, I think
we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is usually kept
open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of
murder was not in her mind, or she would have provided herself with some sort
of weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the writing-table. She
advanced along this corridor, leaving no traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then
she found herself in this study. How long was she there? We have no means of
judging.”

“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Marker, the

housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long before—about a quarter of
an hour, she says.”

“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what does she do?
She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for anything in the drawers. If
there had been anything worth her taking, it would surely have been locked up.
No, it was for something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch
upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this,
Hopkins?”

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the right-
hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches, where it had
scratched the varnish from the surface.

“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll always find scratches round a keyhole.”

“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is cut. An old
scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it through my lens.
There’s the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker
there?”

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice this scratch?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these shreds of
varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”

“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”

“Is it a simple key?”

“No, sir, it is a Chubb’s key.”

“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little progress.
Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either opens it or tries to
do so. While she is thus engaged, young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In
her hurry to withdraw the key, she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes
her, and she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this knife,
strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He
falls and she escapes, either with or without the object for which she has come.
Is Susan, the maid, there? Could anyone have got away through that door after
the time that you heard the cry, Susan?”

“No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I’d have seen anyone in
the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or I would have heard it.”

“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she came. I
understand that this other passage leads only to the professor’s room. There is no
exit that way?”

“No, sir.”

“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor. Halloa,
Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The professor’s corridor
is also lined with cocoanut matting.”

“Well, sir, what of that?”

“Don’t you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don’t insist upon it.
No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be suggestive. Come with me
and introduce me.”

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which led
to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps ending in a door. Our guide
knocked, and then ushered us into the professor’s bedroom.

It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which had
overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or were stacked all
round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the centre of the room, and in it,
propped up with pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more
remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which was turned
towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in deep hollows under
overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard were white, save that the latter
was curiously stained with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid
the tangle of white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco
smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it was also stained
with yellow nicotine.

“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking in well-chosen English, with a
curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir? I can
recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides, of Alexandria.
He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for a
fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an old man has few
pleasures. Tobacco and my work—that is all that is left to me.”

Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting glances all over the
room.

“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man exclaimed.

“Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a terrible
catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that, after a few months’
training, he was an admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr.
Holmes?”

“I have not yet made up my mind.”

“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all is so dark
to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a blow is paralysing. I
seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But you are a man of action—you are a
man of affairs. It is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can preserve
your balance in every emergency. We are fortunate, indeed, in having you at our
side.”

Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old professor
was talking. I observed that he was smoking with extraordinary rapidity. It was
evident that he shared our host’s liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my magnum opus—
the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my analysis of the documents
found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep
at the very foundation of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do not
know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that my assistant has been
taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes, why, you are even a quicker smoker than
I am myself.”

Holmes smiled.

“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the box—his
fourth—and lighting it from the stub of that which he had finished. “I will not
trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination, Professor Coram, since I gather
that you were in bed at the time of the crime, and could know nothing about it. I
would only ask this: What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last
words: ‘The professor—it was she’?”

The professor shook his head.

“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible stupidity of
that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some incoherent delirious
words, and that she twisted them into this meaningless message.”

“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”

“Possibly an accident, possibly—I only breathe it among ourselves—a
suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles—some affair of the heart,
perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable supposition than

murder.”

“But the eyeglasses?”

“Ah! I am only a student—a man of dreams. I cannot explain the practical
things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that love-gages may take
strange shapes. By all means take another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone
appreciate them so. A fan, a glove, glasses—who knows what article may be
carried as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This
gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken
on such a point. As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from the unfortunate
man as he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued to
walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming cigarette after
cigarette.

“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that cupboard in the
bureau?”

“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor wife,
diplomas of universities which have done me honour. Here is the key. You can
look for yourself.”

Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then he handed it
back.

“No, I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should prefer to go
quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole matter over in my head. There
is something to be said for the theory of suicide which you have put forward. We
must apologize for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise
that we won’t disturb you until after lunch. At two o’clock we will come again,
and report to you anything which may have happened in the interval.”

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden path
for some time in silence.

“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.

“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is possible that I
am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me.”

“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth——”

“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm done. Of course,
we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take a short cut when I
can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of

instructive conversation with her.”

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly
ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms of
confidence with them. In half the time which he had named, he had captured the
housekeeper’s goodwill and was chatting with her as if he had known her for
years.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something terrible. All
day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve seen that room of a morning—well, sir,
you’d have thought it was a London fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a
smoker also, but not as bad as the professor. His health—well, I don’t know that
it’s better nor worse for the smoking.”

“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”

“I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?”

“Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”

“I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his lunch after
all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

“Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable big breakfast
this morning. I don’t know when I’ve known him make a better one, and he’s
ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I’m surprised myself, for since I
came into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor,
I couldn’t bear to look at food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the
professor hasn’t let it take his appetite away.”

We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone down
to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who had been seen
by some children on the Chatham Road the previous morning. As to my friend,
all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had never known him handle
a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins
that he had found the children, and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman
exactly corresponding with Holmes’s description, and wearing either spectacles
or eyeglasses, failed to rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive
when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she
believed Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had
only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see
the bearing of this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it
into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he sprang
from his chair and glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said he. “We

must go up and have it out with our friend, the professor.”

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish bore
evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had credited him. He
was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes
towards us. The eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed
and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved the large
tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my companion.
Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between them they
tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all on our knees
retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I
observed Holmes’s eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour. Only at
a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”

Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer quivered
over the gaunt features of the old professor.

“Indeed! In the garden?”

“No, here.”

“Here! When?”

“This instant.”

“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell you that
this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a fashion.”

“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram, and I am
sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or what exact part you play in this
strange business, I am not yet able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear
it from your own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your benefit,
so that you may know the information which I still require.

“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of
possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau. She had a
key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining yours, and I do not find
that slight discolouration which the scratch made upon the varnish would have
produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and she came, so far as I can
read the evidence, without your knowledge to rob you.”

The professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most interesting and
instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add? Surely, having traced this lady
so far, you can also say what has become of her.”

“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your secretary,
and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am inclined to regard as
an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the lady had no intention of
inflicting so grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified
by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy.
Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was
extremely short-sighted she was really helpless without them. She ran down a
corridor, which she imagined to be that by which she had come—both were lined
with cocoanut matting—and it was only when it was too late that she understood
that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her retreat was cut off behind her.
What was she to do? She could not go back. She could not remain where she
was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and
found herself in your room.”

The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes. Amazement
and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an effort, he
shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.

“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little flaw in your
splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it during the day.”

“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”

“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware that a
woman had entered my room?”

“I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her. You recognized
her. You aided her to escape.”

Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his feet,
and his eyes glowed like embers.

“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her to escape?
Where is she now?”

“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the corner
of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over his
grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same instant the bookcase at
which Holmes pointed swung round upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out into
the room. “You are right!” she cried, in a strange foreign voice. “You are right! I
am here.”

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come
from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked with grime, and at

the best she could never have been handsome, for she had the exact physical
characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate
chin. What with her natural blindness, and what with the change from dark to
light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see where and who we were.
And yet, in spite of all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the
woman’s bearing—a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head,
which compelled something of respect and admiration.

Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his
prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an over-mastering dignity
which compelled obedience. The old man lay back in his chair with a twitching
face, and stared at her with brooding eyes.

“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I could hear
everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I confess it all. It was I
who killed the young man. But you are right—you who say it was an accident. I
did not even know that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair
I snatched anything from the table and struck at him to make him let me go. It is
the truth that I tell.”

“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you are far
from well.”

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark dust-streaks
upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the bed; then she resumed.

“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you to know the
whole truth. I am this man’s wife. He is not an Englishman. He is a Russian. His
name I will not tell.”

For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he cried. “God
bless you!”

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why should you cling
so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?” said she. “It has done harm to
many and good to none—not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause
the frail thread to be snapped before God’s time. I have enough already upon my
soul since I crossed the threshold of this cursed house. But I must speak or I
shall be too late.

“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty and I a foolish
girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a university—I will
not name the place.”

“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

“We were reformers—revolutionists—Nihilists, you understand. He and I and
many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer was killed, many
were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to save his own life and to earn
a great reward, my husband betrayed his own wife and his companions. Yes, we
were all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows,
and some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My
husband came to England with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet ever
since, knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a week
would pass before justice would be done.”

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a cigarette.
“I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always good to me.”

“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she. “Among our
comrades of the Order, there was one who was the friend of my heart. He was
noble, unselfish, loving—all that my husband was not. He hated violence. We
were all guilty—if that is guilt—but he was not. He wrote forever dissuading us
from such a course. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in
which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings towards him and the view
which each of us had taken. My husband found and kept both diary and letters.
He hid them, and he tried hard to swear away the young man’s life. In this he
failed, but Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he
works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you villain!—now, now, at this
very moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works
and lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you go.”

“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing at his
cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to get the
diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian government, would procure my
friend’s release. I knew that my husband had come to England. After months of
searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for when
I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching me and quoting some
passages from its pages. Yet I was sure that, with his revengeful nature, he would
never give it to me of his own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object
I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my husband’s
house as a secretary—it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left you
so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got an
impression of the key. He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of
the house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always empty, as

the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took my courage in both hands,
and I came down to get the papers for myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

“I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when the young
man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me on the road,
and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he
was in his employ.”

“Exactly! Exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back, and told his
employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last breath, he tried to send a
message that it was she—the she whom he had just discussed with him.”

“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice, and her
face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I rushed from the room, chose
the wrong door, and found myself in my husband’s room. He spoke of giving me
up. I showed him that if he did so, his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the
law, I could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my
own sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I
would do what I said—that his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason,
and for no other, he shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place—a
relic of old days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own room, and
so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that when the police left
the house I should slip away by night and come back no more. But in some way
you have read our plans.” She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet.
“These are my last words,” said she; “here is the packet which will save Alexis. I
confide it to your honour and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it
at the Russian Embassy. Now, I have done my duty, and——”

“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had wrenched
a small phial from her hand.

“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the poison
before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I charge you, sir, to
remember the packet.”

“A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,” Holmes remarked,
as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from the outset upon the pince-nez. But
for the fortunate chance of the dying man having seized these, I am not sure that
we could ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me, from the strength of
the glasses, that the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when
deprived of them. When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow
strip of grass without once making a false step, I remarked, as you may

remember, that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a second pair of
glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider seriously the hypothesis that she had
remained within the house. On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it
became clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and, in that
case, it was evident that she must have entered the professor’s room. I was
keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would bear out this supposition, and I
examined the room narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The
carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-
door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such
devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled on the
floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be
the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun colour,
which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore smoked a great number
of those excellent cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of
the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I then
went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson, without your
perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram’s consumption of food
had increased—as one would expect when he is supplying a second person. We
then ascended to the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I
obtained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly,
from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had in our absence come
out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I
congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You
are going to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will drive
together to the Russian Embassy.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-

QUARTER

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street, but I
have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy February
morning, some seven or eight years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a
puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran thus:

Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing,
indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON.

“Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes, reading it over
and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when he sent it, and
somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by
the time I have looked through The Times, and then we shall know all about it.
Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread such
periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion’s brain was so
abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without material upon which
to work. For years I had gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had
threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary
conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware
that the fiend was not dead but sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a
light one and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
look upon Holmes’s ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set and
inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton whoever he might be,
since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm
which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous
life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and the
card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge, announced the arrival of
an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned
the doorway with his broad shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other
with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”