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Title: Great short stories, Volume 1 (of 3)
        Detective stories

Editor: William Patten

Release date: October 10, 2024 [eBook #74548]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: P. F. Collier, 1906

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT SHORT STORIES, VOLUME 1 (OF 3) ***







[Frontispiece: Robert Louis Stevenson]



  GREAT
  SHORT STORIES


  Edited by William Patten


  A NEW COLLECTION
  OF FAMOUS EXAMPLES
  FROM THE
  LITERATURES OF FRANCE,
  ENGLAND AND AMERICA


  VOLUME I

  DETECTIVE
  STORIES


  P. F. COLLIER & SON
  NEW YORK



[Illustration: Title page]




  COPYRIGHT, 1906
  BY P. F. COLLIER & SON




TABLE OF CONTENTS


THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE _By Edgar Allan Poe_

THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET _By Edgar Allan Poe_

THE PURLOINED LETTER _By Edgar Allan Poe_

THE SIGN OF THE FOUR _By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_
  I. The Science of Deduction
  II. The Statement of the Case
  III. In Quest of a Solution
  IV. The Story of the Bald-headed Man
  V. The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge
  VI. Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration
  VII. The Episode of the Barrel
  VIII. The Baker Street Irregulars
  IX. A Break in the Chain
  X. The End of the Islander
  XI. The Great Agra Treasure
  XII. The Strange Story of Jonathan Small

A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA _By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK _By Anna Katharine Green_

THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND _By Robert Louis Stevenson_
  Story of the Bandbox
  Story of the Young Man in Holy Orders
  Story of the House with the Green Blinds
  The Adventure of Prince Florizel and a Detective

THE MYSTERY OF THE STEEL DISK _By Broughton Brandenburg_

THE CHRONICLES OF ADDINGTON PEACE _By B. Fletcher Robinson_
  The Vanished Millionaire




THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE


_This and the two stories that follow it constitute a trilogy of
stories with related methods of construction.  They were the first
detective stories, and are still considered the most famous models of
their kind.  Written by a poor struggling, underpaid hack journalist
at a time when literary inspiration was derived principally from
abroad, they were first published 1841-5.  Soon afterward "The
Murders in the Rue Morgue" was translated into French and appeared in
several French journals, notably the "Charivari."  This constituted
Poe's introduction to a French audience, and it won for him a warmer
and a more general recognition than he has ever had in this country.
Judged by the extent of his influence on writers of short stories,
both here and abroad, Poe is the most important figure in American
literature._



THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE

By EDGAR ALLAN POE

What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond all
conjecture.--_Sir Thomas Browne_

The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are in
themselves, but little susceptible of analysis.  We appreciate them
only in their effects.  We know of them, among other things, that
they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a
source of the liveliest enjoyment.  As the strong man exults in his
physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles
into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which
disentangles.  He derives pleasure from even the most trivial
occupations bringing his talent into play.  He is fond of enigmas, of
conundrums, hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a
degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension
preternatural.  His results, brought about by the very soul and
essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty of resolution is possibly much invigorated by
mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it
which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations,
has been called, as if par excellence, analysis.  Yet to calculate is
not in itself to analyze.  A chess-player, for example, does the one,
without effort at the other.  It follows that the game of chess, in
its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood.  I am
not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar
narrative by observations very much at random; I will, therefore,
take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective
intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the
unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity
of chess.  In this latter, where the pieces have different and
bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only
complex, is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound.  The
attention is here called powerfully into play.  If it flag for an
instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in injury or defeat.
The possible moves being not only manifold, but involute, the chances
of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten, it
is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who
conquers.  In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique
and have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are
diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively
unemployed, what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained
by superior acumen.  To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of
draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of
course, no oversight is to be expected.  It is obvious that here the
victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some
recherché movement, the result of some strong exertion of the
intellect.  Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws
himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself
therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole
methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may
seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.

Whist has long been known for its influence upon what is termed the
calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have
been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while
eschewing chess as frivolous.  Beyond doubt there is nothing of a
similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis.  The best
chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player
of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in
all these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.
When I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which
includes a comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate
advantage may be derived.  These are not only manifold, but
multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether
inaccessible to the ordinary understanding.  To observe attentively
is to remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative
chess-player will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle
(themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are
sufficiently and generally comprehensible.  Thus to have a retentive
memory, and proceed by "the book," are points commonly regarded as
the sum total of good playing.  But it is in matters beyond the
limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced.  He
makes, in silence, a host of observations and inferences.  So,
perhaps, do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the
information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the
inference as in the quality of the observation.  The necessary
knowledge is that of what to observe.  Our player confines himself
not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject
deductions from things external to the game.  He examines the
countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each
of his opponents.  He considers the mode of assorting the cards in
each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through
the glances bestowed by their holders upon each.  He notes every
variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought
from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of
triumph, or chagrin.  From the manner of gathering up a trick he
judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit.  He
recognizes what is played through feint, by the manner with which it
is thrown upon the table.  A casual or inadvertent word; the
accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying
anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of
the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment,
hesitation, eagerness, or trepidation--all afford, to his apparently
intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs.  The
first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full
possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down
his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of
the party had turned outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity;
for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is
often remarkably incapable of analysis.  The constructive or
combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to
which the phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a
separate organ, supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so
frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon
idiocy, as to have attracted general observation among writers on
morals.  Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a
difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the
imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous.  It will be
found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly
imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the
light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18--, I
there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin.  This young
gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illustrious family, but,
by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty
that the energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased
to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his
fortunes.  By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his
possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income
arising from this, he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to
procure the necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its
superfluities.  Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris
these are easily obtained.

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre,
where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare
and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion.  We saw
each other again and again.  I was deeply interested in the little
family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a
Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is the theme.  I was
astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I
felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and the vivid
freshness of his imagination.  Seeking in Paris the objects I then
sought, I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a
treasure beyond price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him.
It was at length arranged that we should live together during my stay
in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less
embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of
renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic
gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long
deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and
tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the
Faubourg St. Germain.

Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we
should have been regarded as madmen--although, perhaps, as madmen of
a harmless nature.  Our seclusion was perfect.  We admitted no
visitors.  Indeed, the locality of our retirement had been carefully
kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many
years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris, We existed
within ourselves alone.

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?)
to be enamored of the night for her own sake; and into this
bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up
to his wild whims with a perfect abandon.  The sable divinity would
not herself dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her
presence.  At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy
shutters of our old building; lighted a couple of tapers which,
strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of
rays, By the aid of these we then busied our souls in
dreams--reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of
the advent of the true Darkness.  Then we sallied forth into the
streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far
and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows
of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet
observation can afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from
his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar
analytic ability in Dupin.  He seemed, too, to take an eager delight
in its exercise--if not exactly in its display--and did not hesitate
to confess the pleasure thus derived.  He boasted to me, with a low
chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows
in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct
and very startling proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own.  His
manner at these moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant
in expression; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a
treble which would have sounded petulant but for the deliberateness
and entire distinctness of the enunciation.  Observing him in these
moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the
Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin--the
creative and the resolvent.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am
detailing any mystery, or penning any romance.  What I have described
in the Frenchman was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a
diseased, intelligence.  But of the character of his remarks at the
periods in question an example will best convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity
of the Palais Royal.  Being both, apparently, occupied with thought,
neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least.
All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:

"He is a very little fellow, that's true, and would do better for the
Theatre Variétés."

"There can be no doubt of that," I replied, unwittingly, and not at
first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the
extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my
meditations.  In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my
astonishment was profound.

"Dupin," said I, gravely, "this is beyond my comprehension.  I do not
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses.
How was it possible you should know that I was thinking of--?"  Here
I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom
I thought.

"---- of Chantilly," said he, "why do you pause?  You were remarking
to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy."

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Dennis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the rôle of Xerxes, in Crébillon's tragedy
so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.

"Tell me, for Heaven's sake," I exclaimed, "the method--if method
there is--by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this
matter."  In fact, I was even more startled than I would have been
willing to express.

"It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, "who brought you to the
conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for
Xerxes _et id genus omne_."

"The fruiterer!--you astonish me--I know no fruiterer whomsoever."

"The man who ran up against you as we entered the street--it may have
been fifteen minutes ago."

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a
large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we
passed from the Rue C---- into the thoroughfare where we stood; but
what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.

There was not a particle of charlatânerie about Dupin.  "I will
explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will
first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in
which I spoke to you until that of the recontre with the fruiterer in
question.  The larger links of the chain run thus--Chantilly, Orion,
Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer."

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives,
amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular
conclusions of their own minds have been attained.  The occupation is
often full of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is
astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence
between the starting-point and the goal.  What, then, must have been
my amazement, when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just
spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken
the truth.  He continued:

"We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
leaving the Rue C----.  This was the last subject we discussed.  As
we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon
his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of
paving-stones collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing
repair.  You stepped upon one of the loose fragments, slipped,
slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few
words, turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence.  I
was not particularly attentive to what you did; but observation has
become with me, of late, a species of necessity.

"You kept your eyes upon the ground--glancing, with a petulant
expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement (so that I saw you
were still thinking of the stones), until we reached the little alley
called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with
the overlapping and riveted blocks.  Here your countenance brightened
up, and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you
murmured the word 'stereotomy,' a term very affectedly applied to
this species of pavement.  I knew that you could not say to yourself
'stereotomy' without being brought to think of atomies, and thus of
the theories of Epicurus; and since, when we discussed this subject
not very long ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how
little notice, the vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with
confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not
avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion, and I
certainly expected that you would do so.  You did look up; and I was
now assured that I had correctly followed your steps.  But in that
bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday's 'Musée,'
the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler's
change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about
which we have often conversed.  I mean the line

  Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.

I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written
Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation,
I was aware that you could not have forgotten it.  It was clear,
therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion
and Chantilly.  That you did combine them I saw by the character of
the smile which passed over your lips.  You thought of the poor
cobbler's immolation.  So far, you had been stooping in your gait;
but now I saw you draw yourself up to your full height.  I was then
sure that you reflected upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly.  At
this point I interrupted your meditations to remark that as, in fact,
he was a very little fellow--that Chantilly--he would do better at
the Théâtre des Variétés."

Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the
"Gazette des Tribunaux," when the following paragraphs arrested our
attention.

"_Extraordinary Murder_.--This morning, about three o'clock, the
inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were roused from sleep by a
succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth
story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy
of one Madame L'Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille
L'Espanaye.  After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to
procure admission in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with
a crowbar, and eight or ten of the neighbors entered, accompanied by
two gendarmes.  By this time the cries had ceased; but, as the party
rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or more rough voices, in
angry contention, were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the
upper part of the house.  As the second landing was reached, these
sounds, also, had ceased, and everything remained perfectly quiet.
The party spread themselves, and hurried from room to room.  Upon
arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story (the door of
which, being found locked; with the key inside, was forced open), a
spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not less
with horror than with astonishment.

"The apartment was in the wildest disorder--the furniture broken and
thrown about in all directions.  There was only one bedstead; and
from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the
floor.  On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with blood.  On the hearth
were two or three long and thick tresses of gray human hair, also
dabbled with blood, and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots.
Upon the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three
large silver spoons, three smaller of metal d'Alger, and two bags,
containing nearly four thousand francs in gold.  The drawers of a
bureau, which stood in one corner, were open, and had been,
apparently, rifled, although many articles still remained in them.  A
small iron safe was discovered under the bed (not under the
bedstead).  It was open, with the key still in the door.  It had no
contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little
consequence.

"Of Madame L'Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual
quantity of soot being observed in the fireplace, a search was made
in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the daughter,
head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been thus forced up
the narrow aperture for a considerable distance.  The body was quite
warm.  Upon examining it, many excoriations were perceived, no doubt
occasioned by the violence with which it had been thrust up and
disengaged.  Upon the face were many severe scratches, and, upon the
throat, dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails, as if
the deceased had been throttled to death.

"After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house without
further discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in
the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with
her throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the
head fell off.  The body, as well as the head, was fearfully
mutilated--the former so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance
of humanity.

"To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the
slightest clue."

The next day's paper had these additional particulars:

"_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue_.--Many individuals have been
examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair"
[the word "affaire" has not yet, in France, that levity of import
which it conveys with us], "but nothing whatever has transpired to
throw light upon it.  We give below all the material testimony
elicited.

"_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both the
deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period.
The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms--very affectionate
toward each other.  They were excellent pay.  Could not speak in
regard to their mode or means of living.  Believed that Madame L.
told fortunes for a living.  Was reputed to have money put by.  Never
met any person in the house when she called for the clothes or took
them home.  Was sure that they had no servant in employ.  There
appeared to be no furniture in any part of the building except in the
fourth story.

"_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit
of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame L'Espanaye
for nearly four years.  Was born in the neighborhood, and has always
resided there.  The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house
in which the corpses were found for more than six years.  It was
formerly occupied by a jeweler, who under-let the upper rooms to
various persons.  The house was the property of Madame L.  She became
dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises by her tenant, and moved
into them herself, refusing to let any portion.  The old lady was
childish.  Witness had seen the daughter some five or six times
during the six years.  The two lived an exceedingly retired
life--were reputed to have money.  Had heard it said among the
neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes--did not believe it.  Had
never seen any person enter the door except the old lady and her
daughter, a porter once or twice, and a physician some eight or ten
times.

"Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect.  No
one was spoken of as frequenting the house.  It was not known whether
there were any living connections of Madame L. and her daughter.  The
shutters of the front windows were seldom opened.  Those in the rear
were always closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth
story.  The house was a good house--not very old.

"_Isidore Muset_, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the house
about three o'clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty
persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance.  Forced it
open, at length, with a bayonet--not with a crowbar.  Had but little
difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or
folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom nor top.  The shrieks were
continued until the gate was forced--and then suddenly ceased.  They
seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony--were
loud and drawn out, not short and quick.  Witness led the way
upstairs.  Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud
and angry contention--the one a gruff voice, the other much
shriller--a very strange voice.  Could distinguish some words of the
former, which was that of a Frenchman.  Was positive that it was not
a woman's voice.  Could distinguish the words '_sacre_' and
'_diable_.'  The shrill voice was that of a foreigner.  Could not be
sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman.  Could not make
out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish.  The
state of the room and of the bodies was described by this witness as
we described them yesterday.

"_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silversmith, deposes that
he was one of the party who first entered the house.  Corroborates
the testimony of Muset in general.  As soon as they forced an
entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which
collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour.  The
shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an Italian.  Was
certain it was not French.  Could not be sure that it was a man's
voice.  It might have been a woman's.  Was not acquainted with the
Italian language.  Could not distinguish the words, but was convinced
by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian.  Knew Madame L.
and her daughter.  Had conversed with both frequently.  Was sure that
the shrill voice was not that of either of the deceased.

"---- _Odenheimer, restaurateur_.--This witness volunteered his
testimony.  Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter.
Is a native of Amsterdam.  Was passing the house at the time of the
shrieks.  They lasted for several minutes--probably ten.  They were
long and loud--very awful and distressing.  Was one of those who
entered the building.  Corroborated the previous evidence in every
respect but one.  Was sure that the shrill voice was that of a
man--of a Frenchman.  Could not distinguish the words uttered.  They
were loud and quick--unequal--spoken apparently in fear as well as in
anger.  The voice was harsh--not so much shrill as harsh.  Could not
call it a shrill voice.  The gruff voice said repeatedly, '_sacre_,'
'_diable_,' and once '_mon Dieu_.'

"_Jules Mignaud_, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue
Deloraine.  Is the elder Mignaud.  Madame L'Espanaye had some
property.  Had opened an account with his banking house in the spring
of the year--(eight years previously).  Made frequent deposits in
small sums.  Had checked for nothing until the third day before her
death, when she took out in person the sum of 4,000 francs.  This sum
was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home with the money.

"_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day
in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L'Espanaye to her
residence with the 4,000 francs, put up in two bags.  Upon the door
being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his hands one of
the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the other.  He then
bowed and departed.  Did not see any person in the street at the
time.  It is a by-street--very lonely.

"_William Bird_, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who
entered the house.  Is an Englishman.  Has lived in Paris two years.
Was one of the first to ascend the stairs.  Heard the voices in
contention.  The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.  Could make out
several words, but can not now remember all.  Heard distinctly
'_sacre_' and '_mon Dieu_.'  There was a sound at the moment as if of
several persons struggling--a scraping and scuffling sound.  The
shrill voice was very loud--louder than the gruff one.  Is sure that
it was not the voice of an Englishman.  Appeared to be that of a
German.  Might have been a woman's voice.  Does not understand German.

"Four of the above-named witnesses being recalled, deposed that the
door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L.
was locked on the inside when the party reached it.  Everything was
perfectly silent--no groans or noises of any kind.  Upon forcing the
door no person was seen.  The windows, both of the back and front
room, were down and firmly fastened from within.  A door between the
two rooms was closed but not locked.  The door leading from the front
room into the passage was locked, with the key on the inside.  A
small room in the front of the house, on the fourth story, at the
head of the passage, was open, the door being ajar.  This room was
crowded with old beds, boxes, and so forth.  These were carefully
removed and searched.  There was not an inch of any portion of the
house which was not carefully searched.  Sweeps were sent up and down
the chimneys.  The house was a four-story one, with garrets
(_mansardes_).  A trap-door on the roof was nailed down very
securely--did not appear to have been opened for years.  The time
elapsing between the hearing of the voices in contention and the
breaking open of the room door was variously stated by the witnesses.
Some made it as short as three minutes--some as long as five.  The
door was opened with difficulty.

"_Alfonzo Garco_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue
Morgue.  Is a native of Spain.  Was one of the party who entered the
house.  Did not proceed upstairs.  Is nervous, and was apprehensive
of the consequences of agitation.  Heard the voices in contention.
The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.  Could not distinguish what
was said.  The shrill voice was that of an Englishman--is sure of
this.  Does not understand the English language, but judges by the
intonation.

"_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he was among the first to
ascend the stairs.  Heard the voices in question.  The gruff voice
was that of a Frenchman.  Distinguished several words.  The speaker
appeared to be expostulating.  Could not make out the words of the
shrill voice.  Spoke quick and unevenly.  Thinks it the voice of a
Russian.  Corroborates the general testimony.  Is an Italian.  Never
conversed with a native of Russia.

"Several witness, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all
the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of
a human being.  By 'sweeps,' were meant cylindrical sweeping-brushes,
such as are employed by those who clean chimneys.  These brushes were
passed up and down every flue in the house.  There is no back passage
by which any one could have descended while the party proceeded
upstairs.  The body of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was so firmly wedged
in the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five of
the party united their strength.

"_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the
bodies about daybreak.  They were both then lying on the sacking of
the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found.  The
corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated.  The fact
that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account for
these appearances.  The throat was greatly chafed.  There were
several deep scratches just below the chin, together with a series of
livid spots which were evidently the impression of fingers.  The face
was fearfully discolored, and the eyeballs protruded.  The tongue had
been partially bitten through.  A large bruise was discovered upon
the pit of the stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure of a
knee.  In the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been
throttled to death by some person or persons unknown.  The corpse of
the mother was horribly mutilated.  All the bones of the right leg
and arm were more or less shattered.  The left tibia much splintered,
as well as all the ribs of the left side.  Whole body dreadfully
bruised and discolored.  It was not possible to say how the injuries
had been inflicted.  A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron--a
chair--any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced such
results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man.  No woman
could have inflicted the blows with any weapon.  The head of the
deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body,
and was also greatly shattered.  The throat had evidently been cut
with some very sharp instrument--probably with a razor.

"_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the
bodies.  Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas.

"Nothing further of importance was elicited, although several other
persons were examined.  A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in
all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris--if indeed a
murder has been committed at all.  The police are entirely at
fault--an unusual occurrence in affairs of this nature.  There is
not, however, the shadow of a clue apparent."

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement
still continued in the Quartier St. Roch--that the premises in
question had been carefully researched, and fresh examinations of
witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose.  A postscript, however,
mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and
imprisoned--although nothing appeared to criminate him beyond the
facts already detailed.

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair--at
least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments.  It was
only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he
asked me my opinion respecting the murders.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble
mystery.  I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the
murderer.

"We must not judge of the means," said Dupin, "by this shell of an
examination.  The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are
cunning, but no more.  There is no method in their proceedings,
beyond the method of the moment.  They make a vast parade of
measures; but, not infrequently, these are so ill-adapted to the
objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain's calling
for his robe-de-chambre--_pour mieux entendre la musique_.  The
results attained by them are not infrequently surprising, but, for
the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity.
When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail.  Vidocq, for
example, was a good guesser, and a persevering man.  But, without
educated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity at his
investigations.  He impaired his vision by holding the object too
close.  He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual
clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter
as a whole.  Thus there is such a thing as being too profound.  Truth
is not always in a well.  In fact, as regards the more important
knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial.  The
depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the
mountain-tops where she is found.  The modes and sources of this kind
of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly
bodies.  To look at a star by glances--to view it in a sidelong way,
by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more
susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to
behold the star distinctly--is to have the best appreciation of its
lustre--a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our
vision fully upon it.  A greater number of rays actually fall upon
the eye in the latter case, but in the former, there is the more
refined capacity for comprehension.  By undue profundity we perplex
and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself
vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too
concentrated, or too direct.

"As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them.  An inquiry
will afford us amusement" [I thought this an odd term, so applied,
but said nothing], "and besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service
for which I am not ungrateful.  We will go and see the premises with
our own eyes.  I know G----, the Prefect of Police, and shall have no
difficulty in obtaining the necessary permission."

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue
Morgue.  This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene
between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch.  It was late in the
afternoon when we reached it, as this quarter is at a great distance
from that in which we resided.  The house was readily found; for
there were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with
an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way.  It was
an ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was
a glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a
loge de concierge.  Before going in we walked up the street, turned
down an alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the
building--Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole neighborhood, as well
as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no
possible object.

Retracing our steps we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang,
and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in
charge.  We went upstairs--into the chamber where the body of
Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased
still lay.  The disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to
exist.  I saw nothing beyond what had been stated in the "Gazette des
Tribunaux."  Dupin scrutinized everything--not excepting the bodies
of the victims.  We then went into the other rooms, and into the
yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout.  The examination
occupied us until dark, when we took our departure.  On our way home
my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one of the
daily papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that _Je
les menagais_:--for this phrase there is no English equivalent.  It
was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the
murder, until about noon the next day.  He then asked me, suddenly,
if I had observed anything peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word "peculiar,"
which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

"No, nothing peculiar," I said; "nothing more, at least, than we both
saw stated in the paper."

"The 'Gazette'," he replied, "has not entered, I fear, into the
unusual horror of the thing.  But dismiss the idle opinions of this
print.  It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble,
for the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of
solution--I mean for the _outre_ character of its features.  The
police are confounded by the seeming absence of motive--not for the
murder itself--but for the atrocity of the murder.  They are puzzled,
too, by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in
contention, with the facts that no one was discovered upstairs but
the assassinated Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and that there were no
means of egress without the notice of the party ascending.  The wild
disorder of the room; the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up
the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady;
these considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I
need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting
completely at fault the boasted acumen, of the government agents.
They have fallen into the gross but common error of confounding the
unusual with the abstruse.  But it is by these deviations from the
plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if at all, in its
search for the true.  In investigations such as we are now pursuing,
it should not be so much asked 'what has occurred?' as 'what has
occurred that has never occurred before?'  In fact, the facility with
which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this
mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the
eyes of the police."

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

"I am now awaiting," continued he, looking toward the door of our
apartment--"I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the
perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure
implicated in their perpetration.  Of the worst portion of the crimes
committed, it is probable that he is innocent.  I hope that I am
right in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of
reading the entire riddle.  I look for the man here--in this
room--every moment.  It is true that he may not arrive; but the
probability is that he will.  Should he come, it will be necessary to
detain him.  Here are pistols; and we both know how to use them when
occasion demands their use."

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I
heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy.  I have
already spoken of his abstract manner at such times.  His discourse
was addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud,
had that intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some
one at a great distance.  His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded
only the wall.

"That the voices heard in contention," he said, "by the party upon
the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully
proved by the evidence.  This relieves us of all doubt upon the
question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the
daughter, and afterward have committed suicide.  I speak of this
point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of Madame
L'Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of thrusting
her daughter's corpse up the chimney as it was found; and the nature
of the wounds upon her own person entirely precludes the idea of
self-destruction.  Murder, then, has been committed by some third
party; and the voices of this third party were those heard in
contention.  Let me now advert--not to the whole testimony respecting
these voices--but to what was peculiar in that testimony.  Did you
observe anything peculiar about it?"

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the
gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in
regard to the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the harsh
voice.

"That was the evidence itself," said Dupin, "but it was not the
peculiarity of the evidence.  You have observed nothing distinctive.
Yet there was something to be observed.  The witnesses, as you
remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous.  But
in regard to the shrill voice, the peculiarity is--not that they
disagreed--but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a
Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke
of it as that of a foreigner.  Each is sure that it was not the voice
of one of his own countrymen.  Each likens it--not to the voice of an
individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant--but
the converse.  The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and
'might have distinguished some words had he been acquainted with the
Spanish.'  The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a
Frenchman; but we find it stated that 'not understanding French this
witness was examined through an interpreter.'  The Englishman thinks
it the voice of a German, and 'does not understand German.'  The
Spaniard 'is sure' that it was that of an Englishman, but 'judges by
the intonation' altogether, 'as he has no knowledge of the English.'
The Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but 'has never
conversed with a native of Russia.'  A second Frenchman differs,
moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was that of
an Italian; but, not being cognizant of that tongue, is, like the
Spaniard, 'convinced by the intonation.'  Now, how strangely unusual
must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this
could have been elicited!--in whose tones, even, denizens of the five
great divisions of Europe could recognize nothing familiar!  You will
say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic--of an African.
Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying
the inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points.
The voice is termed by one witness 'harsh rather than shrill.'  It is
represented by two others to have been 'quick and unequal.'  No
words--no sounds resembling words--were by any witness mentioned as
distinguishable.

"I know not," continued Dupin, "what impression I may have made, so
far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that
legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony--the
portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices--are in themselves
sufficient to engender a suspicion which should give direction to all
further progress in the investigation of the mystery.  I said
'legitimate deductions'; but my meaning is not thus fully expressed.
I designed to imply that the deductions are the sole proper ones, and
that the suspicion arises inevitably from them as the single result.
What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet.  I merely
wish you to bear in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently
forcible to give a definite form--a certain tendency--to my inquiries
in the chamber.

"Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber.  What
shall we first seek here?  The means of egress employed by the
murderers.  It is not too much to say that neither of us believes in
preternatural events.  Madame and Mademoiselle L'Espanaye were not
destroyed by spirits.  The doers of the deed were material and
escaped materially.  Then how?  Fortunately there is but one mode of
reasoning upon the point, and that mode must lead us to a definite
decision.  Let us examine, each by each, the possible means of
egress.  It is clear that the assassins were in the room where
Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was found, or at least in the room adjoining,
when the party ascended the stairs.  It is, then, only from these two
apartments that we have to seek issues.  The police have laid bare
the floors, the ceiling, and the masonry of the walls, in every
direction.  No secret issues could have escaped their vigilance.
But, not trusting to their eyes, I examined with my own.  There were,
then, no secret issues.  Both doors leading from the rooms into the
passage were securely locked, with the keys inside.  Let us turn to
the chimneys.  These, although of ordinary width for some eight or
ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent,
the body of a large cat.  The impossibility of egress, by means
already stated, being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows.
Through those of the front room no one could have escaped without
notice from the crowd in the street.  The murderers must have passed,
then, through those of the back room.  Now, brought to this
conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part,
as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities.
It is only left for us to prove that these apparent 'impossibilities'
are, in reality, not such.

"There are two windows in the chamber.  One of them is unobstructed
by furniture, and is wholly visible.  The lower portion of the other
is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is
thrust close up against it.  The former was found securely fastened
from within.  It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to
raise it.  A large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the
left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly to the
head.  Upon examining the other window, a similar nail was seen
similarly fitted in it; and a vigorous attempt to raise this sash
failed also.  The police were now entirely satisfied that egress had
not been in these directions.  And, therefore, it was thought a
matter of supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows.

"My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the
reason I have just given--because here it was, I knew, that all
apparent impossibilities must be proved to be not such in reality.

"I proceeded to think thus--_a posteriori_.  The murderers did escape
from one of these windows.  This being so, they could not have
refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found
fastened;--the consideration which put a stop, through its
obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter.  Yet the
sashes were fastened.  They must, then, have the power of fastening
themselves.  There was no escape from this conclusion.  I stepped to
the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty,
and attempted to raise the sash.  It resisted all my efforts, as I
had anticipated.  A concealed spring must, I now knew, exist; and
this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my premises, at
least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the
circumstances attending the nails.  A careful search soon brought to
light the hidden spring.  I pressed it, and, satisfied with the
discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.

"I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively.  A person
passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the
spring would have caught--but the nail could not have been replaced.
The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my
investigations.  The assassins must have escaped through the other
window.  Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same,
as was probable, there must be found a difference between the nails,
or at least between the modes of their fixture.  Getting upon the
sacking of the bedstead, I looked over the head-board minutely at the
second casement.  Passing my hand down behind the board, I readily
discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed,
identical in character with its neighbor.  I now looked at the nail.
It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in the same
manner--driven in nearly up to the head.

"You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must have
misunderstood the nature of the inductions.  To use a sporting
phrase, I had not been once 'at fault.'  The scent had never for an
instant been lost.  There was no flaw in any link of the chain.  I
had traced the secret to its ultimate result--and that result was the
nail.  It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow
in the other window; but this fact was an absolute nullity
(conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with the
consideration that here, at this point, teminated the clue.  'There
must be something wrong,' I said, 'about the nail.'  I touched it;
and the head, with about a quarter of an inch of the shank, came off
in my fingers.  The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, where
it had been broken off.  The fracture was an old one (for its edges
were incrusted with rust), and had apparently been accomplished by
the blow of a hammer, which had partially embedded, in the top of the
bottom sash, the head portion of the nail.  I now carefully replaced
this head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the
resemblance to a perfect nail was complete--the fissure was
invisible.  Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a few
inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed.  I
closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again
perfect.

"This riddle, so far, was now unriddled.  The assassin had escaped
through the window which looked upon the bed.  Dropping of its own
accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become
fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which
had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail--further inquiry
being thus considered unnecessary.

"The next question is that of the mode of descent.  Upon this point I
had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building.  About
five feet and a half from the casement in question there runs a
lightning-rod.  From this rod it would have been impossible for any
one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it.  I
observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth story were of the
peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters ferrades--a kind rarely
employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old
mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux.  They are in the form of an ordinary
door (a single, not a folding door), except that the lower half is
latticed or worked in open trellis--thus affording an excellent hold
for the hands.  In the present instance these shutters are fully
three feet and a half broad.  When we saw them from the rear of the
house, they were both about half open--that is to say, they stood off
at right angles from the wall.  It is probable that the police, as
well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in
looking at these ferrades in the line of their breadth (as they must
have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at
all events, failed to take it into due consideration.  In fact,
having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made
in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory
examination.  It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging
to the window at the head of the bed would, if swung fully back to
the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod.  It was also
evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and
courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been
thus effected.  By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half
(we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might
have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work.  Letting go, then, his
hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and
springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to
close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might even
have swung himself into the room.

"I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very
unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous
and so difficult a feat.  It is my design to show you, first, that
the thing might possibly have been accomplished:--but, secondly and
chiefly, I wish to impress upon your understanding the very
extraordinary--the almost preternatural character of that agility
which could have accomplished it.

"You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that 'to make
out my case,' I should rather undervalue than insist upon a full
estimation of the activity required in this matter.  This may be the
practise in law, but it is not the usage of reason.  My ultimate
object is only the truth.  My immediate purpose is to lead you to
place in juxtaposition, that very unusual activity of which I have
just spoken, with that very peculiar shrill (or harsh) and unequal
voice, about whose nationality no two persons could be found to
agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification could be detected."

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of
Dupin flitted over my mind.  I seemed to be upon the verge of
comprehension, without power to comprehend--as men, at times, find
themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the
end, to remember.  My friend went on with his discourse.

"You will see," he said, "that I have shifted the question from the
mode of egress to that of ingress.  It was my design to convey the
idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point.
Let us now revert to the interior of the room.  Let us survey the
appearances here.  The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been
rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them.
The conclusion here is absurd.  It is a mere guess--a very silly
one--and no more.  How are we to know that the articles found in the
drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained?  Madame
L'Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life--saw no
company--seldom went out--had little use for numerous changes of
habiliment.  Those found were at least of as good quality as any
likely to be possessed by these ladies.  If a thief had taken any,
why did he not take the best--why did he not take all?  In a word,
why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself
with a bundle of linen?  The gold was abandoned.  Nearly the whole
sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in
bags, upon the floor.  I wish you, therefore, to discard from your
thoughts the blundering idea of motive, engendered in the brains of
the police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money
delivered at the door of the house.  Coincidences ten times as
remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed
within three days upon the party receiving it), happen to all of us
every hour of our lives, without attracting even momentary notice.
Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of
that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the
theory of probabilities--that theory to which the most glorious
objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of
illustration.  In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the
fact of its delivery three days before would have formed something
more than a coincidence.  It would have been corroborative of this
idea of motive.  But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we
are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine
the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold
and his motive together.

"Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your
attention--that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that
startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as
this--let us glance at the butchery itself.  Here is a woman
strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney head
downward.  Ordinary assassins employ no such mode of murder as this.
Least of all do they thus dispose of the murdered.  In the manner of
thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will admit that there was
something excessively outre--something altogether irreconcilable with
our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors
the most depraved of men.  Think, too, how great must have been that
strength which could have thrust the body up such an aperture so
forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found barely
sufficient to drag it down!

"Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most
marvelous.  On the hearth were thick tresses--very thick tresses--of
gray human hair.  These had been torn out by the roots.  You are
aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even
twenty or thirty hairs together.  You saw the locks in question as
well as myself.  Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with
fragments of the flesh of the scalp--sure token of the prodigious
power which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps half a million of
hairs at a time.  The throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but
the head absolutely severed from the body: the instrument was a mere
razor.  I wish you also to look at the brutal ferocity of these
deeds.  Of the bruises upon the body of Madame L'Espanaye I do not
speak.  Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor Monsieur Etienne,
have pronounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse instrument;
and so far these gentlemen are very correct.  The obtuse instrument
was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had
fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed.  This idea,
however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same
reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them--because, by the
affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed
against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.

"If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected
upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to
combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength superhuman, a
ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a grotesquerie in horror
absolutely alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the
ears of men of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or
intelligible syllabification.  What result, then, has ensued?  What
impression have I made upon your fancy?"

I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question.  "A
madman," I said, "has done this deed--some raving maniac, escaped
from a neighboring Maison de Santé."

"In some respects," he replied, "your idea is not irrelevant.  But
the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never
found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs.
Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in
its words, has always the coherence of syllabification.  Besides, the
hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my hand.  I
disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched fingers of
Madame L'Espanaye.  Tell me what you can make of it."

"Dupin!" I said, completely unnerved; "this hair is most
unusual--this is no human hair."

"I have not asserted that it is," said he; "but, before we decide
this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here
traced upon this paper.  It is a facsimile drawing of what has been
described in one portion of the testimony as 'dark bruises and deep
indentations of finger nails' upon the throat of Mademoiselle
L'Espanaye, and in another (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne) as a
'series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.'

"You will perceive," continued my friend, spreading out the paper
upon the table before us, "that this drawing gives the idea of a firm
and fixed hold.  There is no slipping apparent.  Each finger has
retained--possibly until the death of the victim--the fearful grasp
by which it originally embedded itself.  Attempt, now, to place all
your fingers, at the same time, in the respective impressions as you
see them."

I made the attempt in vain.

"We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial," he said.  "The
paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is
cylindrical.  Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is
about that of the throat.  Wrap the drawing around it, and try the
experiment again."

I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before.
"This," I said, "is the mark of no human hand."

"Read now," replied Dupin, "this passage from Cuvier."

It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the
large fulvous Orang-Outang of the East Indian Islands.  The gigantic
stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and
the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well
known to all.  I understood the full horrors of the murder at once.

"The description of the digits," said I, as I made an end of the
reading, "is in exact accordance with his drawing.  I see that no
animal but an Orang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have
impressed the indentations as you have traced them.  This tuft of
tawny hair, too, is identical in character with that of the beast of
Cuvier.  But I cannot possibly comprehend the particulars of this
frightful mystery.  Besides, there were two voices heard in
contention, and one of them was unquestionably the voice of a
Frenchman."

"True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost
unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice--the expression, '_mon
Dieu!_'  This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized
by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner) as an expression
of remonstrance or expostulation.  Upon these two words, therefore, I
have mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle.  A
Frenchman was cognizant of the murder.  It is possible--indeed it is
far more than probable--that he was innocent of all participation in
the bloody transactions which took place.  The Orang-Outang may have
escaped from him.  He may have traced it to the chamber; but, under
the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have
recaptured it.  It is still at large.  I will not pursue these
guesses--for I have no right to call them more--since the shades of
reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth
to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend
to make them intelligible to the understanding of another.  We will
call them guesses, then, and speak of them as such.  If the Frenchman
in question is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this
advertisement, which I left last night, upon our return home, at the
office of 'Le Monde' (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and
much sought by sailors), will bring him to our residence."

He handed me a paper, and I read thus:


"CAUGHT--_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the ----
inst._ (the morning of the murder), _a very large, tawny Orang-Outang
of the Bornese species.  The owner_ (_who is ascertained to be a
sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel_) _may have the animal again,
upon identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising
from its capture and keeping.  Call at No. ---- Rue ----, Faubourg
St. Germain--au troisieme._"


"How was it possible," I asked, "that you should know the man to be a
sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?"

"I do not know it," said Dupin.  "I am not sure of it.  Here,
however, is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and from
its greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the hair in
one of those long queues of which sailors are so fond.  Moreover,
this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and it is
peculiar to the Maltese.  I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the
lightning-rod.  It could not have belonged to either of the deceased.
Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that
the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese vessel, still I can
have done no harm in saying what I did in the advertisement.  If I am
in error, he will merely suppose that I have been misled by some
circumstance into which he will not take the trouble to inquire.  But
if I am right, a great point is gained.  Cognizant although innocent
of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about replying
to the advertisement--about demanding the Orang-Outang.  He will
reason thus:--'I am innocent; I am poor; my Orang-Outang is of great
value--to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself--why should I
lose it through idle apprehensions of danger?  Here it is, within my
grasp.  It was found in the Bois de Boulogne--at a vast distance from
the scene of that butchery.  How can it ever be suspected that a
brute beast should have done the deed?  The police are at fault--they
have failed to procure the slightest clue.  Should they even trace
the animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the
murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that cognizance.
Above all, I am known.  The advertiser designates me as the possessor
of the beast.  I am not sure to what limit his knowledge may extend.
Should I avoid claiming a property of so great value, which it is
known that I possess, it will render the animal at least liable to
suspicion.  It is not my policy to attract attention either to myself
or to the beast.  I will answer the advertisement, get the
Orang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter has blown over."

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

"Be ready," said Dupin, "with your pistols, but neither use them nor
show them until at a signal from myself."

The front door of the house had been left open, and the visitor had
entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the
staircase.  Now, however, he seemed to hesitate.  Presently we heard
him descending.  Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again
heard him coming up.  He did not turn back a second time, but stepped
up with decision, and rapped at the door of our chamber.

"Come in," said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.

A man entered.  He was a sailor, evidently--a tall, stout, and
muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of
countenance, not altogether unprepossessing.  His face, greatly
sunburned, was more than half-hidden by whisker and mustachio.  He
had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise
unarmed.  He bowed awkwardly, and bade us "good-evening," in French
accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still
sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.

"Sit down, my friend," said Dupin.  "I suppose you have called about
the Orang-Outang.  Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of
him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal.  How old
do you suppose him to be?"

The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some
intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:

"I have no way of telling--but he can't be more than four or five
years old.  Have you got him here?"

"Oh, no; we had no conveniences for keeping him here.  He is at a
livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by.  You can get him in the
morning.  Of course you are prepared to identify the property?"

"To be sure I am, sir."

"I shall be sorry to part with him," said Dupin.

"I don't mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing,
sir," said the man.  "Couldn't expect it.  Am very willing to pay a
reward for the finding of the animal--that is to say, anything in
reason."

"Well," replied my friend, "that is all very fair, to be sure.  Let
me think!--what should I have?  Oh!  I will tell you.  My reward
shall be this.  You shall give me all the information in your power
about these murders in the Rue Morgue."

Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly.  Just
as quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it, and put the
key in his pocket.  He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed
it, without the least flurry, upon the table.

The sailor's face flushed up as if he were struggling with
suffocation.  He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the
next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently, and with
the countenance of death itself.  He spoke not a word.  I pitied him
from the bottom of my heart.

"My friend," said Dupin, in a kind tone, "you are alarming yourself
unnecessarily--you are, indeed.  We mean you no harm whatever.  I
pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we
intend you no injury.  I perfectly well know that you are innocent of
the atrocities in the Rue Morgue.  It will not do, however, to deny
that you are in some measure implicated in them.  From what I have
already said, you must know that I have had means of information
about this matter--means of which you could never have dreamed.  Now,
the thing stands thus.  You have done nothing which you could have
avoided--nothing, certainly, which renders you culpable.  You were
not even guilty of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity.
You have nothing to conceal.  You have no reason for concealment.  On
the other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess
all you know.  An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with that
crime of which you can point out the perpetrator."

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great measure,
while Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing
was all gone.

"So help me God!" said he, after a brief pause, "I will tell you all
I know about this affair;--but I do not expect you to believe
one-half I say--I would be a fool indeed if I did.  Still, I am
innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it."

What he stated was, in substance, this.  He had lately made a voyage
to the Indian Archipelago.  A party, of which he formed one, landed
at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure.
Himself and a companion had captured the Orang-Outang.  This
companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession.
After a great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his
captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it
safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract toward
himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it
carefully secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound
in the foot, received from a splinter on board ship.  His ultimate
design was to sell it.

Returning home from some sailor's frolic on the night, or rather in
the morning, of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own
bedroom, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it
had been, as was thought, securely confined.  Razor in hand, and
fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the
operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt previously watched its
master through the keyhole of the closet.  Terrified at the sight of
so dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious,
and so well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss
what to do.  He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature,
even in its fiercest moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now
resorted.  Upon sight of it, the Orang-Outang sprang at once through
the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a
window, unfortunately open, into the street.

The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand,
occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at his pursuer,
until the latter had nearly come up with it.  It then again made off.
In this manner the chase continued for a long time.  The streets were
profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three o'clock in the morning.  In
passing down an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive's
attention was arrested by a light gleaming from the open window of
Madame L'Espanaye's chamber, in the fourth story of her house.
Rushing to the building, it perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up
with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown
fully back against the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly
upon the headboard of the bed.  The whole feat did not occupy a
minute.  The shutter was kicked open again by the Orang-Outang as it
entered the room.

The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed.  He had
strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could scarcely
escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod,
where it might be intercepted as it came down.  On the other hand,
there was much cause for anxiety as to what it might do in the house.
This latter reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive.  A
lightning-rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor;
but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his
left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was
to reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room.
At this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of
horror.  Now it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night,
which had startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue.
Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes,
had apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron
chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle of
the room.  It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the floor.
The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward the
window; and, from the time elapsing between the ingress of the beast
and the screams, it seems probable that it was not immediately
perceived.  The flapping to of the shutter would naturally have been
attributed to the wind.

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame
L'Espanaye by the hair (which was loose, as she had been combing it),
and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the
motions of a barber.  The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she
had swooned.  The screams and struggles of the old lady (during which
the hair was torn from her head) had the effect of changing the
probably pacific purposes of the Orang-Outang into those of wrath.
With one determined sweep of its muscular arm it nearly severed her
head from her body.  The sight of blood inflamed its anger into
frenzy.  Gnashing its teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew
upon the body of the girl and imbedded its fearful talons in her
throat, retaining its grasp until she expired.  Its wandering and
wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which
the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible.  The
fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the dreaded whip,
was instantly converted into fear.  Conscious of having deserved
punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its bloody deeds, and
skipped about the chamber in an agony of nervous agitation; throwing
down and breaking the furniture as it moved, and dragging the bed
from the bedstead.  In conclusion, it seized first the corpse of the
daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found; then that of
the old lady, which it immediately hurled through the window headlong.

As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the
sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than clambering
down it, hurried at once home--dreading the consequences of the
butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about
the fate of the Orang-Outang.  The words heard by the party upon the
staircase were the Frenchman's exclamations of horror and affright,
commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute.

I have scarcely anything to add.  The Orang-Outang must have escaped
from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door.
It must have closed the window as it passed through it.  It was
subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very
large sum at the Jardin des Plantes.  Le Bon was instantly released,
upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from
Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police.  This functionary,
however well disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his
chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge
in a sarcasm or two about the propriety of every person minding his
own business.

"Let him talk," said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to
reply.  "Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience.  I am
satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle.  Nevertheless,
that he failed in the solution of this mystery, is by no means that
matter for wonder which he supposes it; for, in truth, our friend the
Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be profound.  In his wisdom is no
_stamen_.  It is all head and no body, like the pictures of the
Goddess Laverna--or, at best, all head and shoulders, like a codfish.
But he is a good creature after all.  I like him especially for one
master stroke of cant, by which he has attained his reputation for
ingenuity; I mean the way he has '_de nier ce qui est, et d'expliquer
ce qui n'est pas_.'"*


* Rousseau--Nouvelle Heloise.




THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

_This is quite properly designated, in the sub-title, as a sequel to
the story that precedes it, though, as M. Dupin himself points out,
the case presented is a far more intricate one._

_Explanations as to the origin of the story are omitted from this
note, as they already appear with sufficient completeness in the
foot-notes which accompany the opening of the story._



THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET[1]

A SEQUEL TO "THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE"

By EDGAR ALLAN POE


[1] Upon the original publication of "Marie Roget," the footnotes now
appended were considered unnecessary; but the lapse of several years
since the tragedy upon which the tale is based, renders it expedient
to give them, and also to say a few words in explanation of the
general design.  A young girl, _Mary Cecilia Rogers_, was murdered in
the vicinity of New York; and although her death occasioned an
intense and long-enduring excitement, the mystery attending it had
remained unsolved at the period when the present paper was written
and published (November, 1842).  Herein, under pretense of relating
the fate of a Parisian _grisette_, the author has followed, in minute
detail, the essential, while merely paralleling the inessential facts
of the real murder of Mary Rogers.  Thus all argument founded upon
the fiction is applicable to the truth: and the investigation of the
truth was the object.

The "Mystery of Marie Roget" was composed at a distance from the
scene of the atrocity, and with no other means of investigation than
the newspapers afforded.  Thus much escaped the writer of which he
could have availed himself had he been upon the spot and visited the
localities.  It may not be improper to record, nevertheless, that the
confessions of two persons (one of them the Madame Deluc of the
narrative), made at different periods, long subsequent to the
publication, confirmed, in full, not only the general conclusion, but
absolutely all the chief hypothetical details by which that
conclusion was attained.


Es giebt eine Reihe idealischer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit
parallel lauft.  Selten fallen sie zusammen.  Menschen und zufalle
modificiren gewohnlich die idealische Begebenheit, so dass sie
unvollkommen erscheint, und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen
sind.  So bei der Reformation; statt des Protestantismus kam das
Lutherthum hervor.

There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real
ones.  They rarely coincide.  Men and circumstances generally modify
the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and its
consequences are equally imperfect.  Thus with the Reformation;
instead of Protestantism came Lutheranism.--_Novalis_.[2] "_Moral
Ansichten_."


[2] The _nom de plume_ of Von Hardenburg.


There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers who have not
occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling half-credence
in the supernatural, by _coincidences_ of so seemingly marvelous a
character that, as _mere_ coincidences, the intellect has been unable
to receive them.  Such sentiments--for the half-credences of which I
speak have never the full force of thought--such sentiments are
seldom thoroughly stifled unless by reference to the doctrine of
chance, or, as it is technically termed, the Calculus of
Probabilities.  Now, this Calculus is, in its essence, purely
mathematical; and thus we have the anomaly of the most rigidly exact
in science applied to the shadow and spirituality of the most
intangible in speculation.

The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make public,
will be found to form, as regards sequence of time, the primary
branch of a series of scarcely intelligible _coincidences_, whose
secondary or concluding branch will be recognized by all readers in
the late murder of Marie Cecilia Rogers, at New York.

When, in an article entitled "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," I
endeavored, about a year ago, to depict some very remarkable features
in the mental character of my friend, the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin,
it did not occur to me that I should ever resume the subject.  This
depicting of character constituted my design; and this design was
thoroughly fulfilled in the wild train of circumstances brought to
instance Dupin's idiosyncrasy.  I might have adduced other examples,
but I should have proved no more.  Late events, however, in their
surprising development, have startled me into some further details,
which will carry with them the air of extorted confession.  Hearing
what I have lately heard, it would be indeed strange should I remain
silent in regard to what I both heard and saw so long ago.

Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of Madame
L'Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the affair at
once from his attention, and relapsed into his old habits of moody
reverie.  Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I readily fell in with
his humor; and continuing to occupy our chambers in the Faubourg
Saint Germain, we gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered
tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into
dreams.

But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted.  It may readily
be supposed that the part played by my friend in the drama at the Rue
Morgue had not failed of its impression upon the fancies of the
Parisian police.  With its emissaries, the name of Dupin had grown
into a household word.  The simple character of those inductions by
which he had disentangled the mystery never having been explained
even to the Prefect, or to any other individual than myself, of
course it is not surprising that the affair was regarded as little
less than miraculous, or that the Chevalier's analytical abilities
acquired for him the credit of intuition.  His frankness would have
led him to disabuse every inquirer of such prejudice; but his
indolent humor forbade all further agitation of a topic whose
interest to himself had long ceased.  It thus happened that he found
himself the cynosure of the political eyes; and the cases were not
few in which attempt was made to engage his services at the
Prefecture.  One of the most remarkable instances was that of the
murder of a young girl named Marie Rogêt.

This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue
Morgue.  Marie, whose Christian and family name will at once arrest
attention from their resemblance to those of the unfortunate "cigar
girl," was the only daughter of the widow Estelle Rogêt.  The father
had died during the child's infancy, and from the period of his
death, until within eighteen months before the assassination which
forms the subject of our narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt
together in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée[3]; Madame there keeping a
_pension_, assisted by Marie.  Affairs went on thus until the latter
had attained her twenty-second year, when her great beauty attracted
the notice of a perfumer, who occupied one of the shops in the
basement of the Palais Royal, and whose custom lay chiefly among the
desperate adventurers infesting that neighborhood.  Monsieur Le
Blanc[4] was not unaware of the advantages to be derived from the
attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal
proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat
more of hesitation by Madame.


[3] Nassau Street.

[4] Anderson.


The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms soon
became notorious through the charms of sprightly _grisette_.  She had
been in his employ about a year, when her admirers were thrown into
confusion by her sudden disappearance from the shop.  Monsieur Le
Blanc was unable to account for her absence, and Madame Rogêt was
distracted with anxiety and terror.  The public papers immediately
took up the theme, and the police were upon the point of making
serious investigations when, one fine morning after the lapse of a
week, Marie in good health, but with a somewhat saddened air, made
her reappearance at her usual counter in the perfumery.  All inquiry,
except that of a private character, was, of course, immediately
hushed.  Monsieur Le Blanc professed total ignorance, as before.
Marie, with Madame, replied to all questions, that the last week had
been spent at the house of a relation in the country.  Thus the
affair died away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl,
ostensibly to relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity,
soon bade a final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of
her mother's residence in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée.

It was about five months after this return home that her friends were
alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time.  Three days
elapsed, and nothing was heard of her.  On the fourth her corpse was
found floating in the Seine,[5] near the shore which is opposite the
Quartier of the Rue Saint Andrée, and at a point not very far distant
from the secluded neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule.[6]


[5] The Hudson.

[6] Weehawken.


The atrocity of this murder (for it was at once evident that murder
had been committed), the youth and beauty of the victim and, above
all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce intense excitement
in the minds of the sensitive Parisians.  I can call to mind no
similar occurrence producing so general and so intense an effect.
For several weeks, in the discussion of this one absorbing theme,
even the momentous political topics of the day were forgotten.  The
Prefect made unusual exertions; and the powers of the whole Parisian
police, were, of course, tasked to the utmost extent.

"Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that the
murderer would be able to elude, for more than a very brief period,
the inquisition which was immediately set on foot.  It was not until
the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary to offer a
reward; and even then this reward was limited to a thousand francs.
In the meantime the investigation proceeded with vigor, if not always
with judgment, and numerous individuals were examined to no purpose;
while, owing to the continual absence of all clue to the mystery, the
popular excitement greatly increased.  At the end of the tenth day it
was thought advisable to double the sum originally proposed; and, at
length, the second week having elapsed without leading to any
discoveries, and the prejudice which always exists in Paris against
the police having given vent to itself in several serious _emeutes_,
the Prefect took it upon himself to offer the sum of twenty-thousand
francs "for the conviction of the assassin," or, if more than one
should prove to have been implicated, "for the conviction of any one
of the assassins."  In the proclamation setting forth this reward, a
full pardon was promised to any accomplice who should come forward in
evidence against his fellow; and to the whole was appended, wherever
it appeared, the private placard of a committee of citizens, offering
ten thousand francs in addition to the amount proposed by the
Prefecture.  The entire reward thus stood at no less than thirty
thousand francs, which will be regarded as an extraordinary sum when
we consider the humble condition of the girl, and the great
frequency, in large cities, of such atrocities as the one described.

No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be
immediately brought to light.  But although, in one or two instances,
arrests were made which promised elucidation, yet nothing was
elicited which could implicate the parties suspected; and they were
discharged forthwith.  Strange as it may appear, the third week from
the discovery of the body had passed, and passed without any light
being thrown upon the subject, before even a rumor of the events
which had so agitated the public mind reached the ears of Dupin and
myself.  Engaged in researches which had absorbed our whole
attention, it had been nearly a month since either of us had gone
abroad, or received a visitor, or more than glanced at the leading
political articles in one of the daily papers.  The first
intelligence of the murder was brought us by G----, in person.  He
called upon us early in the afternoon of the thirteenth of July,
18--, and remained with us until late in the night.  He had been
piqued by the failure of all his endeavors to ferret out the
assassins.  His reputation--so he said with a peculiarly Parisian
air--was at stake.  Even his honor was concerned.  The eyes of the
public were upon him; and there was really no sacrifice which he
would not be willing to make for the development of the mystery.  He
concluded a somewhat droll speech with a compliment upon what he was
pleased to term the _tact_ of Dupin, and made him a direct and
certainly a liberal proposition, the precise nature of which I do not
feel myself at liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon the
proper subject of my narrative.

The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the
proposition he accepted at once, although its advantages were
altogether provisional.  This point being settled, the Prefect broke
forth at once, into explanations of his own views, interspersing them
with long comments upon the evidence; of which latter we were not yet
in possession.  He discoursed much, and, beyond doubt, learnedly;
while I hazarded an occasional suggestion as the night wore drowsily
away.  Dupin, sitting steadily in his accustomed armchair, was the
embodiment of respectful attention.  He wore spectacles during the
whole interview; and an occasional glance beneath their green glasses
sufficed to convince me that he slept not the less soundly, because
silently, throughout the seven or eight leaden-footed hours which
immediately preceded the departure of the Prefect.

In the morning I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of all
the evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices, a copy
of every paper in which, from first to last, had been published any
decisive information in regard to this sad affair.  Freed from all
that was positively disproved, this mass of information stood thus:

Marie Rogêt left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavée St.
Andrée, about nine o'clock in the morning of day, June the
twenty-second, 18--.  In going out, she gave notice to a Monsieur
Jacques St. Eustache,[7] and to him only, of her intention to spend
the day with an aunt, who resided in the Rue des Drômes.  The Rue des
Drômes is a short and narrow but populous thoroughfare, not far from
the banks of the river, and at a distance of some two miles, in the
most direct course possible, from the _pension_ of Madame Rogêt.  St.
Eustache was the accepted suitor of Marie, and lodged, as well as
took his meals, at the _pension_.  He was to have gone for his
betrothed at dusk, and to have escorted her home.  In the afternoon,
however, it came on to rain heavily; and, supposing that she would
remain all night at her aunt's (as she had done under similar
circumstances before), he did not think it necessary to keep his
promise.  As night drew on, Madame Rogêt (who was an infirm old lady,
seventy years of age) was heard to express a fear "that she should
never see Marie again"; but this observation attracted little
attention at the time.


[7] Payne.


On Monday it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the Rue
des Drômes; and when the day elapsed without tidings of her, a tardy
search was instituted at several points in the city and its environs.
It was not, however, until the fourth day from the period of her
disappearance that anything satisfactory was ascertained respecting
her.  On this day (Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of June) a Monsieur
Beauvais,[8] who, with a friend, had been making inquiries for Marie
near the Barrière du Roule, on the shore of the Seine which is
opposite the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, was informed that a corpse had
just been towed ashore by some fishermen, who had found it floating
in the river.  Upon seeing the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation,
identified it as that of the perfumery girl.  His friend recognized
it more promptly.


[8] Crommelin.


The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from the
mouth.  No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely drowned.
There was no discoloration in the cellular tissue.  About the throat
were bruises and impressions of fingers.  The arms were bent over on
the chest, and were rigid.  The right hand was clenched; the left
partially open.  On the left wrist were two circular excoriations,
apparently the effect of ropes, or of a rope in more than one
volution.  A part of the right wrist, also, was much chafed, as well
as the back throughout its extent, but more especially at the
shoulder-blades.  In bringing the body to the shore the fishermen had
attached to it a rope, but none of the excoriations had been effected
by this.  The flesh of the neck was much swollen.  There were no cuts
apparent, or bruises which appeared the effect of blows.  A piece of
lace was found tied so tightly around the neck as to be hidden from
sight; it was completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a
knot which lay just under the left ear.  This alone would have
sufficed to produce death.  The medical testimony spoke confidently
of the virtuous character of the deceased.  She had been subjected,
it is said, to brutal violence.  The corpse was in such condition
when found that there could have been no difficulty in its
recognition by friends.

The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered.  In the outer
garment, a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the
bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off.  It was wound three times
around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back.  The
dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin; and from this
a slip eighteen inches wide had been torn entirely out--torn very
evenly and with great care.  It was found around her neck, fitting
loosely, and secured with a hard knot.  Over this muslin slip and the
slip of lace the strings of a bonnet were attached, the bonnet being
appended.  The knot by which the strings of the bonnet were fastened
was not a lady's, but a slip or sailor's knot.

After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken to
the Morgue (this formality being superfluous), but hastily interred
not far from the spot at which it was brought ashore.  Through the
exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously hushed up, as far
as possible; and several days had elapsed before any public emotion
resulted.  A weekly paper,[9] however, at length took up the theme;
the corpse was disinterred, and a reexamination instituted; but
nothing was elicited beyond what has been already noted.  The
clothes, however, were now submitted to the mother and friends of the
deceased, and fully identified as those worn by the girl upon leaving
home.


[9] The New York "Mercury."


Meantime, the excitement increased hourly.  Several individuals were
arrested and discharged.  St. Eustache fell especially under
suspicion; and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible account
of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left home.
Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur G----, affidavits,
accounting satisfactorily for every hour of the day in question.  As
time passed no discovery ensued, a thousand contradictory rumors were
circulated, and journalists busied themselves in _suggestions_.
Among these, the one which attracted the most notice was the idea
that Marie Rogêt still lived--that the corpse found in the Seine was
that of some other unfortunate.  It will be proper that I submit to
the reader some passages which embody the suggestion alluded to.
These passages are _literal_ translations from "L'Etoile,"[10] a
paper conducted, in general, with much ability.


[10] The New York "Brother Jonathan," edited by H. Hastings Weld, Esq.


"Mademoiselle Rogêt left her mother's house on Sunday morning, June
the twenty-second, 18--, with the ostensible purpose of going to see
her aunt, or some other connection, in the Rue des Drômes.  From that
hour nobody is proved to have seen her.  There is no trace or tidings
of her at all....  There has no person, whatever, come forward, so
far, who saw her at all on that day, after she left her mother's
door....  Now, though we have no evidence that Marie Rogêt was in the
land of the living after nine o'clock on Sunday, June the
twenty-second, we have proof that, up to that hour, she was alive.
On Wednesday noon, at twelve, a female body was discovered afloat on
the shore of the Barrière du Roule.  This was, even if we presume
that Marie Rogêt was thrown into the river within three hours after
she left her mother's house, only three days from the time she left
her home--three days to an hour.  But it is folly to suppose that the
murder, if murder was committed on her body, could have been
consummated soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the
body into the river before midnight.  Those who are guilty of such
horrid crimes choose darkness rather than light....  Thus we see that
if the body found in the river was that of Marie Rogêt, it could only
have been in the water two and a half days, or three at the outside.
All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into
the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to
ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to
the top of the water.  Even where a cannon is fired over a corpse,
and it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks
again, if left alone.  Now, we ask, what was there in this case to
cause a departure from the ordinary course of nature? ... If the body
had been kept in its mangled state on shore until Tuesday night, some
trace would be found on shore of the murderers.  It is a doubtful
point, also, whether the body would be so soon afloat, even were it
thrown in after having been dead two days.  And, furthermore, it is
exceedingly improbable that any villains who had committed such a
murder as is here supposed, would have thrown the body in without
weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been
taken."


The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have been in the
water "not three days merely, but, at least, five times three days,"
because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais had great difficulty
in recognizing it.  This latter point, however, was fully disproved.
I continue the translation:


"What, then, are the facts on which M. Beauvais says that he has no
doubt the body was that of Marie Rogêt?  He ripped up the gown
sleeve, and says he found marks which satisfied him of the identity.
The public generally supposed those marks to have consisted of some
description of scars.  He rubbed the arm and found hair upon
it--something as indefinite, we think, as can readily be imagined--as
little conclusive as finding an arm in the sleeve.  M. Beauvais did
not return that night, but sent word to Madame Rogêt, at seven
o'clock, on Wednesday evening, that an investigation was still in
progress respecting her daughter.  If we allow that Madame Rogêt,
from her age and grief, could not go over (which is allowing a great
deal), there certainly must have been some one who would have thought
it worth while to go over and attend the investigation, if they
thought the body was that of Marie.  Nobody went over.  There was
nothing said or heard about the matter in the Rue Pavée St. Andrée,
that reached even the occupants of the same building.  M. St.
Eustache, the lover and intended husband of Marie, who boarded in her
mother's house, deposes that he did not hear of the discovery of the
body of his intended until the next morning, when M. Beauvais came
into his chamber and told him of it.  For an item of news like this,
it strikes us it was very coolly received."


In this way the journal endeavored to create the impression of an
apathy on the part of the relatives of Marie, inconsistent with the
supposition that these relatives believed the corpse to be hers.  Its
insinuations amount to this: that Marie, with the connivance of her
friends, had absented herself from the city for reasons involving a
charge against her chastity; and that these friends upon the
discovery of a corpse in the Seine, somewhat resembling that of the
girl, had availed themselves of the opportunity to impress the public
with the belief of her death.  But "L'Etoile" was again overhasty.
It was distinctly proved that no apathy, such as was imagined,
existed; that the old lady was exceedingly feeble, and so agitated as
to be unable to attend to any duty; that St. Eustache, so far from
receiving the news coolly, was distracted with grief, and bore
himself so frantically, that M.  Beauvais prevailed upon a friend and
relative to take charge of him, and prevent his attending the
examination at the disinterment.  Moreover, although it was stated by
"L'Etoile" that the corpse was reinterred at the public expense, that
an advantageous offer of private sepulture absolutely declined by the
family, and that no member of the family attended the
ceremonial;--although, I say, all this was asserted by "L'Etoile" in
furtherance of the impression it designed to convey--yet all this was
satisfactorily disproved.  In a subsequent number of the paper, an
attempt was made to throw suspicion upon Beauvais himself.  The
editor says:


"Now, then, a change comes over the matter.  We are told that, on one
occasion, while a Madame B---- was at Madame Rogêt's house, M.
Beauvais, who was going out, told her that a gendarme was expected
there, and that she, Madame B., must not say anything to the gendarme
until he returned, but let the matter be for him....  In the present
posture of affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the whole matter
locked up in his head.  A single step can not be taken without M.
Beauvais, for, go which way you will, you run against him....  For
some reason he determined that nobody shall have anything to do with
the proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed the male relatives
out of the way, according to their representations, in a very
singular manner.  He seems to have been very much averse to
permitting the relatives to see the body."


By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion thus
thrown upon Beauvais.  A visitor at his office, a few days prior to
the girl's disappearance, and during the absence of its occupant, had
observed a rose in the keyhole of the door, and the name "_Marie_"
inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand.

The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it from
the newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim of a
gang of desperadoes--that by these she had been borne across the
river, maltreated, and murdered.

"Le Commerciel,"[11] however, a print of extensive influence, was
earnest in combating this popular idea.  I quote a passage or two
from its columns:


[11] New York "Journal of Commerce."


"We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false scent, so
far as it has been directed to the Barrière du Roule.  It is
impossible that a person so well known to thousands as this young
woman was, should have passed three blocks without some one having
seen her; and any one who saw her would have remembered it, for she
interested all who knew her.  It was when the streets were full of
people, when she went out....  It is impossible that she could have
gone to the Barrière du Roule, or to the Rue des Drômes, without
being recognized by a dozen persons; yet no one has come forward who
saw her outside her mother's door, and there is no evidence, except
the testimony concerning her _expressed intentions_, that she did go
out at all.  Her gown was torn, bound round her, and tied; and by
that the body was carried as a bundle.  If the murder had been
committed at the Barrière du Roule, there would have been no
necessity for any such arrangement.  The fact that the body was found
floating near the Barrière is no proof as to where it was thrown into
the water....  A piece of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats,
two feet long and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin
around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams.  This was
done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchief."


A day or two before the Prefect called upon us, however, some
important information reached the police, which seemed to overthrow,
at least, the chief portion of "Le Commerciel's" argument.  Two small
boys, sons of a Madame Deluc, while roaming among the woods near the
Barrière du Roule, chanced to penetrate a close thicket, within which
were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat with a back
and footstool.  On the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the
second, a silk scarf.  A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief
were also here found.  The handkerchief bore the name "Marie Rogêt."
Fragments of dress were discovered on the brambles around.  The earth
was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of
a struggle.  Between the thicket and the river, the fences were found
taken down, and the ground bore evidence of some heavy burden having
been dragged along it.

A weekly paper, "Le Soleil,"[12] had the following comments upon this
discovery--comments which merely echoed the sentiment of the whole
Parisian press:


[12] Philadelphia "Saturday Evening Post," edited by C. I. Peterson,
Esq.


"The things had all evidently been there at least three or four
weeks; they were all mildewed down hard with the action of the rain,
and stuck together from mildew.  The grass had grown around and over
some of them.  The silk on the parasol was strong, but the threads of
it were run together within.  The upper part, where it had been
doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on its
being opened....  The pieces of her frock torn out by the bushes were
about three inches wide and six inches long.  One part was the hem of
the frock, and it had been mended; the other piece was part of the
skirt, not the hem.  They looked like strips torn off, and were on
the thorn bush, about a foot from the ground....  There can be no
doubt, therefore, that the spot of this appalling outrage has been
discovered."


Consequent upon this discovery, new evidence appeared.  Madame Deluc
testified that she keeps a roadside inn not far from the bank of the
river, opposite the Barrière du Roule.  The neighborhood is
secluded--particularly so.  It is the usual Sunday resort of
blackguards from the city, who cross the river in boats.  About three
o'clock, in the afternoon of the Sunday in question, a young girl
arrived at the inn, accompanied by a young man of dark complexion.
The two remained here for some time.  On their departure, they took
the road to some thick woods in the vicinity.  Madame Deluc's
attention was called to the dress worn by the girl, on account of its
resemblance to one worn by a deceased relative.  A scarf was
particularly noticed.  Soon after the departure of the couple, a gang
of miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and
drank without making payment, followed in the route of the young man
and girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and recrossed the river as
if in great haste.

It was soon after dark, upon this same evening, that Madame Deluc, as
well as her eldest son, heard the screams of a female in the vicinity
of the inn.  The screams were violent but brief.  Madame D.
recognized not only the scarf which was found in the thicket, but the
dress which was discovered upon the corpse.  An omnibus driver,
Valence,[13] now also testified that he saw Marie Rogêt cross a ferry
on the Seine, on the Sunday in question, in company with a young man
of dark complexion.  He, Valence, knew Marie, and could not be
mistaken in her identity.  The articles found in the thicket were
fully identified by the relatives of Marie.


[13] Adam.


The items of evidence and information thus collected by myself, from
the newspapers, at the suggestion of Dupin, embraced only one more
point--but this was a point of seemingly vast consequence.  It
appears that, immediately after the discovery of the clothes as above
described, the lifeless or nearly lifeless body of St. Eustache,
Marie's betrothed, was found in the vicinity of what all now supposed
the scene of the outrage.  A phial labeled "laudanum," and emptied,
was found near him.  His breath gave evidence of the poison.  He died
without speaking.  Upon his person was found a letter, briefly
stating his love for Marie, with his design of self-destruction.

"I need scarcely tell you," said Dupin, as he finished the perusal of
my notes, "that this is a far more intricate case than that of the
Rue Morgue; from which it differs in one important respect.  This is
an _ordinary_, although an atrocious, instance of crime.  There is
nothing peculiarly _outre_ about it.  You will observe that, for this
reason, the mystery has been considered easy, when, for this reason,
it should have been considered difficult, of solution.  Thus, at
first, it was thought unnecessary to offer a reward.  The myrmidons
of G---- were able at once to comprehend how and why such an atrocity
_might have been_ committed.  They could picture to their
imaginations a mode--many modes--and a motive--many motives; and
because it was not impossible that either of these numerous modes and
motives could have been the actual one, they have taken it for
granted that one of them must.  But the ease with which these
variable fancies were entertained, and the very plausibility which
each assumed, should have been understood as indicative rather of the
difficulties than of the facilities which must attend elucidation.  I
have, therefore, observed that it is by prominences above the plane
of the ordinary, that reason feels her way, if at all, in her search
for the true, and that the proper question in cases such as this, is
not so much 'what has occurred?' as 'what has occurred that has never
occurred before?'  In the investigations at the house of Madame
L'Espanaye,[14] the agents of G---- were discouraged and confounded
by that very _unusualness_ which, to a properly regulated intellect,
would have afforded the surest omen of success; while this same
intellect might have been plunged in despair at the ordinary
character of all that met the eye in the case of the perfumery girl,
and yet told of nothing but easy triumph to the functionaries of the
Prefecture.


[14] See "Murders in the Rue Morgue."


"In the case of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, there was, even
at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder had been
committed.  The idea of suicide was excluded at once.  Here, too, we
are freed, at the commencement, from all supposition of self-murder.
The body found at the Barrière du Roule was found under such
circumstances as to leave us no room for embarrassment upon this
important point.  But it has been suggested that the corpse
discovered is not that of the Marie Rogêt for the conviction of whose
assassin, or assassins, the reward is offered, and respecting whom,
solely, our agreement has been arranged with the Prefect.  We both
know this gentleman well.  It will not do to trust him too far.  If,
dating our inquiries from the body found, and then tracing a
murderer, we yet discover this body to be that of some other
individual than Marie; or if, starting from the living Marie, we find
her, yet find her unassassinated--in either case we lose our labor;
since it is Monsieur G---- with whom we have to deal.  For our own
purpose, therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is
indispensable that our first step should be the determination of the
identity of the corpse with the Marie Rogêt who is missing.

"With the public the arguments of 'L'Etoile' have had weight; and
that the journal itself is convinced of their importance would appear
from the manner in which it commences one of its essays upon the
subject--'Several of the morning papers of the day,' it says, 'speak
of the _conclusive_ article in Monday's "'Etoile."'  To me, this
article appears conclusive of little beyond the zeal of its inditer.
We should bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our
newspapers rather to create a sensation--to make a point--than to
further the cause of truth.  The latter end is only pursued when it
seems coincident with the former.  The print which merely falls in
with ordinary opinion (however well founded this opinion may be)
earns for itself no credit with the mob.  The mass of the people
regard as profound only him who suggests _pungent contradictions_ of
the general idea.  In ratiocination, not less than in literature, it
is the _epigram_ which is the most immediately and the most
universally appreciated.  In both, it is of the lowest order of merit.

"What I mean to say is, that it is the mingled epigram and melodrame
of the idea, that Marie Rogêt still lives, rather than any true
plausibility in this idea, which have suggested it to 'L'Etoile,' and
secured it a favorable reception with the public.  Let us examine the
heads of this journal's argument; endeavoring to avoid the
incoherence with which it is originally set forth.

"The first aim of the writer is to show, from the brevity of the
interval between Marie's disappearance and the finding of the
floating corpse, that this corpse can not be that of Marie.  The
reduction of this interval to its smallest possible dimension,
becomes thus, at once, an object with the reasoner.  In the rash
pursuit of this object, he rushes into mere assumption at the outset.
'It is folly to suppose,' he says, 'that the murder, if murder was
committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to
have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before
midnight.'  We demand at once, and very naturally, _Why?_  Why is it
folly to suppose that the murder was committed _within five minutes_
after the girl's quitting her mother's house?  Why is it folly to
suppose that the murder was committed at any given period of the day?
There have been assassinations at all hours.  But, had the murder
taken place at any moment between nine o'clock in the morning of
Sunday and a quarter before midnight, there would still have been
time enough 'to throw the body into the river before midnight.'  This
assumption, then, amounts precisely to this--that the murder was not
committed on Sunday at all--and, if we allow 'L'Etoile' to assume
this, we may permit it any liberties whatever.  The paragraph
beginning 'It is folly to suppose that the murder, etc.,' however it
appears as printed in 'L'Etoile,' may be imagined to have existed
actually _thus_ in the brain of its inditer: 'It is folly to suppose
that the murder, if murder was committed on the body, could have been
committed soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body
into the river before midnight; it is folly, we say, to suppose all
this, and to suppose at the same time (as we are resolved to
suppose), that the body was _not_ thrown in until _after_
midnight'--a sentence sufficiently inconsequential in itself, but not
so utterly preposterous as the one printed.

"Were it my purpose," continued Dupin, "merely to _make out a case_
against this passage of 'L'Etoile's' argument, I might safely leave
it where it is.  It is not, however, with 'L'Etoile' that we have to
do, but with the truth.  The sentence in question has but one
meaning, as it stands; and this meaning I have fairly stated; but it
is material that we go behind the mere words, for an idea which these
words have obviously intended, and failed to convey.  It was the
design of the journalists to say that at whatever period of the day
or night of Sunday this murder was committed, it was improbable that
the assassins would have ventured to bear the corpse to the river
before midnight.  And herein lies, really, the assumption of which I
complain.  It is assumed that the murder was committed at such a
position, and under such circumstances, that _the bearing it_ to the
river became necessary.  Now, the assassination might have taken
place upon the river's brink, or on the river itself; and, thus, the
throwing the corpse in the water might have been resorted to at any
period of the day or night, as the most obvious and most immediate
mode of disposal.  You will understand that I suggest nothing here as
probable, or as coincident with my opinion.  My design, so far, has
no reference to the facts of the case.  I wish merely to caution you
against the whole tone of _'L'Etoile's' suggestion_, by calling your
attention to its _ex-parte_ character at the outset.

"Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived notions;
having assumed that, if this were the body of Marie, it could have
been in the water but a very brief time, the journal goes on to say:

"'All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into
the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to
ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to
the top of the water.  Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and
it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks again
if let alone.'

"These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper in Paris,
with the exception of 'Le Moniteur.'[15]  This latter print endeavors
to combat that portion of the paragraph which has reference to
'drowned bodies' only, by citing some five or six instances in which
the bodies of individuals known to be drowned were found floating
after the lapse of less time than is insisted upon by 'L'Etoile.'
But there is something excessively unphilosophical in the attempt, on
the part of 'Le Moniteur,' to rebut the general assertion of
'L'Etoile,' by a citation of particular instances militating against
that assertion.  Had it been possible to adduce fifty instead of five
examples of bodies found floating at the end of two or three days,
these fifty examples could still have been properly regarded only as
exceptions to 'L'Etoile's' rule, until such time as the rule itself
should be confuted.  Admitting the rule (and this 'Le Moniteur' does
not deny, insisting merely upon its exceptions), the argument of
'L'Etoile' is suffered to remain in full force; for this argument
does not pretend to involve more than a question of the _probability_
of the body having risen to the surface in less than three days; and
this probability will be in favor of 'L'Etoile's' position until the
instances so childishly adduced shall be sufficient in number to
establish an antagonistical rule.


[15] The New York "Commercial Advertiser" edited by Colonel Stone.


"You will see at once that all argument upon this head should be
urged, if at all, against the rule itself; and for this end we must
examine the _rationale_ of the rule.  Now the human body, in general,
is neither much lighter nor much heavier than the water of the Seine;
that is to say, the specific gravity of the human body, in its
natural condition, is about equal to the bulk of fresh water which it
displaces.  The bodies of fat and fleshy persons, with small bones,
and of women generally, are lighter than those of the lean and
large-boned, and of men; and the specific gravity of the water of a
river is somewhat influenced by the presence of the tide from the
sea.  But, leaving this tide out of the question, it may be said that
_very_ few human bodies will sink at all, even in fresh water, _of
their own accord_.  Almost any one, falling into a river, will be
enabled to float, if he suffer the specific gravity of the water
fairly to be adduced in comparison with his own--that is to say, if
he suffer his whole person to be immersed, with as little exception
as possible.  The proper position for one who can not swim is the
upright position of the walker on land, with the head thrown fully
back, and immersed; the mouth and nostrils alone remaining above the
surface.  Thus circumstanced, we shall find that we float without
difficulty and without exertion.  It is evident, however, that the
gravities of the body, and of the bulk of water displaced, are very
nicely balanced, and that a trifle will cause either to preponderate.
An arm, for instance, uplifted from the water, and thus deprived of
its support, is an additional weight sufficient to immerse the whole
head, while the accidental aid of the smallest piece of timber will
enable us to elevate the head so as to look about.  Now, in the
struggles of one unused to swimming, the arms are invariably thrown
upward, while an attempt is made to keep the head in its usual
perpendicular position.  The result is the immersion of the mouth and
nostrils, and the inception, during efforts to breathe while beneath
the surface, of water into the lungs.  Much is also received into the
stomach, and the whole body becomes heavier by the difference between
the weight of the air originally distending these cavities, and that
of the fluid which now fills them.  This difference is sufficient to
cause the body to sink, as a general rule; but is insufficient in the
case of individuals with small bones and an abnormal quantity of
flaccid or fatty matter.  Such individuals float even after drowning.

"The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will there
remain until, by some means, its specific gravity again becomes less
than that of the bulk of water which it displaces.  This effect is
brought about by decomposition or otherwise.  The result of
decomposition is the generation of gas, distending the cellular
tissues and all the cavities, and giving the puffed appearance which
is so horrible.  When this distension has so far progressed that the
bulk of the corpse is materially increased without a corresponding
increase of mass or weight, its specific gravity becomes less than
that of the water displaced, and it forthwith makes its appearance at
the surface.  But decomposition is modified by innumerable
circumstances--is hastened or retarded by innumerable agencies; for
example, by the heat or cold of the season, by the mineral
impregnation or purity of the water, by its depth or shallowness, by
its currency or stagnation, by the temperament of the body, by its
infection or freedom from disease before death.  Thus it is evident
that we can assign no period, with anything like accuracy, at which
the corpse shall rise through decomposition.  Under certain
conditions this result would be brought about within an hour; under
others it might not take place at all.  There are chemical infusions
by which the animal frame can be preserved forever from corruption;
the bichloride of mercury is one.  But, apart from decomposition,
there may be, and very usually is, a generation of gas within the
stomach, from the acetous fermentation of vegetable matter (or within
other cavities from other causes), sufficient to induce a distension
which will bring the body to the surface.  The effect produced by the
firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration.  This may either
loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze in which it is embedded,
thus permitting it to rise when other agencies have already prepared
it for so doing; or it may overcome the tenacity of some putrescent
portions of the cellular tissue, allowing the cavities to distend
under the influence of the gas.

"Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject, we can
easily test by it the assertions of 'L'Etoile.'  'All experience
shows,' says this paper, 'that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into
the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to
ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to
the top of the water.  Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and
it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks again
if let alone.'

"The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of
inconsequence and incoherence.  All experience does _not_ show that
'drowned bodies' _require_ from six to ten days for sufficient
decomposition to take place to bring them to the surface.  Both
science and experience show that the period of their rising is, and
necessarily must be, indeterminate.  If, moreover, a body has risen
to the surface through firing of cannon, it will _not_ 'sink again if
let alone,' until decomposition has so far progressed as to permit
the escape of the generated gas.  But I wish to call your attention
to the distinction which is made between 'drowned bodies,' and
'bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence.'
Although the writer admits the distinction, he yet includes them all
in the same category.  I have shown how it is that the body of a
drowning man becomes specifically heavier than its bulk of water, and
that he would not sink at all, except for the struggle by which he
elevates his arms above the surface, and his gasps for breath while
beneath the surface--gasps which supply by water the place of the
original air in the lungs.  But these struggles and these gasps would
not occur in the body 'thrown into the water immediately after death
by violence.'  Thus, in the latter instance, _the body, as a general
rule, would not sink at all_--a fact of which 'L'Etoile' is evidently
ignorant.  When decomposition had proceeded to a very great
extent--when the flesh had in a great measure left the bones--then,
indeed, but not _till_ then, should we lose sight of the corpse.

"And now what are we to make of the argument, that the body found
could not be that of Marie Rogêt, because, three days only having
elapsed, this body was found floating?  If drowned, being a woman,
she might never have sunk; or, having sunk, might have reappeared in
twenty-four hours or less.  But no one supposes her to have been
drowned; and, dying before being thrown into the river, she might
have been found floating at any period afterward whatever.

"'But,' says 'L'Etoile,' 'if the body had been kept in its mangled
state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on
shore of the murderers.'  Here it is at first difficult to perceive
the intention of the reasoner.  He means to anticipate what he
imagines would be an objection to his theory--viz.: that the body was
kept on shore two days, suffering rapid decomposition--_more_ rapid
than if immersed in water.  He supposes that, had this been the case,
it_ might_ have appeared at the surface on the Wednesday, and thinks
that _only_ under such circumstances it could have so appeared.  He
is accordingly in haste to show that it was not kept on shore; for,
if so, 'some trace would be found on shore of the murderers.'  I
presume you smile at the _sequitur_.  You can not be made to see how
the mere _duration_ of the corpse on the shore could operate to
_multiply traces_ of the assassins.  Nor can I.

"'And furthermore it is exceedingly improbable,' continues our
journal, 'that any villains who had committed such a murder as is
here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to sink
it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken.'
Observe, here, the laughable confusion of thought!  No one--not even
'L'Etoile'--disputes the murder committed _on the body found_.  The
marks of violence are too obvious.  It is our reasoner's object
merely to show that this body is not Marie's.  He wishes to prove
that Marie is not assassinated--not that the corpse was not.  Yet his
observation proves only the latter point.  Here is a corpse without
weight attached.  Murderers, casting it in, would not have failed to
attach a weight.  Therefore it was not thrown in by murderers.  This
is all which is proved, if any thing is.  The question of identity is
not even approached, and 'L'Etoile' has been at great pains merely to
gainsay now what it has admitted only a moment before.  'We are
perfectly convinced,' it says, 'that the body found was that of a
murdered female.'

"Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his subject,
where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against himself.  His evident
object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as possible, the
interval between Marie's disappearance and the finding of the corpse.
Yet we find him _urging_ the point that no person saw the girl from
the moment of her leaving her mother's house.  'We have no evidence,'
he says, 'that Marie Rogêt was in the land of the living after nine
o'clock on Sunday, June the twenty-second.'  As his argument is
obviously an _ex parte_ one, he should, at least, have left this
matter out of sight; for had any one been known to see Marie, say on
Monday, or on Tuesday, the interval in question would have been much
reduced, and, by his own ratiocination, the probability much
diminished of the corpse being that of the _grisette_.  It is,
nevertheless, amusing to observe that 'L'Etoile' insists upon its
point in the full belief of its furthering its general argument.

"Reperuse now that portion of this argument which has reference to
the identification of the corpse by Beauvais.  In regard to the hair
upon the arm, 'L'Etoile' has been obviously disingenuous.  M.
Beauvais, not being an idiot, could never have urged in
identification of the corpse, simply _hair upon its arm_.  No arm is
without hair.  The _generality_ of the expression of 'L'Etoile' is a
mere perversion of the witness's phraseology.  He must have spoken of
some _peculiarity_ in this hair.  It must have been a peculiarity of
color, of quantity, of length, or of situation.

"'Her foot,' says the journal, 'was small--so are thousands of feet.
Her garter is no proof whatever--nor is her shoe--for shoes and
garters are sold in packages.  The same may be said of the flowers in
her hat.  One thing upon which M. Beauvais strongly insists is, that
the clasp on the garter found had been set back to take it in.  This
amounts to nothing; for most women find it proper to take a pair of
garters home and fit them to the size of the limbs they are to
encircle, rather than to try them in the store where they purchase.'
Here it is difficult to suppose the reasoner in earnest.  Had M.
Beauvais, in his search for the body of Marie, discovered a corpse
corresponding in general size and appearance to the missing girl, he
would have been warranted (without reference to the question of
habiliment at all) in forming an opinion that his search had been
successful.  If, in addition to the point of general size and
contour, he had found upon the arm a peculiar hairy appearance which
he had observed upon the living Marie, his opinion might have been
justly strengthened; and the increase of positiveness might well have
been in the ratio of the peculiarity, or unusualness, of the hairy
mark.  If, the feet of Marie being small, those of the corpse were
also small, the increase of probability that the body was that of
Marie would not be an increase in a ratio merely arithmetical, but in
one highly geometrical, or accumulative.  Add to all this shoes such
as she had been known to wear upon the day of her disappearance, and,
although these shoes may be 'sold in packages,' you so far augment
the probability as to verge upon the certain.  What, of itself, would
be no evidence of identity, becomes through its corroborative
position, proof most sure.  Give us, then, flowers in the hat
corresponding to those worn by the missing girl, and we seek for
nothing further.  If only _one_ flower, we seek for nothing
further--what then if two or three, or more?  Each successive one is
multiple evidence--proof not _added_ to proof, but _multiplied_ by
hundreds or thousands.  Let us now discover, upon the deceased,
garters such as the living used, and it is almost folly to proceed.
But these garters are found to be tightened, by the setting back of a
clasp, in just such a manner as her own had been tightened by Marie
shortly previous to her leaving home.  It is now madness or hypocrisy
to doubt.  What 'L'Etoile' says in respect to this abbreviation of
the garters being an unusual occurrence, shows nothing beyond its own
pertinacity in error.  The elastic nature of the clasp-garter is
self-demonstration of the _unusualness_ of the abbreviation.  What is
made to adjust itself, must of necessity require foreign adjustment
but rarely.  It must have been by an accident, in its strictest
sense, that these garters of Marie needed the tightening described.
They alone would have amply established her identity.  But it is not
that the corpse was found to have the garters of the missing girl, or
found to have her shoes, or her bonnet, or the flowers of her bonnet,
or her feet, or a peculiar mark upon the arm, or her general size and
appearance--it is that the corpse had each, and _all collectively_.
Could it be proved that the editor of 'L'Etoile' _really_ entertained
a doubt, under the circumstances, there would be no need, in his
case, of a commission _de lunatico inquirendo_.  He has thought it
sagacious to echo the small talk of the lawyers, who, for the most
part, content themselves with echoing the rectangular precepts of the
courts.  I would here observe that very much of what is rejected as
evidence by a court, is the best of evidence to the intellect.  For
the court, guided itself by the general principles of evidence--the
recognized and booked principles--is averse from swerving at
particular instances.  And this steadfast adherence to principle,
with rigorous disregard of the conflicting exception, is a sure mode
of attaining the _maximum_ of attainable truth, in any long sequence
of time.  The practise, _en masse_, is therefore philosophical; but
it is not the less certain that it engenders vast individual
error.[16]


[16] "A theory based on the qualities of an object, will prevent its
being unfolded according to its objects; and he who arranges topics
in reference to their causes, will cease to value them according to
their results.  Thus the jurisprudence of every nation will show
that, when law becomes a science and a system, it ceases to be
justice.  The errors into which a blind devotion to _principles_ of
classification has led the common law will be seen by observing how
often the legislature has been obliged to come forward to restore the
equity its scheme had lost."--_Landor_.


"In respect to the insinuations leveled at Beauvais, you will be
willing to dismiss them in a breath.  You have already fathomed the
true character of this good gentleman.  He is a _busybody_, with much
of romance and little of wit.  Any one so constituted will readily so
conduct himself, upon occasion of _real_ excitement, as to render
himself liable to suspicion on the part of the over-acute, or the
ill-disposed.  M. Beauvais (as it appears from your notes) had some
personal interviews with the editor of 'L'Etoile' and offended him by
venturing an opinion that the corpse, notwithstanding the theory of
the editor, was, in sober fact, that of Marie.  'He persists,' says
the paper, 'in asserting the corpse to be that of Marie, but can not
give a circumstance, in addition to those which we have commented
upon, to make others believe.'  Now, without readverting to the fact
that stronger evidence 'to make others believe' could _never_ have
been adduced, it may be remarked that a man may very well be
understood to believe, in a case of this kind, without the ability to
advance a single reason for the belief of a second party.  Nothing is
more vague than impressions of individual identity.  Each man
recognizes his neighbor, yet there are few instances in which any one
is prepared _to give a reason_ for his recognition.  The editor of
'L'Etoile' had no right to be offended at M. Beauvais's unreasoning
belief.

"The suspicious circumstances which invest him will be found to tally
much better with my hypothesis of _romantic busybodyism_ than with
the reasoner's suggestion of guilt.  Once adopting the more
charitable interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in
comprehending the rose in the key-hole; the 'Marie' upon the slate;
the 'elbowing the male relatives out of the way'; the 'aversion to
permitting them to see the body'; the caution given to Madame B----,
that she must hold no conversation with the _gendarme_ until his
(Beauvais's) return; and, lastly, his apparent determination 'that
nobody should have anything to do with the proceedings except
himself.'  It seems to me unquestionable that Beauvais was a suitor
of Marie's; that she coquetted with him; and that he was ambitious of
being thought to enjoy her fullest intimacy and confidence.  I shall
say nothing more upon this point; and, as the evidence fully rebuts
the assertion of 'L'Etoile,' touching the matter of _apathy_ on the
part of the mother and other relatives--an apathy inconsistent with
the supposition of their believing the corpse to be that of the
perfumery girl--we shall now proceed as if the question of _identity_
were settled to our perfect satisfaction."

"And what," I here demanded, "do you think of the opinions of 'Le
Commerciel'?"

"That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than any
which have been promulgated upon the subject.  The deductions from
the premises are philosophical and acute; but the premises, in two
instances, at least, are founded in imperfect observation.  'Le
Commerciel' wishes to intimate that Marie was seized by some gang of
low ruffians not far from her mother's door.  'It is impossible,' it
urges, 'that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman
was, should have passed three blocks without some one having seen
her.'  This is the idea of a man long resident in Paris--a public
man--and one whose walks to and fro in the city have been mostly
limited to the vicinity of the public offices.  He is aware that he
seldom passes so far as a dozen blocks from his own _bureau_, without
being recognized and accosted.  And, knowing the extent of his
personal acquaintance with others, and of others with him, he
compares his notoriety with that of the perfumery girl, finds no
great difference between them, and reaches at once the conclusion
that she, in her walks, would be equally liable to recognition with
himself in his.  This could only be the case were her walks of the
same unvarying, methodical character, and within the same _species_
of limited region as are his own.  He passes to and fro, at regular
intervals, within a confined periphery, abounding in individuals who
are led to observation of his person through interest in the kindred
nature of his occupation with their own.  But the walks of Marie may,
in general, be supposed discursive.  In this particular instance, it
will be understood as most probable, that she proceeded upon a route
of more than average diversity from her accustomed ones.  The
parallel which we imagine to have existed in the mind of 'Le
Commerciel' would only be sustained in the event of the two
individuals traversing the whole city.  In this case, granting the
personal acquaintance to be equal, the chances would be also equal
that an equal number of personal rencontres would be made.  For my
own part, I should hold it not only as possible, but as far more than
probable, that Marie might have proceeded, at any given period, by
any one of the many routes between her own residence and that of her
aunt, without meeting a single individual whom she knew, or by whom
she was known.  In viewing this question in its full and proper
light, we must hold steadily in mind the great disproportion between
the personal acquaintances of even the most noted individual in
Paris, and the entire population of Paris itself.

"But whatever force there may still appear to be in the suggestion of
'Le Commerciel,' will be much diminished when we take into
consideration _the hour_ at which the girl went abroad.  'It was when
the streets were full of people,' says 'Le Commerciel,' 'that she
went out.'  But not so.  It was at nine o'clock in the morning.  Now
at nine o'clock of every morning in the week, _with the exception of
Sunday_, the streets of the city are, it is true, thronged with
people.  At nine on Sunday, the populace are chiefly within doors
_preparing for church_.  No observing person can have failed to
notice the peculiarly deserted air of the town, from about eight
until ten on the morning of every Sabbath.  Between ten and eleven
the streets are thronged, but not at so early a period as that
designated.

"There is another point at which there seems a deficiency of
_observation_ on the part of 'Le Commerciel.'  'A piece,' it says,
'of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats, two feet long, and one
foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the back
of her head, probably to prevent screams.  This was done by fellows
who had no pocket-handkerchiefs.'  Whether this idea is or is not
well founded, we will endeavor to see hereafter; but by 'fellows who
have no pocket-handkerchiefs,' the editor intends the lowest class of
ruffians.  These, however, are the very description of people who
will always be found to have handkerchiefs even when destitute of
shirts.  You must have had occasion to observe how absolutely
indispensable, of late years, to the thorough blackguard, has become
the pocket-handkerchief."

"And what are we to think," I asked, "of the article in 'Le Soleil'?"

"That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot--in which
case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his race.  He
has merely repeated the individual items of the already published
opinion; collecting them, with a laudable industry, from this paper
and from that.  'The things had all _evidently_ been there,' he says,
'at least three or four weeks, and there can be _no doubt_ that the
spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered.'  The facts here
restated by 'Le Soleil' are very far indeed from removing my own
doubts upon this subject, and we will examine them more particularly
hereafter in connection with another division of the theme.

"At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations.  You
can not have failed to remark the extreme laxity of the examination
of the corpse.  To be sure, the question of identity was readily
determined, or should have been; but there were other points to be
ascertained.  Had the body been in any respect _despoiled_?  Had the
deceased any articles of jewelry about her person upon leaving home?
If so, had she any when found?  These are important questions utterly
untouched by the evidence; and there are others of equal moment,
which have met with no attention.  We must endeavor to satisfy
ourselves by personal inquiry.  The case of St. Eustache must be
reexamined.  I have no suspicion of this person; but let us proceed
methodically.  We will ascertain beyond a doubt the validity of the
_affidavits_ in regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday.  Affidavits
of this character are readily made matter of mystification.  Should
there be nothing wrong here, however, we will dismiss St. Eustache
from our investigations.  His suicide, however corroborative of
suspicion, were there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is,
without such deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance, or
one which need cause us to deflect from the line of ordinary analysis.

"In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points of
this tragedy, and concentrate our attention upon its outskirts.  Not
the least usual error in investigations such as this is the limiting
of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral
or circumstantial events.  It is the malpractice of the courts to
confine evidence and discussion to the bounds of apparent relevancy.
Yet experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show,
that a vast, perhaps the larger, portion of truth arises from the
seemingly irrelevant.  It is through the spirit of this principle, if
not precisely through its letter, that modern science has resolved to
_calculate upon the unforeseen_.  But perhaps you do not comprehend
me.  The history of human knowledge has so uninterruptedly shown that
to collateral, or incidental, or accidental events we are indebted
for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has at
length become necessary, in prospective view of improvement, to make
not only large, but the largest, allowances for inventions that shall
arise by chance, and quite out of the range of ordinary expectation.
It is no longer philosophical to base upon what has been a vision of
what is to be.  _Accident_ is admitted as a portion of the
substructure.  We make chance a matter of absolute calculation.  We
subject the unlooked for and unimagined to the mathematical formulæ
of the schools.

"I repeat that it is no more than fact that the _larger_ portion of
all truth has sprung from the collateral; and it is but in accordance
with the spirit of the principle involved in this fact that I would
divert inquiry, in the present case, from the trodden and hitherto
unfruitful ground of the event itself to the contemporary
circumstances which surround it.  While you ascertain the validity of
the affidavits, I will examine the newspapers more generally than you
have as yet done.  So far, we have only reconnoitred the field of
investigation; but it will be strange, indeed, if a comprehensive
survey, such as I propose, of the public prints will not afford us
some minute points which shall establish a _direction_ for inquiry."

In pursuance of Dupin's suggestion, I made scrupulous examination of
the affair of the affidavits.  The result was a firm conviction of
their validity, and of the consequent innocence of St. Eustache.  In
the meantime my friend occupied himself, with what seemed to me a
minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of the various
newspaper files.  At the end of a week he placed before me the
following extracts:

"About three years and a half ago, a disturbance very similar to the
present was caused by the disappearance of this same Marie Rogêt from
the _parfumerie_ of Monsieur Le Blanc, in the Palais Royal.  At the
end of a week, however, she reappeared at her customary _comptoir_,
as well as ever, with the exception of a slight paleness not
altogether usual.  It was given out by Monsieur Le Blanc and her
mother that she had merely been on a visit to some friend in the
country; and the affair was speedily hushed up.  We presume that the
present absence is a freak of the same nature, and that, at the
expiration of a week or, perhaps, of a month, we shall have her among
us again."--Evening Paper, Monday, June 23.[17]


[17] New York "Express."


"An evening journal of yesterday refers to a former mysterious
disappearance of Mademoiselle Rogêt.  It is well known that, during
the week of her absence from Le Blanc's _parfumerie_, she was in the
company of a young naval officer much noted for his debaucheries.  A
quarrel, it is supposed, providentially, led to her return home.  We
have the name of the Lothario in question, who is at present
stationed in Paris, but for obvious reasons forbear to make it
public."--"Le Mercurie," Tuesday Morning, June 24.[18]


[18] New York "Herald."


"An outrage of the most atrocious character was perpetrated near this
city the day before yesterday.  A gentleman, with his wife and
daughter, engaged, about dusk, the services of six young men, who
were idly rowing a boat to and fro near the banks of the Seine, to
convey him across the river.  Upon reaching the opposite shore the
three passengers stepped out, and had proceeded so far as to be
beyond the view of the boat, when the daughter discovered that she
had left in it her parasol.  She returned for it, was seized by the
gang, carried out into the stream, gagged, brutally treated, and
finally taken to the shore at a point not far from that at which she
had originally entered the boat with her parents.  The villains have
escaped for the time, but the police are upon their trail, and some
of them will soon be taken."--Morning Paper, June 25.[19]


[19] New York "Courier and Inquirer."


"We have received one or two communications, the object of which is
to fasten the crime of the late atrocity upon Mennais[20]; but as
this gentleman has been fully exonerated by a legal inquiry, and as
the arguments of our several correspondents appear to be more zealous
than profound, we do not think it advisable to make them
public."--Morning Paper, June 28.[21]


[20] Mennais was one of the parties originally suspected and
arrested, but discharged through total lack of evidence.

[21] New York "Courier and Inquirer."


"We have received several forcibly written communications, apparently
from various sources, and which go far to render it a matter of
certainty that the unfortunate Marie Rogêt has become a victim of one
of the numerous bands of blackguards which infest the vicinity of the
city upon Sunday.  Our own opinion is decidedly in favor of this
supposition.  We shall endeavor to make room for some of these
arguments hereafter."--Evening Paper, Tuesday, June 31.[22]


[22] New York "Evening Post."


"On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue service
saw an empty boat floating down the Seine.  Sails were lying in the
bottom of the boat.  The bargeman towed it under the barge office.
The next morning it was taken from thence without the knowledge of
any of the officers.  The rudder is now at the barge office."--"Le
Diligence," Thursday, June 26.[23]


[23] New York "Standard."


Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me
irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which any one of them
could be brought to bear upon the matter in hand.  I waited for some
explanation from Dupin.

"It is not my present design," he said, "to _dwell_ upon the first
and second of these extracts.  I have copied them chiefly to show you
the extreme remissness of the police, who, as far as I can understand
from the Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any respect, with
an examination of the naval officer alluded to.  Yet it is mere folly
to say that between the first and second disappearance of Marie there
is no _supposable_ connection.  Let us admit the first elopement to
have resulted in a quarrel between the lovers, and the return home of
the betrayed.  We are now prepared to view a second _elopement_ (if
we _know_ that an elopement has again taken place) as indicating a
renewal of the betrayer's advances, rather than as the result of new
proposals by a second individual--we are prepared to regard it as a
'making up' of the old _amour_, rather than as the commencement of a
new one.  The chances are ten to one that he who had once eloped with
Marie would again propose an elopement, rather than that she to whom
proposals of an elopement had been made by one individual should have
them made to her by another.  And here let me call your attention to
the fact, that the time elapsing between the first ascertained and
the second supposed elopement is a few months more than the general
period of the cruises of our men-of-war.  Had the lover been
interrupted in his first villainy by the necessity of departure to
sea, and had he seized the first moment of his return to renew the
base designs not yet altogether accomplished--or not yet altogether
accomplished _by him_?  Of all these things we know nothing.

"You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was no
elopement as imagined.  Certainly not--but are we prepared to say
that there was not the frustrated design?  Beyond St. Eustache, and
perhaps Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open, no honorable
suitors of Marie.  Of none other is there anything said.  Who, then,
is the secret lover, of whom the relatives (_at least most of them_)
know nothing, but whom Marie meets upon the morning of Sunday, and
who is so deeply in her confidence that she hesitates not to remain
with him until the shades of the evening descend, amid the solitary
groves of the Barrière du Roule?  Who is that secret lover, I ask, of
whom, at least, _most_ of the relatives know nothing?  And what means
the singular prophecy of Madame Rogêt on the morning of Marie's
departure?--'I fear that I shall never see Marie again.'

"But if we can not imagine Madame Rogêt privy to the design of
elopement, may we not at least suppose this sign entertained by the
girl?  Upon quitting home, she gave it to be understood that she was
about to visit her aunt in the Rue des Drômes, and St. Eustache was
requested to call for her at dark.  Now, at first glance, this fact
strongly militates against my suggestion--but let us reflect.  That
she _did_ meet some companion, and proceed with him across the river,
reaching the Barrière du Roule at so late an hour as three o'clock in
the afternoon, is known.  But in consenting so to accompany this
individual (_for whatever purpose--to her mother known or unknown_),
she must have thought of her expressed intention when leaving home,
and of the surprise and suspicion aroused in the bosom of her
affianced suitor, St. Eustache, when, calling for her, at the hour
appointed, in the Rue des Drômes, he should find that she had not
been there, and when, moreover, upon returning to the _pension_ with
this alarming intelligence, he should become aware of her continued
absence from home.  She must have thought of these things, I say.
She must have foreseen the chagrin of St. Eustache, the suspicion of
all.  She could not have thought of returning to brave this
suspicion; but the suspicion becomes a point of trivial importance to
her, if we suppose her _not_ intending to return.

"We may imagine her thinking thus--'I am to meet a certain person for
the purpose of elopement, or for certain other purposes known only to
myself.  It is necessary that there be no chance of
interruption--there must be sufficient time given us to elude
pursuit--I will give it to be understood that I shall visit and spend
the day with my aunt at the Rue des Drômes--I will tell St. Eustache
not to call for me until dark--in this way, my absence from home for
the longest possible period, without causing suspicion or anxiety,
will be accounted for, and I shall gain more time than in any other
manner.  If I bid St. Eustache call for me at dark, he will be sure
not to call before; but if I wholly neglect to bid him call, my time
for escape will be diminished, since it will be expected that I
return the earlier, and my absence will the sooner excite anxiety.
Now, if it were my design to return _at all_--if I had in
contemplation merely a stroll with the individual in question--it
would not be my policy to bid St. Eustache call; for calling, he will
be _sure_ to ascertain that I have played him false--a fact of which
I might keep him forever in ignorance, by leaving home without
notifying him of my intention, by returning before dark, and by then
stating that I had been to visit my aunt in the Rue des Drômes.  But,
as it is my design _never_ to return--or not for some weeks--or not
until certain concealments are effected--the gaining of time is the
only point about which I need give myself any concern.'

"You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion in
relation to this sad affair is, and was from the first, that the girl
had been the victim of a _gang_ of blackguards.  Now, the popular
opinion, under certain conditions, is not to be disregarded.  When
arising of itself--when manifesting itself in a strictly spontaneous
manner--we should look upon it as analogous with that _intuition_
which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.  In
ninety-nine cases from the hundred I would abide by its decision.
But it is important that we find no palpable traces of _suggestion_.
The opinion must be rigorously _the public's own_; and the
distinction is often exceedingly difficult to perceive and to
maintain.  In the present instance, it appears to me that this
'public opinion,' in respect to a _gang_, has been superinduced by
the collateral event which is detailed in the third of my extracts.
All Paris is excited by the discovered corpse of Marie, a girl young,
beautiful, and notorious.  This corpse is found bearing marks of
violence, and floating in the river.  But it is now made known that,
at the very period, or about the very period, in which it is supposed
that the girl was assassinated, an outrage similar in nature to that
endured by the deceased, although less in extent, was perpetrated by
a gang of young ruffians upon the person of a second young female.
Is it wonderful that the one known atrocity should influence the
popular judgment in regard to the other unknown?  This judgment
awaited direction, and the known outrage seemed so opportunely to
afford it!  Marie, too, was found in the river; and upon this very
river was this known outrage committed.  The connection of the two
events had about it so much of the palpable, that the true wonder
would have been a _failure_ of the populace to appreciate and to
seize it.  But, in fact, the one atrocity, known to be so committed,
is, if anything, evidence that the other, committed at a time nearly
coincident, was not so committed.  It _would_ have been a miracle if,
while a gang of ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a
most unheard-of wrong, there should have been another similar gang,
in a similar locality, in the same city, under the same
circumstances, with the same means and appliances, engaged in a wrong
of precisely the same aspect, at precisely the same period of time!
Yet in what, if not in this marvelous train of coincidence, does the
accidentally _suggested_ opinion of the populace call upon us to
believe?

"Before proceeding further, let us consider the supposed scene of the
assassination, in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule.  This
thicket, although dense, was in the close vicinity of a public road.
Within were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat with a
back and a footstool.  On the upper stone was discovered a white
petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf.  A parasol, gloves, and a
pocket-handkerchief were also here found.  The handkerchief bore the
name 'Marie Rogêt.'  Fragments of dress were seen on the branches
around.  The earth was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there
was every evidence of a violent struggle.

"Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this
thicket was received by the press, and the unanimity with which it
was supposed to indicate the precise scene of the outrage, it must be
admitted that there was some very good reason for doubt.  That it
_was_ the scene, I may or I may not believe--but there was excellent
reason for doubt.  Had the _true_ scene been, as 'Le Commerciel'
suggested, in the neighborhood of the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, the
perpetrators of the crime, supposing them still resident in Paris,
would naturally have been stricken with terror at the public
attention thus acutely directed into the proper channel; and, in
certain classes of minds, there would have arisen, at once, a sense
of the necessity of some exertion to redivert this attention.  And
thus, the thicket of the Barrière du Roule having been already
suspected, the idea of placing the articles where they were found
might have been naturally entertained.  There is no real evidence,
although 'Le Soleil' so supposes, that the articles discovered had
been more than a very few days in the thicket; while there is much
circumstantial proof that they could not have remained there, without
attracting attention, during the twenty days elapsing between the
fatal Sunday and the afternoon upon which they were found by the
boys.  'They were all _mildewed_ down hard,' says 'Le Soleil,'
adopting the opinions of its predecessors, 'with the action of the
rain and stuck together from mildew.  The grass had grown around and
over some of them.  The silk of the parasol was strong, but the
threads of it were run together within.  The upper part, where it had
been doubled and folded, was all _mildewed_ and rotten, and tore on
being opened.'  In respect to the grass having 'grown around and over
some of them,' it is obvious that the fact could only have been
ascertained from the words, and thus from the recollections, of two
small boys; for these boys removed the articles and took them home
before they had been seen by a third party.  But the grass will grow,
especially in warm and damp weather (such as was that of the period
of the murder), as much as two or three inches in a single day.  A
parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a single week, be
entirely concealed from sight by the upspringing grass.  And touching
that _mildew_ upon which the editor of 'Le Soleil' so pertinaciously
insists that he employs the word no less than three times in the
brief paragraph just quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of
this mildew?  Is he to be told that it is one of the many classes of
_fungus_, of which the most ordinary feature is its upspringing and
decadence within twenty-four hours?

"Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly
adduced in support of the idea that the articles had been 'for at
least three or four weeks' in the thicket, is most absurdly null as
regards any evidence of that fact.  On the other hand, it is
exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have
remained in the thicket specified for a longer period than a single
week--for a longer period than from one Sunday to the next.  Those
who know anything of the vicinity of Paris know the extreme
difficulty of finding seclusion, unless at a great distance from its
suburbs.  Such a thing as an unexplored or even an unfrequently
visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a moment to be
imagined.  Let any one who, being at heart a lover of nature, is yet
chained by duty to the dust and heat of this great metropolis--let
any such one attempt, even during the week-days, to slake his thirst
for solitude amid the scenes of natural loveliness which immediately
surround us.  At every second step he will find the growing charm
dispelled by the voice and personal intrusion of some ruffian or
party of carousing blackguards.  He will seek privacy amid the
densest foliage, all in vain.  Here are the very nooks where the
unwashed most abound--here are the temples most desecrate.  With
sickness of the heart the wanderer will flee back to the polluted
Paris as to a less odious because less incongruous sink of pollution.
But if the vicinity of the city is so beset during the working days
of the week, how much more so on the Sabbath!  It is now especially
that, released from the claims of labor, or deprived of the customary
opportunities of crime, the town blackguard seeks the precincts of
the town, not through love of the rural, which in his heart he
despises, but by way of escape from the restraints and
conventionalities of society.  He desires less the fresh air and the
green trees, than the utter license of the country.  Here, at the
roadside inn, or beneath the foliage of the woods, he indulges
unchecked by any eye except those of his boon companions, in all the
mad excess of a counterfeit hilarity--the joint offspring of liberty
and of rum.  I say nothing more than what must be obvious to every
dispassionate observer, when I repeat that the circumstance of the
articles in question having remained undiscovered for a longer period
than from one Sunday to another in any thicket in the immediate
neighborhood of Paris is to be looked upon as little less than
miraculous.

"But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that the
articles were placed in the thicket with the view of diverting
attention from the real scene of the outrage.  And first, let me
direct your notice to the date of the discovery of the articles.
Collate this with the date of the fifth extract made by myself from
the newspapers.  You will find that the discovery followed, almost
immediately, the urgent communications sent to the evening paper.
These communications, although various, and apparently from various
sources, tended all to the same point--viz.: the directing of
attention to a gang as the perpetrators of the outrage, and to the
neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule as its scene.  Now, here, of
course, the situation is not that, in consequence of these
communications, or of the public attention by them directed, the
articles were found by the boys; but the suspicion might and may well
have been that the articles were not before found by the boys, for
the reason that the articles had not before been in the thicket;
having been deposited there only at so late a period as at the date,
or shortly prior to the date of the communication, by the guilty
authors of these communications themselves.

"This thicket was a singular--an exceedingly singular one.  It was
unusually dense.  Within its naturally walled inclosure were three
extraordinary stones, _forming a seat with a back and a footstool_.
And this thicket, so full of art, was in the immediate vicinity,
_within a few rods_, of the dwelling of Madame Deluc, whose boys were
in the habit of closely examining the shrubberies about them in
search of the bark of the sassafras.  Would it be a rash wager--a
wager of one thousand to one--that a _day_ never passed over the
heads of these boys without finding at least one of them ensconced in
the umbrageous hall, and enthroned upon its natural throne?  Those
who would hesitate at such a wager have either never been boys
themselves or have forgotten the boyish nature.  I repeat--it is
exceedingly hard to comprehend how the articles could have remained
in this thicket undiscovered for a longer period than one or two
days; and that thus there is good ground for suspicion, in spite of
the dogmatic ignorance of 'Le Soleil,' that they were, at a
comparatively late date, deposited where found.

"But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing them so
deposited, than any which I have as yet urged.  And, now, let me beg
your notice to the highly artificial arrangement of the articles.  On
the _upper_ stone lay a white petticoat; on the _second_ a silk
scarf; scattered around were a parasol, gloves, and a
pocket-handkerchief bearing the name 'Marie Rogêt.'  Here is just
such an arrangement as would naturally be made by a not overacute
person wishing to dispose the articles naturally.  But it is by no
means a really natural arrangement.  I should rather have looked to
see the things _all_ lying on the ground and trampled under foot.  In
the narrow limits of that bower it would have been scarcely possible
that the petticoat and scarf should have retained a position upon the
stones, when subjected to the brushing to and fro of many struggling
persons.  'There was evidence,' it is said, 'of a struggle; and the
earth was trampled, the bushes were broken'--but the petticoat and
the scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves.  'The pieces of the
frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six
inches long.  One part was the hem of the frock, and it had been
mended.  They _looked like strips torn off_.'  Here, inadvertently,
'Le Soleil' has employed an exceedingly suspicious phrase.  The
pieces, as described, do indeed 'look like strips torn off'; but
purposely and by hand.  It is one of the rarest of accidents that a
piece is 'torn off,' from any garment such as is now in question, by
the agency _of a thorn_.  From the very nature of such fabrics, a
thorn or nail becoming tangled in them, tears them
rectangularly--divides them into two longitudinal rents, at right
angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn
enters--but it is scarcely possible to conceive the piece 'torn off.'
I never so knew it, nor did you.  To tear a piece _off_ from such
fabric, two distinct forces, in different directions, will be, in
almost every case, required.  If there be two edges to the
fabric--if, for example, it be a pocket-handkerchief, and it is
desired to tear from it a slip, then, and then only, will the one
force serve the purpose.  But in the present case the question is of
a dress, presenting but one edge.  To tear a piece from the interior,
where no edge is presented, could only be effected by a miracle
through the agency of thorns, and no _one_ thorn could accomplish it.
But, even where an edge is presented, two thorns will be necessary,
operating, the one in two distinct directions, and the other in one.
And this in the supposition that the edge is unhemmed.  If hemmed,
the matter is nearly out of the question.  We thus see the numerous
and great obstacles in the way of pieces being 'torn off' through the
simple agency of 'thorns'; yet we are required to believe not only
that one piece but that many have been so torn.  'And one part,' too,
'_was the hem of the frock!_'  Another piece was '_part of the skirt,
not the hem_'--that is to say, was torn completely out, through the
agency of thorns, from the unedged interior of the dress!  These, I
say, are things which one may well be pardoned for disbelieving; yet,
taken collectedly, they form, perhaps, less of reasonable ground for
suspicion than the one startling circumstance of the articles having
been left in this thicket at all, by any _murderers_ who had enough
precaution to think of removing the corpse.  You will not have
apprehended me rightly, however, if you suppose it my design to
_deny_ this thicket as the scene of the outrage.  There might have
been a wrong _here_, or more possibly an accident at Madame Deluc's.
But, in fact, this is a point of minor importance.  We are not
engaged in an attempt to discover the scene, but to produce the
perpetrators of the murder.  What I have adduced, notwithstanding the
minuteness with which I have adduced it, has been with the view,
first, to show the folly of the positive and headlong assertions of
'Le Soleil,' but secondly, and chiefly, to bring you, by the most
natural route, to a further contemplation of the doubt whether this
assassination has, or has not, been the work of a _gang_.

"We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting
details of the surgeon examined at the inquest.  It is only necessary
to say that his published _inferences_, in regard to the number of
the ruffians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust and totally
baseless, by all the reputable anatomists of Paris.  Not that the
matter _might not_ have been as inferred, but that there was no
ground for the inference--was there not much for another?

"Let us reflect now upon 'the traces of a struggle'; and let me ask
what these traces have been supposed to demonstrate.  A gang.  But do
they not rather demonstrate the absence of a gang?  What _struggle_
could have taken place--what struggle so violent and so enduring as
to have left its 'traces' in all directions--between a weak and
defenseless girl and a _gang_ of ruffians imagined?  The silent grasp
of a few rough arms and all would have been over.  The victim must
have been absolutely passive at their will.  You will here bear in
mind that the arguments urged against the thicket as the scene, are
applicable, in chief part, only against it as the scene of an outrage
committed by _more than a single individual_.  If we imagine but one
violator, we can conceive, and thus only conceive, the struggle of so
violent and so obstinate a nature as to have left the 'traces'
apparent.

"And again.  I have already mentioned the suspicion to be excited by
the fact that the articles in question were suffered to remain _at
all_ in the thicket where discovered.  It seems almost impossible
that these evidences of guilt should have been accidentally left
where found.  There was sufficient presence of mind (it is supposed)
to remove the corpse; and yet a more positive evidence than the
corpse itself (whose features might have been quickly obliterated by
decay) is allowed to lie conspicuously in the scene of the outrage--I
allude to the handkerchief with the _name_ of the deceased.  If this
was accident, it was not the accident _of a gang_.  We can imagine it
only the accident of an individual.  Let us see.  An individual has
committed the murder.  He is alone with the ghost of the departed.
He is appalled by what lies motionless before him.  The fury of his
passion is over, and there is abundant room in his heart for the
natural awe of the deed.  His is none of that confidence which the
presence of numbers inevitably inspires.  He is _alone_ with the
dead.  He trembles and is bewildered.  Yet there is a necessity for
disposing of the corpse.  He bears it to the river, and leaves behind
him the other evidences of his guilt; for it is difficult, if not
impossible, to carry all the burden at once, and it will be easy to
return for what is left.  But in his toilsome journey to the water
his fears redouble within him.  The sounds of life encompass his
path.  A dozen times he hears or fancies he hears the step of an
observer.  Even the very lights from the city bewilder him.  Yet, in
time, and by long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he reaches the
river's brink, and disposes of his ghastly charge--perhaps through
the medium of a boat.  But _now_ what treasure does the world
hold--what threat of vengeance could it hold out--which would have
power to urge the return of that lonely murderer over that toilsome
and perilous path, to the thicket and its blood-chilling
recollections?  He returns _not_, let the consequences be what they
may.  He _could_ not return if he would.  His sole thought is
immediate escape.  He turns his back _forever_ upon those dreadful
shrubberies, and flees as from the wrath to come.

"But how with a gang?  Their number would have inspired them with
confidence; if, indeed, confidence is ever wanting in the breast of
the arrant blackguard; and of arrant blackguards alone are the
supposed _gangs_ ever constituted.  Their number, I say, would have
prevented the bewildering and unreasoning terror which I have
imagined to paralyze the single man.  Could we suppose an oversight
in one, or two, or three, this oversight would have been remedied by
a fourth.  They would have left nothing behind them; for their number
would have enabled them to carry _all_ at once.  There would have
been no need of _return_.

"Consider now the circumstance that, in the outer garment of the
corpse when found, 'a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward
from the bottom hem to the waist, wound three times round the waist,
and secured by a sort of hitch in the back.'  This was done with the
obvious design of affording a _handle_ by which to carry the body.
But would any _number_ of men have dreamed of resorting to such an
expedient?  To three or four, the limbs of the corpse would have
afforded not only a sufficient, but the best possible, hold.  The
device is that of a single individual; and this brings us to the fact
that 'between the thicket and the river the rails of the fences were
found taken down, and the ground bore evident traces of some heavy
burden having been dragged along it!'  But would a _number_ of men
have put themselves to the superfluous trouble of taking down a
fence, for the purpose of dragging through it a corpse which they
might have _lifted over_ any fence in an instant?  Would a _number_
of men have so _dragged_ a corpse at all as to have left evident
_traces_ of the dragging?

"And here we must refer to an observation of 'Le Commerciel'; upon
which I have already, in some measure, commented.  'A piece,' says
this journal, 'of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats was torn
out and tied under her chin, and around the back of her head,
probably to prevent screams.  This was done by fellows who had no
pocket-handkerchiefs.'

"I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never _without_
a pocket-handkerchief.  But it is not to this fact that I now
especially advert.  That it was not through want of a handkerchief
for the purpose imagined by 'Le Commerciel,' that this bandage was
employed, is rendered apparent by the handkerchief left in the
thicket; and that the object was not 'to prevent screams' appears,
also, from the bandage having been employed in preference to what
would so much better have answered the purpose.  But the language of
the evidence speaks of the strip in question as 'found around the
neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot.'  These words
are sufficiently vague, but differ materially from those of 'Le
Commerciel.'  The slip was eighteen inches wide, and therefore,
although of muslin, would form a strong band when folded or rumpled
longitudinally.  And thus rumpled it was discovered.  My inference is
this.  The solitary murderer, having borne the corpse for some
distance (whether from the thicket or elsewhere) by means of the
bandage _hitched_ around its middle, found the weight, in this mode
of procedure, too much for his strength.  He resolved to drag the
burden--the evidence goes to show that it _was_ dragged.  With this
object in view, it became necessary to attach something like a rope
to one of the extremities.  It could be best attached about the neck,
where the head would prevent its slipping off.  And now the murderer
bethought him, unquestionably, of the bandage about the loins.  He
would have used this, but for its volution about the corpse, the
_hitch_ which embarrassed it, and the reflection that it had not been
'torn off' from the garment.  It was easier to tear a new slip from
the petticoat.  He tore it, made it fast about the neck, and so
_dragged_ his victim to the brink of the river.  That this 'bandage,'
only attainable with trouble and delay, and but imperfectly answering
its purpose--that this bandage was employed _at all_, demonstrates
that the necessity for its employment sprang from circumstances
arising at a period when the handkerchief was no longer
attainable--that is to say, arising, as we have imagined, after
quitting the thicket (if the thicket it was), and on the road between
the thicket and the river.

"But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc (!) points
especially to the presence of _a gang_ in the vicinity of the
thicket, at or about the epoch of the murder.  This I grant.  I doubt
if there were not a _dozen gangs_, such as described by Madame Deluc,
in and about the vicinity of the Barrière du Roule at _or about_ the
period of this tragedy.  But the gang which has drawn upon itself the
pointed animadversion, through the somewhat tardy and very suspicious
evidence, of Madame Deluc, is the _only_ gang which is represented by
that honest and scrupulous old lady as having eaten her cakes and
swallowed her brandy, without putting themselves to the trouble of
making her payment.  _Et hinc illæ iræ?_

"But what _is_ the precise evidence of Madame Deluc?  'A gang of
miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank
without making payment, followed in the route of the young man and
the girl, returned to the inn _about dusk_, and recrossed the river
as if in great haste.'

"Now this 'great haste' very possibly seemed _greater_ haste in the
eyes of Madame Deluc, since she dwelt lingeringly and lamentingly
upon her violated cakes and ale--cakes and ale for which she might
still have entertained a faint hope of compensation.  Why, otherwise,
since it was _about dusk_, should she make a point of the _haste_?
It is no cause for wonder, surely, that even a gang of blackguards
should make _haste_ to get home when a wide river is to be crossed in
small boats, when storm impends, and when night _approaches_.

"I say _approaches_; for the night had _not yet arrived_.  It was
only _about dusk_ that the indecent haste of these 'miscreants'
offended the sober eyes of Madame Deluc.  But we are told that it was
upon this very evening that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son,
'heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn.'  And in
what words does Madame Deluc designate the period of the evening at
which these screams were heard?  'It was _soon after dark_' she says.
But 'soon _after_ dark' is, at least, _dark_; and '_about dusk_,' is
as certainly daylight.  Thus it is abundantly clear that the gang
quitted the Barrière du Roule _prior_ to the screams overheard (?) by
Madame Deluc.  And although, in all the many reports of the evidence,
the relative expressions in question are distinctly and invariably
employed just as I have employed them in this conversation with
yourself, no notice whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet,
been taken by any of the public journals, or by any of the myrmidons
of police.

"I shall add but one to the arguments against _a gang_; but this
_one_ has, to my own understanding at least, a weight altogether
irresistible.  Under the circumstances of large reward offered, and
full pardon to any king's evidence, it is not to be imagined, for a
moment, that some member of _a gang_ of low ruffians, or of any body
of men, would not long ago have betrayed his accomplices.  Each one
of a gang, so placed, is not so much greedy of reward, or anxious for
escape, as _fearful of betrayal_.  He betrays eagerly and early that
_he may not himself be betrayed_.  That the secret has not been
divulged is the very best of proof that it is, in fact, a secret.
The horrors of this dark deed are known only to _one_ or two living
human beings, and to God.

"Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long
analysis.  We have attained the idea either of a fatal accident under
the roof of Madame Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated, in the thicket
at the Barrière du Roule, by a lover, or at least by an intimate and
secret associate of the deceased.  This associate is of swarthy
complexion.  This complexion, the 'hitch' in the bandage, and the
'sailor's knot' with which the bonnet-ribbon is tied, point to a
seaman.  His companionship with the deceased--a gay but not an abject
young girl--designates him as above the grade of the common sailor.
Here the well-written and urgent communications to the journals are
much in the way of corroboration.  The circumstance of the first
elopement, as mentioned by 'Le Mercurie,' tends to blend the idea of
this seaman with that of the 'naval officer' who is first known to
have led the unfortunate into crime.

"And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued
absence of him of the dark complexion.  Let me pause to observe that
the complexion of this man is dark and swarthy; it was no common
swarthiness which constituted the _sole_ point of remembrance, both
as regards Valence and Madame Deluc.  But why is this man absent?
Was he murdered by the gang?  If so, why are there only _traces_ of
the assassinated _girl_?  The scene of the two outrages will
naturally be supposed identical.  And where is his corpse?  The
assassins would most probably have disposed of both in the same way.
But it may be said that this man lives, and is deterred from making
himself known, through dread of being charged with the murder.  This
consideration might be supposed to operate upon him now--at this late
period--since it has been given in evidence that he was seen with
Marie, but it would have had no force at the period of the deed.  The
first impulse of an innocent man would have been to announce the
outrage, and to aid in identifying the ruffians.  This _policy_ would
have suggested.  He had been seen with the girl.  He had crossed the
river with her in an open ferry-boat.  The denouncing of the
assassins would have appeared, even to an idiot, the surest and sole
means of relieving himself from suspicion.  We can not suppose him,
on the night of the fatal Sunday, both innocent himself and
incognizant of an outrage committed.  Yet only under such
circumstances is it possible to imagine that he would have failed, if
alive, in the denouncement of the assassins.

"And what means are ours of attaining the truth?  We shall find these
means multiplying and gathering distinctness as we proceed.  Let us
sift to the bottom this affair of the first elopement.  Let us know
the full history of 'the officer,' with his present circumstances,
and his whereabout at the precise period of the murder.  Let us
carefully compare with each other the various communications sent to
the evening paper, in which the object was to inculpate _a gang_.
This done, let us compare these communications, both as regards style
and MS., with those sent to the morning paper, at a previous period,
and insisting so vehemently upon the guilt of Mennais.  And, all this
done, let us again compare these various communications with the
known MSS. of the officer.  Let us endeavor to ascertain, by repeated
questionings of Madame Deluc and her boys, as well as of the
omnibus-driver, Valence, something more of the personal appearance
and bearing of the 'man of dark complexion.'  Queries, skilfully
directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these parties,
information on this particular point (or upon others)--information
which the parties themselves may not even be aware of possessing.
And let us now trace _the boat_ picked up by the bargeman on the
morning of Monday the twenty-third of June, and which was removed
from the barge-office, without the cognizance of the officer in
attendance, and _without the rudder_, at some period prior to the
discovery of the corpse.  With a proper caution and perseverance we
shall infallibly trace this boat; for not only can the bargeman who
picked it up identify it, but the _rudder is at hand_.  The rudder of
a _sail boat_ would not have been abandoned, without inquiry, by one
altogether at ease in heart.  And here let me pause to insinuate a
question.  There was no _advertisement_ of the picking up of this
boat.  It was silently taken to the barge-office and as silently
removed.  But its owner or employer--how _happened_ he, at so early a
period as Tuesday morning, to be informed, without the agency of
advertisement, of the locality of the boat taken up on Monday, unless
we imagine some connection with the _navy_--some personal permanent
connection leading to cognizance of its minute interests--its petty
local news?

"In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the shore,
I have already suggested the probability of his availing himself _of
a boat_.  Now we are to understand that Marie Rogêt _was_
precipitated from a boat.  This would naturally have been the case.
The corpse could not have been trusted to the shallow waters of the
shore.  The peculiar marks on the back and shoulders of the victim
tell of the bottom ribs of a boat.  That the body was found without
weight is also corroborative of the idea.  If thrown from the shore a
weight would have been attached.  We can only account for its absence
by supposing the murderer to have neglected the precaution of
supplying himself with it before pushing off.  In the act of
consigning the corpse to the water, he would unquestionably have
noticed his oversight; but then no remedy would have been at hand.
Any risk would have been preferred to a return to that accursed
shore.  Having rid himself of his ghastly charge, the murderer would
have hastened to the city.  There, at some obscure wharf, he would
have leaped on land.  But the boat--would he have secured it?  He
would have been in too great haste for such things as securing a
boat.  Moreover, in fastening it to the wharf, he would have felt as
if securing evidence against himself.  His natural thought would have
been to cast from him, as far as possible, all that had held
connection with his crime.  He would not only have fled from the
wharf, but he would not have permitted _the boat_ to remain.
Assuredly he would have cast it adrift.  Let us pursue our fancies.
In the morning, the wretch is stricken with unutterable horror at
finding that the boat has been picked up and detained at a locality
which he is in the daily habit of frequenting--at a locality,
perhaps, which his duty compels him to frequent.  The next night,
_without daring to ask for the rudder_, he removes it.  Now _where_
is that rudderless boat?  Let it be one of our first purposes to
discover.  With the first glimpse we obtain of it, the dawn of our
success shall begin.  This boat shall guide us, with a rapidity which
will surprise even ourselves, to him who employed it in the midnight
of the fatal Sabbath.  Corroboration will rise upon corroboration,
and the murderer will be traced."

[For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many readers
will appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here omitting, from
the MSS. placed in our hands, such portion as details the _following
up_ of the apparently slight clue obtained by Dupin.  We feel it
advisable only to state, in brief, that the result desired was
brought to pass; and that the Prefect fulfilled punctually, although
with reluctance, the terms of his compact with the Chevalier.  Mr.
Poe's article concludes with the following words.--_Eds._[24]]


[24] Of the Magazine in which the article was originally published.


It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and _no more_.
What I have said above upon this topic must suffice.  In my own heart
there dwells no faith in preternature.  That Nature and its God are
two, no man who thinks will deny.  That the latter, creating the
former, can, at will, control or modify it, is also unquestionable.
I say "at will"; for the question is of will, and not, as the
insanity of logic has assumed, of power.  It is not that the Deity
_can not_ modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a
possible necessity for modification.  In their origin these laws were
fashioned to embrace _all_ contingencies which _could_ lie in the
Future.  With God all is _Now_.

I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of coincidences.
And further: in what I relate it will be seen that between the fate
of the unhappy Mary Cecilia Rogers, so far as that fate is known, and
the fate of one Marie Rogêt up to a certain epoch in her history,
there has existed a parallel in the contemplation of whose wonderful
exactitude the reason becomes embarrassed.  I say all this will be
seen.  But let it not for a moment be supposed that, in proceeding
with the sad narrative of Marie from the epoch just mentioned, and in
tracing to its _denouement_ the mystery which enshrouded her, it is
my covert design to hint at an extension of the parallel, or even to
suggest that the measures adopted in Paris for the discovery of the
assassin of a grisette, or measures founded in any similar
ratiocination, would produce any similar result.

For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it should be
considered that the most trifling variation in the facts of the two
cases might give rise to the most important miscalculations, by
diverting thoroughly the two courses of events; very much as, in
arithmetic, an error which, in its own individuality, may be
inappreciable, produces, at length, by dint of multiplication at all
points of the process, a result enormously at variance with truth.
And, in regard to the former branch, we must not fail to hold in view
that the very Calculus of Probabilities to which I have referred,
forbids all idea of the extension of the parallel--forbids it with a
positiveness strong and decided just in proportion as this parallel
has already been long-drawn and exact.  This is one of those
anomalous propositions which, seemingly appealing to thought
altogether apart from the mathematical, is yet one which only the
mathematician can fully entertain.  Nothing, for example, is more
difficult than to convince the merely general reader that the fact of
sixes having been thrown twice in succession by a player at dice, is
sufficient cause for betting the largest odds that sixes will not be
thrown in the third attempt.  A suggestion to this effect is usually
rejected by the intellect at once.  It does not appear that the two
throws which have been completed, and which lie now absolutely in the
Past, can have influence upon the throw which exists only in the
Future.  The chance for throwing sixes seems to be precisely as it
was at any ordinary time--that is to say, subject only to the
influence of the various other throws which may be made by the dice.
And this is a reflection which appears so exceedingly obvious that
attempts to controvert it are received more frequently with a
derisive smile than with anything like respectful attention.  The
error here involved--a gross error redolent of mischief--I can not
pretend to expose within the limits assigned me at present; with the
philosophical it needs no exposure.  It may be sufficient here to say
that it forms one of an infinite series of mistakes which arise in
the path of Reason through her propensity for seeking truth in
_detail_.




THE PURLOINED LETTER

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

_This story, as may be seen from the opening paragraph, also concerns
itself with that remarkable detective, M. Dupin._

_Edmund Clarence Stedman considers it superior to the two stories
that precede it, but Brander Matthews says that nothing better of
their kind has ever been done than "The Murders in the Rue Morgue"
and "The Purloined Letter"; thus awarding equal praise to the first
story and the third story._



THE PURLOINED LETTER

By EDGAR ALLAN POE

Nil sapientiæ odiosius acumine nimio.--_Seneca_

At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18--, I
was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in
company with my friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library,
or book-closet, _au troisieme_, No. 33 _Rue Dunot_, _Faubourg St.
Germain_.  For one hour at least we had maintained a profound
silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed
intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke
that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber.  For myself, however, I
was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for
conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I mean
the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of
Marie Rogêt.  I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a
coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and
admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G----, the Prefect of the
Parisian police.

We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of
the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not
seen him for several years.  We had been sitting in the dark, and
Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down
again, without doing so, upon G----'s saying that he had called to
consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some
official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble.

"If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he
forebore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better purpose
in the dark."

"That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had the
fashion of calling everything "odd" that was beyond his
comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities."

"Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and
rolled toward him a comfortable chair.

"And what is the difficulty now?" I asked.  "Nothing more in the
assassination way, I hope?"

"Oh, no; nothing of that nature.  The fact is, the business is _very_
simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently
well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the
details of it, because it is so excessively _odd_."

"Simple and odd!" said Dupin.

"Why, yes; and not exactly that either.  The fact is, we have all
been a good deal puzzled because the affair _is_ so simple, and yet
baffles us altogether."

"Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at
fault," said my friend.

"What nonsense you _do_ talk!" replied the Prefect, laughing heartily.

"Perhaps the mystery is a little _too_ plain," said Dupin.

"Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?"

"A little _too_ self-evident."

"Ha! ha! ha!--ha! ha! ha!--ho! ho! ho!" roared our visitor,
profoundly amused, "oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!"

"And what, after all, _is_ the matter on hand?" I asked.

"Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long,
steady, and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair.  "I
will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me caution you
that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I
should most probably lose the position I now hold, were it known that
I confided it to any one."

"Proceed," said I.

"Or not," said Dupin.

"Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very high
quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has been
purloined from the royal apartments.  The individual who purloined it
is known; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it.  It is known,
also, that it still remains in his possession."

"How is this known?" asked Dupin.

"It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, "from the nature of
the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which
would at once arise from its passing out of the robber's
possession--that is to say, from his employing it as he must design
in the end to employ it."

"Be a little more explicit," I said.

"Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder
a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely
valuable."  The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy.

"Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin.

"No?  Well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, who
shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a personage
of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder of the
document an ascendency over the illustrious personage whose honor and
peace are so jeopardized."

"But this ascendency," I interposed, "would depend upon the robber's
knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber.  Who would dare--"

"The thief," said G----, "is the Minister D----, who dares all
things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man.  The method
of the theft was not less ingenious than bold.  The document in
question--a letter, to be frank--had been received by the personage
robbed while alone in the royal _boudoir_.  During its perusal she
was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted
personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it.  After
a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced
to place it, open as it was, upon a table.  The address, however, was
uppermost, and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped
notice.  At this juncture enters the Minister D----.  His lynx eye
immediately perceives the paper, recognizes the handwriting of the
address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and
fathoms her secret.  After some business transactions, hurried
through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar
to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then
places it in close juxtaposition to the other.  Again he converses,
for some fifteen minutes, upon the public affairs.  At length, in
taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter to which he had
no claim.  Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call
attention to the act, in the presence of the third personage who
stood at her elbow.  The minister decamped; leaving his own
letter--one of no importance--upon the table."

"Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you demand
to make the ascendency complete--the robber's knowledge of the
loser's knowledge of the robber."

"Yes," replied the Prefect; "and the power thus attained has, for
some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very
dangerous extent.  The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced,
every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter.  But this, of
course, can not be done openly.  In fine, driven to despair, she has
committed the matter to me."

"Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, "no more
sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined."

"You flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that some
such opinion may have been entertained."

"It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in
the possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and not
any employment of the letter, which bestows the power.  With the
employment the power departs."

"True," said G----; "and upon this conviction I proceeded.  My first
care was to make thorough search of the minister's hotel; and here my
chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his
knowledge.  Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which
would result from giving him reason to suspect our design."

"But," said I, "you are quite _au fait_ in these investigations.  The
Parisian police have done this thing often before."

"Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair.  The habits of the
minister gave me, too, a great advantage.  He is frequently absent
from home all night.  His servants are by no means numerous.  They
sleep at a distance from their master's apartment, and, being chiefly
Neapolitans, are readily made drunk.  I have keys, as you know, with
which I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris.  For three months a
night has not passed, during the greater part of which I have not
been engaged, personally, in ransacking the D---- Hotel.  My honor is
interested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous.
So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied
that the thief is a more astute man than myself.  I fancy that I have
investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which it is
possible that the paper can be concealed."

"But is it not possible," I suggested, "that although the letter may
be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he may
have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises?"

"This is barely possible," said Dupin.  "The present peculiar
condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in
which D---- is known to be involved, would render the instant
availability of the document--its susceptibility of being produced at
a moment's notice--a point of nearly equal importance with its
possession."

"Its susceptibility of being produced?" said I.

"That is to say, of being _destroyed_," said Dupin.

"True," I observed; "the paper is clearly then upon the premises.  As
for its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider that
as out of the question."

"Entirely," said the Prefect.  "He has been twice waylaid, as if by
footpads, and his person rigidly searched under my own inspection."

"You might have spared yourself this trouble," said Dupin.  "D----, I
presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated
these waylayings, as a matter of course."

"Not _altogether_ a fool," said G----, "but then he is a poet, which
I take to be only one remove from a fool."

"_True_," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his
meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggerel myself."

"Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search."

"Why, the fact is, we took our time, and we searched _everywhere_.  I
have had long experience in these affairs.  I took the entire
building, room by room; devoting the nights of a whole week to each.
We examined, first, the furniture of each department.  We opened
every possible drawer; and I presume you know that, to a properly
trained police-agent, such a thing as a '_secret_' drawer is
impossible.  Any man is a dolt who permits a 'secret' drawer to
escape him in a search of this kind.  The thing is so plain.  There
is a certain amount of bulk--of space--to be accounted for in every
cabinet.  Then we have accurate rules.  The fiftieth part of a line
could not escape us.  After the cabinets we took the chairs.  The
cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me
employ.  From the tables we removed the tops."

"Why so?"

"Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of
furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article;
then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity,
and the top replaced.  The bottoms and tops of bedposts are employed
in the same way."

"But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?" I asked.

"By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding
of cotton be placed around it.  Besides, in our case, we were obliged
to proceed without noise."

"But you could not have removed--you could not have taken to pieces
_all_ articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to
make a deposit in the manner you mention.  A letter may be compressed
into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a
large knitting-needle, and in this form it might be inserted into the
rung of a chair, for example.  You did not take to pieces all the
chairs?"

"Certainly not; but we did better--we examined the rungs of every
chair in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings of every description
of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope.  Had there
been any traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to
detect it instantly.  A single grain of gimlet-dust, for example,
would have been as obvious as an apple.  Any disorder in the
gluing--any unusual gaping in the joints--would have sufficed to
ensure detection."

"I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the
plates, and you probed the beds and the bedclothes, as well as the
curtains and carpets."

"That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every particle
of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself.  We
divided its entire surface into compartments, which we numbered, so
that none might be missed; then we scrutinized each individual square
inch throughout the premises, including the two houses immediately
adjoining, with the microscope, as before."

"The two houses adjoining!" I exclaimed; "you must have had a great
deal of trouble."

"We had; but the reward offered is prodigious."

"You include the _ground_ about the houses?"

"All the grounds are paved with brick.  They gave us comparatively
little trouble.  We examined the moss between the bricks, and found
it undisturbed."

"You looked among D----'s papers, of course, and into the books of
the library?"

"Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only opened
every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not
contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the fashion of
some of our police officers.  We also measured the thickness of every
book-_cover_, with the most accurate admeasurement, and applied to
each the most jealous scrutiny of the microscope.  Had any of the
bindings been recently meddled with, it would have been utterly
impossible that the fact should have escaped observation.  Some five
or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully
probed, longitudinally, with the needles."

"You explored the floors beneath the carpets?"

"Beyond doubt.  We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with
the microscope."

"And the paper on the walls?"

"Yes."

"You looked into the cellars?"

"We did."

"Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalculation, and the
letter is _not_ upon the premises, as you suppose."

"I fear you are right there," said the Prefect.  "And now, Dupin,
what would you advise me to do?"

"To make a thorough research of the premises."

"That is absolutely needless," replied G----.  "I am not more sure
that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the hotel."

"I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin.  "You have, of
course, an accurate description of the letter?"

"Oh, yes!"--And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book,
proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and
especially of the external appearance of the missing document.  Soon
after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his
departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known
the good gentleman before.

In about a month afterward he paid us another visit, and found us
occupied very nearly as before.  He took a pipe and a chair and
entered into some ordinary conversation.  At length I said:

"Well, but, G----, what of the purloined letter?  I presume you have
at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as overreaching
the minister?"

"Confound him, say I--yes; I made the reexamination, however, as
Dupin suggested--but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be."

"How much was the reward offered, did you say?" asked Dupin.

"Why, a very great deal--a _very_ liberal reward--I don't like to say
how much, precisely; but one thing I _will_ say, that I wouldn't mind
giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any one who
could obtain me that letter.  The fact is, it is becoming of more and
more importance every day; and the reward has been lately doubled.
If it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I have done."

"Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly between the whiffs of his
meerschaum, "I really--think, G----, you have not exerted
yourself--to the utmost in this matter.  You might--do a little more,
I think, eh?"

"How?--in what way?"

"Why--puff, puff--you might--puff, puff--employ counsel in the
matter, eh?--puff, puff, puff.  Do you remember the story they tell
of Abernethy?"

"No; hang Abernethy!"

"To be sure! hang him and welcome.  But, once upon a time, a certain
rich miser conceived the design of sponging upon this Abernethy for a
medical opinion.  Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary
conversation in a private company, he insinuated his case to the
physician, as that of an imaginary individual.

"'We will suppose,' said the miser, 'that his symptoms are such and
such; now, doctor, what would _you_ have directed him to take?'

"'Take!' said Abernethy, 'why, take _advice_ to be sure.'"

"But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, "_I am perfectly
willing_ to take advice, and to pay for it.  I would _really_ give
fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter."

"In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a
check-book, "you may as well fill me up a check for the amount
mentioned.  When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter."

I was astounded.  The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken.
For some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, looking
incredulously at my friend, with open mouth and eyes that seemed
starting from their sockets; then apparently recovering himself in
some measure, he seized a pen, and after several pauses and vacant
stares, finally filled up and signed a check for fifty thousand
francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin.  The latter examined
it carefully and deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an
_escritoire_, took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect.  This
functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a
trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then
scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length
unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without having
uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check.

When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.

"The Parisian police," he said, "are exceedingly able in their way.
They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in
the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to demand.  Thus, when
G---- detailed to us his mode of searching the premises at the Hotel
D----, I felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory
investigation--so far as his labors extended."

"So far as his labors extended?" said I.

"Yes," said Dupin.  "The measures adopted were not only the best of
their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection.  Had the letter
been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would,
beyond a question, have found it."

I merely laughed--but he seemed quite serious in all that he said.

"The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their kind, and
well executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to the
case and to the man.  A certain set of highly ingenious resources
are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he
forcibly adapts his designs.  But he perpetually errs by being too
deep or too shallow for the matter in hand; and many a schoolboy is a
better reasoner than he.  I knew one about eight years of age, whose
success at guessing in the game of 'even and odd' attracted universal
admiration.  This game is simple, and is played with marbles.  One
player holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of
another whether that number is even or odd.  If the guess is right,
the guesser wins one; if wrong, he loses one.  The boy to whom I
allude won all the marbles of the school.  Of course he had some
principle of guessing; and this lay in mere observation and
admeasurement of the astuteness of his opponents.  For example, an
arrant simpleton is his opponent, and holding up his closed hand,
asks, 'Are they even or odd?'  Our schoolboy replies, 'Odd,' and
loses; but upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to
himself: 'The simpleton had them even upon the first trial, and his
amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have them odd upon
the second; I will therefore guess odd';--he guesses odd, and wins.
Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he would have
reasoned thus: 'This fellow finds that in the first instance I
guessed odd, and, in the second, he will propose to himself, upon the
first impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first
simpleton; but then a second thought will suggest that this is too
simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting it even
as before.  I will therefore guess even';--he guesses even, and wins.
Now this mode of reasoning in the school-boy, whom his fellows termed
'lucky'--what, in its last analysis, is it?"

"It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's
intellect with that of his opponent."

"It is," said Dupin; "and, upon inquiring of the boy by what means he
effected the _thorough_ identification in which his success
consisted, I received answer as follows: 'When I wish to find out how
wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what
are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression of my face,
as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his,
and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or
heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression.'  This
response of the schoolboy lies at the bottom of all the spurious
profundity which has been attributed to Rochefoucauld, to La Bougive,
to Machiavelli, and to Campanella."

"And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner's intellect with
that of his opponent depends, if I understand you aright, upon the
accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is admeasured."

"For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin; "and
the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first by default of
this identification, and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather
through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they are
engaged.  They consider only their _own_ ideas of ingenuity; and, in
searching for anything hidden advert only to the modes in which
_they_ would have hidden it.  They are right in this much that their
own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of _the mass_; but
when the cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character from
their own, the felon foils them, of course.  This always happens when
it is above their own, and very usually when it is below.  They have
no variation of principle in their investigations; at best, when
urged by some unusual emergency--by some extraordinary reward--they
extend or exaggerate their old modes of _practise_, without touching
their principles.  What, for example, in this case of D----, has been
done to vary the principle of action?  What is all this boring, and
probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope, and
dividing the surface of the building into registered square
inches--what is it all but an exaggeration _of the application_ of
the one principle or set of principles of search, which are based
upon the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity, to which the
Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, has been accustomed?  Do
you not see he has taken it for granted that _all_ men proceed to
conceal a letter, not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg,
but, at least, in _some_ out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by
the same tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter
in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg?  And do you not see also that
such _recherche_ nooks for concealment are adapted only for ordinary
occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary intellects; for, in
all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed--a
disposal of it in this _recherche_ manner--is in the very first
instance presumable and presumed; and thus its discovery depends, not
at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the care, patience, and
determination of the seekers; and where the case is of
importance--or, what amounts to the same thing in the political eyes,
when the reward is of magnitude--the qualities in question have
_never_ been known to fail.  You will now understand what I meant in
suggesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden anywhere within
the limits of the Prefect's examination--in other words, had the
principle of its concealment been comprehended within the principles
of the Prefect--its discovery would have been a matter altogether
beyond question.  This functionary, however, has been thoroughly
mystified; and the remote source of his defeat lies in the
supposition that the minister is a fool, because he has acquired
renown as a poet.  All fools are poets; this the Prefect _feels_; and
he is merely guilty of a _non distributio medii_ in thence inferring
that all poets are fools."

"But is this really the poet?" I asked.  "There are two brothers, I
know; and both have attained reputation in letters.  The minister, I
believe, has written learnedly on the Differential Calculus.  He is a
mathematician, and no poet."

"You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both.  As poet and
mathematician, he would reason well; as mere mathematician, he could
not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of
the Prefect."

"You surprise me," I said, "by these opinions, which have been
contradicted by the voice of the world.  You do not mean to set at
naught the well-digested idea of centuries.  The mathematical reason
has long been regarded as the _reason par excellence_.

"'_Il y a a parier_,'" replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, "'_que
toute idee publique, toute convention recue, est une sottise, car
elle a convenue au plus grand nombre._'  The mathematicians, I grant
you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error to which
you allude, and which is none the less an error for its promulgation
as truth.  With an art worthy a better cause, for example, they have
insinuated the term 'analysis' into application to algebra.  The
French are the originators of this particular deception; but if a
term is of any importance--if words derive any value from
applicability--then 'analysis' conveys 'algebra' about as much as, in
Latin, '_ambitus_' implies 'ambition,' '_religio_' 'religion,' or
'_homines honesti_' a set of _honorable_ men."

"You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of the
algebraists of Paris; but proceed."

"I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason which
is cultivated in any special form other than the abstractly logical.
I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathematical study.
The mathematics are the science of form and quantity; mathematical
reasoning is merely logic applied to observation upon form and
quantity.  The great error lies in supposing that even the truths of
what is called _pure_ algebra are abstract or general truths.  And
this error is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality
with which it has been received.  Mathematical axioms are _not_
axioms of general truth.  What is true of _relation_--of form and
quantity--is often grossly false in regard to morals, for example.
In this latter science it is very usually _un_true that the
aggregated parts are equal to the whole.  In chemistry also the axiom
fails.  In the consideration of motive it fails; for two motives,
each of a given value, have not, necessarily, a value when united,
equal to the sum of their values apart.  There are numerous other
mathematical truths which are only truths within the limits of
_relation_.  But the mathematician argues from his _finite truths_,
through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general
applicability--as the world indeed imagines them to be.

"Bryant, in his very learned 'Mythology,' mentions an analogous
source of error, when he says that 'although the pagan fables are not
believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences
from them as existing realities.'  With the algebraists, however, who
are pagans themselves, the 'pagan fables' _are_ believed, and the
inferences are made, not so much through lapse of memory as through
an unaccountable addling of the brains.  In short, I never yet
encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal
roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his
faith that _x^2+px_ was absolutely and unconditionally equal to _q_.
Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please,
that you believe occasions may occur where _x^2+px_ is not altogether
equal to _q_, and, having made him understand what you mean, get out
of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will
endeavor to knock you down.

"I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last
observations, "that if the minister had been no more than a
mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no necessity of
giving me this check.  I knew him, however, as both mathematician and
poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity, with reference to
the circumstances by which he was surrounded.  I knew him as a
courtier, too, and as a bold _intriguant_.  Such a man, I considered,
could not fail to be aware of the ordinary political modes of action.
He could not have failed to anticipate--and events have proved that
he did not fail to anticipate--the waylayings to which he was
subjected.  He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret
investigations of his premises.  His frequent absences from home at
night, which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his
success, I regarded only as _ruses_, to afford opportunity for
thorough search to the police, and thus the sooner to impress them
with the conviction to which G----, in fact, did finally arrive--the
conviction that the letter was not upon the premises.  I felt, also,
that the whole train of thought, which I was at some pains in
detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable principle of
political action in searches for articles concealed--I felt that this
whole train of thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the
minister.  It would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary
_nooks_ of concealment.  _He_ could not, I reflected, be so weak as
not to see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel
would be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes,
to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect.  I saw, in
fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of course, to
_simplicity_, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of
choice.  You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect
laughed when I suggested, upon our first interview, that it was just
possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its being so
_very_ self-evident."

"Yes," said I, "I remember his merriment well.  I really thought he
would have fallen into convulsions."

"The material world," continued Dupin, "abounds with very strict
analogies to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has been
given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be made
to strengthen an argument as well as to embellish a description.  The
principle of the _vis inertiæ_, for example, seems to be identical in
physics and metaphysics.  It is not more true in the former, that a
large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one,
and that its subsequent _momentum_ is commensurate with this
difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster
capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in
their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less
readily moved, and more embarrassed, and full of hesitation in the
first few steps of their progress.  Again: have you ever noticed
which of the street signs, over the shop doors, are the most
attractive of attention?"

"I have never given the matter a thought," I said.

"There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, "which is played upon a
map.  One party playing requires another to find a given word--the
name of town, river, state, or empire--any word, in short, upon the
motley and perplexed surface of the chart.  A novice in the game
generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most
minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch,
in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other.  These,
like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street,
escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious; and here the
physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral
inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those
considerations which are too obtrusively and too palpably
self-evident.  But this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or
beneath the understanding of the Prefect.  He never once thought it
probable, or possible, that the minister had deposited the letter
immediately beneath the nose of the whole world by way of best
preventing any portion of that world from perceiving it.

"But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and
discriminating ingenuity of D----; upon the fact that the document
must always have been _at hand_, if he intended to use it to good
purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect,
that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary's ordinary
search--the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the
minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient of
not attempting to conceal it at all.

"Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green
spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at the
Ministerial hotel.  I found D---- at home, yawning, lounging, and
dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of
_ennui_.  He is, perhaps, the most really energetic human being now
alive--but that is only when nobody sees him.

"To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the
necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and
thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent only
upon the conversation of my host.

"I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he
sat, and upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and
other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few books.
Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw
nothing to excite particular suspicion.

"At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a
trumpery filigree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a
dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the middle
of the mantelpiece.  In this rack, which had three or four
compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter.
This last was much soiled and crumpled.  It was torn nearly in two,
across the middle--as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it
entirely up as worthless, had been altered or stayed in the second.
It had a large black seal, bearing the D---- cipher _very_
conspicuously, and was addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to
D----, the minister, himself.  It was thrust carelessly, and even, as
it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the
rack.

"No sooner had I glanced at this letter than I concluded it to be
that of which I was in search.  To be sure, it was, to all
appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect had
read us so minute a description.  Here the seal was large and black,
with the D---- cipher; there it was small and red, with the ducal
arms of the S---- family.  Here, the address, to the minister, was
diminutive and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain royal
personage, was markedly bold and decided; the size alone formed a
point of correspondence.  But, then, the _radicalness_ of these
differences, which was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and torn
condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the _true_ methodical
habits of D----, and so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder
into an idea of the worthlessness of the document--these things,
together with the hyper obtrusive situation of this document, full in
the view of every visitor, and thus exactly in accordance with the
conclusions to which I had previously arrived; these things, I say,
were strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the
intention to suspect.

"I protracted my visit as long as possible, and while I maintained a
most animated discussion with the minister, upon a topic which I knew
well had never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention
really riveted upon the letter.  In this examination, I committed to
memory its external appearance and arrangement in the rack; and also
fell at length, upon a discovery which set at rest whatever trivial
doubt I might have entertained.  In scrutinizing the edges of the
paper, I observed them to be more _chafed_ than seemed necessary.
They presented the _broken_ appearance which is manifested when a
stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is
refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which
had formed the original fold.  This discovery was sufficient.  It was
clear to me that the letter had been turned as a glove, inside out,
redirected and resealed.  I bade the minister good-morning, and took
my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table.

"The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite
eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day.  While thus engaged,
however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard immediately
beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of
fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified mob.  D---- rushed
to a casement, threw it open, and looked out.  In the meantime I
stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and
replaced it by a _facsimile_ (so far as regards externals) which I
had carefully prepared at my lodgings--imitating the D---- cipher,
very readily, by means of a seal formed of bread.

"The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic
behavior of a man with a musket.  He had fired it among a crowd of
women and children.  It proved, however, to have been without ball,
and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard.
When he had gone, D---- came from the window, whither I had followed
him immediately upon securing the object in view.  Soon afterward I
bade him farewell.  The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay."

"But what purpose had you," I asked, "in replacing the letter by a
_facsimile_.  Would it not have been better, at the first visit, to
have seized it openly, and departed?"

"D----," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man, and a man of nerve.  His
hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interests.  Had
I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left the
Ministerial presence alive.  The good people of Paris might have
heard of me no more.  But I had an object apart from these
considerations.  You know my political prepossessions.  In this
matter, I act as a partizan of the lady concerned.  For eighteen
months the minister has had her in his power.  She has now him in
hers--since, being unaware that the letter is not in his possession,
he will proceed with his exactions as if it were.  Thus will he
commit himself, at once, to his political destruction.  His downfall,
too, will not be more precipitate than awkward.  It is all very well
to talk about the _facilis descensus Averni_; but in all kinds of
climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to get up
than to come down.  In the present instance I have no sympathy--at
least no pity--for him who descends.  He is that _monstram
horrendum_, an unprincipled man of genius.  I confess, however, that
I should like very well to know the precise character of his
thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms 'a certain
personage,' he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him
in the card-rack."

"How? did you put anything particular in it?"

"Why--it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior
blank--that would have been insulting.  D----, at Vienna once, did me
an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I should
remember.  So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to
the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity
not to give him a clue.  He is well acquainted with my MS., and I
just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words:

  "'---- ---- ---- ---- ---- Un dessein si funeste,
  S' il n' est digne d' Atree, est digne de Thyeste.'

They are to be found in Crébillon's 'Atrée.'"




THE SIGN OF THE FOUR

BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

_Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is undoubtedly the most popular living writer
of detective fiction.  Sherlock Holmes is said to have been suggested
to the author by a study of the character and talents of Joseph Bell,
M.D., F.R.C.S., a professor, while Dr. Doyle was a student at
Edinburgh University.  He was particularly strong on what the author
calls "the science of deduction."  He used to tell the students their
symptoms, and would even give them details of their past life.  No
collection of famous detective stories would be complete that omitted
"The Sign of the Four."_




THE SIGN OF THE FOUR

By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE



CHAPTER I

_The Science of Deduction_

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece
and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case.  With his
long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and
rolled back his left shirt-cuff.  For some little time his eyes
rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and
scarred with innumerable puncture-marks.  Finally he thrust the sharp
point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sunk back into the
velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance,
but custom had not reconciled my mind to it.  On the contrary, from
day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my
conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked
the courage to protest.  Again and again I had registered a vow that
I should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the
cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with
whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty.  His
great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had
of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and
backward in crossing him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the claret which I had taken
with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
longer.

"Which is it to-day?" I asked.  "Morphine or cocaine?"

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which
he had opened.  "It is cocaine," he said; "a seven per cent solution.
Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed," I answered, bruskly.  "My constitution has not got over
the Afghan campaign yet.  I can not afford to throw any extra strain
upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence.  "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.
"I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one.  I find it,
however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind
that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider!" I said, earnestly.  "Count the cost!  Your brain may,
as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and
morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change, and may at
last leave a permanent weakness.  You know, too, what a black
reaction comes upon you.  Surely the game is hardly worth the candle.
Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those
great powers with which you have been endowed?  Remember that I speak
not only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for
whose constitution he is to some extent answerable."

He did not seem offended.  On the contrary, he put his finger-tips
together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who
has a relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation.  Give me problems, give me
work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate
analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere, I can dispense then
with artificial stimulants.  But I abhor the dull routine of
existence.  I crave for mental exaltation.  That is why I have chosen
my own particular profession--or rather created it, for I am the only
one in the world."

"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered.  "I am the
last and highest court of appeal in detection.  When Gregson, or
Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the
way, is their normal state--the matter is laid before me.  I examine
the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion.  I
claim no credit in such cases.  My name figures in no newspaper.  The
work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers,
is my highest reward.  But you have yourself had some experience of
my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially.  "I was never so struck by anything
in my life.  I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat
fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

He shook his head sadly.  "I glanced over it," said he.  "Honestly, I
can not congratulate you upon it.  Detection is, or ought to be, an
exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
manner.  You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which
produces much the same effect as if you worked a love story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated.  "I could not tamper
with the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them.  The only point in
the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning
from effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially
designed to please him.  I confess, too, that I was irritated by the
egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should
be devoted to his own special doings.  More than once during the
years that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a
small vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner.  I
made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg.  I had had a
Jezail bullet through it some time before, and though it did not
prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the
weather.

"My practise has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes,
after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe.  "I was consulted
last week by François le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
rather to the front lately in the French detective service.  He has
all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the
wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher
developments of his art.  The case was concerned with a will, and
possessed some features of interest.  I was able to refer him to two
parallel cases; the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis
in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution.  Here is the
letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance."  He
tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign note-paper.  I
glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration,
with stray "magnifiques," "coup-de-maîtres," and "tours-de-force,"
all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.

"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes,
lightly.  "He has considerable gifts himself.  He possesses two out
of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective.  He has the
power of observation and that of deduction.  He is only wanting in
knowledge; and that may come in time.  He is now translating my small
works into French."

"Your works?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing.  "Yes, I have been guilty
of several monographs.  They are all upon technical subjects.  Here,
for example, is one 'Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the
Various Tobaccos.'  In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of
cigar, cigarette, and pipe tobacco, with colored plates illustrating
the difference in the ash.  It is a point which is continually
turning up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme
importance as a clue.  If you can say definitely, for example, that
some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah,
it obviously narrows your field of search.  To the trained eye there
is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the
white fluff of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."

"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiæ," I remarked.

"I appreciate their importance.  Here is my monograph upon the
tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of
Paris as a preserver of impresses.  Here, too, is a curious little
work upon the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with
lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, cork-cutters,
compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers.  That is a matter of
great practical interest to the scientific detective--especially in
cases of unclaimed bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of
criminals.  But I weary you with my hobby."

"Not at all," I answered, earnestly.  "It is of the greatest interest
to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your
practical application of it.  But you spoke just now of observation
and deduction.  Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his armchair,
and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe.  "For example,
observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there
you despatched a telegram."

"Right!" said I.  "Right on both points!  But I confess that I don't
see how you arrived at it.  It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and
I have mentioned it to no one."

"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise; "so
absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may
serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction.
Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mold adhering to
your instep.  Just opposite the Wigmore Street Office they have taken
up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way
that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.  The earth
is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, so far as I know,
nowhere else in the neighborhood.  So much is observation.  The rest
is deduction."

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat
opposite to you all the morning.  I see also in your open desk there
that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards.
What could you go into the postoffice for, then, but to send a wire?
Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the
truth."

"In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought.
"The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest.  Would you
think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe
test?"

"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a
second dose of cocaine.  I should be delighted to look into any
problem which you might submit to me."

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any
object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality
upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it.  Now, I
have here a watch which has recently come into my possession.  Would
you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or
habits of the late owner?"

I handed him the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my
heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I
intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
occasionally assumed.  He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard
at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his
naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens.  I could hardly keep
from smiling at his crestfallen face, when he finally snapped the
case to and handed it back.

"There are hardly any data," he remarked.  "The watch has been
recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

"You are right," I answered.  "It was cleaned before being sent to
me."  In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most
lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure.  What data could he
expect from an uncleaned watch?

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he
observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes.
"Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged
to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

"Quite so.  The W. suggests your own name.  The date of the watch is
nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch; so
it was made for the last generation.  Jewelry usually descends to the
eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as his
father.  Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years.
It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

"Right, so far," said I.  "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits--very untidy and careless.  He was
left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for
some time in poverty, with occasional short intervals of prosperity,
and finally, taking to drink, he died.  That is all I can gather."

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with
considerable bitterness in my heart.

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said.  "I could not have
believed that you would have descended to this.  You have made
inquiries into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend
to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way.  You can not expect me
to believe that you have read all this from his old watch!  It is
unkind, and, to speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

"My dear doctor," said he kindly, "pray accept my apologies.  Viewing
the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and
painful a thing it might be to you.  I assure you, however, that I
never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch."

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get all these
facts?  They are absolutely correct in every particular."

"Ah, that is good luck.  I could only say what was the balance of
probability.  I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

"But it was not mere guesswork?"

"No, no; I never guess.  It is a shocking habit--destructive to the
logical faculty.  What seems strange to you is only so because you do
not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which
large inferences may depend.  For example, I began by stating that
your brother was careless.  When you observe the lower part of that
watch-case you notice that it is not only dented in two places, but
it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard
objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket.  Surely it is no
great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so
cavalierly must be a careless man.  Neither is it a very far-fetched
inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty
well provided for in other respects."

I nodded to show that I followed his reasoning.

"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a
watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the
inside of the case.  It is more handy than a label, as there is no
risk of the number being lost or transposed.  There are no less than
four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case.
Inference--that your brother was often at low water.  Secondary
inference--that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could
not have redeemed the pledge.  Finally, I ask you to look at the
inner plate which contains the keyhole.  Look at the thousands of
scratches all around the hole--marks where the key has slipped.  What
sober man's key could have scored those grooves?  But you will never
see a drunkard's watch without them.  He winds it at night, and he
leaves these traces of his unsteady hand.  Where is the mystery in
all this?"

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered.  "I regret the injustice
which I did you.  I should have had more faith in your marvelous
faculty.  May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot
at present?"

"None.  Hence the cocaine.  I can not live without brain-work.  What
else is there to live for?  Stand at the window here.  Was ever such
a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world?  See how the yellow fog swirls
down the street and drifts across dun-colored houses.  What could be
more hopelessly prosaic and material?  What is the use of having
powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them?
Crime is commonplace, and existence is commonplace, and no qualities
save those which are commonplace have any function upon earth."

I had opened my mouth to reply to his tirade, when, with a crisp
knock, our landlady entered, bearing a card upon a brass salver.

"A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

"Miss Mary Morstan," he read.  "Hum!  I have no recollection of that
name.  Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson.  Don't go, doctor.
I prefer that you remain."



CHAPTER II

_The Statement of the Case_

Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
composure of manner.  She was a blond young lady, small, dainty, well
gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste.  There was, however, a
plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore with a
suggestion of limited means.  The dress was a sombre grayish beige,
untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull
hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side.  Her
face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but
her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were
singularly spiritual and sympathetic.  In an experience of women
which extends over many nations and three separate continents I have
never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined
and sensitive nature.  I could not but observe that, as she took the
seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her hand
quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled
my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic
complication.  She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated, thoughtfully.  "I believe that I
was of some slight service to her.  The case, however, as I remember
it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so.  But, at least, you can not say the same of
mine.  I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly
inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."

Holmes rubbed his hands and his eyes glistened.  He leaned forward in
his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his
clear-cut, hawk-like features.  "State your case," said he, in brisk
business tones.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.  "You will, I am
sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.
"If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stay, he might
be of inestimable service to me."

I relapsed into my chair.

"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these.  My father was an
officer in an Indian regiment, who sent me home when I was quite a
child.  My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England.  I was
placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at
Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age.
In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment,
obtained twelve months' leave and came home.  He telegraphed to me
from London that he had arrived all safe, and directed me to come
down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his address.  His message,
as I remember, was full of kindness and love.  On reaching London I
drove to the Langham, and was informed that Captain Morstan was
staying there, but that he had gone out the night before and had not
returned.  I waited all day without news of him.  That night, on the
advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police,
and next morning we advertised in all the papers.  Our inquiries led
to no result; and from that day to this no word has ever been heard
of my unfortunate father.  He came home, with his heart full of hope,
to find some peace, some comfort, and instead--"  She put her hand to
her throat, and a choking sob cut short the sentence.

"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

"He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878--nearly ten years ago."

"His luggage?"

"Remained at the hotel.  There was nothing in it to suggest a
clue--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
curiosities from the Andaman Islands.  He had been one of the
officers in charge of the convict guard there."

"Had he any friends in town?"

"Only one that we know of--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the
Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry.  The major had retired some little
time before, and lived at Upper Norwood.  We communicated with him,
of course, but he did not even know that his brother officer was in
England."

"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part.  About six
years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an advertisement
appeared in the 'Times' asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan,
and stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward.  There
was no name or address appended.  I had at that time just entered the
family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess.  By her
advice I published my address in the advertisement column.  The same
day there arrived through the post a small card-box addressed to me,
which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl.  No word of
writing was enclosed.  Since then, every year upon the same date,
there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar pearl,
without any clue as to the sender.  They have been pronounced by an
expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value.  You can
see for yourselves that they are very handsome."  She opened a flat
box as she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I had
ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Has
anything else occurred to you?"

"Yes; and no later than to-day.  That is why I have come to you.
This morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for
yourself."

"Thank you," said Holmes.  "The envelope, too, please.  Postmark,
London, S.W., date, July 7.  Hum!  Man's thumb-mark on
corner--probably postman.  Best quality paper.  Envelopes at sixpence
a packet.  Particular man in his stationery.  No address.  'Be at the
third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at
seven o'clock.  If you are distrustful, bring two friends.  You are a
wronged woman, and shall have justice.  Do not bring police.  If you
do, all will be in vain.  Your unknown friend.'  Well, really, this
is a very pretty little mystery.  What do you intend to do, Miss
Morstan?"

"That is exactly what I want to ask you."

"Then we shall most certainly go.  You and I and--yes, why, Doctor
Watson is the very man.  Your correspondent says two friends.  He and
I have worked together before."

"But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice
and expression.

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any
service."

"You are both very kind," she answered.  "I have led a retired life,
and have no friends whom I could appeal to.  If I am here at six it
will do, I suppose?"

"You must not be later," said Holmes.  "There is one other point,
however.  Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
addresses?"

"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of
paper.

"You are certainly a model client.  You have the correct intuition.
Let us see, now."  He spread out the papers upon the table and gave
little darting glances from one to the other.  "They are disguised
hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no
question as to the authorship.  See how the irrepressible Greek
ε will break out, and see the twirl of the final _s_.  They
are undoubtedly by the same person.  I should not like to suggest
false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this
hand and that of your father?"

"Nothing could be more unlike."

"I expected to hear you say so.  We shall look out for you, then, at
six.  Pray allow me to keep the papers.  I may look into the matter
before then.  It is only half-past three.  Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from
one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and
hurried away.  Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a
speck in the sombre crowd.

"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.

He had lighted his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping
eyelids.  "Is she?" he said, languidly.  "I did not observe."

"You really are an automaton--a calculating-machine!" I cried.
"There is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently.  "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to
allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities.  A client is
to me a mere unit--a factor in a problem.  The emotional qualities
are antagonistic to clear reasoning.  I assure you that the most
winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little
children for their insurance money, and the most repellent man of my
acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a
million upon the London poor."

"In this case, however--"

"I never make exceptions.  An exception disproves the rule.  Have you
ever had occasion to study character in handwriting?  What do you
make of this fellow's scribble?"

"It is legible and regular," I answered.  "A man of business habits
and some force of character."

Holmes shook his head.  "Look at his long letters," he said.  "They
hardly rise above the common herd.  That _d_ might be an _a_ and that
_l_ an _e_.  Men of character always differentiate their long
letters, however illegibly they may write.  There is vacillation in
his _k's_ and self-esteem in his capitals.  I am going out now.  I
have some few references to make.  Let me recommend this book--one of
the most remarkable ever penned.  It is Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of
Man.'  I shall be back in an hour."  I sat in the window with the
volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring
speculations of the writer.  My mind ran upon our late visitor--her
smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which
overhung her life.  If she were seventeen at the time of her father's
disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now--a sweet age, when
youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by
experience.  So I sat and mused, until such dangerous thoughts came
into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously
into the latest treatise upon pathology.  What was I, an army surgeon
with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should dare to
think of such things?  She was a unit, a factor--nothing more.  If my
future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man than to
attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination.



CHAPTER III

_In Quest of a Solution_

It was half-past five before Holmes returned.  He was bright, eager,
and in excellent spirits--a mood which in his case alternated with
fits of the blackest depression.

"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup
of tea which I had poured out for him.  "The facts appear to admit of
only one explanation."

"What! you have solved it already?"

"Well, that will be too much to say.  I have discovered a suggestive
fact, that is all.  It is, however, _very_ suggestive.  The details
are still to be added.  I have just found, on consulting the back
files of the 'Times,' that Major Sholto of Upper Norwood, late of the
Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

"No?  You surprise me.  Look at it in this way, then.  Captain
Morstan disappears.  The only person in London whom he could have
visited is Major Sholto.  Major Sholto denies having heard that he
was in London.  Four years later Sholto dies.  _Within a week of his
death_, Captain Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which
is repeated from year to year, and now culminates in a letter which
describes her as a wronged woman.  What wrong can it refer to except
this deprivation of her father?  And why should the presents begin
immediately after Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir
knows something of the mystery, and desires to make compensation?
Have you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation!  And how strangely made!  Why, too,
should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago?  Again, the
letter speaks of giving her justice.  What justice can she have?  It
is too much to suppose that her father is still alive.  There is no
other injustice in her case that you know of."

"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
Sherlock Holmes, pensively.  "But our expedition of to-night will
solve them all.  Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is
inside.  Are you all ready?  Then we had better go down, for it is a
little past the hour."

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes
took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket.  It
was clear that he thought our night's work might be a serious one.

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was
composed, but pale.  She must have been more than woman if she did
not feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were
embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered
the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said.
"His letters were full of allusions to the major.  He and papa were
in command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown
a great deal together.  By the way, a curious paper was found in
papa's desk which no one can understand.  I don't suppose that it is
of the slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it,
so I brought it with me.  It is here."

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his
knee.  He then very methodically examined it all over with his double
lens.

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked.  "It has at
some time been pinned to a board.  The diagram upon it appears to be
a plan of part of a large building, with numerous halls, corridors,
and passages.  At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and
above it is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing.  In the
left-hand corner is a curious hieroglyphic, like four crosses in a
line with their arms touching.  Beside it is written, in very rough
and coarse characters, 'The sign of the four--Jonathan Small, Mahomet
Singh, Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.'  No, I confess that I do not see
how this bears upon the matter!  Yet it is evidently a document of
importance.  It has been kept carefully in a pocket-book; for the one
side is as clean as the other."

"It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of
use to us.  I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be
much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed.  I must
reconsider my ideas."  He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by
his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently.
Miss Morstan and I chatted in an undertone about our present
expedition and its possible outcome, but our companion maintained his
impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey.

It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day
had been a dreary one, and a dense, drizzling fog lay low upon the
great city.  Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets.
Down the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light
which threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement.  The
yellow glare from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy,
vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded
thoroughfare.  There was to my mind something eery and ghost-like in
the endless procession of faces which flitted across these narrow
bars of light--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry.  Like all human
kind, they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into
the gloom once more.  I am not subject to impressions, but the dull,
heavy evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged,
combined to make me nervous and depressed.  I could see from Miss
Morstan's manner that she was suffering from the same feeling.
Holmes alone could rise superior to petty influences.  He held his
open note-book upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down
figures and memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the
side-entrances.  In front a continuous stream of hansoms and
four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of
shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women.  We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,
dark, brisk man, in the dress of a coachman, accosted us.

"Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said she.

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon
us.  "You will excuse me, miss," he said, with a certain dogged
manner, "but I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of
your companions is a police officer."

"I give you my word on that," she answered.

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
four-wheeler, and opened the door.  The man who had addressed us
mounted to the box, while we took our places inside.  We had hardly
done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away
at a furious pace through the foggy streets.

The situation was a curious one.  We were driving to an unknown
place, on an unknown errand.  Yet our invitation was either a
complete hoax, which was an inconceivable hypothesis, or else we had
good reason to think that important issues might hang upon our
journey.  Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as
ever.  I endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my
adventures in Afghanistan; but to tell the truth, I was myself so
excited at our situation and so curious as to our destination that my
stories were slightly involved.  To this day she declares that I told
her one moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the
dead of night, and how I fired a double-barreled tiger cub at it.  At
first I had some idea as to the direction in which we were driving;
but soon, what with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge
of London, I lost my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed
to be going a very long way.  Sherlock Holmes was never at fault,
however, and he muttered the names as the cab rattled through squares
and in and out by tortuous by-streets.

"Rochester Row," said he.  "Now Vincent Square.  Now we come out on
the Vauxhall Bridge Road.  We are making for the Surrey side
apparently.  Yes, I thought so.  Now we are on the bridge.  You can
catch glimpses of the river."

We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames, with
the lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed
on, and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other
side.

"Wordsworth Road," said my companion.  "Priory Road.  Lark Hall Lane.
Stockwell Place.  Robert Street.  Cold Harbor Lane.  Our quest does
not appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse
glare and tawdry brilliancy of public-houses at the corner.  Then
came rows of two-storied villas, each with a fronting of miniature
garden, and then again interminable lines of new staring brick
buildings--the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing
out into the country.  At last the cab drew up at the third house in
a new terrace.  None of the other houses was inhabited, and that at
which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single
glimmer in the kitchen window.  On our knocking, however, the door
was instantly thrown open by a Hindu servant clad in a yellow turban,
white, loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash.  There was something
strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the
commonplace doorway of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

"The sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a
high piping voice from some inner room.  "Show them in to me,
khitmutgar," it cried.  "Show them straight in to me."



CHAPTER IV

_The Story of the Bald-Headed Man_

We followed the Indian down the sordid and common passage,
ill-lighted and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the
right, which he threw open.  A blaze of yellow light streamed out
upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with
a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it,
and a bald, shining scalp, which shot out from among it like a
mountain-peak from fir-trees.  He rubbed his hands together as he
stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now
scowling, but never for an instant in repose.  Nature had given him a
pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth,
which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over
the lower part of his face.  In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he
gave the impression of youth.  In point of fact, he had just turned
his thirtieth year.

"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating in a thin, high
voice.  "Your servant, gentlemen.  Pray step into my little sanctum.
A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking.  An oasis of art
in the howling desert of South London."

We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which
he invited us.  In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a
diamond of the first water in a setting of brass.  The richest and
glossiest of curtains and draperies draped the walls, looped back
here and there to expose some richly mounted painting or Oriental
vase.  The carpet was of amber and black, so soft and so thick that
the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss.  Two great
tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern
luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner.  A
lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost
invisible golden wire in the centre of the room.  As it burned it
filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
smiling.  "That is my name.  You are Miss Morstan, of course.  And
these gentlemen--"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this Doctor Watson."

"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited.  "Have you your stethoscope?
Might I ask you--would you have the kindness?  I have grave doubts as
to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good.  The aortic I may
rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

I listened to his heart as requested, but was unable to find anything
amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered
from head to foot.  "It appears to be normal," I said.  "You have no
cause for uneasiness."

"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily.  "I
am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve.
I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted.  Had your father,
Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he
might have been alive now."

I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
callous and offhand reference to so delicate a matter.  Miss Morstan
sat down, and her face grew white to the lips.  "I knew in my heart
that he was dead," said she.

"I can give you every information," said he, "and what is more, I can
do you justice; and I will, too, whatever brother Bartholomew may
say.  I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort
to you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say.  The
three of us can show a bold front to brother Bartholomew.  But let us
have no outsiders--no police or officials.  We can settle everything
satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference.  Nothing
would annoy brother Bartholomew more than any publicity."  He sat
down upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak,
watery blue eyes.

"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go
no further."

I nodded to show my agreement.

"That is well!  That is well!" said he.  "May I offer you a glass of
Chianti, Miss Morstan? or of Tokay?  I keep no other wines.  Shall I
open a flask?  No?  Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
tobacco-smoke, to the mild, balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco.  I
am a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative."
He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
through the rose-water.  We sat all three in a semicircle, with our
heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange,
jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in
the centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,
"I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you.  I took
the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that
my man Williams might be able to see you first.  I have complete
confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were
dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter.  You will excuse
these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and, I might
even say, refined tastes, and there is nothing more unesthetic than a
policeman.  I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough
materialism.  I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd.  I live,
as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me.  I may
call myself a patron of the arts.  It is my weakness.  The landscape
is a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there can not be the least question
about the Bouguereau.  I am partial to the modern French school."

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here
at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me.  It
is very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as
possible."

"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
certainly have to go to Norwood and see brother Bartholomew.  We
shall all go and try if we can get the better of brother Bartholomew.
He is very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right
to me.  I had quite high words with him last night.  You can not
imagine what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
once," I ventured to remark.

He laughed until his ears were quite red.  "That would hardly do," he
cried.  "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that
sudden way.  No; I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand
to each other.  In the first place, I must tell you that there are
several points in the story of which I am myself ignorant.  I can
only lay the facts before you as far as I know them myself.

"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of
the Indian army.  He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live
at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood.  He had prospered in India,
and brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large
collection of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants.
With these advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great
luxury.  My twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan.  We read the details in the papers,
and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
the case freely in his presence.  He used to join in our speculations
as to what could have happened.  Never for an instant did we suspect
that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast--that of all
men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

"We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
danger--overhung our father.  He was very fearful of going out alone,
and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
Pondicherry Lodge.  Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of
them.  He was once a light-weight champion of England.  Our father
would never tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked
aversion to men with wooden legs.  On one occasion he actually fired
his revolver at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless
tradesman canvassing for orders.  We had to pay a large sum to hush
the matter up.  My brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my
father's, but events have since led us to change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a
great shock to him.  He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he
opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death.  What was in
the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it
that it was short and written in a scrawling hand.  He had suffered
for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse,
and toward the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all
hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us.

"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and
breathing heavily.  He besought us to lock the door and to come upon
either side of the bed.  Then, grasping our hands, he made a
remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much by
emotion as by pain.  I shall try and give it to you in his own very
words.

"'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this
supreme moment.  It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan.  The
cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has
withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which should have
been hers.  And yet I have made no use of it myself--so blind and
foolish a thing is avarice.  The mere feeling of possession has been
so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with another.  See
that chaplet tipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle.  Even that
I could not bear to part with, although I had got it out with the
design of sending it to her.  You, my sons, will give her a fair
share of the Agra treasure.  But send her nothing--not even the
chaplet--until I am gone.  After all, men have been as bad as this
and have recovered.

"'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued.  'He had suffered
for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one.  I
alone knew it.  When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain
of circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure.  I
brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he
came straight over here to claim his share.  He walked over from the
station, and was admitted by my faithful old Lal Chowdar, who is now
dead.  Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division
of the treasure, and we came to heated words.  Morstan had sprung out
of his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his
hand to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backward,
cutting his head against the corner of the treasure-chest.  When I
stooped over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

"'For a long time I sat half-distracted, wondering what I should do.
My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could
not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused
of his murder.  His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in
his head, would be black against me.  Again, an official inquiry
could not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure
which I was particularly anxious to keep secret.  He had told me that
no soul upon earth knew where he had gone.  There seemed to be no
necessity why any soul ever should know.

"'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my
servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway.  He stole in, and bolted the
door behind him.  "Do not fear, sahib," he said.  "No one need know
that you have killed him.  Let us hide him away, and who is the
wiser?"  "I did not kill him," said I.  Lal Chowdar shook his head,
and smiled.  "I heard it all, sahib," said he.  "I heard you quarrel,
and I heard the blow.  But my lips are sealed.  All are asleep in the
house.  Let us put him away together."  That was enough to decide me.
If my own servant could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to
make it good before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box?  Lal
Chowdar and I disposed of the body that night, and within a few days
the London papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of
Captain Morstan.  You will see from what I say that I can hardly be
blamed in the matter.  My fault lies in the fact that we concealed,
not only the body, but also the treasure, and that I have clung to
Morstan's share as well as to my own.  I wish you, therefore, to make
restitution.  Put your ears down to my mouth.  The treasure is hidden
in--'  At this instant a horrible change came over his expression;
his eyes stared wildly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled, in a voice
which I can never forget, 'Keep him out!  For Christ's sake, keep him
out!'  We both stared round at the window behind us upon which his
gaze was fixed.  A face was looking in at us out of the darkness.  We
could see the whitening of the nose where it was pressed against the
glass.  It was a bearded, hairy face, with wild, cruel eyes and an
expression of concentrated malevolence.  My brother and I rushed
toward the window, but the man was gone.  When we returned to my
father, his head had dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

"We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the
intruder, save that just under the window a single footmark was
visible in the flower-bed.  But for that one trace, we might have
thought that our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.
We soon, however, had another and a more striking proof that there
were secret agencies at work all around us.  The window of my
father's room was found open in the morning, his cupboards and boxes
had been rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of paper
with the words, 'The sign of the four' scrawled across it.  What the
phrase meant, or who our secret visitor may have been, we never knew.
As far as we can judge, none of my father's property had been
actually stolen, though everything had been turned out.  My brother
and I naturally associated this peculiar incident with the fear which
haunted my father during his life; but it is still a complete mystery
to us."

The little man stopped to relight his hookah, and puffed thoughtfully
for a few moments.  We had all sat absorbed, listening to his
extraordinary narrative.  At the short account of her father's death
Miss Morstan had turned deathly white, and for a moment I feared that
she was about to faint.  She rallied, however, on drinking a glass of
water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon
the side table.  Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
abstracted expression and the lids drawn over his glittering eyes.
As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day he had
complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life.  Here, at least,
was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost.  Mr.
Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious
pride at the effect which his story had produced, and then continued
between the puffs of his overgrown pipe:

"My brother and I;" said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited
as to the treasure which my father had spoken of.  For weeks and for
months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
discovering its whereabouts.  It was maddening to think that the
hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died.  We
could judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which
he had taken out.  Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had
some little discussion.  The pearls were evidently of great value,
and he was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother
was himself a little inclined to my father's fault.  He thought, too,
that if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip, and
finally bring us into trouble.  It was all that I could do to
persuade him to let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a
detached pearl at fixed intervals, so that, at least, she might never
feel destitute."

"It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly.  "It was
extremely good of you."

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly.  "We were your
trustees," he said.  "That was the view which I took of it, though
brother Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light.  We
had plenty of money ourselves.  I desired no more.  Besides, it would
have been such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a
fashion.  '_Le mauvais gout mene au crime_.'  The French have a very
neat way of putting these things.  Our difference of opinion on this
subject went so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for
myself; so I left Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and
Williams with me.  Yesterday, however, I learned that an event of
extreme importance had occurred.  The treasure has been discovered.
I instantly communicated with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for
us to drive out to Norwood and demand our share.  I explained my
views last night to brother Bartholomew; so we shall be expected, if
not welcome, visitors."

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious
settee.  We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new
development which the mysterious business had taken.  Holmes was the
first to spring to his feet.

"You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he.  "It is
possible that we may be able to make you some small return by
throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you.  But, as
Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the
matter through without delay."

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his
hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged
top-coat with astrakhan collar and cuffs.  This he buttoned tightly
up, in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his
attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which
covered the ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile
and peaky face.  "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he
led the way down the passage.  "I am compelled to be a
valetudinarian."

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our program was evidently
prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.
Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
the rattle of the wheels.

"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he.  "How do you think he
found out where the treasure was?  He had come to the conclusion that
it was somewhere indoors; so he worked out all the cubic space of the
house, and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should
be unaccounted for.  Among other things, he found that the height of
the building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the
heights of all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the
space between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring
the total to more than seventy feet.  There were four feet
unaccounted for.  These could only be at the top of the building.  He
knocked a hole, therefore, in the lath and plaster ceiling of the
highest room, and there, sure enough, he came upon another little
garret above it, which had been sealed up and was known to no one.
In the centre stood the treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters.  He
lowered it through the hole, and there it lies.  He computes the
value of the jewels at not less than half a million sterling."

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another
open-eyed.  Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change
from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England.  Surely it
was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am
ashamed to say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my
heart turned as heavy as lead within me.  I stammered out some few
halting words of congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head
drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance.  He was clearly
a confirmed hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was
pouring forth interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring
information as to the composition and action of innumerable quack
nostrums, some of which he bore about in a leather case in his
pocket.  I trust that he may not remember any of the answers which I
gave him that night.  Holmes declares that he overheard me caution
him against the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor
oil, while I recommended strychnine in larger doses as a sedative.
However that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled up
with a jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the door.

"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,
as he handed her out.



CHAPTER V

_The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge_

It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our
night's adventures.  We had left the damp fog of the great city
behind us, and the night was fairly fine.  A warm wind blew from the
westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a
moon peeping occasionally through the rifts.  It was clear enough to
see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the
side-lamps from the carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a
very high stone wall topped with broken glass.  A single narrow,
iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance.  On this our
guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is I, McMurdo.  You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound, and a clanking and jarring of keys.  The
door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the
opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his
protruded face and twinkling, distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus?  But who are the others?  I had no orders
about them from the master."

"No, McMurdo?  You surprise me!  I told my brother last night that I
should bring some friends."

"He hain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no
orders.  You know very well that I must stick to regulations.  I can
let you in; but your friends they must just stop where they are."

This was an unexpected obstacle!  Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in
a perplexed and helpless manner.  "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!"
he said.  "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you.  There is a
young lady, too.  She can not wait on the public road at this hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably.  "Folk may
be friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's.  He pays me
well to do my duty, and my duty I'll do.  I don't know none o' your
friends."

"Oh, yes, you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially.  "I
don't think you can have forgotten me.  Don't you remember the
amateur who fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the
night of your benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" roared the prize-fighter.  "God's truth!
how could I have mistook you?  If, instead o' standin' there so
quiet, you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours
under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question.  Ah, you're one
that has wasted your gifts, you have!  You might have aimed high, if
you had joined the fancy."

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing.  "Our
friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

"In you come, sir; in you come--you and your friends," he answered.
"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict.  Had to be
certain of your friends before I let them in."

Inside a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump
of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a
moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window.  The
vast size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence,
struck a chill to the heart.  Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at
ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

"I can not understand it," he said.  "There must be some mistake.  I
distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is
no light in his window.  I do not know what to make of it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom.  He was the favorite son,
you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more
than he ever told me.  That is Bartholomew's window up there where
the moonshine strikes.  It is quite bright, but there is no light
from within, I think."

"None," said Holmes.  "But I see the glint of a light in that little
window beside the door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room.  That is where old Mrs.
Bernstone sits.  She can tell us all about it.  But perhaps you would
not mind waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in
together, and she has had no word of our coming, she may be alarmed.
But hush! what is that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light
flickered and wavered all round us.  Miss Morstan seized my wrist,
and we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears.  From the
great black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest
and most pitiful of sounds--the shrill, broken whimpering of a
frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto.  "She is the only woman in the
house.  Wait here, I shall be back in a moment."  He hurried for the
door, and knocked in his peculiar way.  We could see a tall old woman
admit him and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come!  I am so glad you
have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!"  We heard her reiterated rejoicings
until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern.  Holmes swung it slowly round, and
peered keenly at the house and at the great rubbish-heaps which
cumbered the grounds.  Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her
hand was in mine.  A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we
two who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no
word or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an
hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other.  I
have marveled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural
thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me,
there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and
protection.  So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there
was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in
it.  I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near
Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."

"And from the same cause," said Holmes.  "These are the traces of the
treasure-seekers.  You must remember that they were six years looking
for it.  No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto
came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his
eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried.  "I am
frightened!  My nerves can not stand it."  He was, indeed,
half-blubbering with fear, and his twitching, feeble face, peeping
out from the great astrakhan collar, had the helpless, appealing
expression of a terrified child.

"Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto.  "I really do not feel equal to
giving directions."

We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the
left-hand side of the passage.  The old woman was pacing up and down
with a scared look and restless, picking fingers, but the sight of
Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

"God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with a hysterical sob.
"It does me good to see you.  Oh, but I have been sorely tried this
day!"

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few
words of kindly, womanly comfort which brought the color back into
the other's bloodless cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained.
"All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be
alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went
up and peeped through the keyhole.  You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus--you
must go up and look for yourself.  I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto
in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with
such a face on him as that."

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's
teeth were chattering in his head.  So shaken was he that I had to
pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees
were trembling under him.  Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his
lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to
me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoanut matting
which served as a stair-carpet.  He walked slowly from step to step,
holding the lamp low, and shooting keen glances to right and left.
Miss Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some
length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it
and three doors upon the left.  Holmes advanced along it in the same
slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our
long black shadows streaming backward down the corridor.  The third
door was that which we were seeking.  Holmes knocked without
receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it
open.  It was locked on the inside, however, and by a broad and
powerful bolt, as we could see when we set our lamp up against it.
The key being turned, however, the hole was not entirely closed.
Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and instantly rose again with a
sharp intaking of the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved
than I had ever before seen him.  "What do you make of it?"

I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror.  Moonlight was
streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty
radiance.  Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the
air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face--the very face
of our companion Thaddeus.  There was the same high, shining head,
the same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless
countenance.  The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a
fixed and unnatural grin, which, in that still and moonlit room, was
more jarring to the nerves than any scowl or contortion.  So like was
the face to that of our little friend that I looked round at him to
make sure that he was indeed with us.  Then I recalled to mind that
he had mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes.  "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he
put all his weight upon the lock.  It creaked and groaned, but did
not yield.  Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this
time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within
Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory.  A
double line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall
opposite the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen
burners, test-tubes, and retorts.  In the corners stood carboys of
acid in wicker baskets.  One of these appeared to leak or to have
been broken, for a stream of dark-colored liquid had trickled out
from it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like
odor.  A set of steps stood at one side of the room, in the midst of
a litter of lath and plaster, and above them there was an opening in
the ceiling large enough for a man to pass through.  At the foot of
the steps a long coil of rope was thrown carelessly together.

By the table, in a wooden armchair, the master of the house was
seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and
that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face.  He was stiff and
cold, and had clearly been dead many hours.  It seemed to me that not
only his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the
most fantastic fashion.  By his hand upon the table there lay a
peculiar instrument--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head
like a hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine.  Beside it was a
torn sheet of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it.  Holmes
glanced at it, and then handed it to me.

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The
sign of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man.  "Ah, I
expected it.  Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long, dark
thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn.  You may pick it out.  But be careful, for it is
poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb.  It came away from the skin
so readily that hardly any mark was left behind.  One tiny speck of
blood showed where the puncture had been.

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I.  "It grows darker
instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant.  I only
require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the
chamber.  He was still standing in the doorway, the very picture of
terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself.  Suddenly,
however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he said.  "They have robbed him of the
treasure!  There is the hole through which we lowered it.  I helped
him to do it!  I was the last person who saw him!  I left him here
last night, and I heard him lock the door as I came downstairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock.  And now he is dead, and the police will be
called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it.  Oh,
yes, I am sure I shall.  But you don't think so, gentlemen?  Surely
you don't think that it was I?  Is it likely that I would have
brought you here if it were I?  Oh, dear! oh, dear!  I know that I
shall go mad!"  He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of
convulsive frenzy.

"You have no reason to fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly,
putting his hand upon his shoulder.  "Take my advice, and drive down
to the station and report the matter to the police.  Offer to assist
them in every way.  We shall wait here until your return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him
stumbling down the stairs in the dark.



CHAPTER VI

_Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration_

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour
to ourselves.  Let us make good use of it.  My case is, as I have
told you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of
overconfidence.  Simple as the case seems now, there may be something
deeper underlying it."

"Simple!" I ejaculated.

"Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor
expounding to his class.  "Just sit in the corner there, that your
footprints may not complicate matters.  Now to work!  In the first
place, how did these folks come, and how did they go?  The door has
not been opened since last night.  How of the window?"  He carried
the lamp across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while,
but addressing them to himself rather than to me.  "Window is snibbed
on the inner side.  Framework is solid.  No hinges at the side.  Let
us open it.  No water-pipe near it.  Roof quite out of reach.  Yet a
man has mounted by the window.  It rained a little last night.  Here
is the print of a foot in mold upon the sill.  And here is a circular
muddy mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the
table.  See here, Watson!  This is really a very pretty
demonstration."

I looked at the round, well-defined, muddy disks.  "This is not a
footmark," said I.

"It is something much more valuable to us.  It is the impression of a
wooden stump.  You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy
boot with a broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the
timber-toe."

"It is the wooden-legged man."

"Quite so.  But there has been some one else--a very able and
efficient ally.  Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

I looked out of the open window.  The moon still shone brightly on
that angle of the house.  We were a good sixty feet from the ground,
and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a
crevice in the brick-work.

"It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

"Without aid it is so.  But suppose you had a friend up here who
lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing
one end of it to this great hook in the wall.  Then, I think, if you
were an active man you might climb up, wooden leg and all.  You would
depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up
the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the
inside, and get away in the way that he originally came.  As a minor
point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our
wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional
sailor.  His hands were far from horny.  My lens discloses more than
one blood-mark, especially toward the end of the rope, from which I
gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin
off his hands."

"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more
unintelligible than ever.  How about this mysterious ally?  How came
he into the room?"

"Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively.  "There are features of
interest about this ally.  He lifts the case from the regions of the
commonplace.  I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the
annals of crime in this country--though parallel cases suggest
themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

"How came he, then?" I reiterated.  "The door is locked, the window
is inaccessible.  Was it through the chimney?"

"The grate is much too small," he answered.  "I have already
considered that possibility."

"How then?" I persisted.

"You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head.  "How
often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the
impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?
We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the
chimney.  We also know that he could not have been concealed in the
room, as there is no concealment possible.  Where, then, did he come?"

"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

"Of course he did.  He must have done so.  If you will have the
kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches
to the room above--the secret room in which the treasure was found."

He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he
swung himself up into the garret.  Then, lying on his face, he
reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way
and six the other.  The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin
lath and plaster between them, so that in walking one had to step
from beam to beam.  The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the
inner shell of the true roof of the house.  There was no furniture of
any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand
against the sloping wall.  "This is a trap-door which leads out on to
the roof.  I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping
at a gentle angle.  This, then, is the way by which Number One
entered.  Let us see if we can find some other traces of his
individuality."

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the
second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.
For myself, as I followed his gaze, my skin was cold under my
clothes.  The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked
foot--clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size
of those of an ordinary man.

"Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done this horrid thing."

He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.  "I was staggered
for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural.  My memory
failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it.  There is
nothing more to be learned here.  Let us go down."

"What is your theory, then, as to those foot-marks?" I asked,
eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more.

"My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a
touch of impatience.  "You know my methods.  Apply them; and it will
be instructive to compare results."

"I can not conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered.

"It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way.
"I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will
look."  He whipped out his lens and a tape-measure, and comparing,
examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks,
and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird.  So
swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a
trained bloodhound picking out a scent, that I could not but think
what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy
and sagacity against the law instead of exerting them in its defense.
As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he
broke out into a loud crow of delight.

"We are certainly in luck," said he.  "We ought to have very little
trouble now.  Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the
creosote.  You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here
at the right of this evil-smelling mess.  The carboy has been
cracked, you see, and the stuff has leaked out."

"What then?" I asked.

"Why, we have got him, that's all," said he.  "I know a dog that
would follow that scent to the world's end.  If a pack can track a
trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially trained hound
follow so pungent a smell as this?  It sounds like a sum in the rule
of three.  The answer should give us the--  But halloo! here are the
accredited representatives of the law."

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below,
and the hall door shut with a loud crash.

"Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this
poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg.  What do you feel?"

"The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

"Quite so.  They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding
the usual 'rigor mortis.'  Coupled with this distortion of the face,
this Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers
called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

"Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered; "some
strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn
muscles of the face.  On getting into the room I at once looked for
the means by which the poison had entered the system.  As you saw, I
discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force
into the scalp.  You observe that the part struck was that which
would be turned toward the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect
in his chair.  Now examine this thorn."

I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern.  It
was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as
though some gummy substance had dried upon it.  The blunt end had
been trimmed and rounded off with a knife.

"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

"No, it certainly is not."

"With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a
retreat."

As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on
the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode
heavily into the room.  He was red-faced, burly, and plethoric, with
a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from
between swollen and puffy pouches.  He was closely followed by an
inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

"Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice.  "Here's a
pretty business!  But who are all these?  Why, the house seems to be
as full as a rabbit-warren."

"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes
quietly.

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed.  "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
theorist.  Remember you!  I'll never forget how you lectured us all
on causes, and inferences, and effects in the Bishopsgate jewel case.
It's true you set us on the right track, but you'll own now that it
was more by good luck than good guidance."

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

"Oh, come, now, come!  Never be ashamed to own up.  But what is all
this?  Bad business!  Bad business!  Stern facts here--no room for
theories.  How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over
another case!  I was at the station when the message arrived.  What
d'you think the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes,
dryly.

"No, no.  Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes.  Dear me!  Door locked, I understand.  Jewels worth half a
million missing.  How was the window?"

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

"Well, well; if it was fastened, the steps could have nothing to do
with the matter.  That's common sense.  Man might have died in a fit;
but then the jewels are missing.  Ha!  I have a theory.  These
flashes come upon me at times.  Just step outside, sergeant, and you,
Mr. Sholto.  Your friend can remain.  What do you think of this,
Holmes?  Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last
night.  The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with
the treasure.  How's that?"

"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door
on the inside."

"Hum!  There's a flaw there.  Let us apply common sense to the
matter.  This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was a
quarrel; so much we know.  The brother is dead and the jewels are
gone.  So much also we know.  No one saw the brother from the time
Thaddeus left him.  His bed had not been slept in.  Thaddeus is
evidently in a most disturbed state of mind.  His appearance
is--well, not attractive.  You see that I am weaving my web round
Thaddeus.  The net begins to close upon him."

"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes.
"This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be
poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this
card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay
this rather curious stone-headed instrument.  How does all this fit
into your theory?"

"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously.
"House is full of Indian curiosities.  Thaddeus brought this up, and
if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made
murderous use of it as any other man.  The card is some
hocus-pocus--a blind, as like as not.  The only question is, How did
he depart?  Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof."  With great
activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed
through into the garret, and immediately afterward we heard his
exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trapdoor.

"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.
"He has occasional glimmerings of reason.  _I'l n'y a pas des sots si
incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!_"

"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
"Facts are better than mere theories, after all.  My view of the case
is confirmed.  There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and
it is partly open."

"It was I who opened it."

"Oh, indeed!  You did notice it, then?"  He seemed a little
crestfallen at the discovery.  "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows
how our gentleman got away.  Inspector!"

"Yes, sir," from the passage.

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.  Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to
inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you.
I arrest you in the queen's name as being concerned in the death of
your brother."

"There, now!  Didn't I tell you?" cried the poor little man, throwing
out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes.  "I think
that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist--don't promise too much!"
snapped the detective.  "You may find it a harder matter than you
think."

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
present of the name and description of one of the two people who were
in the room last night.  His name, I have every reason to believe, is
Jonathan Small.  He is a poorly educated man; small, active, with his
right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the
inner side.  His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an
iron band round the heel.  He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned,
and has been a convict.  These few indications may be of some
assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of
skin missing from the palm of his hand.  The other man--"

"Ah! the other man?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of
the other's manner.

"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
heel.  "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the
pair of them.  A word with you, Watson."

He led me out to the head of the stair.  "This unexpected
occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the
original purpose of our journey."

"I have just been thinking so," I answered.  "It is not right that
Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

"No.  You must escort her home.  She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
in Lower Camberwell; so it is not very far.  I will wait for you
here, if you will drive out again.  Or perhaps you are too tired?"

"By no means.  I don't think I could rest until I know more of this
fantastic business.  I have seen something of the rough side of life,
but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange
surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely.  I should like,
however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so
far."

"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered.  "We
shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to
exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct.  When
you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go to No. 3 Pinchin Lane,
down near the water's edge, at Lambeth.  The third house on the
right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's; Sherman is the name.  You will
see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window.  Rouse old Sherman
up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once.  You
will bring Toby back in the cab with you."

"A dog, I suppose?"

"Yes, a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent.  I would
rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of
London."

"I shall bring him, then," said I.  "It is one now.  I ought to be
back before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs.
Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tells me,
sleeps in the next garret.  Then I shall study the great Jones's
methods, and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms.  '_Wir sind
gewohnt, dass die Menschen verhohnen was sie nicht verstehen._'
Goethe is always pithy."



CHAPTER VII

The Episode of the Barrel

The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
Morstan back to her home.  After the angelic fashion of women, she
had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one
weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid
by the side of the frightened housekeeper.  In the cab, however, she
first turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping, so
sorely had she been tried by the adventures of the night.

She has told me since that she thought me cold and distant upon that
journey.  She little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the
effort of self-restraint which held me back.  My sympathies and my
love went out to her, even as my hand had in the garden.  I felt that
years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her
sweet, brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences.  Yet
there were two thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my
lips.  She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve.  It was
to take her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a
time.  Worse still she was rich.  If Holmes's researches were
successful, she would be an heiress.  Was it fair, was it honorable,
that a half-pay surgeon should take such advantage of an intimacy
which chance had brought about?  Might she not look upon me as a mere
vulgar fortune-seeker?  I could not bear to risk that such a thought
should cross her mind.  This Agra treasure intervened like an
impassable barrier between us.

It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's.
The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received,
that she had sat up in the hope of her return.  She opened the door
herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how
tenderly her arm stole round the other's waist, and how motherly was
the voice in which she greeted her.  She was clearly no mere paid
dependent, but an honored friend.  I was introduced, and Mrs.
Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and to tell her our
adventures.  I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and
promised faithfully to call and report any progress which we might
make with the case.  As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I
still seem to see that little group on the step, the two graceful,
clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining
through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods.  It
was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English
home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.

And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
grew.  I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
rattled on through the silent, gas-lighted streets.  There was the
original problem: that at least was pretty clear now.  The death of
Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the
letter--we had had light upon all those events.  They had only led
us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery.  The Indian
treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange
scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure
immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer, the very
singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable
weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding with those upon
Captain Morstan's chart--here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man
less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair at
ever finding the clue.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the
lower quarter of Lambeth.  I had to knock for some time at No. 3
before I could make any impression.  At last, however, there was the
glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the
upper window.

"Go on, you drunken vagabond!" said the face.  "If you kick up any
more row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs at you."

"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

"Go on!" yelled the voice.  "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in
this bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't book it!"

"But I want a dog," I cried.

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman.  "Now stand clear; for
when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began; but the words had a most magical
effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute
the door was unbarred and open.  Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old
man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he.  "Step in,
sir.  Keep clear of the badger; for he bites.  Ah, naughty, naughty!
would you take a nip at the gentleman?"  This to a stoat which thrust
its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage.  "Don't
mind that, sir; it's only a slow-worm.  It hain't got no fangs, so I
gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the beetles down.  You
must not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm
guyed by the children, and there's many a one just comes down this
lane to rouse me up.  What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted,
sir?"

"He wanted a dog of yours."

"Ah! that would be Toby."

"Yes, Toby was the name."

"Toby lives at No. 7, on the left here."  He moved slowly forward
with his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered
round him.  In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that
there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every
cranny and corner.  Even the rafters above our heads were lined by
solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the
Other as our voices disturbed their slumbers.

Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half
spaniel and half lurcher, brown and white in color, with a very
clumsy waddling gait.  It accepted, after some hesitation, a lump of
sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and having thus sealed
an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties
about accompanying me.  It had just struck three on the Palace clock
when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge.  The
ex-prize-fighter, McMurdo, had, I found, been arrested as an
accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the
station.  Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me
to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective's name.

Holmes was standing on the doorstep, with his hands in his pockets,
smoking his pipe.

"Ah, you have him there!" said he.  "Good dog, then!  Athelney Jones
has gone.  We have had an immense display of energy since you left.
He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the
housekeeper, and the Indian servant.  We have the place to ourselves
but for a sergeant upstairs.  Leave the dog here and come up."

We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs.  The room
was as we had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
central figure.  A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the
corner.

"Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion.  "Now tie
this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me.
Thank you.  Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.  Just you
carry them down with you, Watson.  I am going to do a little
climbing.  And dip my handkerchief into the creosote.  That will do.
Now come up into the garret with me for a moment."

We clambered up through the hole.  Holmes turned his light once more
upon the footsteps in the dust.

"I wish particularly to notice these foot-marks," he said.  "Do you
observe anything noteworthy about them?"

"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

"Apart from their size, though.  Is there nothing else?"

"They appear to be much as other foot-marks."

"Not at all.  Look here!  This is the print of a right foot in the
dust.  Now I make one with my naked foot beside it.  What is the
chief difference?"

"Your toes are all cramped together.  The other print has each toe
distinctly divided."

"Quite so.  That is the point.  Bear that in mind.  Now, would you
kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the
woodwork?  I shall stay over here as I have this handkerchief in my
hand."

I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
smell.

"That is where he put his foot in getting out.  If you can trace him,
I should think that Toby will have no difficulty.  Now run
downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

By the time that I got out into the grounds, Sherlock Holmes was on
the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glowworm crawling very
slowly along the ridge.  I lost sight of him behind a stack of
chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more
upon the opposite side.  When I made my way round there I found him
seated at one of the corner eaves.

"That you, Watson?" he cried.

"Yes."

"This is the place.  What is that black thing down there?'

"A water-barrel."

"Top on it?"

"Yes."

"No sign of a ladder?"

"No."

"Confound the fellow!  It's a most break-neck place, I ought to be
able to come down where he could climb up.  The water-pipe feels
pretty firm.  Here goes, anyhow."

There was a shuffling of the feet, and the lantern began to come
steadily down the side of the wall.  Then with a light spring he came
on to the barrel, and from there to the earth.

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
boots.  "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
had dropped this.  It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express
it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven
out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it.
In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case.  Inside were
half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the
other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

"They are hellish things," said he.  "Look out that you don't prick
yourself.  I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
are all he has.  There is the less fear of you or me finding one in
our skin before long.  I would sooner face a Martini bullet myself.
Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

"Certainly," I answered.

"Your leg will stand it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Here you are, doggy!  Good old Toby!  Smell it, Toby; smell it!"  He
pushed the creosote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most
comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of
a famous vintage.  Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance,
fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and led him to the
foot of the water-barrel.  The creature instantly broke into a
succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground
and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which
strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed.

The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
distance in the cold, gray light.  The square, massive house, with
its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and
forlorn, behind us.  Our course led right across the grounds, in and
out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and
intersected.  The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and
ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized
with the black tragedy which hung over it.

On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
young beech.  Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.
Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over
upon the other side.

"There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted
up beside him.  "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white
plaster.  What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy
rain since yesterday!  The scent will lie upon the road in spite of
their eight-and-twenty hours' start."

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval.  My
fears were soon appeased, however.  Toby never hesitated or swerved,
but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion.  Clearly, the pungent
smell of the creosote rose high above all other contending scents.

"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this
case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
in the chemical.  I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways.  This, however, is the readiest, and,
since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I
neglected it.  It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the
pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to
be.  There might have been some credit to be gained out of it but for
this too palpable clue."

"There is credit, and to spare," said I.  "I assure you, Holmes, that
I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case,
even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope murder.  The thing seems
to me to be deeper and more inexplicable.  How, for example, could
you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself.  I don't wish to be
theatrical.  It is all patent and above-board.  Two officers who are
in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
treasure.  A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
Small.  You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
Morstan's possession.  He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
associates--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
it.  Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the
treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some
condition under which he received it unfulfilled.  Now, then, why did
not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself?  The answer is obvious.
The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close
association with convicts.  Jonathan Small did not get the treasure
because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not
get away."

"But this is mere speculation," said I.

"It is more than that.  It is the only hypothesis which covers the
facts.  Let us see how it fits in with the sequel.  Major Sholto
remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his
treasure.  Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a
great fright.  What was that?"

"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

"Or had escaped.  That is much more likely, for he would have known
what their term of imprisonment was.  It would not have been a
surprise to him.  What does he do then?  He guards himself against a
wooden-legged man--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white
tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him.  Now, only one
white man's name is on the chart.  The others are Hindus or
Mohammedans.  There is no other white man.  Therefore we may say with
confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan
Small.  Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?"

"No; it is clear and concise."

"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small.  Let
us look at it from his point of view.  He comes to England with the
double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and
of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him.  He found out
where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications
with some one inside the house.  There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom
we have not seen.  Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good
character.  Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was
hid, for no one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant
who had died.  Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his
death-bed.  In a frenzy lest the secret of the treasure die with him,
he runs the gauntlet of the guards, makes his way to the dying man's
window, and is only deterred from entering by the presence of his two
sons.  Mad with hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the
room that night, searches his private papers in the hope of
discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally
leaves a memento of his visit in the short inscription upon the card.
He had doubtless planned beforehand that should he slay the major he
would leave some such record upon the body as a sign that it was not
a common murder, but, from the point of view of the four associates,
something in the nature of an act of justice.  Whimsical and bizarre
conceits of this kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and
usually afford valuable indications as to the criminal.  Do you
follow all this?"

"Very clearly."

"Now, what could Jonathan Small do?  He could only continue to keep a
secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure.  Possibly he
leaves England and only comes back at intervals.  Then comes the
discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it.  We
again trace the presence of some confederate in the household.
Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty
room of Bartholomew Sholto.  He takes with him, however, a rather
curious associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked
foot into creosote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for a
half-pay officer with a damaged tendo Achillis."

"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the crime."

"Quite so.  And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way he
stamped about when he got into the room.  He bore no grudge against
Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
simply bound and gagged.  He did not wish to put his head in a
halter.  There was no help for it, however; the savage instincts of
his companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work; so
Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the
ground, and followed it himself.  That was the train of events as far
as I can decipher them.  Of course as to his personal appearance he
must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in
such an oven as the Andamans.  His height is readily calculated from
the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded.  His
hairiness was the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus
Sholto when he saw him at the window.  I don't know that there is
anything else."

"The associate?"

"Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that.  But you will know all
about it soon enough.  How sweet the morning air is!  See how that
one little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic
flamingo.  Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London
cloud-bank.  It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet,
who is on a stranger errand than you and I.  How small we feel with
our petty ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great
elemental forces of nature!  Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

"Fairly so.  I worked back to him through Carlyle."

"That was like following the brook to the parent lake.  He makes one
curious but profound remark.  It is that the chief proof of a man's
real greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness.  It
argues, you see, a power of comparison and of appreciation, which is
in itself a proof of nobility.  There is much food for thought in
Richter.  You have not a pistol, have you?"

"I have my stick."

"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
to their lair.  Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
nasty I shall shoot him dead."  He took out his revolver as he spoke,
and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
right-hand pocket of his jacket.

We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
half-rural, villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis.  Now,
however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
taking down shutters and brushing doorsteps.  At the square-topped
corner public-house business was just beginning, and rough-looking
men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after
their morning wet.  Strange dogs sauntered up, and stared wonderingly
at us as we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the
right nor to the left, but trotted onward with his nose to the ground
and an occasional eager whine, which spoke of a hot scent.

We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the side
streets to the east of the Oval.  The men whom we pursued seemed to
have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
escaping observation.  They had never kept to the main road if a
parallel side street would serve their turn.  At the foot of
Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street
and Miles Street.  Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place,
Toby ceased to advance, but began to run backward and forward with
one ear cocked and the other drooping, the very picture of canine
indecision.  Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from
time to time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes.  "They
surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

"Ah! it's all right.  He's off again," said my companion, in a tone
of relief.

He was indeed off; for, after sniffing round again, he suddenly made
up his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as
he had not yet shown.  The scent appeared to be much hotter than
before, for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged
at his leash, and tried to break into a run.  I could see by the
gleam in Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our
journey.

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern.  Here
the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side gate
into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work.  On the
dog raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a
passage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
sprung upon a large barrel, which still stood upon the hand-trolley
on which it had been brought.  With lolling tongue and blinking eyes,
Toby stood upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for
some sign of appreciation.  The staves of the barrel and the wheels
of the trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was
heavy with the smell of creosote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked at each other, and then burst
simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.



CHAPTER VIII

_The Baker Street Irregulars_

"What now?" I asked.  "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

"He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down
from the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard.  "If you
consider how much creosote is carried about London in one day, it is
no great wonder that our trail should have been crossed.  It is much
used now, especially for the seasoning of wood.  Poor Toby is not to
blame."

"We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

"Yes.  And, fortunately, we have no distance to go.  Evidently what
puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were
two different trails running in opposite directions.  We took the
wrong one.  It only remains to follow the other."

There was no difficulty about this.  On leading Toby to the place
where he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle, and
finally dashed off in a fresh direction.

"We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where
the creosote barrel came from," I observed.

"I had thought of that.  But you notice that he keeps on the
pavement, whereas the barrel passed down the roadway.  No, we are on
the true scent now."

It tended down toward the river-side, running through Belmont Place
and Prince's Street.  At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf.  Toby led us
to the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the
dark current beyond.

"We are out of luck," said Holmes.  "They have taken to a boat here."
Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water on the
edge of the wharf.  We took Toby round to each in turn, but, though
he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a
wooden placard slung out through the second window.  "Mordecai Smith"
was printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to
hire by the hour or day."  A second inscription above the door
informed us that a steam launch was kept--a statement which was
confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty.  Sherlock Holmes
looked slowly around, and his face assumed an ominous expression.

"This looks bad," said he.  "These fellows are sharper than I
expected.  They seem to have covered their tracks.  There has, I
fear, been preconcerted management here."

He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a
little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a
stoutish, red-faced woman, with a large sponge in her hand.

"You come back and be washed, Jack!" she shouted.  "Come back, you
young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that,
he'll let us hear of it!"

"Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically, "What a rosy-cheeked
young rascal!  Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?"

The youth pondered for a moment.  "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

"Nothing you would like better?"

"I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some
thought.

"Here you are, then!  Catch!  A fine child, Mrs. Smith."

"Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward.  He gets a'most too
much for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a time."

"Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice.  "I am sorry for
that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

"He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I
am beginning to feel frightened about him.  But if it was about a
boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well."

"I wanted to hire his steam launch."

"Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.
That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than
would take her to about Woolwich and back.  If he'd been away in the
barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as
far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha'
stayed over.  But what good is a steam launch without coals?"

"He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

"He might, sir, but it weren't his way.  Many a time I've heard him
call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags.  Besides, I
don't like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish
talk.  What did he want always knockin' about here for?"

"A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

"Yes, sir; a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for
my old man.  It was him that roused him up yesternight, and what's
more, my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch.
I tell you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."

"But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "you
are frightening yourself about nothing.  How could you possibly tell
that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night?  I don't
quite understand how you can be so sure."

"His voice, sir.  I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.
He tapped at the winder--about three it would be.  'Show a leg,
matey,' says he; 'time to turn out guard.'  My old man woke Jim
up--that's my eldest--and away they went, without so much as a word
to me.  I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones."

"And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

"Couldn't say, I am sure, sir.  I didn't hear no one else."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have
heard good reports of the--  Let me see, what is her name?"

"The 'Aurora,' sir."

"Ah!  She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad
in the beam?"

"No, indeed.  She's as trim a little thing as any on the river.
She's been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

"Thanks.  I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith.  I am going
down the river; and if I should see anything of the 'Aurora' I shall
let him know that you are uneasy.  A black funnel, you say?"

"No, sir.  Black with a white band."

"Ah, of course.  It was the sides which were black.  Good morning,
Mrs. Smith.  There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson.  We shall
take it and cross the river."

"The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in
the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their
information can be of the slightest importance to you.  If you do,
they will instantly shut up like an oyster.  If you listen to them
under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want."

"Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

"What would you do then?"

"I would engage a launch and go down the track of the 'Aurora.'"

"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task.  She may have touched
at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.
Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for
miles.  It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set
about it alone."

"Employ the police then."

"No.  I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment.  He
is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would
injure him professionally.  But I have a fancy for working it out
myself, now that we have gone so far."

"Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?"

"Worse and worse!  Our men would know that the chase was hot at their
heels, and they would be off out of the country.  As it is, they are
likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly
safe they will be in no hurry.  Jones's energy will be of use to us
there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily
press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong
scent."

"What are we to do then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank
Penitentiary.

"Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's
sleep.  It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.
Stop at a telegraph office, cabby.  We will keep Toby, for he may be
of use to us yet."

We pulled up at the Great Peter Street Post-office, and Holmes
despatched his wire.  "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we
resumed our journey.

"I am sure I don't know."

"You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force
whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

"Well," said I, laughing.

"This is just the case where they might be invaluable.  If they fail,
I have other resources; but I shall try them first.  That wire was to
my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his
gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast."

It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a
strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night.  I was
limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body.  I had not the
professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I
look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem.  As far
as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of
him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderer.  The
treasure, however, was a different matter.  That, or part of it,
belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan.  While there was a chance of
recovering it, I was ready to devote my life to the one object.
True, if I found it, it would probably put her forever beyond my
reach.  Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be
influenced by such a thought as that.  If Holmes could work to find
the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find
the treasure.

A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
wonderfully.  When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid
and Holmes pouring out the coffee.

"Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.
"The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up
between them.  But you have had enough of the case.  Better have your
ham and eggs first."

I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed
"Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

"About twelve o'clock last night," said the "Standard," "Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found
dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play.  As
far as we can learn, no traces of violence were found upon Mr.
Sholto's person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems, which the
deceased gentleman had inherited from his father, has been carried
off.  The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother
of the deceased.  By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney
Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened
to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within
half an hour of the first alarm.  His trained and experienced
faculties were at once directed toward the detection of the
criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus
Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper,
Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or
gatekeeper, named McMurdo.  It is quite certain that the thief or
thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's
well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation
have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not
have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their
way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into
a room which communicated with that in which the body was found.
This fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively
that it was no mere haphazard burglary.  The prompt and energetic
action of the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the
presence on such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind.
We can not but think that it supplies an argument to those who would
wish to see our detectives more decentralized, and so brought into
closer and more effective touch with the cases which it is their duty
to investigate."

"Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup.
"What do you think of it?"

"I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested
for the crime."

"So do I.  I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen
to have another of his attacks of energy."

At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear
Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of
expostulation and dismay.

"By heaven, Holmes," I said, half-rising, "I believe they are really
after us."

"No, it's not quite so bad as that.  It is the unofficial force--the
Baker Street irregulars."

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the
stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and
ragged little street Arabs.  There was some show of discipline among
them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in
line and stood facing us with expectant faces.  One of their number,
taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of
lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable
little scarecrow.

"Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em in sharp.  Three
bob and a tanner for tickets."

"Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver, "In future they
can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me.  I can not have the house
invaded in this way.  However, it is just as well that you should all
hear the instructions.  I want to find the whereabout of a steam
launch called the 'Aurora,' owner, Mordecai Smith, black with two red
streaks, funnel black with a white band.  She is down the river
somewhere.  I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage,
opposite Millbank, to say if the boat comes back.  You must divide it
out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly.  Let me know the
moment you have the news.  Is that all clear?"

"Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

"The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.
Here's a day in advance.  Now off you go!"  He handed them a shilling
each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
later streaming down the street.

"If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he
rose from the table and lighted his pipe.  "They can go everywhere,
see everything, overhear every one.  I expect to hear before evening
that they have spotted her.  In the meanwhile, we can do nothing but
await results.  We can not pick up the broken trail until we find
either the 'Aurora' or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

"Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say.  Are you going to bed,
Holmes?"

"No; I am not tired.  I have a curious constitution.  I never
remember feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me
completely.  I am going to smoke, and to think over this queer
business to which my fair client has introduced us.  If ever man had
an easy task, this of ours ought to be.  Wooden-legged men are not so
common, but the other man must, I should think, be absolutely unique."

"That other man again!"

"I have no wish to make a mystery of him--to you, anyway.  But you
must have formed your own opinion.  Now, do consider the data.
Diminutive foot-marks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small, poisoned darts.  What
do you make of all this?"

"A savage!" I exclaimed.  "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the
associates of Jonathan Small."

"Hardly that," said he.  "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I
was inclined to think so, but the remarkable character of the
foot-marks caused me to reconsider my views.  Some of the inhabitants
of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such
marks as that.  The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet.  The
sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the
others, because the thong is commonly passed between.  These little
darts, too, could only be shot in one way.  They were from a
blow-pipe.  Now, then, where are we to find our savage?"

"South America," I hazarded.

He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the
shelf.  "This is the first volume of a gazeteer which is now being
published.  It may be looked upon as the very latest authority.  What
have we here?  'Andaman Islands, situated three hundred and forty
miles to the north of Sumatra in the Bay of Bengal.'  Hum! hum!
What's all this?  'Moist climate, coral reefs, sharks, Port Blair,
convict-barracks, Rutland Island, cottonwoods--'  Ah, here we are.
'The aborigines of the Andaman Islands may perhaps claim the
distinction of being the smallest race upon this earth, though some
anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa, the Digger Indians of
America, and the Terra del Fuegians.  The average height is rather
below four feet, although many full-grown adults may be found who are
very much smaller than this.  They are a fierce, morose, and
intractable people, though capable of forming most devoted
friendships when their confidence has once been gained.'  Mark that,
Watson.  Now, then, listen to this: 'They are naturally hideous,
having large misshapen heads, small fierce eyes, and distorted
features.  Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably small.  So
intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the British
officials have failed to win them over in any degree.  They have
always been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors
with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their poisoned
arrows.  These massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal
feast.'  Nice, amiable people, Watson!  If this fellow had been left
to his own unaided devices this affair might have taken an even more
ghastly turn.  I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give
a good deal not to have employed him."

"But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell.  Since, however, we had already
determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very
wonderful that this islander should be with him.  No doubt we shall
know all about it in time.  Look here, Watson, you look regularly
done.  Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep."

He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out
he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air--his own, no doubt,
for he had a remarkable gift for improvization.  I have a vague
remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and
fall of his bow.  Then I seemed to be floating peacefully away upon a
soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet
face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.



CHAPTER IX

_A Break in the Chain_

It was late in the afternoon before I awoke, strengthened and
refreshed.  Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save
that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book.  He looked
across at me as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and
troubled.

"You have slept soundly," he said.  "I feared that our talk would
wake you."

"I heard nothing," I answered.  "Have you had fresh news, then?"

"Unfortunately, no.  I confess that I am surprised and disappointed.
I expected something definite by this time.  Wiggins has just been up
to report.  He says that no trace can be found of the launch.  It is
a provoking check, for every hour is of importance."

"Can I do anything?  I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for
another night's outing."

"No; we can do nothing.  We can only wait.  If we go ourselves, the
message might come in our absence, and delay be caused.  You can do
what you will, but I must remain on guard."

"Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil
Forrester.  She asked me to yesterday."

"On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile
in his eyes.

"Well, of course, on Miss Morstan, too.  They were anxious to hear
what happened."

"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes.  "Women are never to
be entirely trusted--not the best of them."

I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment.  "I shall be
back in an hour or two," I remarked.

"All right!  Good luck!  But, I say, if you are crossing the river
you may as well return Toby, for I don't think it at all likely that
we shall have any use for him now."

I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a half
sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane.  At Camberwell I
found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's adventures, but
very eager to hear the news.  Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of
curiosity.  I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however,
the more dreadful parts of the tragedy.  Thus, although I spoke of
Mr. Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of
it.  With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and
amaze them.

"It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester.  "An injured lady, half a
million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.
They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl."

"And two knights errant to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a
bright glance at me.

"Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search.  I
don't think that you are nearly excited enough.  Just imagine what it
must be to be so rich and to have the world at your feet."

It sent a thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign
of elation at the prospect.  On the contrary, she gave a toss of her
proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small
interest.

"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said.
"Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved
most kindly and honorably throughout.  It is our duty to clear him of
this dreadful and unfounded charge."

It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I
reached home.  My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he
had disappeared.  I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but
there was none.

"I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs.
Hudson, as she came up to lower the blinds.

"No, sir.  He has gone to his room, sir.  Do you know, sir," sinking
her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health!"

"Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, he's that strange, sir.  After you was gone he walked, and he
walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound
of his footstep.  Then I heard him talking to himself, and muttering,
and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with,
'What is that, Mrs. Hudson?'  And now he has slammed off to his room,
but I can hear him walking away the same as ever.  I hope he's not
going to be ill, sir.  I ventured to say something to him about
cooling medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I
don't know how I ever got out of the room."

"I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I
answered.  "I have seen him like this before.  He has some small
matter upon his mind which makes him restless."  I tried to speak
lightly to our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when
through the long night I still, from time to time, heard the dull
sound of his tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against
this involuntary inaction.

At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of
feverish color upon either cheek.

"You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked.  "I heard you
marching about in the night."

"No, I could not sleep," he answered.  "This infernal problem is
consuming me.  It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,
when all else had been overcome.  I know the men, the launch,
everything; and yet I can get no news.  I have set other agencies at
work, and used every means at my disposal.  The whole river has been
searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith
heard of her husband.  I shall come to the conclusion soon that they
have scuttled the craft.  But there are objections to that."

"Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

"No, I think that may be dismissed.  I had inquiries made, and there
is a launch of that description."

"Could it have gone up the river?"

"I have considered that possibility, too, and there is a search party
who will work up as far as Richmond.  If no news comes to-day, I
shall start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the
boat.  But surely, surely, we shall hear something."

We did not, however.  Not a word came to us, either from Wiggins or
from the other agencies.  There were articles in most of the papers
upon the Norwood tragedy.  They all appeared to be rather hostile to
the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto.  No fresh details were to be found,
however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the
following day.  I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report
our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes
dejected and somewhat morose.  He would hardly reply to my questions,
and busied himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which
involved much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at
last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment.  Up to
the small hours of the morning I could hear the clinking of his
test-tubes, which told me that he was still engaged in his malodorous
experiment.

In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him
standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress, with a
pea-jacket, and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

"I am off down the river, Watson," said he.  "I have been turning it
over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it.  It is worth
trying, at all events."

"Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

"No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my
representative.  I am loth to go, for it is quite on the cards that
some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent
about it last night.  I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and
act on your own judgment if any news should come.  Can I rely upon
you?"

"Most certainly."

"I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can
hardly tell yet where I may find myself.  If I am in luck, however, I
may not be gone so very long.  I shall have news of some sort or
other before I get back."

I heard nothing of him by breakfast-time.  On opening the "Standard,"
however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the business.
"With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have
reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex
and mysterious than was originally supposed.  Fresh evidence has
shown that it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have
been in any way concerned in the matter.  He and the housekeeper,
Mrs. Bernstone, were both released yesterday evening.  It is
believed, however, that the police have a clue to the real culprits,
and that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland
Yard, with all his well-known energy and sagacity.  Further arrests
may be expected at any moment."

"That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I.  "Friend Sholto
is safe, at any rate.  I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it
seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a
blunder."

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye
caught an advertisement in the agony column.  It ran in this way:


"Lost.--Whereas, Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son Jim, left
Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning, in the
steam launch 'Aurora,' black with two red stripes; funnel black with
a white band; the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can
give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 222B Baker
Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the
launch 'Aurora.'"


This was clearly Holmes's doing.  The Baker Street address was enough
to prove that.  It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be
read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the
natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

It was a long day.  Every time that a knock came to the door, or a
sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes
returning or an answer to his advertisement.  I tried to read, but my
thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the
ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing.  Could there
be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning?  Might
he be suffering from some huge self-deception?  Was it not possible
that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory
upon faulty premises?  I had never known him to be wrong; and yet the
keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived.  He was likely, I
thought, to fall into error through the overrefinement of his
logic--his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a
plainer and more commonplace one lay ready to his hand.  Yet, on the
other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the
reasons for his deductions.  When I looked back on the long chain of
curious circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all
tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself that
even if Holmes's explanation were incorrect the true theory must be
equally outré and startling.

At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell,
an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a
person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me.  Very different
was he, however, from the brusque and masterful professor of
common-sense who had taken over the case so confidently at Upper
Norwood.  His expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even
apologetic.

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he.  "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I
understand."

"Yes; and I can not be sure when he will be back.  But perhaps you
would care to wait.  Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

"Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a
red bandana handkerchief.

"And a whisky and soda?"

"Well, half a glass.  It is very hot for the time of year and I have
a good deal to worry and try me.  You know my theory about this
Norwood case?"

"I remember that you expressed one."

"Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it.  I had my net drawn
tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop! he went through a hole in
the middle of it.  He was able to prove an alibi which could not be
shaken.  From the time that he left his brother's room he was never
out of sight of some one or other.  So it could not be he who climbed
over the roofs and through trap-doors.  It's a very dark case and my
professional credit is at stake.  I should be very glad of a little
assistance."

"We all need help sometimes," said I.

"Your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is a wonderful man, sir," said he,
in a husky and confidential voice.  "He's a man who is not to be
beat.  I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I
never saw the case yet that he could not throw light upon.  He is
irregular in his methods, and a little quick, perhaps, in jumping at
theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most
promising officer, and I don't care who knows it.  I have had a wire
from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some
clue to this Sholto business.  Here is his message."

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me.  It was
dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock.  "Go to Baker Street at once,"
it said.  "If I have not returned, wait for me.  I am close on the
track of the Sholto gang.  You can come with us to-night if you want
to be in at the finish."

"This sounds well.  He has evidently picked up the scent again," said
I.

"Ah, then he has been at fault, too," exclaimed Jones, with evident
satisfaction.  "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes.  Of
course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an
officer of the law to allow no chance to slip.  But there is some one
at the door.  Perhaps this is he."

A heavy step was heard ascending the stairs, with a great wheezing
and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath.  Once
or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but
at last he made his way to our door and entered.  His appearance
corresponded to the sounds which we had heard.  He was an aged man,
clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his
throat.  His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing
was painfully asthmatic.  As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his
shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs.  He
had a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his
face save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows,
and long gray side-whiskers.  Altogether he gave me the impression of
a respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

"What is it, my man?" I asked.

He looked about him in the slow, methodical fashion of old age.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

"No; but I am acting for him.  You can tell me any message you have
for him."

"It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

"But I tell you that I am acting for him.  Was it about Mordecai
Smith's boat?"

"Yes.  I knows well where it is.  An' I knows where the men he is
after are.  An' I knows where the treasure is.  I knows all about it."

"Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

"It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant
obstinacy of a very old man.

"Well, you must wait for him."

"No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one.  If Mr.
Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself.
I don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a
word."

He shuffled toward the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.

"Wait a bit, my friend," said he.  "You have important information,
and you must not walk off.  We shall keep you, whether you like it or
not, until our friend returns."

The old man made a little run toward the door, but, as Athelney Jones
put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness of
resistance.

"Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick.  "I
come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my
life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!"

"You will be none the worse," I said.  "We shall recompense you for
the loss of your time.  Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not
have long to wait."

He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face
resting on his hands.  Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk.
Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

"I think that you might offer me a cigar, too," he said.

We both started in our chairs.  There was Holmes sitting close to us
with an air of quiet amusement.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed.  "You here?  But where is the old man?"

"Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair.
"Here he is--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all.  I thought my disguise
was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test."

"Ah, you rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted.  "You would have made
an actor, and a rare one.  You had the proper workhouse cough, and
those weak legs of yours are worth ten pounds a week.  I thought I
knew the glint of your eye, though.  You didn't get away from us so
easily, you see."

"I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his
cigar.  "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know
me--especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my
cases; so I can only go on the warpath under some simple disguise
like this.  You got my wire?"

"Yes; that was what brought me here."

"How has your case prospered?"

"It has all come to nothing.  I had to release two of my prisoners,
and there is no evidence against the other two."

"Never mind.  We shall give you two others in place of them.  But you
must put yourself under my orders.  You are welcome to all the
official credit, but you must act on the lines that I point out.  Is
that agreed?"

"Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

"Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--a
steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock."

"That is easily managed.  There is always one about there; but I can
step across the road and telephone, to make sure."

"Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

"There will be two or three in the boat.  What else?"

"When we secure the men we shall get the treasure.  I think that it
would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the
young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs.  Let her be the
first to open it.  Eh, Watson?"

"It would be a great pleasure to me."

"Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head.
"However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at
it.  The treasure must afterward be handed over to the authorities
until after the official investigation."

"Certainly.  That is easily managed.  One other point.  I should much
like to have the details about this matter from the lips of Jonathan
Small himself.  You know I like to work the detail of my cases out.
There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview with him,
either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is efficiently
guarded?"

"Well, you are master of the situation.  I have had no proof yet of
the existence of this Jonathan Small.  However, if you can catch him
I don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."

"That is understood, then?"

"Perfectly.  Is there anything else?"

"Only that I insist upon your dining with us.  It will be ready in
half an hour.  I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a
little choice in white wine.  Watson, you have never yet recognized
my merits as a housekeeper."



CHAPTER X

_The End of the Islander_

Our meal was a merry one.  Holmes could talk exceedingly well when he
chose, and that night he did choose.  He appeared to be in a state of
nervous exaltation.  I have never known him so brilliant.  He spoke
on a quick succession of subjects--on miracle-plays, on medieval
pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on
the warships of the future--handling each as though he had made a
special study of it.  His bright humor marked the reaction from his
black depression of the preceding days.  Athelney Jones proved to be
a sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and faced his dinner with
the air of a _bon vivant_.  For myself, I felt elated at the thought
that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of
Holmes's gaiety.  None of us alluded during the dinner to the cause
which had brought us together.

When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at his watch, and filled
up three glasses with port.  "One bumper," said he, "to the success
of our little expedition.  And now it is high time we were off.  Have
you a pistol, Watson?"

"I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

"You had best take it, then.  It is well to be prepared.  I see that
the cab is at the door.  I ordered it for half-past six."

It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf,
and found our launch awaiting us.  Holmes eyed it critically.

"Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

"Yes--that green lamp at the side."

"Then take it off."

The small change was made; we stepped on board, and the ropes were
cast off.  Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern.  There was one man
at the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly
police-inspectors forward.

"Where to?" asked Jones.

"To the Tower.  Tell them to stop opposite to Jacobson's Yard."

Our craft was evidently a very fast one.  We shot past the long lines
of loaded barges as though they were stationary.  Holmes smiled with
satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

"We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

"Well, hardly that.  But there are not many launches to beat us."

"We shall have to catch the 'Aurora,' and she has a name for being a
clipper.  I will tell you how the land lies, Watson.  You recollect
how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

"Yes."

"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical
analysis.  One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of
work is the best rest.  So it is.  When I had succeeded in dissolving
the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of
the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again.  My boys had
been up the river and down the river without result.  The launch was
not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned.  Yet it could
hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces--though that always
remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed.  I knew that
this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not
think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse.
That is usually a product of higher education.  I then reflected that
since he had certainly been in London some time--as we had evidence
that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could
hardly leave at a moment's notice, but would need some little time,
if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs.  That was the balance
of probability, at any rate."

"It seemed to me to be a little weak," said I.  "It is more probable
that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his
expedition."

"No, I hardly think so.  This lair of his would be too valuable a
retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that
he could do without it.  But a second consideration struck me:
Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his
companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise
to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy.  He
was quite sharp enough to see that.  They had started from their
headquarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back
before it was broad light.  Now it was past three o'clock, according
to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat.  It would be quite bright, and
people would be about in an hour or so.  Therefore, I argued, they
did not go very far.  They paid Smith well to hold his tongue,
reserved his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their
lodgings with the treasure-box.  In a couple of nights, when they had
time to see what view the papers took, and whether there was any
suspicion, they would make their way under the cover of darkness to
some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had
already arranged for passages to America or the Colonies."

"But the launch?  They could not have taken that to their lodgings.'"

"Quite so.  I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in
spite of its invisibility.  I then put myself in the place of Small,
and looked at it as a man of his capacity would.  He would probably
consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would
make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track.  How,
then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when
wanted?  I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes.
I could only think of one way of doing it.  I might hand the launch
over to some boat-builder or repairer, with the directions to make a
trifling change in her.  She would then be removed to his shed or
yard, and so be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could
have her at a few hours' notice."

"That seems simple enough."

"It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be
overlooked.  However, I determined to act on the idea.  I started at
once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down
the river.  I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the 'Aurora' had been handed
over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial
directions as to her rudder.  'There ain't naught amiss with her
rudder,' said the foreman.  'There she lies, with the red streaks.'
At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing
owner.  He was rather the worse for liquor.  I should not, of course,
have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his
launch.  'I want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he--'eight
o'clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept
waiting.'  They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of
money, chucking shillings about to the men.  I followed him some
distance, but he subsided into an alehouse; so I went back into the
yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I
stationed him as a sentry over the launch.  He is to stand at the
water's edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start.  We
shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if
we do not take men, treasure, and all."

"You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men
or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands, I should
have had a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when
they came down."

"Which would have been never.  This man Small is a pretty shrewd
fellow.  He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him
suspicious, he would lie snug for another week."

"But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their
hiding-place," said I.

"In that case I should have wasted my day.  I think that it is a
hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live.  As long as he
has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions?  They send him
messages what to do.  No, I thought over every possible course, and
this is the best."

While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the
long series of bridges which span the Thames.  As we passed the city
the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of
St. Paul's.  It was twilight before we reached the Tower.

"That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of
masts and rigging on the Surrey side.  "Cruise gently up and down
here under cover of this string of lighters."  He took a pair of
night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore.  "I
see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a
handkerchief."

"Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them,"
said Jones, eagerly.  We were all eager by this time, even the
policeman and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going
forward.

"We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered.
"It is certainly ten to one that they go downstream, but we can not
be certain.  From this point we can see the entrance to the yard, and
they can hardly see us.  It will be a clear night and plenty of
light.  We must stay where we are.  See how the folk swarm over
yonder in the gas-light."

"They are coming from work in the yard."

"Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little
immortal spark concealed about him.  You would not think it, to look
at them.  There is no _a priori_ probability about it.  A strange
enigma is man!"

"Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested.

"Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes.  "He remarks
that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the
aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty.  You can, for example,
never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with
precision what an average number will be up to.  Individuals vary,
but percentages remain constant.  So says the statistician.  But do I
see a handkerchief?  Surely there is a white flutter over yonder."

"Yes; it is your boy," I cried.  "I can see him plainly."

"And there is the 'Aurora,'" exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the
devil!  Full speed ahead, engineer.  Make after that launch with the
yellow light.  By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves
to have the heels of us!"

She had slipped unseen through the yard entrance, and passed behind
two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up
before we saw her.  Now she was flying down the stream, near in to
the shore, going at a tremendous rate.  Jones looked gravely at her
and shook his head.

"She is very fast," he said.  "I doubt if we shall catch her."

"We _must_ catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth.  "Heap it on,
stokers!  Make her do all she can!  If we burn the boat we must have
them!"

We were fairly after her now.  The furnaces roared, and the powerful
engines whizzed and clanked like a great metallic heart.  Her sharp,
steep prow cut through the still river water, and sent two rolling
waves to right and to left of us.  With every throb of the engines
she sprung and quivered like a living thing.  One great yellow
lantern in our bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front
of us.  Right ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the
"Aurora" lay, and the swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the
pace at which she was going.  We flashed past barges, steamers,
merchant vessels, in and out, behind this one and round the other.
Voices hailed us out of the darkness, but still the "Aurora"
thundered on, and still we followed close upon her track.

"Pile it on, men; pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the
engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager,
aquiline face.  "Get every pound of steam you can."

"I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the "Aurora."

"I am sure of it," said I.  "We shall be up with her in a very few
minutes."

At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with
three barges in tow blundered in between us.  It was only by putting
our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could
round them and recover our way the "Aurora" had gained a good two
hundred yards.  She was still, however, well in view, and the murky,
uncertain twilight was settling into a clear starlit night.  Our
boilers were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated
and creaked with the fierce energy which was driving us along.  We
had shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long
Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs.  The
dull blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into the
dainty "Aurora."  Jones turned our search-light upon her, so that we
could plainly see the figures upon her deck.  One man sat by the
stern, with something black between his knees, over which he stooped.
Beside him lay a dark mass which looked like a Newfoundland dog.  The
boy held the tiller, while against the red glare of the furnace I
could see old Smith, stripped to the waist, and shoveling coal for
dear life.  They may have had some doubt at first as to whether we
were really pursuing them, but now, as we followed every winding and
turning which they took, there could no longer be any question about
it.  At Greenwich we were about three hundred paces behind them.  At
Blackwall we could not have been more than two hundred and fifty.  I
have coursed many creatures in many countries during my checkered
career, but never did sport give me such a wild thrill as this mad,
flying man-hunt down the Thames.  Steadily we drew in upon them yard
by yard.  In the silence of the night we could hear the panting and
clanking of their machinery.  The man in the stern still crouched
upon the deck, and his arms were moving as though he were busy, while
every now and then he would look up and measure with a glance the
distance which still separated us.  Nearer we came and nearer.  Jones
yelled to them to stop.  We were not more than four boats' lengths
behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace.  It was a clear
reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and the
melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other.  At our hail the man in
the stern sprung up from the deck and shook his two clinched fists at
us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice.  He was a good-sized,
powerful man, and, as he stood poising himself with legs astride, I
could see that from the thigh downward there was but a wooden stump
upon the right side.  At the sound of his strident, angry cries there
was a movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck.  It straightened
itself into a little black man--the smallest I have ever seen--with a
great, misshapen head and a shock of tangled, disheveled hair.
Holmes had already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the
sight of this savage, distorted creature.  He was wrapped in some
sort of dark ulster or blanket, which left only his face exposed; but
that face was enough to give a man a sleepless night.  Never have I
seen features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty.  His
small eyes glowed and burned with a sombre light, and his thick lips
were writhed back from his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us
with a half-animal fury.

"Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly.  We were within a
boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry.  I
can see the two of them now as they stood, the white man with his
legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed dwarf, with
his hideous face, and his strong, yellow teeth gnashing at us in the
light of our lantern.

It was well that we had so clear a view of him.  Even as we looked he
plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood,
like a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips.  Our pistols rang
out together.  He whirled round, threw up his arms, and with a kind
of choking cough fell sideways into the stream.  I caught one glimpse
of his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters.
At the same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself upon the
rudder and put it hard down, so that his boat made straight in for
the southern bank, while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by
a few feet.  We were round after her in an instant, but she was
already nearly at the bank.  It was a wild and desolate place, where
the moon glimmered upon a wide expanse of marsh-land with pools of
stagnant water and beds of decaying vegetation.  The launch with a
dull thud ran up upon the mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her
stern flush with the water.  The fugitive sprung out, but his stump
instantly sunk its whole length into the sodden soil.  In vain he
struggled and writhed.  Not one step could he possibly take either
forward or backward.  He yelled in impotent rage, and kicked
frantically into the mud with his other foot, but his struggles only
bored his wooden pin the deeper into the sticky bank.  When we
brought our launch alongside he was so firmly anchored that it was
only by throwing the end of a rope over his shoulders that we were
able to haul him out, and to drag him, like some evil fish, over our
side.  The two Smiths, father and son, sat sullenly in their launch,
but came aboard meekly enough when commanded.  The "Aurora" herself
we hauled off and made fast to our stern.  A solid iron chest of
Indian workmanship stood upon the deck.  This, there could be no
question, was the same that had contained the ill-omened treasure of
the Sholtos.  There was no key, but it was of considerable weight, so
we transferred it carefully to our own little cabin.  As we steamed
slowly up-stream again, we flashed our searchlight in every
direction, but there was no sign of the islander.  Somewhere in the
dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames lie the bones of that strange
visitor to our shores.

"See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway.  "We were
hardly quick enough, with our pistols."  There, sure enough, just
behind where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts
which we knew so well.  It must have whizzed between us at the
instant that we fired.  Holmes smiled at it, and shrugged his
shoulders in his easy fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick
to think of the horrible death which had passed so close to us that
night.



CHAPTER XI

_The Great Agra Treasure_

Our captive sat in the cabin opposite the iron box which he had done
so much and waited so long to gain.  He was a sunburned,
reckless-eyed fellow, with a network of lines and wrinkles all over
his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life.  There
was a singular prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man
who was not to be easily turned from his purpose.  His age may have
been fifty or thereabout, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot
with gray.  His face, in repose, was not an unpleasing one, though
his heavy brows and aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a
terrible expression when moved to anger.  He sat now with his
handcuffed hands upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his breast,
while he looked with his keen, twinkling eyes at the box which had
been the cause of his ill-doings.  It seemed to me that there was
more sorrow than anger in his rigid and contained countenance.  Once
he looked up at me with a gleam of something like humor in his eyes.

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry
that it has come to this."

"And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly.  "I don't believe that I
can swing over the job.  I give you my word on the Book that I never
raised hand against Mr. Sholto.  It was that little hell-hound,
Tonga, who shot one of his cursed darts into him.  I had no part in
it, sir.  I was as grieved as if it had been my blood relation.  I
welted the little devil with the slack end of the rope for it, but it
was done, and I could not undo it again."

"Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had better take a pull out of
my flask, for you are very wet.  How could you expect so small and
weak a man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him
while you were climbing the rope?"

"You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir.  The
truth is that I hoped to find the room clear.  I knew the habits of
the house pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually
went down to his supper.  I shall make no secret of the business.
The best defense that I can make is just the simple truth.  Now, if
it had been the old major, I would have swung for him with a light
heart.  I would have thought no more of knifing him than of smoking
this cigar.  But it's cursed hard that I should be lagged over this
young Sholto, with whom I had no quarrel whatever."

"You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard.
He is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a
true account of the matter.  You must make a clean breast of it, for
if you do I hope that I may be of use to you.  I think I can prove
that the poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before you ever
reached the room."

"That he was, sir!  I never got such a turn in my life as when I saw
him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed through
the window.  It fairly shook me, sir.  I'd have half-killed Tonga for
it, if he had not scrambled off.  That was how he came to leave his
club, and some of his darts, too, as he tells me, which, I dare say,
helped to put you on our track; though how you kept on it is more
than I can tell.  I don't feel no malice against you for it.  But it
does seem a queer thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I, who
have a fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money, should spend
the first half of my life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and
am likely to spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor.  It was
an evil day for me when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant
Achmet, and had to do with the Agra treasure, which never brought
anything but a curse yet upon the man who owned it.  To him it
brought murder; to Major Sholto it brought fear and guilt; to me it
has meant slavery for life."

At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy
shoulders into the tiny cabin.  "Quite a family party," he remarked.
"I think I shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes.  Well, I think we
may all congratulate each other.  Pity we didn't take the other
alive; but there was no choice.  I say, Holmes, you must confess that
you cut it rather fine.  It was all we could do to overhaul her."

"All is well that ends well," said Holmes.  "But I certainly did not
know that the 'Aurora' was such a clipper."

"Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that
if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should
never have caught her.  He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood
business."

"Neither he did," cried our prisoner; "not a word.  I chose his
launch, because I heard that she was a flyer.  We told him nothing,
but we paid him well, and he was to get something handsome if we
reached our vessel, the 'Esmeralda,' at Gravesend, outward bound for
the Brazils."

"Well, if he has done no wrong, we shall see that no wrong comes to
him.  If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick
in condemning them."  It was amusing to notice how the consequential
Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of
the capture.  From the slight smile which played over Sherlock
Holmes's face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon him.

"We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall
land you, Doctor Watson, with the treasure-box.  I need hardly tell
you that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing
this.  It is most irregular; but, of course, an agreement is an
agreement.  I must, however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector
with you, since you have so valuable a charge.  You will drive, no
doubt?"

"Yes, I shall drive."

"It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first.
You will have to break it open.  Where is the key, my man?"

"At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly.

"Hum!  There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble.  We
have had work enough already through you.  However, doctor, I need
not warn you to be careful.  Bring the box back with you to the Baker
Street rooms.  You will find us there, on our way to the station."

They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff,
genial inspector as my companion.  A quarter of an hour's drive
brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's.  The servant seemed surprised
at so late a visitor.  Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening,
she explained, and likely to be very late.  Miss Morstan, however,
was in the drawing-room; so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand,
leaving the obliging inspector in the cab.

She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white,
diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet in the neck and
waist.  The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned
back in the basket-chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and
tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant
hair; one white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and
her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy.  At the
sound of my footfall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright
flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale cheeks.

"I heard a cab drive up," she said.  "I thought that Mrs. Forrester
had come back very early, but I never dreamt that it might be you.
What news have you brought me?"

"I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the
box upon the table, and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my
heart was heavy within me.  "I have brought you something which is
worth all the news in the world.  I have brought you a fortune."

She glanced at the iron box.  "Is that the treasure, then?" she
asked, coolly enough.

"Yes, this is the great Agra treasure.  Half of it is yours and half
is Thaddeus Sholto's.  You will have a couple of hundred thousand
each.  Think of that!  An annuity of ten thousand pounds.  There will
be few richer young ladies in England.  Is it not glorious?"

I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that
she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her
eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously.

"If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you."

"No, no," I answered; "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes.
With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue
which has taxed even his analytical genius.  As it was, we very
nearly lost it at the last moment."

"Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Doctor Watson," said she.

I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her
last--Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the "Aurora,"
the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and
the wild chase down the Thames.  She listened, with parted lips and
shining eyes, to my recital of our adventures.  When I spoke of the
dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I
feared she was about to faint.

"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water.
"I am all right again.  It was a shock to me to hear that I had
placed my friends in such horrible peril."

"That is all over," I answered.  "It was nothing.  I will tell you no
more gloomy details.  Let us turn to something brighter.  There is
the treasure.  What could be brighter than that?  I got leave to
bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first
to see it."

"It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said.  There was no
eagerness in her voice, however.  It struck her, doubtless, that it
might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize
which had cost so much to win.

"What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it.  "This is Indian
work, I suppose?"

"Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

"And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it.  "The box alone
must be of some value.  Where is the key?"

"Small threw it into the Thames," I answered.  "I must borrow Mrs.
Forrester's poker."  There was, in the front, a thick and broad hasp,
wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha.  Under this I thrust the
end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever.  The hasp sprang
open with a loud snap.  With trembling fingers I flung back the lid.
We both stood gazing in astonishment.  The box was empty!

No wonder that it was heavy.  The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch
thick all round.  It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest
constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or
crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it.  It was absolutely and
completely empty.

"The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great
shadow seemed to pass from my soul.  I did not know how this Agra
treasure had weighed me down until now that it was finally removed.
It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize
nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us.

"Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart.

She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile.  "Why do you say
that?" she asked.

"Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand.
She did not withdraw it.  "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever
a man loved a woman.  Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my
lips.  Now that they are gone, I can tell you how I love you.  That
is why I said, 'Thank God.'"

"Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my
side.  Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had
gained one.



CHAPTER XII

_The Strange Story of Jonathan Small_

A very patient man was the inspector in the cab, for it was a weary
time before I rejoined him.  His face clouded over when I showed him
the empty box.

"There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily.  "Where there is no money
there is no pay.  This night's work would have been worth a tenner
each to Sam Brown and me, if the treasure had been there."

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said.  "He will see that you
are rewarded, treasure or no treasure."

The inspector shook his head despondently, however.  "It's a bad
job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think."

His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank
enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box.  They
had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had
changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon
the way.  My companion lounged in his armchair with his usual
listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with
his wooden leg cocked over his sound one.  As I exhibited the empty
box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud.

"This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

"Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he
cried, exultantly.  "It is my treasure; and if I can't have the loot
I'll take darned good care that no one else does.  I tell you that no
living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the
Andaman convict-barracks and myself.  I know now that I can not have
the use of it, and I know that they can not.  I have acted all
through for them as much as for myself.  It's been the sign of four
with us always.  Well I know that they would have had me do just what
I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let
it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan.  It was not to make
them rich that we did for Achmet.  You'll find the treasure where the
key is, and where little Tonga is.  When I saw that your launch must
catch us, I put the loot in a safe place.  There are no rupees for
you this journey."

"You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly.  "If you
had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames, it would have been
easier for you to have thrown box and all."

"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered,
with a shrewd, sidelong look.  "The man that was clever enough to
hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of
a river.  Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may
be a harder job.  It went to my heart to do it, though.  I was
half-mad when you came up with us.  However, there's no good grieving
over it.  I've had ups in my life, and I've had downs, but I've
learned not to cry over spilled milk."

"This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective.  "If you
had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would
have had a better chance at your trial."

"Justice?" snarled the ex-convict.  "A pretty justice!  Whose loot is
this, if it is not ours?  Where is the justice that I should give it
up to those who had never earned it?  Look how I have earned it.
Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under
the mangrove tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict huts,
bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed
black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man.  That
was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice
because I can not bear to feel that I have paid this price only that
another may enjoy it!  I would rather swing a score of times, or have
one of Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's cell and
feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that
should be mine!"  Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all
this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and
the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his
hands.  I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the
man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had
possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict
was upon his track.

"You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes, quietly.
"We have not heard your story, and we can not tell how far justice
may originally have been on your side."

"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see
that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists.
Still, I bear no grudge for that.  It is all fair and above-board.
If you want to hear my story, I have no wish to hold it back.  What I
say to you is God's truth, every word of it.  Thank you; you can put
the glass beside me here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry.

"I am a Worcestershire man myself--born near Pershore.  I dare say
you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look.
I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is
that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they
would be so very glad to see me.  They were all steady, chapel-going
folk, small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side,
while I was always a bit of a rover.  At last, however, when I was
about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess
over a girl, and could only get out of it by taking the queen's
shilling and joining the Third Buffs, which was just starting for
India.

"I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however.  I had just got
past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool
enough to go swimming in the Ganges.  Luckily for me, my company
sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was
one of the finest swimmers in the service.  A crocodile took me, just
as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg, as clean as a
surgeon could have done it, just above the knee.  What with the shock
and loss of blood, I fainted, and should have been drowned if Holder
had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank.  I was five
months in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out
of it, with this timber toe strapped to my stump, I found myself
invalided out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation.

"I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for
I was a useless cripple, though not yet in my twentieth year.
However, my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise.  A
man named Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-planter,
wanted an overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to
their work.  He happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had
taken an interest in me since the accident.  To make a long story
short, the colonel recommended me strongly for the post, and, as the
work was mostly to be done on horseback, my leg was no great
obstacle, for I had enough knee left to keep a good grip on the
saddle.  What I had to do was to ride over the plantation, to keep an
eye on the men as they worked, and to report the idlers.  The pay was
fair, I had comfortable quarters, and altogether I was content to
spend the remainder of my life in indigo-planting.  Mr. Abelwhite was
a kind man, and he would often drop into my little shanty and smoke a
pipe with me, for white folk out there feel their hearts warm to each
other as they never do here at home.

"Well, I was never in luck's way long.  Suddenly, without a note of
warning, the great mutiny broke upon us.  One month India lay as
still and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next
there were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the
country was a perfect hell.  Of course, you know all about it,
gentlemen, a deal more than I do, very like, since reading is not in
my line.  I only know what I saw with my own eyes.  Our plantation
was at a place called Muttra, near the border of the Northwest
Provinces.  Night after night the whole sky was alight with the
burning bungalows, and day after day we had small companies of
Europeans passing through our estate, with their wives and children,
on their way to Agra, where were the nearest troops.  Mr. Abelwhite
was an obstinate man.  He had it in his head that the affair had been
exaggerated, and that it would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung
up.  There he sat on his veranda, drinking whisky-pegs and smoking
cheroots, while the country was in a blaze about him.  Of course we
stuck by him, I and Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the
bookwork and the managing.  Well, one fine day the crash came.  I had
been away on a distant plantation, and was riding slowly home in the
evening, when my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the
bottom of a steep nullah.  I rode down to see what it was, and the
cold struck through my heart when I found it was Dawson's wife, all
cut into ribbons, and half-eaten by jackals and native dogs.  A
little further up the road Dawson himself was lying on his face,
quite dead, with an empty revolver in his hand, and four Sepoys lying
across one another in front of him.  I reined up my horse, wondering
which way I should turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke curling
up from Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning to burst
through the roof.  I knew then that I could do my employer no good,
but would only throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter.
From where I stood I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with
their red coats still on their backs, dancing and howling round the
burning house.  Some of them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets
sung past my head; so I broke away across the paddy-fields, and found
myself late at night safe within the walls at Agra.

"As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either.  The
whole country was up like a swarm of bees.  Wherever the English
could collect in little bands they held just the ground that their
guns commanded.  Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives.  It
was a fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the crudest
part of it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse,
and gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and
trained, handling our own weapons, and blowing our own bugle-calls.
At Agra there were the Third Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops
of horse, and a battery of artillery.  A volunteer corps of clerks
and merchants had been formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all.
We went out to meet the rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we
beat them back for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to
fall back upon the city.  Nothing but the worst news came to us from
every side--which is not to be wondered at, for if you look at the
map you will see that we were right in the heart of it.  Lucknow is
rather better than a hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as
far to the south.  From every point on the compass there was nothing
but torture, and murder, and outrage.

"The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce
devil-worshipers of all sorts.  Our handful of men were lost among
the narrow, winding streets.  Our leader moved across the river,
therefore, and took up his position in the old fort of Agra.  I don't
know if any of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that
old fort.  It is a very queer place--the queerest that ever I was in,
and I have been in some rum corners, too.  First of all, it is
enormous in size.  I should think that the enclosure must be acres
and acres.  There is a modern part, which took all our garrison,
women, children, stores, and everything else, with plenty of room
over.  But the modern part is nothing like the size of the old
quarter, where nobody goes, and which is given over to the scorpions
and the centipeds.  It is all full of great, deserted halls, and
winding passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it
is easy enough for folks to get lost in it.  For this reason it was
seldom that any one went into it, though now and again a party with
torches might go exploring.

"The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects
it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had
to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which
was actually held by our troops.  We were short-handed, with hardly
men enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns.
It was impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at
every one of the innumerable gates.  What we did was to organize a
central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate
under the charge of one white man and two or three natives.  I was
selected to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small,
isolated door upon the south-west side of the building.  Two Sikh
troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if
anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely upon help
coming at once from the central guard.  As the guard was a good two
hundred paces away, however, and as the space between was cut up into
a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great doubts as to
whether they could arrive in time to be of any use in case of an
actual attack.

"Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me,
since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that.  For two
nights I kept the watch with my Punjaubees.  They were tall,
fierce-looking chaps, Mohammed Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both
old fighting-men who had borne arms against us at Chillianwalla.
They could talk English pretty well, but I could get little out of
them.  They preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their
queer Sikh lingo.  For myself, I used to stand outside the gateway,
looking down on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights
of the great city.  The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and
the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bhang,
were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbors across
the stream.  Every two hours the officers of the night used to come
round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well.

"The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small,
driving rain.  It was dreary work standing in the gateway hour after
hour in such weather.  I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk,
but without much success.  At two in the morning the rounds passed,
and broke for a moment the weariness of the night.  Finding that my
companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe,
and laid down my musket to strike a match.  In an instant the two
Sikhs were upon me.  One of them snatched my firelock up and leveled
it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat, and
swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a
step.

"My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the
rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault.  If our door
were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women
and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore.  Maybe you
gentlemen think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I
give you my word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point
of the knee at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of
giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main
guard.  The man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as
I braced myself to it, he whispered: 'Don't make a noise.  The fort
is safe enough.  There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river.'
There was the ring Of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I
raised my voice I was a dead man.  I could read it in the fellow's
brown eyes.  I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was they
wanted from me.

"'Listen to me, sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the
one whom they called Abdullah Khan.  'You must either be with us now
or you must be silenced forever.  The thing is too great a one for us
to hesitate.  Either you are heart and soul with us, on your oath on
the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown
into the ditch, and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel
army.  There is no middle way.  Which is it to be, death or life?  We
can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing,
and all must be done before the rounds come again.'

"'How can I decide?' said I.  'You have not told me what you want of
me.  But I tell you now, that if it is anything against the safety of
the fort, I will have no truck with it; so you can drive home your
knife, and welcome.'

"'It is nothing against the fort,' said he.  'We only ask you to do
that which your countrymen come to this land for.  We ask you to be
rich.  If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon
the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever
known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot.  A
quarter of the treasure shall be yours.  We can say no fairer.'

"'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked.  'I am as ready to be
rich as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.'

"'You swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father, by the
honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no hand
and speak no word against us, either now or afterward?'

"'I will swear it;' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not
endangered.'

"Then my comrades and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of
the treasure, which shall be equally divided among the four of us.'

"There are but three,' said I.

"'No; Dost Akbar must have his share.  We can tell the tale to you
while we await them.  Do you stand at the gate, Mohammed Singh, and
give notice of their coming.  The thing stands thus, sahib, and I
tell it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a
Feringhee, and that we may trust you.  Had you been a lying Hindu,
though you had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your
blood would have been upon the knife and your body in the water.  But
the Sikh knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh.
Hearken, then, to what I have to say.

"'There is a rajah in the Northern Provinces who has much wealth,
though his lands are small.  Much has come to him from his father,
and more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and
hoards his gold rather than spends it.  When the troubles broke out
he would be friends both with the lion and the tiger--with the Sepoy
and with the Company's Raj.  Soon, however, it seemed to him that the
white men's day was come, for through all the land he could hear of
nothing but of their death and their overthrow.  Yet, being a careful
man, he made such plans that, come what might, half at least of his
treasure should be left to him.  That which was in gold and silver he
kept by him in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones
and the choicest pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent
it by a trusty servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should
take it to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace.
Thus, if the rebels won he would have his money, but if the Company
conquered, his jewels would be saved to him.  Having thus divided his
hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were
strong upon his borders.  By his doing this, mark you, sahib, his
property becomes the due of those who have been true to their salt.

"'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is
now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort.
He has with him, as traveling companion, my foster-brother, Dost
Akbar, who knows his secret.  Dost Akbar has promised this night to
lead him to a side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for
his purpose.  Here he will come presently, and here he will find
Mohammed Singh and myself awaiting him.  The place is lonely, and
none shall know of his coming.  The world shall know of the merchant
Achmet no more, but the great treasure of the rajah shall be divided
among us.  What say you to it, sahib?'"

"In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred
thing; but it is very different when there is fire and blood all
round you and you have been used to meeting death at every turn.
Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air
to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart turned to it, and
I thought of what I might do in the old country with it, and how my
folk would stare when they saw their ne'er-do-weel coming back with
his pockets full of gold moidores.  I had, therefore, already made up
my mind.  Abdullah Khan, however, thinking that I hesitated, pressed
the matter more closely.

"'Consider, sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the
commandant he will be hanged or shot, and his jewels taken by the
Government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them.  Now,
since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest as well?
The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's coffers.
There will be enough to make every one of us rich men and great
chiefs.  No one can know about the matter, for here we are cut off
from all men.  What could be better for the purpose?  Say again,
then, sahib, whether you are with us, or if we must look upon you as
an enemy.'

"'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.

"'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock.  'You see
that we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be broken.  We
have now only to wait for my brother and the merchant.'

"'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?' I asked.

"'The plan is his.  He has devised it.  We will go to the gate and
share the watch with Mohammed Singh.'

"The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the beginning
of the wet season.  Brown, heavy clouds were drifting across the sky,
and it was hard to see more than a stone-cast.  A deep moat lay in
front of our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up, and
it could easily be crossed.  It was strange to me to be standing
there with those two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was
coming to his death.

"Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the other
side of the moat.  It vanished among the mound-heaps, and then
appeared again coming slowly in our direction.

"'Here they are!' I exclaimed.

"'You will challenge him, sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah.
'Give him no cause for fear.  Send us in with him, and we shall do
the rest while you stay here on guard.  Have the lantern ready to
uncover, that we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

"The light had flickered onward, now stopping and now advancing,
until I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the moat.
I let them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through the mire,
and climb half-way up to the gate, before I challenged them.

"'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

"'Friends,' came the answer.  I uncovered my lantern and threw a
flood of light upon them.  The first was an enormous Sikh, with a
black beard which swept nearly down to his cummerbund.  Outside of a
show I have never seen so tall a man.  The other was a little, fat,
round fellow, with a great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand,
done up in a shawl.  He seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for
his hands twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept turning
to left and right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse
when he ventures out from his hole.  It gave me the chills to think
of killing him, but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as
hard as a flint within me.  When he saw my white face he gave a
little chirrup of joy and came running up toward me.

"'Your protection, sahib,' he panted; 'your protection for the
unhappy merchant Achmet.  I have traveled across Rajpootana that I
might seek the shelter of the fort at Agra.  I have been robbed, and
beaten, and abused because I have been the friend of the Company.  It
is a blessed night this when I am once more in safety--I and my poor
possessions.'

"'What have you in the bundle?' I asked.

"'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little family
matters which are of no value to others, but which I should be sorry
to lose.  Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young sahib,
and your governor also, if he will give me the shelter I ask.'

"I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man.  The more I
looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that we
should slay him in cold blood.  It was best to get it over.

"'Take him to the main guard,' said I.  The two Sikhs closed in upon
him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in
through the dark gateway.  Never was a man so compassed round with
death.  I remained at the gateway with the lantern.

"I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through
the lonely corridors.  Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a
scuffle, with the sound of blows.  A moment later there came, to my
horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud
breathing of a running man.  I turned my lantern down the long,
straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind,
with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels,
bounding like a tiger, the great, black-bearded Sikh, with a knife
flashing in his hand.  I have never seen a man run so fast as that
little merchant.  He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if
he once passed me and got to the open air, he would save himself yet.
My heart softened to him, but again the thought of his treasure
turned me hard and bitter.  I cast my fire-lock between his legs as
he raced past, and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit.  Ere he
could stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife
twice in his side.  The man never uttered moan nor moved muscle, but
lay where he had fallen.  I think, myself, that he may have broken
his neck with the fall.  You see, gentlemen, that I am keeping my
promise.  I am telling you every word of this business just exactly
as it happened, whether it is in my favor or not."

He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whisky and water
which Holmes had brewed for him.  For myself, I confess that I had
now conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only for this
cold-blooded business in which he had been concerned, but even more
for the somewhat flippant and careless way in which he narrated it.
Whatever punishment was in store for him, I felt that he might expect
no sympathy from me.  Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands
upon their knees, deeply interested in the story, but with the same
disgust written upon their faces.  He may have observed it, for there
was a touch of defiance in his voice and manner as he proceeded:

"It was all very bad, no doubt," said he.  "I should like to know how
many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this loot when
they knew that they would have their throats cut for their pains.
Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in the fort.  If he
had got out, the whole business would have come to light, and I
should have been court-martialed and shot as likely as not; for
people were not very lenient at a time like that."

"Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly.

"Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I.  A fine weight he
was, too, for all that he was so short.  Mohammed Singh was left to
guard the door.  We took him to a place which the Sikhs had already
prepared.  It was some distance off, where a winding passage leads to
a great empty hall, the brick walls of which were all crumbling to
pieces.  The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a natural
grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him
over with loose bricks.  This done, we all went back to the treasure.

"It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked.  The box
was the same which now lies open upon your table.  A key was hung by
a silken cord to that carved handle upon the top.  We opened it, and
the light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I
have read of and thought about when I was a little lad at Pershore.
It was blinding to look upon them.  When we had feasted our eyes we
took them all out and made a list of them.  There were one hundred
and forty-three diamonds of the first water, including one which has
been called, I believe, 'the Great Mogul,' and is said to be the
second largest stone in existence.  Then there were ninety-seven very
fine emeralds, and one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which,
however, were small.  There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and
ten sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls,
onyxes, cat's-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names of
which I did not know at the time, though I have become more familiar
with them since.  Besides this, there were nearly three hundred very
fine pearls, twelve of which were set in a gold chaplet.  By the way,
these last had been taken out of the chest and were not there when I
recovered it.

"After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the chest
and carried them to the gateway to show them to Mohammed Singh.  Then
we solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true to
our secret.  We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe place until the
country should be at peace again, and then to divide it equally among
ourselves.  There was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of
such value were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there was
no privacy in the fort nor any place where we could keep them.  We
carried the box, therefore, into the same hall where we had buried
the body, and there, under certain bricks, in the best preserved
wall, we made a hollow and put our treasure.  We made careful note of
the place, and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and
put the sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that
we should each always act for all, so that none might take advantage.
That is an oath that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I
have never broken.

"Well, there is no use my telling you, gentlemen, what came of the
Indian mutiny.  After Wilson took Delhi, and Sir Colin relieved
Lucknow, the back of the business was broken.  Fresh troops came
pouring in, and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier.  A
flying column under Colonel Greathead came round to Agra and cleared
the Pandies away from it.  Peace seemed to be settling upon the
country, and we four were beginning to hope that the time was at hand
when we might safely go off with our shares of the plunder.  In a
moment, however, our hopes were shattered, by our being arrested as
the murderers of Achmet.

"It came about in this way.  When the rajah put his jewels into the
hands of Achmet, he did it because he knew that he was a trusty man.
They are suspicious folk in the East, however; so what does this
rajah do but take a second even more trusty servant, and set him to
play the spy upon the first.  This second man was ordered never to
let Achmet out of his sight, and he followed him like his shadow.  He
went after him that night, and saw him pass through the doorway.  Of
course he thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and applied for
admission there himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet.
This seemed to him so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of
guides, who brought it to the ears of the commandant.  A thorough
search was quickly made, and the body was discovered.  Thus at the
very moment that we thought that all was safe, we were all four
seized and brought to trial on a charge of murder--three of us
because we had held the gate that night, and the fourth because he
was known to have been in the company of the murdered man.  Not a
word about the jewels came out at the trial, for the rajah had been
deposed and driven out of India; so no one had any particular
interest in them.  The murder, however, was clearly made out, and it
was certain that we must all have been concerned in it.  The three
Sikhs got penal servitude for life, and I was condemned to death,
though my sentence was afterward commuted into the same as the others.

"It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then.
There we were all four tied by the leg, and with precious little
chance of ever getting out again, while we each held a secret which
might have put each of us in a palace if we could only have made use
of it.  It was enough to make a man eat his heart out to have to
stand the kick and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have
rice to eat and water to drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready
for him outside, just waiting to be picked up.  It might have driven
me mad; but I was always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and
bided my time.

"At last it seemed to me to have come.  I was changed from Agra to
Madras, and from there to Blair Island, in the Andamans.  There are
very few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved
well from the first, I soon found myself a privileged person.  I was
given a hut in Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes of
Mount Harriet, and I was left pretty much to myself.  It is a dreary,
fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little clearings was
infested with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow a
poisoned dart at us if they saw a chance.  There were digging, and
ditching, and yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so
we were busy enough all day; though in the evening we had a little
time to ourselves.  Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs
for the surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge.  All
the time I was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is
hundreds of miles from any other land, and there is little or no wind
in those seas; so it was a terribly difficult job to get away.

"The surgeon, Doctor Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and
the other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening and
play cards.  The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next
to his sitting-room, with a small window between us.  Often, if I
felt lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and then,
standing there, I could hear their talk and watch their play.  I am
fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having
one to watch the others.  There were Major Sholto, Captain Morstan,
and Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native
troops, and there were the surgeon himself, and two or three prison
officials, crafty old hands who played a nice, sly, safe game.  A
very snug little party they used to make.

"Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that was
that the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to win.
Mind, I don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it was.
These prison chaps had done little else than play cards ever since
they had been at the Andamans, and they knew each other's game to a
point, while the others just played to pass the time and threw their
cards down anyhow.  Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men,
and the poorer they got the more keen they were to play.  Major
Sholto was the hardest hit.  He used to pay in notes and gold at
first, but soon it came to notes of hand, and for big sums.  He
sometimes would win for a few deals, just to give him heart, and then
the luck would set in against him worse than ever.  All day he would
wander about as black as thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more
than was good for him.

"One night he lost even more heavily than usual.  I was sitting in my
hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to
their quarters.  They were bosom friends, those two, and never far
apart.  The major was raving about his losses.

"'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut.  'I
shall have to send in my papers.  I am a ruined man.'

"'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the
shoulder.  'I've had a nasty facer myself, but--'  That was all I
could hear, but it was enough to set me thinking.

"A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach; so I
took the chance of speaking to him.

"'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.

"'Well, Small, what is it?' he said, taking his cheroot from his lips.

"'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to
whom hidden treasure should be handed over.  I know where half a
million worth lies, and, as I can not use it myself, I thought
perhaps the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to
the proper authorities, and then, perhaps, they would get my sentence
shortened for me.'

"'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I
was in earnest.

"'Quite that, sir--in jewels and pearls.  It lies there ready for any
one.  And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is outlawed
and can not hold property, so that it belongs to the first comer.'

"'To government, Small,' he stammered; 'to government.' But he said
it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him.

"'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the
Governor-General?' said I, quietly.

"'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might
repent.  Let me hear all about it, Small.  Give me the facts.'

"I told him the whole story, with small changes, so that he could not
identify the place.  When I had finished he stood stock-still and
full of thought.  I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was
a struggle going on within him.

"'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last.  'You
must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again
soon.'

"Two nights later he and his friend, Captain Morstan, came to my hut
in the dead of the night with a lantern.

"'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your
own lips, Small,' said he.

"I repeated it as I had told it before.

"'It rings true, eh?' said he.  'It's good enough to act upon?'

Captain Morstan nodded.

"'Look here, Small,' said the major.  'We have been talking it over,
my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this
secret of yours is hardly a government matter after all, but is a
private concern of your own, which, of course, you have the power of
disposing of as you think best.  Now, the question is, what price
would you ask for it?  We might be inclined to take it up, and at
least look into it, if we could agree as to terms.'  He tried to
speak in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with
excitement and greed.

"'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be cool,
but feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one bargain which a
man in my position can make.  I shall want you to help me to my
freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs.  We shall then
take you into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide
between you."

"'Hum!' said he.  'A fifth share!  That is not very tempting.'

"'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.

"'But how can we gain your freedom?  You know very well that you ask
an impossibility.'

"'Nothing of the sort,' I answered.  'I have thought it all out to
the last detail.  The only bar to our escape is that we can get no
boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a
time.  There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or
Madras which would serve our turn well.  Do you bring one over.  We
shall engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on
any part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the
bargain.'

"'If there was only one,' he said.

"'None or all,' I answered.  'We have sworn it.  The four of us must
always act together.'

"'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word.  He does
not flinch from his friends.  I think we may very well trust him.'

"'It's a dirty business,' the other answered.  'Yet, as you say, the
money would save our commissions handsomely.'

"'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet
you.  We must first, of course, test the truth of your story.  Tell
me where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back
to India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.'

"'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot.  'I must have
the consent of my three comrades.  I tell you that it is four or none
with us.'

"'Nonsense!' he broke in.  'What have three black fellows to do with
our agreement?'

"'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go
together.'

"Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mohammed Singh,
Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present.  We talked the matter
over again, and at last we came to an arrangement.  We were to
provide both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort,
and mark the place in the wall where the treasure was hid.  Major
Sholto was to go to India to test our story.  If he found the box he
was to leave it there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a
voyage, which was to lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to
make our way, and finally to return to his duties.  Captain Morstan
was then to apply for leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there
we were to have a final division of the treasure, he taking the
major's share as well as his own.  All this we sealed by the most
solemn oaths that the mind could think or the lips utter.  I sat up
all night with paper and ink, and by the morning I had the two charts
all ready, signed with the sign of the four--that is, of Abdullah,
Akbar, Mohammed, and myself.

"Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my
friend, Mr. Jones, is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey.
I'll make it as short as I can.  The villain Sholto went off to
India, but he never came back again.  Captain Morstan showed me his
name among a list of passengers in one of the mail boats very shortly
afterward.  His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had
left the army, yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated
us.  Morstan went over to Agra shortly afterward, and found, as we
expected, that the treasure was indeed gone.  The scoundrel had
stolen it all, without carrying out one of the conditions on which we
had sold him the secret.  From that day I lived only for vengeance.
I thought of it by day and I nursed it by night.  It became an
overpowering, absorbing passion with me.  I cared nothing for the
law--nothing for the gallows.  To escape, to track down Sholto, to
have my hand upon his throat--that was my one thought Even the Agra
treasure had come to be a smaller thing in my mind than the slaying
of Sholto.

"Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one
which I did not carry out.  But it was weary years before my time
came.  I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine.
One day, when Doctor Somerton was down with a fever, a little Andaman
Islander was picked up by a convict-gang in the woods.  He was sick
to death, and had gone to a lonely place to die.  I took him in hand,
though he was as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of
months I got him all right and able to walk.  He took a kind of fancy
to me then, and would hardly go back to his woods, but was always
hanging about my hut.  I learned a little of his lingo from him, and
this made him all the fonder of me.

"Tonga--for that was his name--was a fine boatman, and owned a big,
roomy canoe of his own.  When I found that he was devoted to me and
would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance to escape.  I talked
it over with him.  He was to bring his boat round on a certain night
to an old wharf which was never guarded, and there he was to pick me
up.  I gave him directions to have several gourds of water and a lot
of yams, cocoanuts, and sweet potatoes.

"He was stanch and true, was little Tonga.  No man ever had a more
faithful mate.  At the night named he had his boat at the wharf.  As
it chanced, however, there was one of the convict-guard down there--a
vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting and injuring
me.  I had always vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance.  It was
as if fate had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt before I
left the island.  He stood on the bank with his back to me, and his
carbine on his shoulder.  I looked about for a stone to beat out his
brains with, but none could I see.  Then a queer thought came into my
head and showed me where I could lay my hand on a weapon.  I sat down
in the darkness and unstrapped my wooden leg.  With three long hops I
was on him.  He put his carbine to his shoulder, but I struck him
full and knocked the whole front of his skull in.  You can see the
split in the wood now where I hit him.  We both went down together,
for I could not keep my balance, but when I got up I found him still
lying quiet enough.  I made for the boat, and in an hour we were well
out at sea.  Tonga had brought all his earthly possessions with him,
his arms and his gods.  Among other things, he had a long bamboo
spear, and some Andaman cocoanut matting, with which I made a sort of
a sail.  For ten days we were beating about, trusting to luck, and on
the eleventh we were picked up by a trader which was going from
Singapore to Jiddah with a cargo of Malay pilgrims.  They were a rum
crowd, and Tonga and I soon managed to settle down among them.  They
had one very good quality; they let you alone and asked no questions.

"Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little chum
and I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have you here
until the sun was shining.  Here and there we drifted about the
world, something always turning up to keep us from London.  All the
time, however, I never lost sight of my purpose.  I would dream of
Sholto at night.  A hundred times I have killed him in my sleep.  At
last, however, some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in
England.  I had no great difficulty in finding where Sholto lived,
and I set to work to discover whether he had realized the treasure or
if he still had it.  I made friends with some one who could help
me--I name no names, for I don't want to get any one else in a
hole--and I soon found that he still had the jewels.  Then I tried to
get at him in many ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two
prize-fighters, besides his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over
him.

"One day, however, I got word that he was dying.  I hurried at once
to the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that,
and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his
sons on each side of him.  I'd have come through and taken my chance
with the three of them, only, even as I looked at him, his jaw
dropped, and I knew that he was gone.  I got into his room that same
night, though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any
record of where he had hidden our jewels.  There was not a line,
however; so I came away, bitter and savage as a man could be.  Before
I left I bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it
would be a satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our
hatred; so I scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been
on the chart, and I pinned it on his bosom.  It was too much that he
should be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he
had robbed and befooled.

"We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs
and other such places as the black cannibal.  He would eat raw meat
and dance his war-dance; so we always had a hatful of pennies after a
day's work.  I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and
for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were
hunting for the treasure.  At last, however, came what we had waited
for so long.  The treasure had been found.  It was up at the top of
the house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory.  I came
at once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how, with my
wooden leg, I was to make my way up to it.  I learned, however, about
a trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour.  It
seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga.  I
brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist.  He
could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof,
but, as ill-luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the
room, to his cost.  Tonga thought he had done something very clever
in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting
about as proud as a peacock.  Very much surprised was he when I made
at him with the rope's end and cursed him for a little bloodthirsty
imp.  I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down
myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to
show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most
right to them.  Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and
made off the way that he had come.

"I don't know that I have anything else to tell you.  I had heard a
waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch, the 'Aurora,' so I
thought she would be a handy craft for our escape.  I engaged with
old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our
ship.  He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was
not in our secrets.  All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you,
gentlemen, it is not to amuse you--for you have not done me a very
good turn--but it is because I believe the best defense I can make is
just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I
have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the
death of his son."

"A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes.  "A fitting
wind-up to an extremely interesting case.  There is nothing at all
new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you
brought your own rope.  That I did not know.  By the way, I had hoped
that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us
in the boat."

"He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe
at the time."

"Ah, of course," said Holmes, "I had not thought of that."

"Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked
the convict, affably.

"I think not, thank you," my companion answered.

"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "you are a man to be humored,
and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is
duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend
asked me.  I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller
here safe under lock and key.  The cab still waits, and there are two
inspectors downstairs.  I am much obliged to you both for your
assistance.  Of course you will be wanted at the trial.  Good-night
to you."

"Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.

"You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room.
"I'll take particular care that you don't club me with your wooden
leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman
Isles."

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after
we had sat some time looking in silence.  "I fear that it may be the
last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your
methods.  Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a
husband in prospective."

He gave a most dismal groan.  "I feared as much," said he; "I really
can not congratulate you."

I was a little hurt.  "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my
choice?" I asked.

"Not at all.  I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I
ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have
been doing.  She has a decided genius that way; witness the way in
which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her
father.  But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is
opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things.  I
should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."

"I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the
ordeal.  But you look weary."

"Yes, the reaction is already upon me.  I shall be as limp as a rag
for a week."

"Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call
laziness alternate with fits of splendid energy and vigor."

"Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine
loafer, and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow.  I often think of
those lines of old Goethe--

  ''Schade dass die Natur nur _einen_ Mensch aus dir schuf,
  Denn zum wurdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.'

By the way, apropos of this Norwood business, you see that they had,
as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other
than Lal Rao, the butler; so Jones actually has the undivided honor
of having caught one fish in his great haul."

"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked.  "You have done all
the work in this business.  I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the
credit, pray what remains for you?"

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine
bottle."  And he stretched his long white hand up for it.




A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

_"A Scandal in Bohemia," which many people consider the author's best
short story, describes the one instance in which Sherlock Holmes
acknowledges himself "beaten by a woman's wit"; he always speaks of
Irene Adler as THE woman.  St. John's Wood, London, where the scene
of the story is laid, is well known as the quarter of the city in
which the professional artistic element of the population resides._



A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE


I

To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman.  I have seldom heard
him mention her under any other name.  In his eyes she eclipses and
predominates the whole of her sex.  It was not that he felt any
emotion akin to love for Irene Adler.  All emotions, and that one
particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise, but admirably
balanced mind.  He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and
observing machine that the world has seen; but as a lover he would
have placed himself in a false position.  He never spoke of the
softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer.  They were admirable
things for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's
motives and actions.  But for the trained reasoner to admit such
intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was
to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all
his mental results.  Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in
one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a
strong emotion in a nature such as his.  And yet there was but one
woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and
questionable memory.

I had seen little of Holmes lately.  My marriage had drifted us away
from each other.  My own complete happiness, and the home-centred
interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master
of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention;
while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole
Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among
his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and
ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his
own keen nature.  He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the
study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary
powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up
those mysteries, which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official
police.  From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings;
of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his
clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at
Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared
with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former
friend and companion.

One night--it was on the 20th of March, 1888--I was returning from a
journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practise), when
my way led me through Baker Street.  As I passed the well-remembered
door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and
with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a
keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his
extraordinary powers.  His rooms were brilliantly lighted, and even
as I looked up, I saw his tall spare figure pass twice in a dark
silhouette against the blind.  He was pacing the room swiftly,
eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest, and his hands clasped
behind him.  To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude
and manner told their own story.  He was at work again.  He had risen
out of his drug-created dreams, and was hot upon the scent of some
new problem.  I rang the bell, and was shown up to the chamber which
had formerly been in part my own.

His manner was not effusive.  It seldom was; but he was glad, I
think, to see me.  With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye,
he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and
indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner.  Then he stood
before the fire, and looked me over in his singular introspective
fashion.

"Wedlock suits you," he remarked.  "I think, Watson, that you have
put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

"Seven," I answered.

"Indeed, I should have thought a little more.  Just a trifle more, I
fancy, Watson.  And in practise again, I observe.  You did not tell
me that you intended to go into harness."

"Then how do you know?"

"I see it, I deduce it.  How do I know that you have been getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
careless servant-girl?"

"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much.  You would certainly
have been burned had you lived a few centuries ago.  It is true that
I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess;
but as I have changed my clothes, I can't imagine how you deduce it.
As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her
notice; but there again I fail to see how you work it out."

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

"It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the
inside of your left shoe, just where the fire-light strikes it, the
leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts.  Obviously they have
been caused by some one who has very carelessly scraped round the
edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.  Hence, you
see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and
that you had a particularly malignant boot-slicking specimen of the
London slavey.  As to your practise, if a gentleman walks into my
rooms, smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver
upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the side of his top-hat to
show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull indeed if
I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical
profession."

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
process of deduction.  "When I hear you give your reasons," I
remarked, "the thing always appears to me so ridiculously simple that
I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of
your reasoning I am baffled, until you explain your process.  And
yet, I believe that my eyes are as good as yours."

"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself
down Into an armchair.  "You see, but you do not observe.  The
distinction is clear.  For example, you have frequently seen the
steps which lead up from the hall to this room."

"Frequently."

"How often?"

"Well, some hundreds of times."

"Then how many are there?"

"How many?  I don't know."

"Quite so!  You have not observed.  And yet you have seen.  That is
just my point.  Now, I know there are seventeen steps, because I have
both seen and observed.  By the way, since you are interested in
these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one
or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this."
He threw over a sheet of thick pink-tinted note-paper which had been
lying open upon the table.  "It came by the last post," said he.
"Read it aloud."

The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock,"
it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the
very deepest moment.  Your recent services to one of the royal houses
of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
This account of you we have from all quarters received.  Be in your
chamber, then, at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
wears a mask."

"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked.  "What do you imagine that it
means?"

"I have no data yet.  It is a capital mistake to theorize before one
has data.  Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories,
instead of theories to suit facts.  But the note itself--what do you
deduce from it?"

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.

"The man who wrote it was presumably well-to-do," I remarked,
endeavoring to imitate my companion's processes.  "Such paper could
not be bought under half a crown a packet.  It is peculiarly strong
and stiff."

"Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes.  "It is not an
English paper at all.  Hold it up to the light."

I did so, and saw a large _E_ with a small _g_, a _P_ and a large _G_
with a small _t_ woven into the texture of the paper.

"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.

"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."

"Not at all.  The _G_ with the small _t_ stands for 'Gesellschaft,'
which is the German for 'Company.'  It is a customary contraction
like our 'Co.'  _P_, of course, stands for 'Papier.'  Now for the
_Eg_.  Let us glance at our 'Continental Gazetteer.'"  He took down a
heavy brown volume from his shelves.  "Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are,
Egria.  It is in a German-speaking country--in Bohemia, not far from
Carlsbad.  'Remarkable as being the scene of the death of
Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass factories and paper mills.'
Ha! ha! my boy, what do you make of that?"  His eyes sparkled, and he
sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

"Precisely.  And the man who wrote the note is a German.  Do you note
the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account of you we
have from all quarters received'?  A Frenchman or Russian could not
have written that.  It is the German who is so uncourteous to his
verbs.  It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by
this German who writes upon Bohemian paper, and prefers wearing a
mask to showing his face.  And here he comes, if I am not mistaken,
to resolve all our doubts."

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and grating
wheels against the curb followed by a sharp pull at the bell.  Holmes
whistled.

"A pair, by the sound," said he.  "Yes," he continued, glancing out
of the window.  "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties.  A
hundred and fifty guineas apiece.  There's money in this case,
Watson, if there is nothing else."

"I think I had better go, Holmes."

"Not a bit, doctor.  Stay where you are.  I am lost without my
Boswell.  And this promises to be interesting.  It would be a pity to
miss it."

"But your client--"

"Never mind him.  I may want your help, and so may he.  Here he
comes.  Sit down in that armchair, doctor, and give us your best
attention."

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in
the passage, paused immediately outside the door.

Then there was a loud and authoritative tap.

"Come in!" said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six
inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules.  His dress
was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as
akin to bad taste.  Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the
sleeves and front of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue
cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with
flame-colored silk, and secured at the neck with a brooch which
consisted of a single flaming beryl.  Boots which extended half-way
up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown
fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was
suggested by his whole appearance.  He carried a broad-brimmed hat in
his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending
down past the cheek-bones, a black visard-mask, which he had
apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised
to it as he entered.  From the lower part of the face he appeared to
be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long,
straight chin, suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of
obstinacy.

"You had my note?" he asked, with a deep, harsh voice and a strongly
marked German accent.  "I told you that I would call."  He looked
from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

"Pray take a seat," said Holmes.  "This is my friend and colleague,
Doctor Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my
cases.  Whom have I the honor to address?"

"You may address me as the Count von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman.  I
understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor and
discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
importance.  If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you
alone."

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back
into my chair.  "It is both, or none," said he.  "You may say before
this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

The count shrugged his broad shoulders.  "Then I must begin," said
he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the
end of that time the matter will be of no importance.  At present it
is not too much to say that it is of such weight that it may have an
influence upon European history."

"I promise," said Holmes.

"And I."

"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor.  "The
august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you,
and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called
myself is not exactly my own."

"I was aware of it," said Holmes, dryly.

"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to
be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal, and
seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe.  To
speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein,
hereditary kings of Bohemia."

"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in
his armchair, and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been, no doubt, depicted to him as
the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe.
Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his
gigantic client.

"If your majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked,
"I should be better able to advise you."

The man sprang from his chair, and paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation.  Then, with a gesture of desperation, he
tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground.

"You are right," he cried, "I am the king.  Why should I attempt to
conceal it?"

"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes.  "Your majesty had not spoken before
I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of
Bohemia."

"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once
more and passing his hand over his high, white forehead, "you can
understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own
person.  Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it
to an agent without putting myself in his power.  I have come
incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you."

"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy
visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
adventuress Irene Adler.  The name is no doubt familiar to you."

"Kindly look her up in my index, doctor," murmured Holmes, without
opening his eyes.  For many years he had adopted a system for
docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was
difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once
furnish information.  In this case I found her biography sandwiched
in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who
had written a monogram upon the deep-sea fishes.

"Let me see!" said Holmes.  "Hum!  Born in New Jersey in the year
1858.  Contralto--hum!  La Scala--hum!  Prima donna Imperial Opera of
Warsaw--yes!  Retired from operatic stage--ha!  Living in
London--quite so!  Your majesty, as I understand, became entangled
with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is
now desirous of getting those letters back."

"Precisely so.  But how--"

"Was there a secret marriage?"

"None."

"No legal papers or certificates?"

"None."

"Then I fail to follow your majesty.  If this young person should
produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to
prove their authenticity?"

"There is the writing."

"Pooh, pooh!  Forgery."

"My private note-paper."

"Stolen."

"My own seal."

"Imitated."

"My photograph."

"Bought."

"We were both in the photograph."

"Oh, dear!  That is very bad.  Your majesty has indeed committed an
indiscretion."

"I was mad--insane."

"You have compromised yourself seriously."

"I was only crown prince then.  I was young.  I am but thirty now."

"It must be recovered."

"We have tried and failed."

"Your majesty must pay.  It must be bought."

"She will not sell."

"Stolen, then."

"Five attempts have been made.  Twice burglars in my pay ransacked
her house.  Once we diverted her luggage when she traveled.  Twice
she has been waylaid.  There has been no result."

"No sign of it?"

"Absolutely none."

Holmes laughed.  "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.

"But a very serious one to me," returned the king, reproachfully.

"Very, indeed.  And what does she propose to do with the photograph?"

"To ruin me."

"But how?"

"I am about to be married."

"So I have heard."

"To Clotilde Lotham von Saxe-Meiningen, second daughter of the King
of Scandinavia.  You may know the strict principles of her family.
She is herself the very soul of delicacy.  A shadow of a doubt as to
my conduct would bring the matter to an end."

"And Irene Adler?"

"Threatens to send them the photograph.  And she will do it.  I know
that she will do it.  You do not know her, but she has a soul of
steel.  She has the face of the most beautiful of women and the mind
of the most resolute of men.  Rather than I should marry another
woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go--none."

"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

"I am sure."

"And why?"

"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
betrothal was publicly proclaimed.  That will be next Monday."

"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes, with a yawn.  "That
is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look
into just at present.  Your majesty will, of course, stay in London
for the present?"

"Certainly.  You will find me at the Langham, under the name of the
Count von Kramm."

"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."

"Pray do so; I shall be all anxiety."

"Then, as to money?"

"You have carte blanche."

"Absolutely?"

"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to
have that photograph."

"And for present expenses?"

The king took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak, and
laid it on the table.

"There are three hundred pounds in gold, and seven hundred in notes,"
he said.

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book, and handed
it to him.

"And mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

Holmes took a note of it.  "One other question," said he,
thoughtfully.  "Was the photograph a cabinet?"

"It was."

"Then, good-night, your majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have
some good news for you.  And good-night, Watson," he added, as the
wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street.  "If you will be
good enough to call to-morrow afternoon, at three o'clock, I should
like to chat this little matter over with you."



II

At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not
yet returned.  The landlady informed me that he had left the house
shortly after eight o'clock in the morning.  I sat down beside the
fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he
might be.  I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for,
though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features
which were associated with the two crimes which I have already
recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of
his client gave it a character of its own.  Indeed, apart from the
nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was
something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen,
incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his
system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he
disentangled the most inextricable mysteries.  So accustomed was I to
his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had
ceased to enter into my head.

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking
groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
disreputable clothes, walked into the room.  Accustomed as I was to
my friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look
three times before I was certain that it was indeed he.  With a nod
he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes
tweed-suited and respectable, as of old.  Putting his hand into his
pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire, and laughed
heartily for some minutes.

"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked, and laughed again until
he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

"What is it?"

"It's quite too funny.  I am sure you could never guess how I
employed my morning, or what I ended by doing."

"I can't imagine.  I suppose that you have been watching the habits,
and, perhaps, the house of Miss Irene Adler."

"Quite so, but the sequel was rather unusual.  I will tell you,
however.  I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning
in the character of a groom out of work.  There is a wonderful
sympathy and freemasonry among horsy men.  Be one of them, and you
will know all that there is to know.  I soon found Briony Lodge.  It
is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front
right up to the road, two stories.  Chubb lock to the door.  Large
sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows
almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window-fasteners
which a child could open.  Behind there was nothing remarkable, save
that the passage window could be reached from the top of the
coach-house.  I walked round it and examined it closely from every
point of view, but without noting anything else of interest.

"I then lounged down the street, and found, as I expected, that there
was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden.  I
lent the hostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and I received
in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag
tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler,
to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighborhood, in
whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was
compelled to listen to."

"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part.  She is
the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet.  So say the
Serpentine Mews, to a man.  She lives quietly, sings at concerts,
drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner.
Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings.  Has only one
male visitor, but a good deal of him.  He is dark, handsome, and
dashing; never calls less than once a day, and often twice.  He is a
Mr. Godfrey Norton of the Inner Temple.  See the advantages of a
cabman as a confidant.  They had driven him home a dozen times from
Serpentine Mews, and knew all about him.  When I had listened to all
that they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge
once more, and to think over my plan of campaign.

"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter.
He was a lawyer.  That sounded ominous.  What was the relation
between them, and what the object of his repeated visits?  Was she
his client, his friend, or his mistress?  If the former, she had
probably transferred the photograph to his keeping.  If the latter,
it was less likely.  On the issue of this question depended whether I
should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the
gentleman's chambers in the Temple.  It was a delicate point, and it
widened the field of my inquiry.  I fear that I bore you with these
details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are
to understand the situation."

"I am following you closely," I answered.

"I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove
up to Briony Lodge and a gentleman sprang out.  He was a remarkably
handsome man, dark, aquiline, and mustached--evidently the man of
whom I had heard.  He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the
cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door, with
the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.

"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses
of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down,
talking excitedly and waving his arms.  Of her I could see nothing.
Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before.  As he
stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and
looked at it earnestly.  'Drive like the devil!' he shouted, 'first
to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St.
Monica in the Edgeware Road.  Half a guinea if you do it in twenty
minutes!'

"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do
well to follow them, when up the lane came a neat little landau, the
coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear,
while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles.
It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it.
I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely
woman, with a face that a man might die for.

"'The Church of St. Monica, John," she cried; "and half a sovereign
if you reach it in twenty minutes."

"This was quite too good to lose, Watson.  I was just balancing
whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her
landau, when a cab came through the street.  The driver looked twice
at such a shabby fare; but I jumped in before he could object.  'The
Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it
in twenty minutes.'  It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of
course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

"My cabby drove fast.  I don't think I ever drove faster, but the
others were there before us.  The cab and landau with their steaming
horses were in front of the door when I arrived.  I paid the man, and
hurried into the church.  There was not a soul there save the two
whom I had followed, and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be
expostulating with them.  They were all three standing in a knot in
front of the altar.  I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler
who has dropped into a church.  Suddenly, to my surprise, the three
at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as
hard as he could toward me.

"'Thank God!' he cried.  'You'll do.  Come!  Come!'

"'What then?' I asked.

"'Come, man, come; only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and, before I knew where I was,
I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and
vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting
in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton,
bachelor.  It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman
thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the
clergyman beamed on me in front.  It was the most preposterous
position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the
thought of it that started me laughing just now.  It seems that there
had been some informality about their license; that the clergyman
absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and
that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally
out into the streets in search of a best man.  The bride gave me a
sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the
occasion."

"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what then?"

"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced.  It looked as if the
pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very
prompt and energetic measures on my part.  At the church door,
however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to
her own house.  'I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,' she
said, as she left him.  I heard no more.  They drove away in
different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements."

"Which are?"

"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the bell.
"I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier
still this evening.  By the way, doctor, I shall want your
cooperation."

"I shall be delighted."

"You don't mind breaking the law?"

"Not in the least."

"Nor running a chance of arrest?"

"Not in a good cause."

"Oh, the cause is excellent!"

"Then I am your man."

"I was sure that I might rely on you."

"But what is it you wish?"

"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to
you.  Now," he said, as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that
our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I have
not much time.  It is nearly five now.  In two hours we must be on
the scene of action.  Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her
drive at seven.  We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."

"And what then?"

"You must leave that to me.  I have already arranged what is to
occur.  There is only one point on which I must insist.  You must not
interfere, come what may.  You understand?"

"I am to be neutral?"

"To do nothing whatever.  There will probably be some small
unpleasantness.  Do not join in it.  It will end in my being conveyed
into the house.  Four or five minutes afterward the sitting-room
window will open.  You are to station yourself close to that open
window."

"Yes."

"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

"Yes."

"And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what I
give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire.
You quite follow me?"

"Entirely."

"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long, cigar-shaped
roll from his pocket.  "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket,
fitted with a cap at either end, to make it self-lighting.  Your task
is confined to that.  When you raise your cry of fire, it will be
taken up by quite a number of people.  You may then walk to the end
of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes.  I hope that I
have made myself clear?"

"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and,
at the signal, to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of
fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street."

"Precisely."

"Then you may entirely rely on me."

"That is excellent.  I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I
prepared for the new rôle I have to play."

He disappeared into his bedroom, and returned in a few minutes in the
character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman.
His broad, black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his
sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent
curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equaled.  It
was not merely that Holmes changed his costume.  His expression, his
manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he
assumed.  The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute
reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still
wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine
Avenue.  It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted
as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the
coming of its occupant.  The house was just such as I had pictured it
from Sherlock Holmes's succinct description, but the locality
appeared to be less private than I expected.  On the contrary, for a
small street in a quiet neighborhood, it was remarkably animated.
There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a
corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were
flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who
were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths.

"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the
house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters.  The photograph
becomes a double-edged weapon now.  The chances are that she would be
as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton as our client is to
its coming to the eyes of his princess.  Now the question is--where
are we to find the photograph?"

"Where, indeed?"

"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her.  It is
cabinet size.  Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress.
She knows that the king is capable of having her waylaid and
searched.  Two attempts of the sort have already been made.  We may
take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."

"Where, then?"

"Her banker or her lawyer.  There is that double possibility.  But I
am inclined to think neither.  Women are naturally secretive, and
they like to do their own secreting.  Why should she hand it over to
any one else?  She could trust her own guardianship, but she could
not tell what indirect or political influence might be brought to
bear upon a business man.  Besides, remember that she had resolved to
use it within a few days.  It must be where she can lay her hands
upon it.  It must be in her own house."

"But it has twice been burglarized."

"Pshaw!  They did not know how to look."

"But how will you look?"

"I will not look."

"What then?"

"I will get her to show me."

"But she will refuse."

"She will not be able to.  But I hear the rumble of wheels.  It is
her carriage.  Now carry out my orders to the letter."

As he spoke, the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round
the curve of the avenue.  It was a smart little landau which rattled
up to the door of Briony Lodge.  As it pulled up one of the loafing
men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of
earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer who had
rushed up with the same intention.  A fierce quarrel broke out which
was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the
loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the
other side.  A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had
stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of
struggling men who struck savagely at each other with their fists and
sticks.  Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just
as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the
blood running freely down his face.  At his fall the guardsmen took
to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while
a number of better dressed people who had watched the scuffle without
taking part in it crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the
injured man.  Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up
the steps; but she stood at the top, with her superb figure outlined
against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street.

"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

"He is dead," cried several voices.

"No, no, there's life in him," shouted another.  "But he'll be gone
before you can get him to the hospital."

"He's a brave fellow," said a woman.  "They would have had the lady's
purse and watch if it hadn't been for him.  They were a gang, and a
rough one, too.  Ah! he's breathing now."

"He can't lie in the street.  May we bring him in, marm?"

"Surely.  Bring him into the sitting-room.  There is a comfortable
sofa.  This way, please."  Slowly and solemnly he was borne into
Briony Lodge, and laid out in the principal room, while I still
observed the proceedings from my post by the window.  The lamps had
been lighted, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see
Holmes as he lay upon the couch.  I do not know whether he was seized
with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I
know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life
when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or
the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man.
And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now
from the part which he had entrusted to me.  I hardened my heart, and
took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster.  After all, I thought, we
are not injuring her.  We are but preventing her from injuring
another.

Holmes had sat upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is
in need of air.  A maid rushed across and threw open the window.  At
the same instant I saw him raise his hand, and at the signal I tossed
my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!"  The word was no sooner
out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and
ill--gentlemen-hostlers, and servant-maids--joined in a general
shriek of "Fire!"  Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room, and
out at the open window.  I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a
moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it
was a false alarm.  Slipping through the shouting crowd, I made my
way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to
find my friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of
uproar.  He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes, until
we had turned down one of the quiet streets which led toward the
Edgware Road.

"You did it very nicely, doctor," he remarked.  "Nothing could have
been better.  It is all right."

"You have the photograph?"

"I know where it is."

"And how did you find out?"

"She showed me, as I told you that she would."

"I am still in the dark."

"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing.  "The matter
was perfectly simple.  You, of course, saw that every one in the
street was an accomplice.  They were all engaged for the evening."

"I guessed as much."

"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the
palm of my hand.  I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my
face, and became a piteous spectacle.  It is an old trick."

"That also I could fathom."

"Then they carried me in.  She was bound to have me in.  What else
could she do?  And into her sitting-room, which was the very room
which I suspected.  It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was
determined to see which.  They laid me on a couch, I motioned for
air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance."

"How did that help you?"

"It was all-important.  When a woman thinks that her house is on
fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values
most.  It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than
once taken advantage of it.  In the case of the Darlington
Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth
Castle business.  A married woman grabs at her baby--an unmarried one
reaches for her jewel-box.  Now it was clear to me that our lady of
to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are
in quest of.  She would rush to secure it.  The alarm of fire was
admirably done.  The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves
of steel.  She responded beautifully.  The photograph is in a recess
behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull.  She was there
in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half drew it out.
When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced
at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since.
I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house.  I hesitated
whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman
had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to
wait.  A little overprecipitance may ruin all."

"And now?" I asked.

"Our quest is practically finished.  I shall call with the king
to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us.  We will be
shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable
that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph.  It
might be a satisfaction to his majesty to regain it with his own
hands."

"And when will you call?"

"At eight in the morning.  She will not be up, so that we shall have
a clear field.  Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may
mean a complete change in her life and habits.  I must wire to the
king without delay."

We had reached Baker Street, and had stopped at the door.  He was
searching his pockets for the key, when some one passing said:

"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
hurried by.

"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the dimly
lighted street.  "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been?"



III

I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our
toast and coffee in the morning, when the King of Bohemia rushed into
the room.

"You have really got it?" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by
either shoulder, and looking eagerly into his face.

"Not yet."

"But you have hopes?"

"I have hopes."

"Then come.  I am all impatience to be gone."

"We must have a cab."

"No, my brougham is waiting."

"Then that will simplify matters."  We descended, and started off
once more for Briony Lodge.

"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

"Married!  When?"

"Yesterday."

"But to whom?"

"To an English lawyer named Norton."

"But she could not love him."

"I am in hopes that she does."

"And why in hopes?"

"Because it would spare your majesty all fear of future annoyance.
If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your majesty.  If
she does not love your majesty, there is no reason why she should
interfere with your majesty's plan."

"It is true.  And yet--  Well, I wish she had been of my own station.
What a queen she would have made!"  He relapsed into a moody silence,
which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon
the steps.  She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
brougham.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a
questioning and rather startled gaze.

"Indeed!  My mistress told me that you were likely to call.  She left
this morning, with her husband, by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross,
for the Continent."

"What!"  Sherlock Holmes staggered back white with chagrin and
surprise.

"Do you mean that she has left England?"

"Never to return."

"And the papers?" asked the king, hoarsely.  "All is lost!"

"We shall see."  He pushed past the servant, and rushed into the
drawing-room, followed by the king and myself.  The furniture was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves, and open
drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her
flight.  Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding
shutter, and plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a
letter.  The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress;
the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq.  To be left
till called for."  My friend tore it open, and we all three read it
together.  It was dated at midnight of the preceding night, and ran
in this way:


"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES;--You really did it very well.  You took
me in completely.  Until after the alarm of the fire, I had not a
suspicion.  But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began
to think.  I had been warned against you months ago.  I had been told
that if the king employed an agent, it would certainly be you.  And
your address had been given me.  Yet, with all this, you made me
reveal what you wanted to know.  Even after I became suspicious, I
found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman.  But,
you know, I have been trained as an actress myself.  Male costume is
nothing new to me.  I often take advantage of the freedom which it
gives.  I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran upstairs, got
into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you
departed.

"Well, I followed you to the door, and so made sure that I was really
an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  Then I,
rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple
to see my husband.

"We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so
formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you
call to-morrow.  As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace.
I love and am loved by a better man than he.  The king may do what he
will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged.  I keep
it only to safeguard myself, and preserve a weapon which will always
secure me from any steps which he might take in the future.  I leave
a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, very truly yours,

"IRENE NORTON, _nee_ ADLER."


"What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we
had all three read this epistle.  "Did I not tell you how quick and
resolute she was?  Would she not have made an admirable queen?  Is it
not a pity that she was not on my level?"

"From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a
very different level to your majesty," said Holmes, coldly.  "I am
sorry that I have not been able to bring your majesty's business to a
more successful conclusion."

"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the king, "nothing could be
more successful.  I know that her word is inviolate.  The photograph
is now as safe as if it were in the fire."

"I am glad to hear your majesty say so."

"I am immensely indebted to you.  Pray tell me in what way I can
reward you.  This ring--"  He slipped an emerald snake ring from his
finger, and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

"Your majesty has something which I should value even more highly,"
said Holmes.

"You have but to name it."

"This photograph!"

The king stared at him in amazement.

"Irene's photograph!" he cried.  "Certainly, if you wish it."

"I thank your majesty.  Then there is no more to be done in the
matter.  I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning."  He
bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the king
had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of
Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by
a woman's wit.  He used to make merry over the cleverness of women,
but I have not heard him do it of late.  And when he speaks of Irene
Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the
honorable title of _the_ woman.




THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK

BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

_Anna Katharine Green (Rohlfs), whose name is firmly linked in the
public mind with "The Leavenworth Case," is recognized as the
foremost American writer of detective stories.  Of these, Mrs. Rohlfs
considers "The Doctor, His Wife, and the Clock" her most successful
effort in the short story form.  Additional interest arises from the
fact that the scene is laid in those historic old buildings in
Lafayette Place opposite the Astor Library, known as "the Colonnade
Row," in which lived John Jacob Astor and other rich merchants two
generations ago._



THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK

By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

(MRS. CHARLES ROHLFS)


I

On the 17th of July, 1851, a tragedy of no little interest occurred
in one of the residences of the Colonnade in Lafayette Place.

Mr. Hasbrouck, a well-known and highly respected citizen, was
attacked in his room by an unknown assailant, and shot dead before
assistance could reach him.  His murderer escaped, and the problem
offered to the police was, how to identify this person who, by some
happy chance or by the exercise of the most remarkable forethought,
had left no traces behind him, or any clue by which he could be
followed.

The affair was given to a young man, named Ebenezer Gryce, to
investigate, and the story, as he tells it, is this:


When, some time after midnight, I reached Lafayette Place, I found
the block lighted from end to end.  Groups of excited men and women
peered from the open doorways, and mingled their shadows with those
of the huge pillars which adorn the front of this picturesque block
of dwellings.

The house in which the crime had been committed was near the centre
of the row, and, long before I reached it, I had learned from more
than one source that the alarm was first given to the street by a
woman's shriek, and secondly by the shouts of an old man-servant who
had appeared, in a half-dressed condition, at the window of Mr.
Hasbrouck's room, crying, "Murder! murder!"

But when I had crossed the threshold, I was astonished at the paucity
of the facts to be gleaned from the inmates themselves.  The old
servitor, who was the first to talk, had only this account of the
crime to give.

The family, which consisted of Mr. Hasbrouck, his wife, and three
servants, had retired for the night at the usual hour and under the
usual auspices.  At eleven o'clock the lights were all extinguished,
and the whole household asleep, with the possible exception of Mr.
Hasbrouck himself, who, being a man of large business
responsibilities, was frequently troubled with insomnia.

Suddenly Mrs. Hasbrouck woke with a start.  Had she dreamed the words
that were ringing in her ears, or had they been actually uttered in
her hearing?  They were short, sharp words, full of terror and
menace, and she had nearly satisfied herself that she had imagined
them, when there came, from somewhere near the door, a sound she
neither understood nor could interpret, but which filled her with
inexplicable terror, and made her afraid to breathe, or even to
stretch forth her hand toward her husband, whom she supposed to be
sleeping at her side.  At length another strange sound, which she was
sure was not due to her imagination, drove her to make an attempt to
rouse him, when she was horrified to find that she was alone in the
bed, and her husband nowhere within reach.

Filled now with something more than nervous apprehension, she flung
herself to the floor, and tried to penetrate, with frenzied glances,
the surrounding darkness.  But the blinds and shutters both having
been carefully closed by Mr. Hasbrouck before retiring, she found
this impossible, and she was about to sink in terror to the floor,
when she heard a low gasp on the other side of the room, followed by
the suppressed cry:

"God! what have I done!"

The voice was a strange one, but before the fear aroused by this fact
could culminate in a shriek of dismay, she caught the sound of
retreating footsteps, and, eagerly listening, she heard them descend
the stairs and depart by the front door.

Had she known what had occurred--had there been no doubt in her mind
as to what lay in the darkness on the other side of the room--it is
likely that, at the noise caused by the closing front door, she would
have made at once for the balcony that opened out from the window
before which she was standing, and taken one look at the flying
figure below.  But her uncertainty as to what lay hidden from her by
the darkness chained her feet to the floor, and there is no knowing
when she would have moved, if a carriage had not at that moment
passed down Astor Place, bringing with it a sense of companionship
which broke the spell that held her, and gave her strength to light
the gas, which was in ready reach of her hand.

As the sudden blaze illuminated the room, revealing in a burst the
old familiar walls and well-known pieces of furniture, she felt for a
moment as if released from some heavy nightmare and restored to the
common experiences of life.  But in another instant her former dread
returned, and she found herself quaking at the prospect of passing
around the foot of the bed into that part of the room which was as
yet hidden from her eyes.

But the desperation which comes with great crises finally drove her
from her retreat; and, creeping slowly forward, she cast one glance
at the floor before her, when she found her worst fears realized by
the sight of the dead body of her husband lying prone before the open
doorway, with a bullet-hole in his forehead.

Her first impulse was to shriek, but, by a powerful exercise of will,
she checked herself, and, ringing frantically for the servants who
slept on the top floor of the house, flew to the nearest window and
endeavored to open it.  But the shutters had been bolted so securely
by Mr. Hasbrouck, in his endeavor to shut out light and sound, that
by the time she had succeeded in unfastening them, all trace of the
flying murderer had vanished from the street.

Sick with grief and terror, she stepped back into the room just as
the three frightened servants descended the stairs.  As they appeared
in the open doorway, she pointed at her husband's inanimate form, and
then, as if suddenly realizing in its full force the calamity which
had befallen her, she threw up her arms, and sank forward to the
floor in a dead faint.

The two women rushed to her assistance, but the old butler, bounding
over the bed, sprang to the window, and shrieked his alarm to the
street.

In the interim that followed, Mrs. Hasbrouck was revived, and the
master's body laid decently on the bed; but no pursuit was made, nor
any inquiries started likely to assist me in establishing the
identity of the assailant.

Indeed, every one, both in the house and out, seemed dazed by the
unexpected catastrophe, and as no one had any suspicions to offer as
to the probable murderer, I had a difficult task before me.

I began, in the usual way, by inspecting the scene of the murder.  I
found nothing in the room, or in the condition of the body itself,
which added an iota to the knowledge already obtained.  That Mr.
Hasbrouck had been in bed; that he had risen upon hearing a noise;
and that he had been shot before reaching the door, were self-evident
facts.  But there was nothing to guide me further.  The very
simplicity of the circumstances caused a dearth of clues, which made
the difficulty of procedure as great as any I ever encountered.

My search through the hall and down the stairs elicited nothing; and
an investigation of the bolts and bars by which the house was
secured, assured me that the assassin had either entered by the front
door, or had already been secreted in the house when it was locked up
for the night.

"I shall have to trouble Mrs. Hasbrouck for a short interview," I
hereupon announced to the trembling old servitor, who had followed me
like a dog about the house.

He made no demur, and in a few minutes I was ushered into the
presence of the newly made widow, who sat quite alone, in a large
chamber in the rear.  As I crossed the threshold she looked up, and I
encountered a good plain face, without the shadow of guile in it.

"Madam," said I, "I have not come to disturb you.  I will ask two or
three questions only, and then leave you to your grief.  I am told
that some words came from the assassin before he delivered his fatal
shot.  Did you hear these distinctly enough to tell me what they
were?"

"I was sound asleep," said she, "and dreamt, as I thought, that a
fierce, strange voice cried somewhere to some one: 'Ah! you did not
expect me!'  But I dare not say that these words were really uttered
to my husband, for he was not the man to call forth hate, and only a
man in the extremity of passion could address such an exclamation in
such a tone as rings in my memory in connection with the fatal shot
which woke me."

"But that shot was not the work of a friend," I argued.  "If, as
these words seem to prove, the assassin had some other motive than
gain in his assault, then your husband had an enemy, though you never
suspected it."

"Impossible!" was her steady reply, uttered in the most convincing
tone.  "The man who shot him was a common burglar, and, frightened at
having been betrayed into murder, fled without looking for booty.  I
am sure I heard him cry out in terror and remorse: 'God! what have I
done!'"

"Was that before you left the side of the bed?"

"Yes; I did not move from my place till I heard the front door close.
I was paralyzed by my fear and dread."

"Are you in the habit of trusting to the security of a latch-lock
only in the fastening of your front door at night?  I am told that
the big key was not in the lock, and that the bolt at the bottom of
the door was not drawn."

"The bolt at the bottom of the door is never drawn.  Mr. Hasbrouck
was so good a man he never mistrusted any one.  That is why the big
lock was not fastened.  The key, not working well, he took it some
days ago to the locksmith, and when the latter failed to return it,
he laughed, and said he thought no one would ever think of meddling
with his front door."

"Is there more than one night-key to your house?" I now asked.

She shook her head.

"And when did Mr. Hasbrouck last use his?"

"To-night, when he came home from prayer-meeting," she answered, and
burst into tears.

Her grief was so real and her loss so recent that I hesitated to
afflict her by further questions.  So returning to the scene of the
tragedy, I stepped out upon the balcony which ran in front.  Soft
voices instantly struck my ears.  The neighbors on either side were
grouped in front of their own windows, and were exchanging the
remarks natural under the circumstances.  I paused, as in duty bound,
and listened.  But I heard nothing worth recording, and would have
instantly reentered the house, if I had not been impressed by the
appearance of a very graceful woman who stood at my right.  She was
clinging to her husband, who was gazing at one of the pillars before
him in a strange, fixed way which astonished me till he attempted to
move, and then I saw that he was blind.  Instantly I remembered that
there lived in this row a blind doctor, equally celebrated for his
skill and for his uncommon personal attractions, and, greatly
interested not only in his affliction, but in the sympathy evinced
for him by his young and affectionate wife, I stood still till I
heard her say in the soft and appealing tones of love:

"Come in, Constant; you have heavy duties for to-morrow, and you
should get a few hours' rest, if possible."

He came from the shadow of the pillar, and for one minute I saw his
face with the lamplight shining full upon it.  It was as regular of
feature as a sculptured Adonis, and it was as white.

"Sleep!" he repeated, in the measured tones of deep but suppressed
feeling.  "Sleep! with murder on the other side of the wall!"  And he
stretched out his arms in a dazed way that insensibly accentuated the
horror I myself felt of the crime which had so lately taken place in
the room behind me.

She, noting the movement, took one of the groping hands in her own
and drew him gently toward her.

"This way," she urged; and, guiding him into the house, she closed
the window and drew down the shades, making the street seem darker by
the loss of her exquisite presence.

This may seem a digression, but I was at the time a young man of
thirty, and much under the dominion of woman's beauty.  I was
therefore slow in leaving the balcony, and persistent in my wish to
learn something of this remarkable couple before leaving Mr.
Hasbrouck's house.

The story told me was very simple.  Dr. Zabriskie had not been born
blind, but had become so after a grievous illness which had stricken
him down soon after he received his diploma.  Instead of succumbing
to an affliction which would have daunted most men, he expressed his
intention of practising his profession, and soon became so successful
in it that he found no difficulty in establishing himself in one of
the best paying quarters of the city.  Indeed, his intuition seemed
to have developed in a remarkable degree after his loss of sight, and
he seldom, if ever, made a mistake in diagnosis.  Considering this
fact, and the personal attractions which gave him distinction, it was
no wonder that he soon became a popular physician whose presence was
a benefaction and whose word a law.

He had been engaged to be married at the time of his illness, and,
when he learned what was likely to be its results, had offered to
release the young lady from all obligation to him.  But she would not
be released, and they were married.  This had taken place some five
years previous to Mr. Hasbrouck's death, three of which had been
spent by them in Lafayette Place.

So much for the beautiful woman next door.

There being absolutely no clue to the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck, I
naturally looked forward to the inquest for some evidence upon which
to work.  But there seemed to be no underlying facts to this tragedy.
The most careful study into the habits and conduct of the deceased
brought nothing to light save his general beneficence and rectitude,
nor was there in his history or in that of his wife any secret or
hidden obligation calculated to provoke any such act of revenge as
murder.  Mrs. Hasbrouck's surmise that the intruder was simply a
burglar, and that she had rather imagined than heard the words that
pointed to the shooting as a deed of vengeance, soon gained general
credence.  But, though the police worked long and arduously in this
new direction, their efforts were without fruit, and the case bade
fair to remain an unsolvable mystery.

But the deeper the mystery the more persistently does my mind cling
to it, and some five months after the matter had been delegated to
oblivion, I found myself starting suddenly from sleep, with these
words ringing in my ears:

"_Who uttered the scream that gave the first alarm of Mr. Hasbrouck's
violent death?_"

I was in such a state of excitement that the perspiration stood out
on my forehead.  Mrs. Hasbrouck's story of the occurrence returned to
me, and I remembered as distinctly as if she were then speaking, that
she had expressly stated that she did not scream when confronted by
the sight of her husband's dead body.  But some one had screamed, and
that very loudly.  Who was it, then?  One of the maids, startled by
the sudden summons from below, or some one else--some involuntary
witness of the crime, whose testimony had been suppressed at the
inquest, by fear or influence?

The possibility of having come upon a clue even at this late day, so
fired my ambition, that I took the first opportunity of revisiting
Lafayette Place.  Choosing such persons as I thought most open to my
questions, I learned that there were many who could testify to having
heard a woman's shrill scream on that memorable night just prior to
the alarm given by old Cyrus, but no one who could tell from whose
lips it had come.  One fact, however, was immediately settled.  It
had not been the result of the servant-women's fears.  Both of the
girls were positive that they had uttered no sound, nor had they
themselves heard any, till Cyrus rushed to the window with his wild
cries.  As the scream, by whomever given, was uttered before they
descended the stairs, I was convinced by these assurances that it had
issued from one of the front windows, and not from the rear of the
house, where their own rooms lay.  Could it be that it had sprung
from the adjoining dwelling, and that--  My thoughts went no further,
but I made up my mind to visit the Doctor's house at once.

It took some courage to do this, for the Doctor's wife had attended
the inquest, and her beauty, seen in broad daylight, had worn such an
aspect of mingled sweetness and dignity, that I hesitated to
encounter it under any circumstances likely to disturb its pure
serenity.  But a clue, once grasped, can not be lightly set aside by
a true detective, and it would have taken more than a woman's frown
to stop me at this point.  So I rang Dr. Zabriskie's bell.

I am seventy years old now and am no longer daunted by the charms of
a beautiful woman, but I confess that when I found myself in the fine
reception parlor on the first floor, I experienced no little
trepidation at the prospect of the interview which awaited me.

But as soon as the fine commanding form of the Doctor's wife crossed
the threshold, I recovered my senses and surveyed her with as direct
a gaze as my position allowed.  For her aspect bespoke a degree of
emotion that astonished me; and even before I spoke I perceived her
to be trembling, though she was a woman of no little natural dignity
and self-possession.

"I seem to know your face," she said, advancing courteously toward
me, "but your name"--and here she glanced at the card she held in her
hand--"is totally unfamiliar to me."

"I think you saw me some eighteen months ago," said I.  "I am the
detective who gave testimony at the inquest which was held over the
remains of Mr. Hasbrouck."

I had not meant to startle her, but at this introduction of myself I
saw her naturally pale cheek turn paler, and her fine eyes, which had
been fixed curiously upon me, gradually sink to the floor.

"Great heaven!" thought I, "what is this I have stumbled upon!"

"I do not understand what business you can have with me," she
presently remarked, with a show of gentle indifference that did not
in the least deceive me.

"I do not wonder," I rejoined.  "The crime which took place next door
is almost forgotten by the community, and even if it were not, I am
sure you would find it difficult to conjecture the nature of the
question I have to put to you."

"I am surprised," she began, rising in her involuntary emotion and
thereby compelling me to rise also.  "How can you have any question
to ask me on this subject?  Yet if you have," she continued, with a
rapid change of manner that touched my heart in spite of myself, "I
shall, of course, do my best to answer you."

There are women whose sweetest tones and most charming smiles only
serve to awaken distrust in men of my calling; but Mrs. Zabriskie was
not of this number.  Her face was beautiful, but it was also candid
in its expression, and beneath the agitation which palpably disturbed
her, I was sure there lurked nothing either wicked or false.  Yet I
held fast by the clue which I had grasped, as it were, in the dark,
and without knowing whither I was tending, much less whither I was
leading her, I proceeded to say:

"The question which I presume to put to you as the next-door neighbor
of Mr. Hasbrouck, is this: Who was the woman who screamed out so
loudly that the whole neighborhood heard her on the night of that
gentleman's assassination?"

The gasp she gave answered my question in a way she little realized,
and, struck as I was by the impalpable links that had led me to the
threshold of this hitherto unsolvable mystery, I was about to press
my advantage and ask another question, when she quickly started
forward and laid her hand on my lips.

Astonished, I looked at her inquiringly, but her head was turned
aside, and her eyes, fixed upon the door, showed the greatest
anxiety.  Instantly I realized what she feared.  Her husband was
entering the house, and she dreaded lest his ears should catch a word
of our conversation.

Not knowing what was in her mind, and unable to realize the
importance of the moment to her, I yet listened to the advance of her
blind husband with an almost painful interest.  Would he enter the
room where we were, or would he pass immediately to his office in the
rear?  She seemed to wonder too, and almost held her breath as he
neared the door, paused, and stood in the open doorway, with his ear
turned toward us.

As for myself, I remained perfectly still, gazing at his face in
mingled surprise and apprehension.  For besides its beauty, which was
of a marked order, as I have already observed, it had a touching
expression which irresistibly aroused both pity and interest in the
spectator.  This may have been the result of his affliction, or it
may have sprung from some deeper cause; but, whatever its source,
this look in his face produced a strong impression upon me and
interested me at once in his personality.  Would he enter?  Or would
he pass on?  Her look of silent appeal showed me in which direction
her wishes lay, but while I answered her glance by complete silence,
I was conscious in some indistinct way that the business I had
undertaken would be better furthered by his entrance.

The blind have been often said to possess a sixth sense in place of
the one they have lost.  Though I am sure we made no noise, I soon
perceived that he was aware of our presence.  Stepping hastily
forward, he said, in the high and vibrating tone of restrained
passion:

"Helen, are you here?"

For a moment I thought she did not mean to answer, but knowing
doubtless from experience the impossibility of deceiving him, she
answered with a cheerful assent, dropping her hand as she did so from
before my lips.

He heard the slight rustle which accompanied the movement, and a look
I found it hard to comprehend flashed over his features, altering his
expression so completely that he seemed another man.

"You have some one with you," he declared, advancing another step but
with none of the uncertainty which usually accompanies the movements
of the blind.  "Some dear friend," he went on, with an almost
sarcastic emphasis and a forced smile that had little of gaiety in it.

The agitated and distressed blush which answered him could have but
one interpretation.  He suspected that her hand had been clasped in
mine, and she perceived his thought and knew that I perceived it also.

Drawing herself up, she moved toward him, saying in a sweet, womanly
tone that to me spoke volumes:

"It is no friend, Constant, not even an acquaintance.  The person
whom I now present to you is an agent from the police.  He is here
upon a trivial errand which will be soon finished, when I will join
you in your office."

I knew she was but taking a choice between two evils.  That she would
have saved her husband the knowledge of a detective's presence in the
house, if her self-respect would have allowed it, but neither she nor
I anticipated the effect which this presentation produced upon him.

"A police officer," he repeated, staring with his sightless eyes, as
if, in his eagerness to see, he half hoped his lost sense would
return.  "He can have no trivial errand here; he has been sent by God
Himself to--"

"Let me speak for you," hastily interposed his wife, springing to his
side and clasping his arm with a fervor that was equally expressive
of appeal and command.  Then turning to me, she explained: "Since Mr.
Hasbrouck's unaccountable death, my husband has been laboring under a
hallucination which I have only to mention for you to recognize its
perfect absurdity.  He thinks--oh! do not look like that, Constant;
you know it is a hallucination which must vanish the moment we drag
it into broad daylight--that he--_he_, the best man in all the world,
was himself the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck."

Good God!

"I say nothing of the impossibility of this being so," she went on in
a fever of expostulation.  "He is blind, and could not have delivered
such a shot even if he had desired to; besides, he had no weapon.
But the inconsistency of the thing speaks for itself, and should
assure him that his mind is unbalanced and that he is merely
suffering from a shock that was greater than we realized.  He is a
physician and has had many such instances in his own practise.  Why,
he was very much attached to Mr. Hasbrouck!  They were the best of
friends, and though he insists that he killed him, he can not give
any reason for the deed."

At these words the Doctor's face grew stern, and he spoke like an
automaton repeating some fearful lesson.

"I killed him.  I went to his room and deliberately shot him.  I had
nothing against him, and my remorse is extreme.  Arrest me, and let
me pay the penalty of my crime.  It is the only way in which I can
obtain peace."

Shocked beyond all power of self-control by this repetition of what
she evidently considered the unhappy ravings of a madman, she let go
his arm and turned upon me in frenzy.

"Convince him!" she cried.  "Convince him by your questions that he
never could have done this fearful thing."

I was laboring under great excitement myself, for I felt my youth
against me in a matter of such tragic consequence.  Besides, I agreed
with her that he was in a distempered state of mind, and I hardly
knew how to deal with one so fixed in his hallucination and with so
much intelligence to support it.  But the emergency was great, for he
was holding out his wrists in the evident expectation of my taking
him into instant custody; and the sight was killing his wife, who had
sunk on the floor between us, in terror and anguish.

"You say you killed Mr. Hasbrouck," I began.  "Where did you get your
pistol, and what did you do with it after you left his house?"

"My husband had no pistol; never had any pistol," put in Mrs.
Zabriskie, with vehement assertion.  "If I had seen him with such a
weapon--"

"I threw it away.  When I left the house, I cast it as far from me as
possible, for I was frightened at what I had done, horribly
frightened."

"No pistol was ever found," I answered, with a smile, forgetting for
the moment that he could not see.  "If such an instrument had been
found in the street after a murder of such consequence it certainly
would have been brought to the police."

"You forget that a good pistol is valuable property," he went on
stolidly.  "Some one came along before the general alarm was given;
and seeing such a treasure lying on the sidewalk, picked it up and
carried it off.  Not being an honest man, he preferred to keep it to
drawing the attention of the police upon himself."

"Hum, perhaps," said I; "but where did you get it.  Surely you can
tell where you procured such a weapon, if, as your wife intimates,
you did not own one."

"I bought it that self-same night of a friend; a friend whom I will
not name, since he resides no longer in this country.  I--"  He
paused; intense passion was in his face; he turned toward his wife,
and a low cry escaped him, which made her look up in fear.

"I do not wish to go into any particulars," said he.  "God forsook me
and I committed a horrible crime.  When I am punished, perhaps peace
will return to me and happiness to her.  I would not wish her to
suffer too long or too bitterly for my sin."

"Constant!"  What love was in the cry! and what despair!  It seemed
to move him and turn his thoughts for a moment into a different
channel.

"Poor child!" he murmured, stretching out his hands by an
irresistible impulse toward her.  But the change was but momentary,
and he was soon again the stern and determined self-accuser.  "Are
you going to take me before a magistrate?" he asked.  "If so, I have
a few duties to perform which you are welcome to witness."

"I have no warrant," I said; "besides, I am scarcely the one to take
such a responsibility upon myself.  If, however, you persist in your
declaration, I will communicate with my superiors, who will take such
action as they think best."

"That will be still more satisfactory to me," said he; "for though I
have many times contemplated giving myself up to the authorities, I
have still much to do before I can leave my home and practise without
injury to others.  Good-day; when you want me, you will find me here."

He was gone, and the poor young wife was left crouching on the floor
alone.  Pitying her shame and terror, I ventured to remark that it
was not an uncommon thing for a man to confess to a crime he had
never committed, and assured her that the matter would be inquired
into very carefully before any attempt was made upon his liberty.

She thanked me, and, slowly rising, tried to regain her equanimity;
but the manner as well as the matter of her husband's
self-condemnation was too overwhelming in its nature for her to
recover readily from her emotions.

"I have long dreaded this," she acknowledged.  "For months I have
foreseen that he would make some rash communication or insane avowal.
If I had dared, I would have consulted some physician about this
hallucination of his; but he was so sane on other points that I
hesitated to give my dreadful secret to the world.  I kept hoping
that time and his daily pursuits would have their effect and restore
him to himself.  But his illusion grows, and now I fear that nothing
will ever convince him that he did not commit the deed of which he
accuses himself.  If he were not blind I would have more hope, but
the blind have so much time for brooding."

"I think he had better be indulged in his fancies for the present," I
ventured.  "If he is laboring under an illusion it might be dangerous
to cross him."

"_If?_" she echoed in an indescribable tone of amazement and dread.
"Can you for a moment harbor the idea that he has spoken the truth?"

"Madam," I returned, with something of the cynicism of my later
years, "what caused you to give such an unearthly scream just before
this murder was made known to the neighborhood?"

She stared, paled, and finally began to tremble, not, as I now
believe, at the insinuation latent in my words, but at the doubts
which my question aroused in her own breast.

"Did I?" she asked; then with a great burst of candor, which seemed
inseparable from her nature, she continued: "Why do I try to mislead
you or deceive myself?  I did give a shriek just before the alarm was
raised next door; but it was not from any knowledge I had of a crime
having been committed, but because I unexpectedly saw before me my
husband whom I supposed to be on his way to Poughkeepsie.  He was
looking very pale and strange, and for a moment I thought I was
beholding his ghost.  But he soon explained his appearance by saying
that he had fallen from the train and had been only saved by a
miracle from being dismembered; and I was just bemoaning his mishap
and trying to calm him and myself, when that terrible shout was heard
next door of 'Murder! murder!'  Coming so soon after the shock he had
himself experienced, it quite unnerved him, and I think we can date
his mental disturbance from that moment.  For he began almost
immediately to take a morbid interest in the affair next door, though
it was weeks, if not months, before he let a word fall of the nature
of those you have just heard.  Indeed it was not till I repeated to
him some of the expressions he was continually letting fall in his
sleep, that he commenced to accuse himself of crime and talk of
retribution."

"You say that your husband frightened you on that night by appearing
suddenly at the door when you thought him on his way to Poughkeepsie.
Is Dr. Zabriskie in the habit of thus going and coming alone at an
hour so late as this must have been?"

"You forget that to the blind, night is less full of perils than the
day.  Often and often has my husband found his way to his patients'
houses alone after midnight; but on this especial evening he had
Harry with him.  Harry was his driver, and always accompanied him
when he went any distance."

"Well, then," said I, "all we have to do is to summon Harry and hear
what he has to say concerning this affair.  He surely will know
whether or not his master went into the house next door."

"Harry has left us," she said.  "Dr. Zabriskie has another driver
now.  Besides--(I have nothing to conceal from you)--Harry was not
with him when he returned to the house that evening, or the Doctor
would not have been without his portmanteau till the next day.
Something--I have never known what--caused them to separate, and that
is why I have no answer to give the Doctor when he accuses himself of
committing a deed on that night which is wholly out of keeping with
every other act of his life."

"And have you never questioned Harry why they separated and why he
allowed his master to come home alone after the shock he had received
at the station?"

"I did not know there was any reason for doing so till long after he
left us."

"And when did he leave?"

"That I do not remember.  A few weeks, or possibly a few days, after
that dreadful night."

"And where is he now?"

"Ah, that I have not the least means of knowing.  But," she suddenly
cried, "what do you want of Harry?  If he did not follow Dr.
Zabriskie to his own door, he could tell us nothing that would
convince my husband that he is laboring under an illusion."

"But he might tell us something which would convince us that Dr.
Zabriskie was not himself after the accident that he--"

"Hush!" came from her lips in imperious tones.  "I will not believe
that he shot Mr. Hasbrouck even if you prove him to have been insane
at the time.  How could he?  My husband is blind.  It would take a
man of very keen sight to force himself into a house that was closed
for the night, and kill a man in the dark at one shot."

"Rather," cried a voice from the doorway, "it is only a blind man who
could do this.  Those who trust to eyesight must be able to catch
some glimpse of the mark they aim at, and this room, as I have been
told, was without a glimmer of light.  But the blind trust to sound,
and as Mr. Hasbrouck spoke--"

"Oh!" burst from the horrified wife, "is there no one to stop him
when he speaks like that?"



II

When I related to my superiors the details of the foregoing
interview, two of them coincided with the wife in thinking that Dr.
Zabriskie was in an irresponsible condition of mind which made any
statement of his questionable.  But the third seemed disposed to
argue the matter, and, casting me an inquiring look, seemed to ask
what my opinion was on the subject.  Answering him as if he had
spoken, I gave my conclusion as follows: That whether insane or not,
Dr. Zabriskie had fired the shot which terminated Mr. Hasbrouck's
life.

It was the Inspector's own idea, but it was not shared in by the
others, one of whom had known the Doctor for years.  Accordingly they
compromised by postponing all opinion till they had themselves
interrogated the Doctor, and I was detailed to bring him before them
the next afternoon.

He came without reluctance, his wife accompanying him.  In the short
time which elapsed between their leaving Lafayette Place and entering
Headquarters, I embraced the opportunity of observing them, and I
found the study equally exciting and interesting.  His face was calm
but hopeless, and his eye, which should have shown a wild glimmer if
there was truth in his wife's hypothesis, was dark and unfathomable,
but neither frenzied nor uncertain.  He spake but once and listened
to nothing, though now and then his wife moved as if to attract his
attention, and once even stole her hand toward his, in the tender
hope that he would feel its approach and accept her sympathy.  But he
was deaf as well as blind; and sat wrapped up in thoughts which she,
I know, would have given worlds to penetrate.

Her countenance was not without its mystery also.  She showed in
every lineament passionate concern and misery, and a deep tenderness
from which the element of fear was not absent.  But she, as well as
he, betrayed that some misunderstanding, deeper than any I had
previously suspected, drew its intangible veil between them and made
the near proximity in which they sat, at once a heart-piercing
delight and an unspeakable pain.  What was this misunderstanding? and
what was the character of the fear that modified her every look of
love in his direction?  Her perfect indifference to my presence
proved that it was not connected with the position in which he had
put himself toward the police by his voluntary confession of crime,
nor could I thus interpret the expression of frantic question which
now and then contracted her features, as she raised her eyes toward
his sightless orbs, and strove to read, in his firm-set lips, the
meaning of those assertions she could only ascribe to a loss of
reason.

The stopping of the carriage seemed to awaken both from thoughts that
separated rather than united them.  He turned his face in her
direction, and she, stretching forth her hand, prepared to lead him
from the carriage, without any of that display of timidity which had
been previously evident in her manner.

As his guide she seemed to fear nothing; as his lover, everything.

"There is another and a deeper tragedy underlying the outward and
obvious one," was my inward conclusion, as I followed them into the
presence of the gentlemen awaiting them.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Dr. Zabriskie's appearance was a shock to those who knew him; so was
his manner, which was calm, straightforward, and quietly determined.

"I shot Mr. Hasbrouck," was his steady affirmation, given without any
show of frenzy or desperation.  "If you ask me why I did it, I can
not answer; if you ask me how, I am ready to state all that I know
concerning the matter."

"But, Dr. Zabriskie," interposed his friend, "the why is the most
important thing for us to consider just now.  If you really desire to
convince us that you committed the dreadful crime of killing a
totally inoffensive man, you should give us some reason for an act so
opposed to all your instincts and general conduct."

But the Doctor continued unmoved:

"I had no reason for murdering Mr. Hasbrouck.  A hundred questions
can elicit no other reply; you had better keep to the how."

A deep-drawn breath from the wife answered the looks of the three
gentlemen to whom this suggestion was offered.  "You see," that
breath seemed to protest, "that he is not in his right mind."

I began to waver in my own opinion, and yet the intuition which has
served me in cases as seemingly impenetrable as this bade me beware
of following the general judgment.

"Ask him to inform you how he got into the house," I whispered to
Inspector D----, who sat nearest me.

Immediately the Inspector put the question I had suggested:

"By what means did you enter Mr. Hasbrouck's house at so late an hour
as this murder occurred?"

The blind doctor's head fell forward on his breast, and he hesitated
for the first and only time.

"You will not believe me," said he; "but the door was ajar when I
came to it.  Such things make crime easy; it is the only excuse I
have to offer for this dreadful deed."

The front door of a respectable citizen's house ajar at half-past
eleven at night.  It was a statement that fixed in all minds the
conviction of the speaker's irresponsibility.  Mrs. Zabriskie's brow
cleared, and her beauty became for a moment dazzling as she held out
her hands in irrepressible relief toward those who were interrogating
her husband.  I alone kept my impassibility.  A possible explanation
of this crime had flashed like lightning across my mind; an
explanation from which I inwardly recoiled, even while I was forced
to consider it.

"Dr. Zabriskie," remarked the Inspector who was most friendly to him,
"such old servants as those kept by Mr. Hasbrouck do not leave the
front door ajar at twelve o'clock at night."

"Yet ajar it was," repeated the blind doctor, with quiet emphasis;
"and finding it so, I went in.  When I came out again, I closed it.
Do you wish me to swear to what I say?  If so, I am ready."

What could we reply?  To see this splendid-looking man, hallowed by
an affliction so great that in itself it called forth the compassion
of the most indifferent, accusing himself of a cold-blooded crime, in
tones that sounded dispassionate because of the will that forced
their utterance, was too painful in itself for us to indulge in any
unnecessary words.  Compassion took the place of curiosity, and each
and all of us turned involuntary looks of pity upon the young wife
pressing so eagerly to his side.

"For a blind man," ventured one, "the assault was both deft and
certain.  Are you accustomed to Mr. Hasbrouck's house, that you found
your way with so little difficulty to his bedroom?"

"I am accustomed--" he began.

But here his wife broke in with irrepressible passion:

"He is not accustomed to that house.  He has never been beyond the
first floor.  Why, why do you question him?  Do you not see--"

His hand was on her lips.

"Hush!" he commanded.  "You know my skill in moving about a house;
how I sometimes deceive those who do not know me into believing that
I can see, by the readiness with which I avoid obstacles and find my
way even in strange and untried scenes.  Do not try to make them
think I am not in my right mind, or you will drive me into the very
condition you deprecate."

His face, rigid, cold, and set, looked like that of a mask.  Hers,
drawn with horror and filled with question that was fast taking the
form of doubt, bespoke an awful tragedy from which more than one of
us recoiled.

"Can you shoot a man dead without seeing him?" asked the
Superintendent, with painful effort.

"Give me a pistol and I will show you," was the quick reply.

A low cry came from the wife.  In a drawer near to every one of us
there lay a pistol, but no one moved to take it out.  There was a
look in the Doctor's eye which made us fear to trust him with a
pistol just then.

"We will accept your assurance that you possess a skill beyond that
of most men," returned the Superintendent.  And beckoning me forward,
he whispered: "This is a case for the doctors and not for the police.
Remove him quietly, and notify Dr. Southyard of what I say."

But Dr. Zabriskie, who seemed to have an almost supernatural
acuteness of hearing, gave a violent start at this and spoke up for
the first time with real passion in his voice:

"No, no, I pray you.  I can bear anything but that.  Remember,
gentlemen, that I am blind; that I can not see who is about me; that
my life would be a torture if I felt myself surrounded by spies
watching to catch some evidence of madness in me.  Rather conviction
at once, death, dishonor, and obloquy.  These I have incurred.  These
I have brought upon myself by crime, but not this worse fate--oh! not
this worse fate."

His passion was so intense and yet so confined within the bounds of
decorum that we felt strangely impressed by it.  Only the wife stood
transfixed, with the dread growing in her heart, till her white,
waxen visage seemed even more terrible to contemplate than his
passion-distorted one.

"It is not strange that my wife thinks me demented," the Doctor
continued, as if afraid of the silence that answered him.  "But it is
your business to discriminate, and you should know a sane man when
you see him."

Inspector D---- no longer hesitated.

"Very well," said he, "give us the least proof that your assertions
are true, and we will lay your case before the prosecuting attorney."

"Proof?  Is not a man's word--"

"No man's confession is worth much without some evidence to support
it.  In your case there is none.  You can not even produce the pistol
with which you assert yourself to have committed the deed."

"True, true.  I was frightened by what I had done, and the instinct
of self-preservation led me to rid myself of the weapon in any way I
could.  But some one found this pistol; some one picked it up from
the sidewalk of Lafayette Place on that fatal night.  Advertise for
it.  Offer a reward.  I will give you the money."  Suddenly he
appeared to realize how all this sounded.  "Alas!" cried he, "I know
the story seems improbable; all I say seems improbable; but it is not
the probable things that happen in this life, but the improbable, as
you should know, who every day dig deep into the heart of human
affairs."

Were these the ravings of insanity?  I began to understand the wife's
terror.

"I bought the pistol," he went on, "of--alas!  I can not tell you his
name.  Everything is against me.  I can not adduce one proof; yet
she, even she, is beginning to fear that my story is true.  I know it
by her silence, a silence that yawns between us like a deep and
unfathomable gulf."

But at these words her voice rang out with passionate vehemence.

"No, no, it is false!  I will never believe that your hands have been
plunged in blood.  You are my own pure-hearted Constant, cold,
perhaps, and stern, but with no guilt upon your conscience, save in
your own wild imagination."

"Helen, you are no friend to me," he declared, pushing her gently
aside.  "Believe me innocent, but say nothing to lead these others to
doubt my word."

And she said no more, but her looks spoke volumes.

The result was that he was not detained, though he prayed for instant
commitment.  He seemed to dread his own home, and the surveillance to
which he instinctively knew he would henceforth be subjected.  To see
him shrink from his wife's hand as she strove to lead him from the
room was sufficiently painful; but the feeling thus aroused was
nothing to that with which we observed the keen and agonized
expectancy of his look as he turned and listened for the steps of the
officer who followed him.

"I shall never again know whether or not I am alone," was his final
observation as he left our presence.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I said nothing to my superiors of the thoughts I had had while
listening to the above interrogatories.  A theory had presented
itself to my mind which explained in some measure the mysteries of
the Doctor's conduct, but I wished for time and opportunity to test
its reasonableness before submitting it to their higher judgment.
And these seemed likely to be given me, for the Inspectors continued
divided in their opinion of the blind physician's guilt, and the
District-Attorney, when told of the affair, pooh-poohed it without
mercy, and declined to stir in the matter unless some tangible
evidence were forthcoming to substantiate the poor Doctor's
self-accusations.

"If guilty, why does he shrink from giving his motives," said he,
"and if so anxious to go to the gallows, why does he suppress the
very facts calculated to send him there?  He is as mad as a March
hare, and it is to an asylum he should go and not to a jail."

In this conclusion I failed to agree with him, and as time wore on my
suspicions took shape and finally ended in a fixed conviction.  Dr.
Zabriskie had committed the crime he avowed, but--let me proceed a
little further with my story before I reveal what lies beyond that
"but."

Notwithstanding Dr. Zabriskie's almost frenzied appeal for solitude,
a man had been placed in surveillance over him in the shape of a
young doctor skilled in diseases of the brain.  This man communicated
more or less with the police, and one morning I received from him the
following extracts from the diary he had been ordered to keep:


"The Doctor is settling into a deep melancholy from which he tries to
rise at times, but with only indifferent success.  Yesterday he rode
around to all his patients for the purpose of withdrawing his
services on the plea of illness.  But he still keeps his office open,
and to-day I had the opportunity of witnessing his reception and
treatment of the many sufferers who came to him for aid.  I think he
was conscious of my presence, though an attempt had been made to
conceal it.  For the listening look never left his face from the
moment he entered the room, and once he rose and passed quickly from
wall to wall, groping with outstretched hands into every nook and
corner, and barely escaping contact with the curtain behind which I
was hidden.  But if he suspected my presence, he showed no
displeasure at it, wishing perhaps for a witness to his skill in the
treatment of disease.

"And truly I never beheld a finer manifestation of practical insight
in cases of a more or less baffling nature than I beheld in him
to-day.  He is certainly a most wonderful physician, and I feel bound
to record that his mind is as clear for business as if no shadow had
fallen upon it.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Dr. Zabriskie loves his wife, but in a way that tortures both
himself and her.  If she is gone from the house he is wretched, and
yet when she returns he often forbears to speak to her, or if he does
speak, it is with a constraint that hurts her more than his silence.
I was present when she came in to-day.  Her step, which had been
eager on the stairway, flagged as she approached the room, and he
naturally noted the change and gave his own interpretation to it.
His face, which had been very pale, flushed suddenly, and a nervous
trembling seized him which he sought in vain to hide.  But by the
time her tall and beautiful figure stood in the doorway he was his
usual self again in all but the expression of his eyes, which stared
straight before him in an agony of longing only to be observed in
those who have once seen.

"'Where have you been, Helen?' he asked, as, contrary to his wont, he
moved to meet her.

"'To my mother's, to Arnold & Constable's, and to the hospital, as
you requested,' was her quick answer, made without faltering or
embarrassment.

"He stepped still nearer and took her hand, and as he did so my
physician's eye noted how his finger lay over her pulse in seeming
unconsciousness.

"'Nowhere else?' he queried.

"She smiled the saddest kind of smile and shook her head; then,
remembering that he could not see this movement, she cried in a
wistful tone:

"'Nowhere else, Constant; I was too anxious to get back.'

"I expected him to drop her hand at this, but he did not; and his
finger still rested on her pulse.

"'And whom did you see while you were gone?' he continued.

"She told him, naming over several names.

"'You must have enjoyed yourself,' was his cold comment, as he let go
her hand and turned away.  But his manner showed relief, and I could
not but sympathize with the pitiable situation of a man who found
himself forced to means like these for probing the heart of his young
wife.

"Yet when I turned toward her I realized that her position was but
little happier than his.  Tears are no strangers to her eyes, but
those that welled up at this moment seemed to possess a bitterness
that promised but little peace for her future.  Yet she quickly dried
them and busied herself with ministrations for his comfort.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"If I am any judge of woman, Helen Zabriskie is superior to most of
her sex.  That her husband mistrusts her is evident, but whether this
is the result of the stand she has taken in his regard, or only a
manifestation of dementia, I have as yet been unable to determine.  I
dread to leave them alone together, and yet when I presume to suggest
that she should be on her guard in her interviews with him, she
smiles very placidly and tells me that nothing would give her greater
joy than to see him lift his hand against her, for that would argue
that he is not accountable for his deeds or for his assertions.

"Yet it would be a grief to see her injured by this passionate and
unhappy man.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"You have said that you wanted all details I could give; so I feel
bound to say that Dr. Zabriskie tries to be considerate of his wife,
though he often fails in the attempt.  When she offers herself as his
guide, or assists him with his mail, or performs any of the many acts
of kindness by which she continually manifests her sense of his
affliction, he thanks her with courtesy and often with kindness, yet
I know she would willingly exchange all his set phrases for one fond
embrace or impulsive smile of affection.  That he is not in the full
possession of his faculties would be too much to say, and yet upon
what other hypothesis can we account for the inconsistencies of his
conduct?

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I have before me two visions of mental suffering.  At noon I passed
the office door, and looking within, saw the figure of Dr. Zabriskie
seated in his great chair, lost in thought or deep in those memories
which make an abyss in one's consciousness.  His hands, which were
clenched, rested upon the arms of his chair, and in one of them I
detected a woman's glove, which I had no difficulty in recognizing as
one of the pair worn by his wife this morning.  He held it as a tiger
might hold his prey or a miser his gold, but his set features and
sightless eyes betrayed that a conflict of emotions was waging within
him, among which tenderness had but little share.

"Though alive, as he usually is, to every sound, he was too absorbed
at this moment to notice my presence, though I had taken no pains to
approach quietly.  I therefore stood for a full minute watching him,
till an irresistible sense of the shame of thus spying upon a blind
man in his moments of secret anguish seized upon me and I turned
away.  But not before I saw his features relax in a storm of
passionate feeling, as he rained kisses after kisses on the senseless
kid he had so long held in his motionless grasp.  Yet when an hour
later he entered the dining-room on his wife's arm, there was nothing
in his manner to show that he had in any way changed in his attitude
toward her.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"The other picture was more tragic still.  I have no business with
Mrs. Zabriskie's affairs; but as I passed upstairs to my room an hour
ago, I caught a fleeting vision of her tall form, with the arms
thrown up over her head in a paroxysm of feeling which made her as
oblivious to my presence as her husband had been several hours
before.  Were the words that escaped her lips, 'Thank God we have no
children!' or was this exclamation suggested to me by the passion and
unrestrained impulse of her action?"


Side by side with these lines, I, Ebenezer Gryce, placed the
following extracts from my own diary:


"Watched the Zabriskie mansion for five hours this morning, from the
second story window of an adjoining hotel.  Saw the Doctor when he
drove away on his round of visits, and saw him when he returned.  A
colored man accompanied him.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"To-day I followed Mrs. Zabriskie.  I had a motive for this, the
nature of which I think it wisest not to divulge.  She went first to
a house in Washington Place where I am told her mother lives.  Here
she stayed some time, after which she drove down to Canal Street,
where she did some shopping, and later stopped at the hospital, into
which I took the liberty of following her.  She seemed to know many
there, and passed from cot to cot with a smile in which I alone
discerned the sadness of a broken heart.  When she left, I left also,
without having learned anything beyond the fact that Mrs. Zabriskie
is one who does her duty in sorrow as in happiness.  A rare and
trustworthy woman I should say, and yet her husband does not trust
her.  Why?

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I have spent this day in accumulating details in regard to Dr. and
Mrs. Zabriskie's life previous to the death of Mr. Hasbrouck.  I
learned from sources it would be unwise to quote just here that Mrs.
Zabriskie had not lacked enemies ready to charge her with coquetry;
that while she had never sacrificed her dignity in public, more than
one person had been heard to declare that Dr. Zabriskie was fortunate
in being blind, since the sight of his wife's beauty would have but
poorly compensated him for the pain he would have suffered in seeing
how that beauty was admired.

"That all gossip is more or less tinged with exaggeration I have no
doubt, yet when a name is mentioned in connection with such stories,
there is usually some truth at the bottom of them.  And a name is
mentioned in this case, though I do not think it worth my while to
repeat it here; and loth as I am to recognize the fact, it is a name
that carries with it doubts that might easily account for the
husband's jealousy.  True, I have found no one who dares to hint that
she still continues to attract attention or to bestow smiles in any
direction save where they legally belong.  For since a certain
memorable night which we all know, neither Dr. Zabriskie nor his wife
have been seen save in their own domestic circle, and it is not into
such scenes that this serpent, of which I have spoken, ever intrudes,
nor is it in places of sorrow or suffering that his smile shines, or
his fascinations flourish.

"And so one portion of my theory is proved to be sound.  Dr.
Zabriskie is jealous of his wife: whether with good cause or bad I am
not prepared to decide; for her present attitude, clouded as it is by
the tragedy in which she and her husband are both involved, must
differ very much from that which she held when her life was
unshadowed by doubt, and her admirers could be counted by the score.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I have just found out where Harry is.  As he is in service some
miles up the river, I shall have to be absent from my post for
several hours, but I consider the game well worth the candle.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Light at last.  I have seen Harry, and, by means known only to the
police, have succeeded in making him talk.  His story is
substantially this: That on the night so often mentioned, he packed
his master's portmanteau at eight o'clock and at ten called a
carriage and rode with the Doctor to the Twenty-ninth Street station.
He was told to buy tickets for Poughkeepsie, where his master had
been called in consultation, and having done this, hurried back to
join his master on the platform.  They had walked together as far as
the cars, and Dr. Zabriskie was just stepping on to the train when a
man pushed himself hurriedly between them and whispered something
into his master's ear, which caused him to fall back and lose his
footing.  Dr. Zabriskie's body slid half under the car, but he was
withdrawn before any harm was done, though the cars gave a lurch at
that moment which must have frightened him exceedingly, for his face
was white when he rose to his feet, and when Harry offered to assist
him again on to the train, he refused to go and said he would return
home and not attempt to ride to Poughkeepsie that night.

"The gentleman, whom Harry now saw to be Mr. Stanton, an intimate
friend of Dr. Zabriskie, smiled very queerly at this, and taking the
Doctor's arm led him away to a carriage.  Harry naturally followed
them, but the Doctor, hearing his steps, turned and bade him, in a
very peremptory tone, to take the omnibus home, and then, as if on
second thought, told him to go to Poughkeepsie in his stead and
explain to the people there that he was too shaken up by his misstep
to do his duty, and that he would be with them next morning.  This
seemed strange to Harry, but he had no reasons for disobeying his
master's orders, and so rode to Poughkeepsie.  But the Doctor did not
follow him the next day; on the contrary, he telegraphed for him to
return, and when he got back dismissed him with a month's wages.
This ended Harry's connection with the Zabriskie family.

"A simple story bearing out what the wife has already told us; but it
furnishes a link which may prove invaluable.  Mr. Stanton, whose
first name is Theodore, knows the real reason why Dr. Zabriskie
returned home on the night of the seventeenth of July, 1851.  Mr.
Stanton, consequently, I must see, and this shall be my business
to-morrow.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Checkmate!  Theodore Stanton is not in this country.  Though this
points him out as the man from whom Dr. Zabriskie bought the pistol,
it does not facilitate my work, which is becoming more and more
difficult.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Mr. Stanton's whereabouts are not even known to his most intimate
friends.  He sailed from this country most unexpectedly on the
eighteenth of July a year ago, which was _the day after the murder of
Mr. Hasbrouck_.  It looks like a flight, especially as he has failed
to maintain open communication even with his relatives.  Was he the
man who shot Mr. Hasbrouck?  No; but he was the man who put the
pistol in Dr. Zabriskie's hand that night, and, whether he did this
with purpose or not, was evidently so alarmed at the catastrophe
which followed that he took the first outgoing steamer to Europe.  So
far, all is clear, but there are mysteries yet to be solved, which
will require my utmost tact.  What if I should seek out the gentleman
with whose name that of Mrs. Zabriskie has been linked, and see If I
can in any way connect him with Mr. Stanton or the events of that
night?

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Eureka!  I have discovered that Mr. Stanton cherished a mortal
hatred for the gentleman above mentioned.  It was a covert feeling,
but no less deadly on that account; and while it never led him into
any extravagances, it was of force sufficient to account for many a
secret misfortune which happened to that gentleman.  Now, if I can
prove he was the Mephistopheles who whispered insinuations into the
ear of our blind Faust, I may strike a fact that will lead me out of
this maze.

"But how can I approach secrets so delicate without compromising the
woman I feel bound to respect, if only for the devoted love she
manifests for her unhappy husband!

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I shall have to appeal to Joe Smithers.  This is something which I
always hate to do, but as long as he will take money, and as long as
he is fertile in resources for obtaining the truth from people I am
myself unable to reach, so long must I make use of his cupidity and
his genius.  He is an honorable fellow in one way, and never retails
as gossip what he acquires for our use.  How will he proceed in this
case, and by what tactics will be gain the very delicate information
which we need?  I own that I am curious to see.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I shall really have to put down at length the incidents of this
night.  I always knew that Joe Smithers was invaluable to the police,
but I really did not know he possessed talents of so high an order.
He wrote me this morning that he had succeeded in getting Mr. T----'s
promise to spend the evening with him, and advised me that if I
desired to be present also, his own servant would not be at home, and
that an opener of bottles would be required.

"As I was very anxious to see Mr. T---- with my own eyes, I accepted
the invitation to play the spy upon a spy, and went at the proper
hour to Mr. Smithers's rooms, which are in the University Building.
I found them picturesque in the extreme.  Piles of books stacked here
and there to the ceiling made nooks and corners which could be quite
shut off by a couple of old pictures that were set into movable
frames that swung out or in at the whim or convenience of the owner.

"As I liked the dark shadows cast by these pictures, I pulled them
both out, and made such other arrangements as appeared likely to
facilitate the purpose I had in view; then I sat down and waited for
the two gentlemen who were expected to come in together.

"They arrived almost immediately, whereupon I rose and played my part
with all necessary discretion.  While ridding Mr. T---- of his
overcoat, I stole a look at his face.  It is not a handsome one, but
it boasts of a gay, devil-may-care expression which doubtless makes
it dangerous to many women, while his manners are especially
attractive, and his voice the richest and most persuasive that I ever
heard.  I contrasted him, almost against my will, with Dr. Zabriskie,
and decided that with most women the former's undoubted fascinations
of speech and bearing would outweigh the latter's great beauty and
mental endowments; but I doubted if they would with her.

"The conversation which immediately began was brilliant but
desultory, for Mr. Smithers, with an airy lightness for which he is
remarkable, introduced topic after topic, perhaps for the purpose of
showing off Mr. T----'s versatility, and perhaps for the deeper and
more sinister purpose of shaking the kaleidoscope of talk so
thoroughly, that the real topic which we were met to discuss should
not make an undue impression on the mind of his guest.

"Meanwhile one, two, three bottles passed, and I saw Joe Smithers's
eye grow calmer and that of Mr. T---- more brilliant and more
uncertain.  As the last bottle showed signs of failing, Joe cast me a
meaning glance, and the real business of the evening began.

"I shall not attempt to relate the half-dozen failures which Joe made
in endeavoring to elicit the facts we were in search of, without
arousing the suspicion of his visitor.  I am only going to relate the
successful attempt.  They had been talking now for some hours, and I,
who had long before been waved from their immediate presence, was
hiding my curiosity and growing excitement behind one of the
pictures, when suddenly I heard Joe say:

"'He has the most remarkable memory I ever met.  He can tell to a day
when any notable event occurred.'

"Pshaw!' answered his companion, who, by the by, was known to pride
himself upon his own memory for dates, 'I can state where I went and
what I did on every day in the year.  That may not embrace what you
call "notable events," but the memory required is all the more
remarkable, is it not?'

"'Pooh!' was his friend's provoking reply, 'you are bluffing, Ben; I
will never believe that.'

"Mr. T----, who had passed by this time into that state of
intoxication which makes persistence in an assertion a duty as well
as a pleasure, threw back his head, and as the wreaths of smoke rose
in airy spirals from his lips, reiterated his statement, and offered
to submit to any test of his vaunted powers which the other might
dictate.

"'You have a diary--' began Joe.

"'Which is at home,' completed the other.

"'Will you allow me to refer to it to-morrow, if I am suspicious of
the accuracy of your recollections?'

"'Undoubtedly,' returned the other.

"'Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty that you can not
tell where you were between the hours of ten and eleven on a certain
night which I will name.'

"'Done!' cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and laying it
on the table before him.

"Joe followed his example and then summoned me.

"'Write a date down here,' he commanded, pushing a piece of paper
toward me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade.  'Any date,
man,' he added, as I appeared to hesitate in the embarrassment I
thought natural under the circumstances.  'Put down day, month, and
year, only don't go too far back; not farther than two years.'

"Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of his
superiors, I wrote a line and laid it before Mr. Smithers, who at
once pushed it with a careless gesture toward his companion.  You can
of course guess the date I made use of: July 17, 1851.  Mr. T----,
who had evidently looked upon this matter as mere play, flushed
scarlet as he read these words, and for one instant looked as if he
had rather flee our presence than answer Joe Smithers's nonchalant
glance of inquiry.

"'I have given my word and will keep it,' he said at last, but with a
look in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to my retreat.  'I
don't suppose you want names,' he went on, 'that is, if anything I
have to tell is of a delicate nature?'

"'O no,' answered the other, 'only facts and places.'

"'I don't think places are necessary either,' he returned.  'I will
tell you what I did and that must serve you.  I did not promise to
give number and street.'

"'Well, well,' Joe exclaimed; 'earn your fifty, that is all.  Show
that you remember where you were on the night of'--and with an
admirable show of indifference he pretended to consult the paper
between them--'the seventeenth of July, 1851, and I shall be
satisfied.'

"'I was at the club for one thing,' said Mr. T----; 'then I went to
see a lady friend, where I stayed till eleven.  She wore a blue
muslin--What is that?'

"I had betrayed myself by a quick movement which sent a glass tumbler
crashing to the floor.  Helen Zabriskie had worn a blue muslin on
that same night.  I had noted it when I stood on the balcony watching
her and her husband.

"'That noise?'  It was Joe who was speaking.  'You don't know Reuben
as well as I do or you wouldn't ask.  It is his practise, I am sorry
to say, to accentuate his pleasure in draining my bottles, by
dropping a glass at every third one.'

"Mr. T---- went on.

"'She was a married woman and I thought she loved me; but--and this
is the greatest proof I can offer you that I am giving you a true
account of that night--she had not had the slightest idea of the
extent of my passion, and only consented to see me at all because she
thought, poor thing, that a word from her would set me straight, and
rid her of attentions that were fast becoming obnoxious.  A sorry
figure for a fellow to cut who has not been without his triumphs; but
you caught me on the most detestable date in my calendar, and--'

"There is where he stopped being interesting, so I will not waste
time by quoting further.  And now what reply shall I make when Joe
Smithers asks me double his usual price, as he will be sure to do,
next time?  Has he not earned an advance?  I really think so.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I have spent the whole day in weaving together the facts I have
gleaned, and the suspicions I have formed, into a consecutive whole
likely to present my theory in a favorable light to my superiors.
But just as I thought myself in shape to meet their inquiries, I
received an immediate summons into their presence, where I was given
a duty to perform of so extraordinary and unexpected a nature, that
it effectually drove from my mind all my own plans for the
elucidation of the Zabriskie mystery.

"This was nothing more or less than to take charge of a party of
people who were going to the Jersey Heights for the purpose of
testing Dr. Zabriskie's skill with a pistol."



III

The cause of this sudden move was soon explained to me.  Mrs.
Zabriskie, anxious to have an end put to the present condition of
affairs, had begged for a more rigid examination into her husband's
state.  This being accorded, a strict and impartial inquiry had taken
place, with a result not unlike that which followed the first one.
Three out of his four interrogators judged him insane, and could not
be moved from their opinion though opposed by the verdict of the
young expert who had been living in the house with him.  Dr.
Zabriskie seemed to read their thoughts, and, showing extreme
agitation, begged as before for an opportunity to prove his sanity by
showing his skill in shooting.  This time a disposition was evinced
to grant his request, which Mrs. Zabriskie no sooner perceived, than
she added her supplications to his that the question might be thus
settled.

A pistol was accordingly brought; but at sight of it her courage
failed, and she changed her prayer to an entreaty that the experiment
should be postponed till the next day, and should then take place in
the woods away from the sight and hearing of needless spectators.

Though it would have been much wiser to have ended the matter there
and then, the Superintendent was prevailed upon to listen to her
entreaties, and thus it was that I came to be a spectator, if not a
participator, in the final scene of this most sombre drama.

There are some events which impress the human mind so deeply that
their memory mingles with all after-experiences.  Though I have made
it a rule to forget as soon as possible the tragic episodes into
which I am constantly plunged, there is one scene in my life which
will not depart at my will; and that is the sight which met my eyes
from the bow of the small boat in which Dr. Zabriskie and his wife
were rowed over to Jersey on that memorable afternoon.

Though it was by no means late in the day, the sun was already
sinking, and the bright red glare which filled the heavens and shone
full upon the faces of the half-dozen persons before me added much to
the tragic nature of the scene, though we were far from comprehending
its full significance.

The Doctor sat with his wife in the stern, and it was upon their
faces my glance was fixed.  The glare shone luridly on his sightless
eyeballs, and as I noticed his unwinking lids I realized as never
before what it was to be blind in the midst of sunshine.  Her eyes,
on the contrary, were lowered, but there was a look of hopeless
misery in her colorless face which made her appearance infinitely
pathetic, and I felt confident that if he could only have seen her,
he would not have maintained the cold and unresponsive manner which
chilled the words on her lips and made all advance on her part
impossible.

On the seat in front of them sat the Inspector and a doctor, and from
some quarter, possibly from under the Inspector's coat, there came
the monotonous ticking of a small clock, which, I had been told, was
to serve as a target for the blind man's aim.

This tickling was all I heard, though the noise and bustle of a great
traffic was pressing upon us on every side.  And I am sure it was all
that she heard, as, with hand pressed to her heart and eyes fixed on
the opposite shore, she waited for the event which was to determine
whether the man she loved was a criminal or only a being afflicted of
God, and worthy of her unceasing care and devotion.

As the sun cast its last scarlet gleam over the water, the boat
grounded, and it fell to my lot to assist Mrs. Zabriskie up the bank.
As I did so, I allowed myself to say: "I am your friend, Mrs.
Zabriskie," and was astonished to see her tremble, and turn toward me
with a look like that of a frightened child.

But there was always this characteristic blending in her countenance
of the childlike and the severe, such as may so often be seen in the
faces of nuns, and beyond an added pang of pity for this beautiful
but afflicted woman, I let the moment pass without giving it the
weight it perhaps demanded.

"The Doctor and his wife had a long talk last night," was whispered
in my ear as we wound our way along into the woods.  I turned and
perceived at my side the expert physician, portions of whose diary I
have already quoted.  He had come by another boat.

"But it did not seem to heal whatever breach lies between them," he
proceeded.  Then in a quick, curious tone, he asked: "Do you believe
this attempt on his part is likely to prove anything but a farce?"

"I believe he will shatter the clock to pieces with his first shot,"
I answered, and could say no more, for we had already reached the
ground which had been selected for this trial at arms, and the
various members of the party were being placed in their several
positions.

The Doctor, to whom light and darkness were alike, stood with his
face toward the western glow, and at his side were grouped the
Inspector and the two physicians.  On the arm of one of the latter
hung Dr. Zabriskie's overcoat, which he had taken off as soon as he
reached the field.

Mrs. Zabriskie stood at the other end of the opening, near a tall
stump, upon which it had been decided that the clock should be placed
when the moment came for the Doctor to show his skill.  She had been
accorded the privilege of setting the clock on this stump, and I saw
it shining in her hand as she paused for a moment to glance back at
the circle of gentlemen who were awaiting her movements.  The hands
of the clock stood at five minutes to five, though I scarcely noted
the fact at the time, for her eyes were on mine, and as she passed me
she spoke:

"If he is not himself, he can not be trusted.  Watch him carefully,
and see that he does no mischief to himself or others.  Be at his
right hand, and stop him if he does not handle his pistol properly."

I promised, and she passed on, setting the clock upon the stump and
immediately drawing back to a suitable distance at the right, where
she stood, wrapped in her long dark cloak, quite alone.  Her face
shone ghastly white, even in its environment of snow-covered boughs
which surrounded her, and, noting this, I wished the minutes fewer
between the present moment and the hour of five, at which he was to
draw the trigger.

"Dr. Zabriskie," quoth the Inspector, "we have endeavored to make
this trial a perfectly fair one.  You are to have one shot at a small
clock which has been placed within a suitable distance, and which you
are expected to hit, guided only by the sound which it will make in
striking the hour of five.  Are you satisfied with the arrangement?"

"Perfectly.  Where is my wife?"

"On the other side of the field, some ten paces from the stump upon
which the clock is fixed."

He bowed, and his face showed satisfaction.

"May I expect the clock to strike soon?"

"In less than five minutes," was the answer.

"Then let me have the pistol; I wish to become acquainted with its
size and weight."

We glanced at each other, then across at her.

She made a gesture; it was one of acquiescence.

Immediately the Inspector placed the weapon in the blind man's hand.
It was at once apparent that the Doctor understood the instrument,
and my last doubt vanished as to the truth of all he had told us.

"Thank God I am blind this hour and can not see her," fell
unconsciously from his lips; then, before the echo of these words had
left my ears, he raised his voice and observed calmly enough,
considering that he was about to prove himself a criminal in order to
save himself from being thought a madman:

"Let no one move.  I must have my ears free for catching the first
stroke of the clock."  And he raised the pistol before him.

There was a moment of torturing suspense and deep, unbroken silence.
My eyes were on him, and so I did not watch the clock, but suddenly I
was moved by some irresistible impulse to note how Mrs. Zabriskie was
bearing herself at this critical moment, and, casting a hurried
glance in her direction, I perceived her tall figure swaying from
side to side, as if under an intolerable strain of feeling.  Her eyes
were on the clock, the hands of which seemed to creep with snail-like
pace along the dial, when unexpectedly, and a full minute before the
minute hand had reached the stroke of five, I caught a movement on
her part, saw the flash of something round and white show for an
instant against the darkness of her cloak, and was about to shriek
warning to the Doctor, when the shrill, quick stroke of a clock rang
out on the frosty air, followed by the ping and flash of a pistol.

A sound of shattered glass, followed by a suppressed cry, told us
that the bullet had struck the mark, but before we could move, or rid
our eyes of the smoke which the wind had blown into our faces, there
came another sound which made our hair stand on end and sent the
blood back in terror to our hearts.  Another clock was striking, the
clock which we now perceived was still standing upright on the stump
where Mrs. Zabriskie had placed it.

Whence came the clock, then, which had struck before the time and
been shattered for its pains?  One quick look told us.  On the
ground, ten paces at the right, lay Helen Zabriskie, a broken clock
at her side, and in her breast a bullet which was fast sapping the
life from her sweet eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

We had to tell him, there was such pleading in her looks; and never
shall I forget the scream that rang from his lips as he realized the
truth.  Breaking from our midst, he rushed forward, and fell at her
feet as if guided by some supernatural instinct.

"Helen," he shrieked, "what is this?  Were not my hands dyed deep
enough in blood that you should make me answerable for your life
also?"

Her eyes were closed, but she opened them.  Looking long and steadily
at his agonized face, she faltered forth:

"It is not you who have killed me; it is your crime.  Had you been
innocent of Mr. Hasbrouck's death, your bullet would never have found
my heart.  Did you think I could survive the proof that you had
killed that good man?"

"I--I did it unwittingly.  I--"

"Hush!" she commanded, with an awful look, which, happily, he could
not see.  "I had another motive.  I wished to prove to you, even at
the cost of my life, that I loved you, had always loved you, and
not--"

It was now his turn to silence her.  His hand crept over her lips,
and his despairing face turned itself blindly toward us.

"Go," he cried; "leave us!  Let me take a last farewell of my dying
wife, without listeners or spectators."

Consulting the eye of the physician who stood beside me, and seeing
no hope in it, I fell slowly back.  The others followed, and the
Doctor was left alone with his wife.  From the distant position we
took, we saw her arms creep round his neck, saw her head fall
confidingly on his breast, then silence settled upon them and upon
all nature, the gathering twilight deepening, till the last glow
disappeared from the heavens above and from the circle of leafless
trees which enclosed this tragedy from the outside world.

But at last there came a stir, and Dr. Zabriskie, rising up before
us, with the dead body of his wife held closely to his breast,
confronted us with a countenance so rapturous that he looked like a
man transfigured.

"I will carry her to the boat," said he.  "Not another hand shall
touch her.  She was my true wife, my true wife!"  And he towered into
an attitude of such dignity and passion that for a moment he took on
heroic proportions and we forgot that he had just proved himself to
have committed a cold-blooded and ghastly crime.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The stars were shining when we again took our seats in the boat; and
if the scene of our crossing to Jersey was impressive, what shall be
said of that of our return?

The Doctor, as before, sat in the stern, an awesome figure, upon
which the moon shone with a white radiance that seemed to lift his
face out of the surrounding darkness and set it, like an image of
frozen horror, before our eyes.  Against his breast he held the form
of his dead wife, and now and then I saw him stoop as if he were
listening for some tokens of life at her set lips.  Then he would
lift himself again, with hopelessness stamped upon his features, only
to lean forward in renewed hope that was again destined to
disappointment.

The Inspector and the accompanying physician had taken seats in the
bow, and unto me had been assigned the special duty of watching over
the Doctor.  This I did from a low seat in front of him.  I was
therefore so close that I heard his laboring breath, and though my
heart was full of awe and compassion, I could not prevent myself from
bending toward him and saying these words:

"Dr. Zabriskie, the mystery of your crime is no longer a mystery to
me.  Listen and see if I do not understand your temptation, and how
you, a conscientious and God-fearing man, came to slay your innocent
neighbor.

"A friend of yours, or so he called himself, had for a long time
filled your ears with tales tending to make you suspicious of your
wife and jealous of a certain man whom I will not name.  You knew
that your friend had a grudge against this man, and so for many
months turned a deaf ear to his insinuations.  But finally some
change which you detected in your wife's bearing or conversation
roused your own suspicions, and you began to doubt if all was false
that came to your ears, and to curse your blindness, which in a
measure rendered you helpless.  The jealous fever grew and had risen
to a high point, when one night--a memorable night--this friend met
you just as you were leaving town, and with cruel craft whispered in
your ear that the man you hated was even then with your wife, and
that if you would return at once to your home you would find him in
her company.

"The demon that lurks at the heart of all men, good or bad, thereupon
took complete possession of you, and you answered this fake friend by
saying that you would not return without a pistol.  Whereupon he
offered to take you to his house and give you his.  You consented,
and getting rid of your servant by sending him to Poughkeepsie with
your excuses, you entered a coach with your friend.

"You say you bought the pistol, and perhaps you did, but, however
that may be, you left his house with it in your pocket and, declining
companionship, walked home, arriving at the Colonnade a little before
midnight.

"Ordinarily you have no difficulty in recognizing your own doorstep.
But, being in a heated frame of mind, you walked faster than usual
and so passed your own house and stopped at that of Mr. Hasbrouck's,
one door beyond.  As the entrances of these houses are all alike,
there was but one way by which you could have made yourself sure that
you had reached your own dwelling, and that was by feeling for the
doctor's sign at the side of the door.  But you never thought of
that.  Absorbed in dreams of vengeance, your sole impulse was to
enter by the quickest means possible.  Taking out your night-key, you
thrust it into the lock.  It fitted, but it took strength to turn it,
so much strength that the key was twisted and bent by the effort.
But this incident, which would have attracted your attention at
another time, was lost upon you at this moment.  An entrance had been
effected, and you were in too excited a frame of mind to notice at
what cost, or to detect the small differences apparent in the
atmosphere and furnishings of the two houses--trifles which would
have arrested your attention under other circumstances, and made you
pause before the upper floor had been reached.

"It was while going up the stairs that you took out your pistol, so
that by the time you arrived at the front-room door you held it ready
cocked and drawn in your hand.  For, being blind, you feared escape
on the part of your victim, and so waited for nothing but the sound
of a man's voice before firing.  When, therefore, the unfortunate Mr.
Hasbrouck, roused by this sudden intrusion, advanced with an
exclamation of astonishment, you pulled the trigger, killing him on
the spot.  It must have been immediately upon his fall that you
recognized from some word he uttered, or from some contact you may
have had with your surroundings, that you were in the wrong house and
had killed the wrong man; for you cried out, in evident remorse,
'God!  what have I done!' and fled without approaching your victim.

"Descending the stairs, you rushed from the house, closing the front
door behind you and regaining your own without being seen.  But here
you found yourself baffled in your attempted escape by two things.
First, by the pistol you still held in your hand, and secondly, by
the fact that the key upon which you depended for entering your own
door was so twisted out of shape that you knew it would be useless
for you to attempt to use it.  What did you do in this emergency?
You have already told us, though the story seemed so improbable at
the time, you found nobody to believe it but myself.  The pistol you
flung far away from you down the pavement, from which, by one of
those rare chances which sometimes happen in this world, it was
presently picked up by some late passer-by of more or less doubtful
character.  The door offered less of an obstacle than you
anticipated; for when you turned to it again you found it, if I am
not greatly mistaken, ajar, left so, as we have reason to believe, by
one who had gone out of it but a few minutes before in a state which
left him but little master of his actions.  It was this fact which
provided you with an answer when you were asked how you succeeded in
getting into Mr. Hasbrouck's house after the family had retired for
the night.

"Astonished at the coincidence, but hailing with gladness the
deliverance which it offered, you went in and ascended at once into
your wife's presence; and it was from her lips, and not from those of
Mrs. Hasbrouck, that the cry arose which startled the neighborhood
and prepared men's minds for the tragic words which were shouted a
moment later from the next house.

"But she who uttered the scream knew of no tragedy save that which
was taking place in her own breast.  She had just repulsed a
dastardly suitor, and, seeing you enter so unexpectedly in a state of
unaccountable horror and agitation, was naturally stricken with
dismay, and thought she saw your ghost, or, what was worse, a
possible avenger; while you, having failed to kill the man you
sought, and having killed a man you esteemed, let no surprise on her
part lure you into any dangerous self-betrayal.  You strove instead
to soothe her, and even attempted to explain the excitement under
which you labored, by an account of your narrow escape at the
station, till the sudden alarm from next door distracted her
attention, and sent both your thoughts and hers in a different
direction.  Not till conscience had fully awakened and the horror of
your act had had time to tell upon your sensitive nature, did you
breathe forth those vague confessions, which, not being supported by
the only explanations which would have made them credible, led her,
as well as the police, to consider you affected in your mind.  Your
pride as a man, and your consideration for her as a woman, kept you
silent, but did not keep the worm from preying upon your heart.

"Am I not correct in my surmises, Dr. Zabriskie, and is not this the
true explanation of your crime?"

With a strange look, he lifted up his face.

"Hush!" said he; "you will awaken her.  See how peacefully she
sleeps!  I should not like to have her awakened now, she is so tired,
and I--I have not watched over her as I should."

Appalled at his gesture, his look, his tone, I drew back, and for a
few minutes no sound was to be heard but the steady dip-dip of the
oars and the lap-lap of the waters against the boat.  Then there came
a quick uprising, the swaying before me of something dark and tall
and threatening, and before I could speak or move, or even stretch
forth my hands to stay him, the seat before me was empty, and
darkness had filled the place where but an instant previous he had
sat, a fearsome figure, erect and rigid as a sphinx.

What little moonlight there was only served to show us a few rising
bubbles, marking the spot where the unfortunate man had sunk with his
much-loved burden.  We could not save him.  As the widening circles
fled farther and farther out, the tide drifted us away, and we lost
the spot which had seen the termination of one of earth's saddest
tragedies.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The bodies were never recovered.  The police reserved to themselves
the right of withholding from the public the real facts which made
this catastrophe an awful remembrance to those who witnessed it.  A
verdict of accidental death by drowning answered all purposes, and
saved the memory of the unfortunate pair from such calumny as might
have otherwise assailed it.  It was the least we could do for two
beings whom circumstances had so greatly afflicted.




THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

_The four stories published under this general title are four steps
in the unraveling of the mystery of "The Pride of Kashgar," that
marvelous diamond "as big as a duck's egg and without a flaw, whose
value, in money, would be sufficient to build cathedrals more stately
than Ely or Cologne."  Through them moves that prince of
entertainers, Prince Florizel of Bohemia.  The buoyant, extravagant
note of the author is one of the most refreshing things in
short-story literature, and the stories have that rare quality of
charm which was the peculiar grace of the author's personality._



THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND

By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

--------

STORY OF THE BANDBOX

Up to the age of sixteen, at a private school and afterward at one of
those great institutions for which England is justly famous, Mr.
Harry Hartley had received the ordinary education of a gentleman.  At
that period, he manifested a remarkable distaste for study; and his
only surviving parent being both weak and ignorant, he was permitted
thenceforward to spend his time in the attainment of petty and purely
elegant accomplishments.  Two years later, he was left an orphan and
almost a beggar.  For all active and industrious pursuits, Harry was
unfitted alike by nature and training.  He could sing romantic
ditties, and accompany himself with discretion on the piano; he was a
graceful although a timid cavalier; he had a pronounced taste for
chess; and nature had sent him into the world with one of the most
engaging exteriors that can well be fancied.  Blond and pink, with
dove's eyes and a gentle smile, he had an air of agreeable tenderness
and melancholy, and the most submissive and caressing manners.  But
when all is said, he was not the man to lead armaments of war, or
direct the councils of a state.

A fortunate chance and some influence obtained for Harry, at the time
of his bereavement, the position of private secretary to
Major-General Sir Thomas Vandeleur, C.B.  Sir Thomas was a man of
sixty, loud-spoken, boisterous, and domineering.  For some reason,
some service the nature of which had been often whispered and
repeatedly denied, the Rajah of Kashgar had presented this officer
with the sixth known diamond of the world.  The gift transformed
General Vandeleur from a poor into a wealthy man, from an obscure and
unpopular soldier into one of the lions of London society; the
possessor of the Rajah's Diamond was welcome in the most exclusive
circles; and he had found a lady, young, beautiful, and well-born,
who was willing to call the diamond hers even at the price of
marriage with Sir Thomas Vandeleur.  It was commonly said at the time
that, as like draws to like, one jewel had attracted another;
certainly Lady Vandeleur was not only a gem of the finest water in
her own person, but she showed herself to the world in a very costly
setting; and she was considered by many respectable authorities as
one among the three or four best dressed women in England.

Harry's duty as secretary was not particularly onerous; but he had a
dislike for all prolonged work; it gave him pain to ink his fingers;
and the charm of Lady Vandeleur and her toilets drew him often from
the library to the boudoir.  He had the prettiest ways among women,
could talk fashions with enjoyment, and was never more happy than
when criticizing a shade of ribbon, or running on an errand to the
milliner's.  In short, Sir Thomas's correspondence fell into pitiful
arrears, and my Lady had another lady's-maid.

At last the General, who was one of the least patient of military
commanders, arose from his place in a violent access of passion, and
indicated to his secretary that he had no further need for his
services, with one of those explanatory gestures which are most
rarely employed between gentlemen.  The door being unfortunately
open, Mr. Hartley fell downstairs headforemost.

He arose somewhat hurt and very deeply aggrieved.  The life in the
General's house precisely suited him; he moved, on a more or less
doubtful footing, in very genteel company, he did little, he ate of
the best, and he had a lukewarm satisfaction in the presence of Lady
Vandeleur, which, in his own heart, he dubbed by a more emphatic name.

Immediately after he had been outraged by the military foot, he
hurried to the boudoir and recounted his sorrows.

"You know very well, my dear Harry," replied Lady Vandeleur, for she
called him by name like a child or a domestic servant, "that you
never by any chance do what the General tells you.  No more do I, you
may say.  But that is different.  A woman can earn her pardon for a
good year of disobedience by a single adroit submission; and,
besides, no one is married to his private secretary.  I shall be
sorry to lose you; but since you can not stay longer in a house where
you have been insulted, I shall wish you good-by, and I promise you
to make the General smart for his behavior."

Harry's countenance fell; tears came into his eyes and he gazed on
Lady Vandeleur with a tender reproach.

"My Lady," said he, "what is an insult?  I should think little indeed
of any one who could not forgive them by the score.  But to leave
one's friend; to tear up the bonds of affection--"

He was unable to continue, for his emotion choked him, and he began
to weep.

Lady Vandeleur looked at him with a curious expression.  "This little
fool," she thought, "imagines himself to be in love with me.  Why
should he not become my servant instead of the General's?  He is
good-natured, obliging, and understands dress; and besides it will
keep him out of mischief.  He is positively too pretty to be
unattached."

That night she talked over the General, who was already somewhat
ashamed of his vivacity; and Harry was transferred to the feminine
department, where his life was little short of heavenly.  He was
always dressed with uncommon nicety, wore delicate flowers in his
buttonhole, and could entertain a visitor with tact and pleasantry.
He took a pride in servility to a beautiful woman; received Lady
Vandeleur's commands as so many marks of favor; and was pleased to
exhibit himself before other men, who derided and despised him, in
his character of male lady's-maid and man milliner.  Nor could he
think enough of his existence from a moral point of view.  Wickedness
seemed to him an essentially male attribute, and to pass one's days
with a delicate woman, and principally occupied about trimmings, was
to inhabit an enchanted isle among the storms of life.

One fine morning he came into the drawing-room and began to arrange
some music on the top of the piano.  Lady Vandeleur, at the other end
of the apartment, was speaking somewhat eagerly with her brother,
Charlie Pendragon, an elderly young man, much broken with
dissipation, and very lame of one foot.  The private secretary, to
whose entrance they paid no regard, could not avoid overhearing a
part of their conversation.

"To-day or never," said the lady.  "Once and for all, it shall be
done to-day."

"To-day if it must be," replied the brother, with a sigh.  "But it is
a false step, a ruinous step, Clara; and we shall live to repent it
dismally."

Lady Vandeleur looked her brother steadily and somewhat strangely in
the face.

"You forget," she said; "the man must die at last."

"Upon my word, Clara," said Pendragon, "I believe you are the most
heartless rascal in England."

"You men," she returned, "are so coarsely built, that you can never
appreciate a shade of meaning.  You are yourselves rapacious,
violent, immodest, careless of distinction; and yet the least thought
for the future shocks you in a woman.  I have no patience with such
stuff.  You would despise in a common banker the imbecility that you
expect to find in us."

"You are very likely right," replied her brother; "you were always
cleverer than I.  And, anyway, you know my motto: 'The family before
all.'"

"Yes, Charlie," she returned, taking his hand in hers, "I know your
motto better than you know it yourself.  'And Clara before the
family!'  Is not that the second part of it?  Indeed, you are the
best of brothers, and I love you dearly."

Mr. Pendragon got up, looking a little confused by these family
endearments.

"I had better not be seen," said he.  "I understand my part to a
miracle, and I'll keep an eye on the Tame Cat."

"Do," she replied.  "He is an abject creature, and might ruin all."

She kissed the tips of her fingers to him daintily; and the brother
withdrew by the boudoir and the back stair.

"Harry," said Lady Vandeleur, turning toward the secretary as soon as
they were alone, "I have a commission for you this morning.  But you
shall take a cab; I can not have my secretary freckled."

She spoke the last words with emphasis and a look of half-motherly
pride that caused great contentment to poor Harry; and he professed
himself charmed to find an opportunity of serving her.

"It is another of our great secrets," she went on, archly, "and no
one must know of it but my secretary and me.  Sir Thomas would make
the saddest disturbance; and if you only knew how weary I am of these
scenes!  Oh, Harry, Harry, can you explain to me what makes you men
so violent and unjust?  But, indeed, I know you can not; you are the
only man in the world who knows nothing of these shameful passions;
you are so good, Harry, and so kind; you, at least, can be a woman's
friend; and, do you know? I think you make the others more ugly by
comparison."

"It is you," said Harry, gallantly, "who are so kind to me.  You
treat me like--"

"Like a mother," interposed Lady Vandeleur, "I try to be a mother to
you.  Or, at least," she corrected herself with a smile, "almost a
mother.  I am afraid I am too young to be your mother really.  Let us
say a friend--a dear friend."

She paused long enough to let her words take effect in Harry's
sentimental quarters, but not long enough to allow him a reply.

"But all this is beside our purpose," she resumed.  "You will find a
bandbox in the left-hand side of the oak wardrobe; it is underneath
the pink slip that I wore on Wednesday with my Mechlin.  You will
take it immediately to this address," and she gave him a paper; "but
do not, on any account, let it out of your hands until you have
received a receipt written by myself.  Do you understand?  Answer, if
you please--answer!  This is extremely important, and I must ask you
to pay some attention."

Harry pacified her by repeating her instructions perfectly; and she
was just going to tell him more when General Vandeleur flung into the
apartment, scarlet with anger, and holding a long and elaborate
milliner's bill in his hand.

"Will you look at this, madam!" cried he.  "Will you have the
goodness to look at this document?  I know well enough you married me
for my money, and I hope I can make as great allowances as any other
man in the service; but, as sure as God made me, I mean to put a
period to this disreputable prodigality."

"Mr. Hartley," said Lady Vandeleur, "I think you understand what you
have to do.  May I ask you to see to it at once?"

"Stop," said the General, addressing Harry, "one word before you go."
And then, turning again to Lady Vandeleur, "What is this precious
fellow's errand?" he demanded.  "I trust him no further than I do
yourself, let me tell you.  If he had as much as the rudiments of
honesty, he would scorn to stay in this house; and what he does for
his wages is a mystery to all the world.  What is his errand, madam?
and why are you hurrying him away?"

"I supposed you had something to say to me in private," replied the
lady.

"You spoke about an errand," insisted the General.  "Do not attempt
to deceive me in my present state of temper.  You certainly spoke
about an errand."

"If you insist on making your servants privy to our humiliating
dissensions," replied Lady Vandeleur, "perhaps I had better ask Mr.
Hartley to sit down.  No?" she continued; "then you may go, Mr.
Hartley.  I trust you may remember all that you have heard in this
room; it may be useful to you."

Harry at once made his escape from the drawing-room; and as he ran
upstairs he could hear the General's voice upraised in declamation,
and the thin tones of Lady Vandeleur planting icy repartees at every
opening.  How cordially he admired the wife!  How skilfully she could
evade an awkward question! with what secure effrontery she repeated
her instructions under the very guns of the enemy! and on the other
hand, how he detested the husband!

There had been nothing unfamiliar in the morning's events, for he was
continually in the habit of serving Lady Vandeleur on secret
missions, principally connected with millinery.  There was a skeleton
in the house, as he well knew.  The bottomless extravagance and the
unknown liabilities of the wife had long since swallowed her own
fortune, and threatened day by day to engulf that of the husband.
Once or twice in every year exposure and ruin seemed imminent, and
Harry kept trotting round to all sorts of furnishers' shops, telling
small fibs, and paying small advances on the gross amount, until
another term was tided over, and the lady and her faithful secretary
breathed again.  For Harry, in a double capacity, was heart and soul
upon that side of the war: not only did he adore Lady Vandeleur and
fear and dislike her husband, but he naturally sympathized with the
love of finery, and his own single extravagance was at the tailor's.

He found the bandbox where it had been described, arranged his toilet
with care, and left the house.  The sun shone brightly; the distance
he had to travel was considerable, and he remembered with dismay that
the General's sudden irruption had prevented Lady Vandeleur from
giving him money for a cab.  On this sultry day there was every
chance that his complexion would suffer severely; and to walk through
so much of London with a bandbox on his arm was a humiliation almost
insupportable to a youth of his character.  He paused, and took
counsel with himself.  The Vandeleurs lived in Eaton Place; his
destination was near Notting Hill; plainly, he might cross the Park
by keeping well in the open and avoiding populous alleys; and he
thanked his stars when he reflected that it was still comparatively
early in the day.

Anxious to be rid of his incubus, he walked somewhat faster than his
ordinary, and he was already some way through Kensington Gardens
when, in a solitary spot among the trees, he found himself confronted
by the General.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas," observed Harry, politely falling on
one side; for the other stood directly in his path.

"Where are you going, sir?" asked the General.

"I am taking a little walk among the trees," replied the lad.

The General struck the bandbox with his cane.

"With that thing?" he cried; "you lie, sir, and you know you lie!"

"Indeed, Sir Thomas," returned Harry, "I am not accustomed to be
questioned in so high a key."

"You do not understand your position," said the General.  "You are my
servant, and a servant of whom I have conceived the most serious
suspicions.  How do I know but that your box is full of teaspoons?"

"It contains a silk hat belonging to a friend," said Harry.

"Very well," replied General Vandeleur.  "Then I want to see your
friend's silk hat.  I have," he added, grimly, "a singular curiosity
for hats; and I believe you know me to be somewhat positive."

"I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, I am exceedingly grieved," Harry
apologized; "but indeed this is a private affair."

The General caught him roughly by the shoulder with one hand, while
he raised his cane in the most menacing manner with the other.  Harry
gave himself up for lost; but at the same moment Heaven vouchsafed
him an unexpected defender in the person of Charlie Pendragon, who
now strode forward from behind the trees.

"Come, come, General, hold your hand," said he, "this is neither
courteous nor manly."

"Aha!" cried the General, wheeling round upon his new antagonist,
"Mr. Pendragon!  And do you suppose, Mr. Pendragon, that, because I
have had the misfortune to marry your sister, I shall suffer myself
to be dogged and thwarted by a discredited and bankrupt libertine
like you?  My acquaintance with Lady Vandeleur, sir, has taken away
all my appetite for the other members of her family."

"And do you fancy, General Vandeleur," retorted Charlie, "that,
because my sister has had the misfortune to marry you, she there and
then forfeited her rights and privileges as a lady?  I own, sir, that
by that action she did as much as anybody could to derogate from her
position; but to me she is still a Pendragon.  I make it my business
to protect her from ungentlemanly outrage, and if you were ten times
her husband I would not permit her liberty to be restrained, nor her
private messengers to be violently arrested."

"How is that, Mr. Hartley?" interrogated the General.  "Mr. Pendragon
is of my opinion, it appears.  He too suspects that Lady Vandeleur
has something to do with your friend's silk hat."

Charlie saw that he had committed an unpardonable blunder, which he
hastened to repair.

"How, sir?" he cried; "I suspect, do you say?  I suspect nothing.
Only where I find strength abused and a man brutalizing his
inferiors, I take the liberty to interfere."

As he said these words he made a sign to Harry, which the latter was
too dull or too much troubled to understand.

"In what way am I to construe your attitude, sir?" demanded Vandeleur.

"Why, sir, as you please," returned Pendragon.

The General once more raised his cane, and made a cut for Charlie's
head; but the latter, lame foot and all, evaded the blow with his
umbrella, ran in, and immediately closed with his formidable
adversary.

"Run, Harry, run!" he cried; "run, you dolt!"

Harry stood petrified for a moment, watching the two men sway
together in this fierce embrace; then he turned and took to his
heels.  When he cast a glance over his shoulder he saw the General
prostrate under Charlie's knee, but still making desperate efforts to
reverse the situation; and the Gardens seemed to have filled with
people, who were running from all directions toward the scene of the
fight.  This spectacle lent the secretary wings; and he did not relax
his pace until he had gained the Bayswater road, and plunged at
random into an unfrequented by-street.

To see two gentlemen of his acquaintance thus brutally mauling each
other was deeply shocking to Harry.  He desired to forget the sight;
he desired, above all, to put as great a distance as possible between
himself and General Vandeleur; and in his eagerness for this he
forgot everything about his destination and hurried before him
headlong and trembling.  When he remembered that Lady Vandeleur was
the wife of one and the sister of the other of these gladiators, his
heart was touched with sympathy for a woman so distressingly
misplaced in life.  Even his own situation in the General's household
looked hardly so pleasing as usual in the light of these violent
transactions.

He had walked some little distance, busied with these meditations,
before a slight collision with another passenger reminded him of the
bandbox on his arm.

"Heavens!" cried he, "where was my head? and whither have I wandered?"

Thereupon he consulted the envelope which Lady Vandeleur had given
him.  The address was there, but without a name.  Harry was simply
directed to ask for "the gentleman who expected a parcel from Lady
Vandeleur," and if he were not at home to await his return.  The
gentleman, added the note, should present a receipt in the
handwriting of the lady herself.  All this seemed mightily
mysterious, and Harry was above all astonished at the omission of the
name and the formality of the receipt.  He had thought little of this
last when he heard it dropped in conversation; but reading it in cold
blood, and taking it in connection with the other strange
particulars, he became convinced that he was engaged in perilous
affairs.  For half a moment he had a doubt of Lady Vandeleur herself;
for he found these obscure proceedings somewhat unworthy of so high a
lady, and became more critical when her secrets were preserved
against himself.  But her empire over his spirit was too complete, he
dismissed his suspicions and blamed himself roundly for having so
much as entertained them.

In one thing, however, his duty and interest, his generosity and his
terrors, coincided--to get rid of the bandbox with the greatest
possible despatch.

He accosted the first policeman and courteously inquired his way.  It
turned out that he was already not far from his destination, and a
walk of a few minutes brought him to a small house in a lane, freshly
painted, and kept with the most scrupulous attention.  The knocker
and bell-pull were highly polished; flowering pot-herbs garnished the
sills of the different windows; and curtains of some rich material
concealed the interior from the eyes of curious passengers.  The
place had an air of repose and secrecy; and Harry was so far caught
with this spirit that he knocked with more than usual discretion, and
was more than usually careful to remove all impurity from his boots.

A servant-maid of some personal attractions immediately opened the
door, and seemed to regard the secretary with no unkind eyes.

"This is the parcel from Lady Vandeleur," said Harry.

"I know," replied the maid, with a nod.  "But the gentleman is from
home.  Will you leave it with me?"

"I can not," answered Harry.  "I am directed not to part with it but
upon a certain condition, and I must ask you, I am afraid, to let me
wait."

"Well," said she, "I suppose I may let you wait.  I am lonely enough,
I can tell you, and you do not look as though you would eat a girl.
But be sure and do not ask the gentleman's name, for that I am not to
tell you."

"Do you say so?" cried Harry.  "Why, how strange!  But indeed for
some time back I walk among surprises.  One question I think I may
surely ask without indiscretion: Is he the master of this house?"

"He is a lodger, and not eight days old at that," returned the maid.
"And now a question for a question: Do you know Lady Vandeleur?"

"I am her private secretary," replied Harry, with a glow of modest
pride.

"She is pretty, is she not?" pursued the servant.

"Oh, beautiful!" cried Harry; "wonderfully lovely, and not less good
and kind!"

"You look kind enough yourself," she retorted; "and I wager you are
worth a dozen Lady Vandeleurs."

Harry was properly scandalized.

"I!" he cried.  "I am only a secretary!"

"Do you mean that for me?" said the girl.  "Because I am only a
housemaid, if you please."  And then, relenting at the sight of
Harry's obvious confusion, "I know you mean nothing of the sort," she
added; "and I like your looks; but I think nothing of your Lady
Vandeleur.  Oh, these mistresses!" she cried.  "To send out a real
gentleman like you--with a bandbox--in broad day!"

During this talk they had remained in their original positions--she
on the doorstep, he on the sidewalk, bareheaded for the sake of
coolness, and with the bandbox on his arm.  But upon this last
speech, Harry, who was unable to support such pointblank compliments
to his appearance, nor the encouraging look with which they were
accompanied, began to change his attitude, and glance from left to
right in perturbation.  In so doing he turned his face toward the
lower end of the lane, and there, to his indescribable dismay, his
eyes encountered those of General Vandeleur.  The General, in a
prodigious fluster of heat, hurry, and indignation, had been scouring
the streets in chase of his brother-in-law; but so soon as he caught
a glimpse of the delinquent secretary, his purpose changed, his anger
flowed into a new channel, and he turned on his heel and came tearing
up the lane with truculent gestures and vociferations.

Harry made but one bolt of it into the house, driving the maid before
him; and the door was slammed in his pursuer's countenance.

"Is there a bar?  Will it lock?" asked Harry, while a salvo on the
knocker made the house echo from wall to wall.

"Why, what is wrong with you?" asked the maid.  "Is it this old
gentleman?"

"If he gets hold of me," whispered Harry, "I am as good as dead.  He
has been pursuing me all day, carries a sword-stick, and is an Indian
military officer."

"These are fine manners," cried the maid.  "And what, if you please,
may be his name?"

"It is the General, my master," answered Harry.  "He is after this
bandbox."

"Did not I tell you?" cried the maid in triumph.  "I told you I
thought worse than nothing of your Lady Vandeleur; and if you had an
eye in your head you might see what she is for yourself.  An
ungrateful minx, I will be bound for that!"

The General renewed his attack upon the knocker, and his passion
growing with delay, began to kick and beat upon the panels of the
door.

"It is lucky," observed the girl, "that I am alone in the house; your
General may hammer until he is weary, and there is none to open for
him.  Follow me!"

So saying, she led Harry into the kitchen, where she made him sit
down, and stood by him herself in an affectionate attitude, with a
hand upon his shoulder.  The din at the door, so far from abating,
continued to increase in volume, and at each blow the unhappy
secretary was shaken to the heart.

"What is your name?" asked the girl.

"Harry Hartley," he replied.

"Mine," she went on, "is Prudence.  Do you like it?"

"Very much," said Harry.  "But hear for a moment how the General
beats upon the door.  He will certainly break it in, and then, in
Heaven's name, what have I to look for but death?"

"You put yourself very much about with no occasion," answered
Prudence.  "Let your General knock, he will do no more than blister
his hands.  Do you think I would keep you here, if I were not sure to
save you?  Oh, no, I am a good friend to those that please me! and we
have a back door upon another lane.  But," she added, checking him,
for he had got upon his feet immediately on this welcome news, "but I
will not show you where it is unless you kiss me.  Will you, Harry?"

"That I will," he cried, remembering his gallantry, "not for your
back door, but because you are good and pretty."

And he administered two or three cordial salutes, which were returned
to him in kind.

Then Prudence led him to the back gate, and put her hand upon the key.

"Will you come and see me?" she asked.

"I will, indeed," said Harry.  "Do not I owe you my life?"

"And now," she added, opening the door, "run as hard as you can, for
I shall let in the General."

Harry scarcely required this advice; fear had him by the forelock;
and he addressed himself diligently to flight.  A few steps, and he
believed he would escape from his trials, and return to Lady
Vandeleur in honor and safety.  But these few steps had not been
taken before he heard a man's voice hailing him by name with many
execrations, and looking over his shoulder, he beheld Charlie
Pendragon waving him with both arms to return.  The shock of this new
incident was so sudden and profound, and Harry was already worked
into so high a state of nervous tension, that he could think of
nothing better than to accelerate his pace, and continue running.  He
should certainly have remembered the scene in Kensington Gardens; he
should certainly have concluded that, where the General was his
enemy, Charlie Pendragon could be no other than a friend.  But such
was the fever and perturbation of his mind that he was struck by none
of these considerations, and only continued to run the faster up the
lane.

Charlie, by the sound of his voice and the vile terms that he hurled
after the secretary, was obviously beside himself with rage.  He,
too, ran his very best; but, try as he might, the physical advantages
were not upon his side, and his outcries and the fall of his lame
foot on the macadam began to fall further and further into the wake.

Harry's hopes began once more to arise.  The lane was both steep and
narrow, but it was exceedingly solitary, bordered on either hand by
garden walls, overhung with foliage; and, for as far as the fugitive
could see in front of him, there was neither a creature moving nor an
open door.  Providence, weary of persecution, was now offering him an
open field for his escape.

Alas! as he came abreast of a garden door under a tuft of chestnuts,
it was suddenly drawn back, and he could see inside, upon a garden
path, the figure of a butcher's boy with his tray upon his arm.  He
had hardly recognized the fact before he was some steps beyond upon
the other side.  But the fellow had had time to observe him; he was
evidently much surprised to see a gentleman go by at so unusual a
pace; and he came out into the lane and began to call after Harry
with shouts of ironical encouragement.

His appearance gave a new idea to Charlie Pendragon, who, although he
was now sadly out of breath, once more upraised his voice.

"Stop thief!" he cried.

And immediately the butcher's boy had taken up the cry and joined in
the pursuit.

This was a bitter moment for the hunted secretary.  It is true that
his terror enabled him once more to improve his pace, and gain with
every step on his pursuers; but he was well aware that he was near
the end of his resources, and should he meet any one coming the other
way, his predicament in the narrow lane would be desperate indeed.

"I must find a place of concealment," he thought, "and that within
the next few seconds, or all is over with me in this world."

Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind than the lane took a sudden
turning; and he found himself hidden from his enemies.  There are
circumstances in which even the least energetic of mankind learn to
behave with vigor and decision; and the most cautious forget their
prudence and embrace foolhardy resolutions.  This was one of those
occasions for Harry Hartley; and those who knew him best would have
been the most astonished at the lad's audacity.  He stopped dead,
flung the bandbox over a garden wall; and leaping upward with
incredible agility and seizing the copestone with his hands, he
tumbled headlong after it into the garden.

He came to himself a moment afterward, seated in a border of small
rose-bushes.  His hands and knees were cut and bleeding, for the wall
had been protected against such an escalade by a liberal provision of
old bottles; and he was conscious of a general dislocation and a
painful swimming in the head.  Facing him across the garden, which
was in admirable order, and set with flowers of the most delicious
perfume, he beheld the back of a house.  It was of considerable
extent, and plainly habitable; but, in odd contrast to the grounds,
it was crazy, ill-kept, and of a mean appearance.  On all other sides
the circuit of the garden wall appeared unbroken.

He took in these features of the scene with mechanical glances, but
his mind was still unable to piece together or draw a rational
conclusion from what he saw.  And when he heard footsteps advancing
on the gravel, although he turned his eyes in that direction, it was
with no thought either for defense or flight.

The newcomer was a large, coarse, and very sordid personage, in
gardening clothes, and with a watering-pot in his left hand.  One
less confused would have been affected with some alarm at the sight
of this man's huge proportions and black and lowering eyes.  But
Harry was too gravely shaken by his fall to be so much as terrified;
and if he was unable to divert his glances from the gardener, he
remained absolutely passive, and suffered him to draw near, to take
him by the shoulder, and to plant him roughly on his feet, without a
motion of resistance.

For a moment the two stared into each other's eyes, Harry fascinated,
the man filled with wrath and a cruel, sneering humor.

"Who are you?" he demanded at last.  "Who are you to come flying over
my wall and break my _Gloire de Dijons_?  What is your name?" he
added, shaking him; "and what may be your business here?"

Harry could not as much as proffer a word in explanation.

But just at that moment Pendragon and the butcher's boy went clumping
past, and the sound of their feet and their hoarse cries echoed
loudly in the narrow lane.  The gardener had received his answer; and
he looked down into Harry's face with an obnoxious smile.

"A thief!" he said.  "Upon my word, and a very good thing you must
make of it; for I see you dressed like a gentleman from top to toe.
Are you not ashamed to go about the world in such a trim, with honest
folk, I dare say, glad to buy your cast-off finery second-hand.
Speak up, you dog," the man went on; "you can understand English, I
suppose; and I mean to have a bit of talk with you before I march you
to the station."

"Indeed, sir," said Harry, "this is all a dreadful misconception; and
if you will go with me to Sir Thomas Vandeleur's in Eaton Place, I
can promise that all will be made plain.  The most upright person, as
I now perceive, can be led into suspicious positions."

"My little man," replied the gardener, "I will go with you no further
than the station-house in the next street.  The inspector, no doubt,
will be glad to take a stroll with you as far as Eaton Place, and
have a bit of afternoon tea with your great acquaintances.  Or would
you prefer to go direct to the Home Secretary?  Sir Thomas Vandeleur,
indeed!  Perhaps you think I don't know a gentleman when I see one
from a common run-the-hedge like you?  Clothes or no clothes, I can
read you like a book.  Here is a shirt that maybe cost as much as my
Sunday hat; and that coat, I take it, has never seen the inside of
Rag-fair, and then your boots--"

The man, whose eyes had fallen upon the ground, stopped short in his
insulting commentary, and remained for a moment looking intently upon
something at his feet.  When he spoke his voice was strangely altered.

"What, in God's name," said he, "is all this?"

Harry, following the direction of the man's eyes, beheld a spectacle
that struck him dumb with terror and amazement.  In his fall he had
descended vertically upon the bandbox and burst it open from end to
end; thence a great treasure of diamonds had poured forth, and now
lay abroad, part trodden in the soil, part scattered on the surface
in regal and glittering profusion.  There was a magnificent coronet
which he had often admired on Lady Vandeleur; there were rings and
brooches, ear-drops and bracelets, and even unset brilliants rolling
here and there among the rose-bushes like drops of morning dew.  A
princely fortune lay between the two men upon the ground--a fortune
in the most inviting, solid, and durable form, capable of being
carried in an apron, beautiful in itself, and scattering the sunlight
in a million rainbow flashes.

"Good God!" said Harry, "I am lost!"

His mind raced backward into the past with the incalculable velocity
of thought, and he began to comprehend his day's adventures, to
conceive them as a whole, and to recognize the sad imbroglio in which
his own character and fortunes had become involved.  He looked round
him as if for help, but he was alone in the garden, with his
scattered diamonds and his redoubtable interlocutor; and when he gave
ear, there was no sound but the rustle of the leaves and the hurried
pulsation of his heart.  It was little wonder if the young man felt
himself deserted by his spirits, and with a broken voice repeated his
last ejaculation:

"I am lost!"

The gardener peered in all directions with an air of guilt; but there
was no face at any of the windows, and he seemed to breathe again.

"Pick up a heart," he said, "you fool!  The worst of it is done.  Why
could you not say at first there was enough for two?  Two?" he
repeated, "aye, and for two hundred!  But come away from here, where
we may be observed; and, for the love of wisdom, straighten out your
hat and brush your clothes.  You could not travel two steps the
figure of fun you look just now."

While Harry mechanically adopted these suggestions, the gardener,
getting upon his knees, hastily drew together the scattered jewels
and returned them to the bandbox.  The touch of these costly crystals
sent a shiver of emotion through the man's stalwart frame; his face
was transfigured, and his eyes shone with concupiscence; indeed it
seemed as if he luxuriously prolonged his occupation, and dallied
with every diamond that he handled.  At last, however, it was done;
and, concealing the bandbox in his smock, the gardener beckoned to
Harry and preceded him in the direction of the house.

Near the door they were met by a young man evidently in holy orders,
dark and strikingly handsome, with a look of mingled weakness and
resolution, and very neatly attired after the manner of his caste.
The gardener was plainly annoyed by this encounter; but he put as
good a face upon it as he could, and accosted the clergyman with an
obsequious and smiling air.

"Here is a fine afternoon, Mr. Rolles," said he: "a fine afternoon,
as sure as God made it!  And here is a young friend of mine who had a
fancy to look at my roses.  I took the liberty to bring him in, for I
thought none of the lodgers would object."

"Speaking for myself," replied the Reverend Mr. Rolles, "I do not;
nor do I fancy any of the rest of us would be more difficult upon so
small a matter.  The garden is your own, Mr. Raeburn; we must none of
us forget that; and because you give us liberty to walk there we
should be indeed ungracious if we so far presumed upon your
politeness as to interfere with the convenience of your friends.
But, on second thoughts," he added, "I believe that this gentleman
and I have met before.  Mr. Hartley, I think.  I regret to observe
that you have had a fall."

And he offered his hand.

A sort of maiden dignity and a desire to delay as long as possible
the necessity for explanation moved Harry to refuse this chance of
help, and to deny his own identity.  He chose the tender mercies of
the gardener, who was at least unknown to him, rather than the
curiosity and perhaps the doubts of an acquaintance.

"I fear there is some mistake," said he.  "My name is Thomlinson and
I am a friend of Mr. Raeburn's."

"Indeed?" said Mr. Rolles.  "The likeness is amazing."

Mr. Raeburn, who had been upon thorns throughout this colloquy, now
felt it high time to bring it to a period.

"I wish you a pleasant saunter, sir," said he.

And with that he dragged Harry after him into the house, and then
into a chamber on the garden.  His first care was to draw down the
blind, for Mr. Rolles still remained where they had left him, in an
attitude of perplexity and thought.  Then he emptied the broken
bandbox on the table, and stood before the treasure, thus fully
displayed, with an expression of rapturous greed, and rubbing his
hands upon his thighs.  For Harry, the sight of the man's face under
the influence of this base emotion, added another pang to those he
was already suffering.  It seemed incredible that, from his life of
pure and delicate trifling, he should be plunged in a breath among
sordid and criminal relations.  He could reproach his conscience with
no sinful act; and yet he was now suffering the punishment of sin in
its most acute and cruel forms--the dread of punishment, the
suspicions of the good, and the companionship and contamination of
vile and brutal natures.  He felt he could lay his life down with
gladness to escape from the room and the society of Mr. Raeburn.

"And now," said the latter, after he had separated the jewels into
two nearly equal parts, and drawn one of them nearer to himself; "and
now," said he, "everything in this world has to be paid for, and some
things sweetly.  You must know, Mr. Hartley, if such be your name,
that I am a man of a very easy temper, and good nature has been my
stumbling-block from first to last.  I could pocket the whole of
these pretty pebbles, if I chose, and I should like to see you dare
to say a word; but I think I must have taken a liking to you; for I
declare I have not the heart to shave you so close.  So, do you see,
in pure kind feeling, I propose that we divide; and these,"
indicating the two heaps, "are the proportions that seem to me just
and friendly.  Do you see any objection, Mr. Hartley, may I ask?  I
am not the man to stick upon a brooch."

"But, sir," cried Harry, "what you propose to me is impossible.  The
jewels are not mine, and I can not share what is another's, no matter
with whom, nor in what proportions."

"They are not yours, are they not?" returned Raeburn.  "And you could
not share them with anybody, couldn't you?  Well now, that is what I
call a pity; for here am I obliged to take you to the station.  The
police--think of that," he continued; "think of the disgrace for your
respectable parents; think," he went on, taking Harry by the wrist;
"think of the Colonies and the Day of Judgment."

"I can not help it," wailed Harry.  "It is not my fault.  You will
not come with me to Eaton Place?"

"No," replied the man, "I will not, that is certain.  And I mean to
divide these playthings with you here."

And so saying he applied a sudden and severe torsion to the lad's
wrist.

Harry could not suppress a scream, and the perspiration burst forth
upon his face.  Perhaps pain and terror quickened his intelligence,
but certainly at that moment the whole business flashed across him in
another light; and he saw that there was nothing for it but to accede
to the ruffian's proposal, and trust to find the house and force him
to disgorge, under more favorable circumstances, and when he himself
was clear from all suspicion.  "I agree," he said.

"There is a lamb," sneered the gardener.  "I thought you would
recognize your interests at last.  This bandbox," he continued, "I
shall burn with my rubbish; it is a thing that curious folk might
recognize; and as for you, scrape up your gaieties and put them in
your pocket."

Harry proceeded to obey, Raeburn watching him, and every now and
again, his greed rekindled by some bright scintillation, abstracting
another jewel from the secretary's share, and adding it to his own.

When this was finished, both proceeded to the front door, which
Raeburn cautiously opened to observe the street.  This was apparently
clear of passengers; for he suddenly seized Harry by the nape of the
neck, and holding his face downward so that he could see nothing but
the roadway and the doorsteps of the houses, pushed him violently
before him down one street and up another for the space of perhaps a
minute and a half.  Harry had counted three corners before the bully
relaxed his grasp, and crying, "Now be off with you!" sent the lad
flying headforemost with a well-directed and athletic kick.

When Harry gathered himself up, half-stunned and bleeding freely at
the nose, Mr. Raeburn had entirely disappeared.  For the first time,
anger and pain so completely overcame the lad's spirits that he burst
into a fit of tears and remained sobbing in the middle of the road.

After he had thus somewhat assuaged his emotion, he began to look
about him and read the names of the streets at whose intersection he
had been deserted by the gardener.  He was still in an unfrequented
portion of West London, among villas and large gardens; but he could
see some persons at a window who had evidently witnessed his
misfortune; and almost immediately after a servant came running from
the house and offered him a glass of water.  At the same time, a
dirty rogue, who had been slouching somewhere in the neighborhood,
drew near him from the other side.

"Poor fellow," said the maid, "how vilely you have been handled, to
be sure!  Why, your knees are all cut, and your clothes ruined!  Do
you know the wretch who used you so?"

"That I do!" cried Harry, who was somewhat refreshed by the water;
"and shall run him home in spite of his precautions.  He shall pay
dearly for this day's work, I promise you."

"You had better come into the house and have yourself washed and
brushed," continued the maid.  "My mistress will make you welcome,
never fear.  And see, I will pick up your hat.  Why, love of mercy!"
she screamed, "if you have not dropped diamonds all over the street!"

Such was the case; a good half of what remained to him, after the
depredations of Mr. Raeburn, had been shaken out of his pockets by
the somersault and once more lay glittering on the ground.  He
blessed his fortune that the maid had been so quick of eye; "there is
nothing so bad but it might be worse," thought he; and the recovery
of these few seemed to him almost as great an affair as the loss of
all the rest.  But, alas! as he stooped to pick up his treasures, the
loiterer made a rapid onslaught, overset both Harry and the maid with
a movement of his arms, swept up a double handful of the diamonds,
and made off along the street with an amazing swiftness.

Harry, as soon as he could get upon his feet, gave chase to the
miscreant with many cries, but the latter was too fleet of foot, and
probably too well acquainted with the locality; for turn where the
pursuer would he could find no traces of the fugitive.

In the deepest despondency, Harry revisited the scene of his mishap,
where the maid, who was still waiting, very honestly returned him his
hat and the remainder of the fallen diamonds.  Harry thanked her from
his heart, and being now in no humor for economy, made his way to the
nearest cabstand and set off for Eaton Place by coach.

The house, on his arrival, seemed in some confusion, as if a
catastrophe had happened in the family; and the servants clustered
together in the hall, and were unable, or perhaps not altogether
anxious, to suppress their merriment at the tatterdemalion figure of
the secretary.  He passed them with as good an air of dignity as he
could assume, and made directly for the boudoir.  When he opened the
door an astonishing and even menacing spectacle presented itself to
his eyes; for he beheld the General and his wife, and, of all people,
Charlie Pendragon, closeted together and speaking with earnestness
and gravity on some important subject.  Harry saw at once that there
was little left for him to explain--plenary confession had plainly
been made to the General of the intended fraud upon his pocket, and
the unfortunate miscarriage of the scheme; and they had all made
common cause against a common danger.

"Thank Heaven!" cried Lady Vandeleur, "here he is!  The bandbox,
Harry--the bandbox!"

But Harry stood before them silent and downcast.

"Speak!" she cried.  "Speak!  Where is the bandbox?"

And the men, with threatening gestures, repeated the demand.

Harry drew a handful of jewels from his pocket.  He was very white.

"This is all that remains," said he.  "I declare before Heaven it was
through no fault of mine; and if you will have patience, although
some are lost, I am afraid, forever, others, I am sure, may be still
recovered."

"Alas!" cried Lady Vandeleur, "all our diamonds are gone, and I owe
ninety thousand pounds for dress!"

"Madam," said the General, "you might have paved the gutter with your
own trash; you might have made debts to fifty times the sum you
mention; you might have robbed me of my mother's coronet and ring;
and Nature might have still so far prevailed that I could have
forgiven you at last.  But, madam, you have taken the Rajah's
Diamond--the Eye of Light, as the Orientals poetically termed it--the
Pride of Kashgar!  You have taken from me the Rajah's Diamond," he
cried, raising his hands, "and all, madam, all is at an end between
us!"

"Believe me, General Vandeleur," she replied, "that is one of the
most agreeable speeches that ever I heard from your lips; and since
we are to be ruined, I could almost welcome the change, if it
delivers me from you.  You have told me often enough that I married
you for your money; let me tell you now that I always bitterly
repented the bargain; and if you were still marriageable, and had a
diamond bigger than your head, I should counsel even my maid against
a union so uninviting and disastrous.  As for you, Mr. Hartley," she
continued, turning on the secretary, "you have sufficiently exhibited
your valuable qualities in this house; we are now persuaded that you
equally lack manhood, sense, and self-respect; and I can see only one
course open for you--to withdraw instanter, and, if possible, return
no more.  For your wages you may rank as a creditor in my late
husband's bankruptcy."

Harry had scarcely comprehended this insulting address before the
General was down upon him with another.

"And in the meantime," said that personage, "follow me before the
nearest Inspector of Police.  You may impose upon a simple-minded
soldier, sir, but the eye of the law will read your disreputable
secret.  If I must spend my old age in poverty through your underhand
intriguing with my wife, I mean at least that you shall not remain
unpunished for your pains; and God, sir, will deny me a very
considerable satisfaction if you do not pick oakum from now until
your dying day."

With that, the General dragged Harry from the apartment, and hurried
him downstairs and along the street to the police-station of the
district.


[Here, says my Arabian author, ended this deplorable business of the
bandbox.  But to the unfortunate secretary the whole affair was the
beginning of a new and manlier life.  The police were easily
persuaded of his innocence; and, after he had given what help he
could in the subsequent investigations, he was even complimented by
one of the chiefs of the detective department on the probity and
simplicity of his behavior.  Several persons interested themselves in
one so unfortunate; and soon after he inherited a sum of money from a
maiden aunt in Worcestershire.  With this he married Prudence, and
set sail for Bendigo, or according to another account, for
Trincomalee, exceedingly content, and with the best of prospects.]



STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN IN HOLY ORDERS

The Reverend Mr. Simon Rolles had distinguished himself in the Moral
Sciences, and was more than usually proficient in the study of
Divinity.  His essay "On the Christian Doctrine of the Social
Obligations" obtained for him, at the moment of its production, a
certain celebrity in the University of Oxford; and it was understood
in clerical and learned circles that young Mr. Rolles had in
contemplation a considerable work--a folio, it was said--on the
authority of the Fathers of the Church.  These attainments, these
ambitious designs, however, were far from helping him to any
preferment; and he was still in quest of his first curacy when a
chance ramble in that part of London, the peaceful and rich aspect of
the garden, a desire for solitude and study, and the cheapness of the
lodging, led him to take up his abode with Mr. Raeburn, the
nurseryman of Stockdove Lane.

It was his habit every afternoon, after he had worked seven or eight
hours on St. Ambrose or St. Chrysostom, to walk for a while in
meditation among the roses.  And this was usually one of the most
productive moments of his day.  But even a sincere appetite for
thought, and the excitement of grave problems awaiting solution, are
not always sufficient to preserve the mind of the philosopher against
the petty shocks and contacts of the world.  And when Mr. Rolles
found General Vandeleur's secretary, ragged and bleeding, in the
company of his landlord; when he saw both change color and seek to
avoid his questions; and, above all, when the former denied his own
identity with the most unmoved assurance, he speedily forgot the
Saints and Fathers in the vulgar interest of curiosity.

"I can not be mistaken," thought he.  "That is Mr. Hartley beyond a
doubt.  How comes he in such a pickle? why does he deny his name? and
what can be his business with that black-looking ruffian, my
landlord?"

As he was thus reflecting, another peculiar circumstance attracted
his attention.  The face of Mr. Raeburn appeared at a low window next
the door; and, as chance directed, his eyes met those of Mr. Rolles.
The nurseryman seemed disconcerted, and even alarmed; and immediately
after the blind of the apartment was pulled sharply down.

"This may all be very well," reflected Mr. Rolles; "it may be all
excellently well; but I confess freely that I do not think so.
Suspicious, underhand, untruthful, fearful of observation--I believe
upon my soul," he thought, "the pair are plotting some disgraceful
action."

The detective that there is in all of us awoke and became clamant in
the bosom of Mr. Rolles; and with a brisk, eager step, that bore no
resemblance to his usual gait, he proceeded to make the circuit of
the garden.  When he came to the scene of Harry's escalade, his eye
was at once arrested by a broken rose-bush and marks of trampling on
the mold.  He looked up, and saw scratches on the brick, and a rag of
trouser floating from a broken bottle.  This, then, was the mode of
entrance chosen by Mr. Raeburn's particular friend!  It was thus that
General Vandeleur's secretary came to admire a flower-garden!  The
young clergyman whistled softly to himself as he stooped to examine
the ground.  He could make out where Harry had landed from his
perilous leap; he recognized the flat foot of Mr. Raeburn where it
had sunk deeply in the soil as he pulled up the secretary by the
collar; nay, on a closer inspection, he seemed to distinguish the
marks of groping fingers, as though something had been spilled abroad
and eagerly collected.

"Upon my word," he thought, "the thing grows vastly interesting."

And just then he caught sight of something almost entirely buried in
the earth.  In an instant he had disinterred a dainty morocco case,
ornamented and clasped in gilt.  It had been trodden heavily
underfoot, and thus escaped the hurried search of Mr. Raeburn.  Mr.
Rolles opened the case, and drew a long breath of almost horrified
astonishment; for there lay before him, in a cradle of green velvet,
a diamond of prodigious magnitude and of the finest water.  It was of
the bigness of a duck's egg; beautifully shaped, and without a flaw;
and as the sun shone upon it, it gave forth a lustre like that of
electricity, and seemed to burn in his hand with a thousand internal
fires.

He knew little of precious stones; but the Rajah's Diamond was a
wonder that explained itself; a village child, if he found it, would
run screaming for the nearest cottage; and a savage would prostrate
himself in adoration before so imposing a fetish.  The beauty of the
stone flattered the young clergyman's eyes; the thought of its
incalculable value overpowered his intellect.  He knew that what he
held in his hand was worth more than many years' purchase of an
archiepiscopal see; that it would build cathedrals more stately than
Ely or Cologne; that he who possessed it was set free forever from
the primal curse, and might follow his own inclinations without
concern or hurry, without let or hindrance.  And as he suddenly
turned it, the rays leaped forth again with renewed brilliancy, and
seemed to pierce his very heart.

Decisive actions are often taken in a moment and without any
conscious deliverance from the rational parts of man.  So it was now
with Mr. Rolles.  He glanced hurriedly round; beheld, like Mr.
Raeburn before him, nothing but the sunlit flower-garden, the tall
treetops, and the house with blinded windows; and in a trice he had
shut the case, thrust it into his pocket, and was hastening to his
study with the speed of guilt.

The Reverend Simon Rolles had stolen the Rajah's Diamond.

Early in the afternoon the police arrived with Harry Hartley.  The
nurseryman, who was beside himself with terror, readily discovered
his hoard; and the jewels were identified and inventoried in the
presence of the secretary.  As for Mr. Rolles, he showed himself in a
most obliging temper, communicated what he knew with freedom, and
professed regret that he could do no more to help the officers in
their duty.

"Still," he added, "I suppose your business is nearly at an end."

"By no means," replied the man from Scotland Yard; and he narrated
the second robbery of which Harry had been the immediate victim, and
gave the young clergyman a description of the more important jewels
that were still not found, dilating particularly on the Rajah's
Diamond.

"It must be worth a fortune," observed Mr. Rolles.

"Ten fortunes--twenty fortunes," cried the officer.

"The more it is worth," remarked Simon shrewdly, "the more difficult
it must be to sell.  Such a thing has a physiognomy not to be
disguised, and I should fancy a man might as easily negotiate St.
Paul's Cathedral."

"Oh, truly!" said the officer; "but if the thief be a man of any
intelligence, he will cut it into three or four, and there will be
still enough to make him rich."

"Thank you," said the clergyman.  "You can not imagine how much your
conversation interests me."

Whereupon the functionary admitted that they knew many strange things
in his profession, and immediately after took his leave.

Mr. Rolles regained his apartment.  It seemed smaller and barer than
usual; the materials for his great work had never presented so little
interest; and he looked upon his library with the eye of scorn.  He
took down, volume by volume, several Fathers of the Church, and
glanced them through; but they contained nothing to his purpose.

"These old gentlemen," thought he, "are no doubt very valuable
writers, but they seem to me conspicuously ignorant of life.  Here am
I, with learning enough to be a Bishop, and I positively do not know
how to dispose of a stolen diamond.  I glean a hint from a common
policeman, and, with all my folios, I can not so much as put it into
execution.  This inspires me with very low ideas of University
training."

Herewith he kicked over his book-shelf and, putting on his hat,
hastened from the house to the club of which he was a member.  In
such a place of mundane resort he hoped to find some man of good
counsel and a shrewd experience in life.  In the reading-room he saw
many of the country clergy and an Archdeacon; there were three
journalists and a writer upon the Higher Metaphysic, playing pool;
and at dinner only the raff of ordinary club frequenters showed their
commonplace and obliterated countenances.  None of these, thought Mr.
Rolles, would know more on dangerous topics than he knew himself;
none of them were fit to give him guidance in his present strait.  At
length, in the smoking-room, up many weary stairs, he hit upon a
gentleman of somewhat portly build and dressed with conspicuous
plainness.  He was smoking a cigar and reading the "Fortnightly
Review"; his face was singularly free from all sign of preoccupation
or fatigue; and there was something in his air which seemed to invite
confidence and to expect submission.  The more the young clergyman
scrutinized his features, the more he was convinced that he had
fallen on one capable of giving pertinent advice.

"Sir," said he, "you will excuse my abruptness; but I judge you from
your appearance to be preeminently a man of the world."

"I have indeed considerable claims to that distinction," replied the
stranger, laying aside his magazine with a look of mingled amusement
and surprise.

"I, sir," continued the Curate, "am a recluse, a student, a creature
of ink-bottles and patristic folios.  A recent event has brought my
folly vividly before my eyes, and I desire to instruct myself in
life.  By life," he added, "I do not mean Thackeray's novels; but the
crimes and secret possibilities of our society, and the principles of
wise conduct among exceptional events.  I am a patient reader; can
the thing be learned in books?"

"You put me in a difficulty," said the stranger.  "I confess I have
no great notion of the use of books, except to amuse a railway
journey; although, I believe, there are some very exact treatises on
astronomy, the use of the globes, agriculture, and the art of making
paper-flowers.  Upon the less apparent provinces of life I fear you
will find nothing truthful.  Yet stay," he added, "have you read
Gaboriau?"

Mr. Rolles admitted he had never even heard the name.

"You may gather some notions from Gaboriau," resumed the stranger.
"He is at least suggestive; and as he is an author much studied by
Prince Bismarck, you will, at the worst, lose your time in good
society."

"Sir," said the Curate, "I am infinitely obliged by your politeness."

"You have already more than repaid me," returned the other.

"How?" inquired Simon.

"By the novelty of your request," replied the gentleman; and with a
polite gesture, as though to ask permission, he resumed the study of
the "Fortnightly Review."

On his way home Mr. Rolles purchased a work on precious stones and
several of Gaboriau's novels.  These last he eagerly skimmed until an
advanced hour in the morning; but although they introduced him to
many new ideas, he could nowhere discover what to do with a stolen
diamond.  He was annoyed, moreover, to find the information scattered
among romantic story-telling, instead of soberly set forth after the
manner of a manual; and he concluded that, even if the writer had
thought much upon these subjects, he was totally lacking in
educational method.  For the character and attainments of Lecoq,
however, he was unable to contain his admiration.

"He was truly a great creature," ruminated Mr. Rolles.  "He knew the
world as I know Paley's Evidences.  There was nothing that he could
not carry to a termination with his own hand, and against the largest
odds.  Heavens!" he broke out suddenly, "is not this the lesson?
Must I not learn to cut diamonds for myself?"

It seemed to him as if he had sailed at once out of his perplexities;
he remembered that he knew a jeweler, one B. Macculloch, in
Edinburgh, who would be glad to put him in the way of the necessary
training; a few months, perhaps a few years, of sordid toil, and he
would be sufficiently expert to divide and sufficiently cunning to
dispose with advantage of the Rajah's Diamond.  That done, he might
return to pursue his researches at leisure, a wealthy and luxurious
student, envied and respected by all.  Golden visions attended him
through his slumber, and he awoke refreshed and light-hearted with
the morning sun.

Mr. Raeburn's house was on that day to be closed by the police, and
this afforded a pretext for his departure.  He cheerfully prepared
his baggage, transported it to King's Cross, where he left it in the
cloak room, and returned to the club to while away the afternoon and
dine.

"If you dine here to-day, Rolles," observed an acquaintance, "you may
see two of the most remarkable men in England--Prince Florizel of
Bohemia and old Jack Vandeleur."

"I have heard of the Prince," replied Mr. Rolles; "and General
Vandeleur I have even met in society."

"General Vandeleur is an ass!" returned the other.  "This is his
brother John, the biggest adventurer, the best judge of precious
stones, and one of the most acute diplomatists in Europe.  Have you
never heard of his duel with the Duc de Val d'Orge? of his exploits
and atrocities when he was Dictator of Paraguay? of his dexterity in
recovering Sir Samuel Levi's jewelry? nor of his services in the
Indian Mutiny--services by which the Government profited, but which
the Government dared not recognize?  You make me wonder what we mean
by fame, or even by infamy; for Jack Vandeleur has prodigious claims
to both.  Run downstairs," he continued, "take a table near them, and
keep your ears open.  You will hear some strange talk, or I am much
misled."

"But how shall I know them?" inquired the clergyman.

"Know them!" cried his friend; "why, the Prince is the finest
gentleman in Europe, the only living creature who looks like a king;
and as for Jack Vandeleur, if you can imagine Ulysses at seventy
years of age, and with a sabre-cut across his face, you have the man
before you!  Know them, indeed!  Why, you could pick either of them
out of a Derby day!"

Rolles eagerly hurried to the dining-room.  It was as his friend had
asserted; it was impossible to mistake the pair in question.  Old
John Vandeleur was of a remarkable force of body, and obviously
broken to the most difficult exercises.  He had neither the carriage
of a swordsman, nor of a sailor, nor yet of one much inured to the
saddle; but something made up of all these, and the result and
expression of many different habits and dexterities.  His features
were bold and aquiline; his expression arrogant and predatory; his
whole appearance that of a swift, violent, unscrupulous man of
action; and his copious white hair and the deep sabre-cut that
traversed his nose and temple added a note of savagery to a head
already remarkable and menacing in itself.

In his companion, the Prince of Bohemia, Mr. Rolles was astonished to
recognize the gentleman who had recommended him the study of
Gaboriau.  Doubtless Prince Florizel, who rarely visited the club, of
which, as of most others, he was an honorary member, had been waiting
for John Vandeleur when Simon accosted him on the previous evening.

The other diners had modestly retired into the angles of the room,
and left the distinguished pair in a certain isolation, but the young
clergyman was unrestrained by any sentiment of awe, and, marching
boldly up, took his place at the nearest table.

The conversation was, indeed, new to the student's ears.  The
ex-Dictator of Paraguay stated many extraordinary experiences in
different quarters of the world; and the Prince supplied a commentary
which, to a man of thought, was even more interesting than the events
themselves.  Two forms of experience were thus brought together and
laid before the young clergyman; and he did not know which to admire
the most--the desperate actor, or the skilled expert in life; the man
who spoke boldly of his own deeds and perils, or the man who seemed,
like a god, to know all things and to have suffered nothing.  The
manner of each aptly fitted with his part in the discourse.  The
Dictator indulged in brutalities alike of speech and gesture; his
hand opened and shut and fell roughly on the table; and his voice was
loud and heady.  The Prince, on the other hand, seemed the very type
of urbane docility and quiet; the least movement, the least
inflection, had with him a weightier significance than all the shouts
and pantomime of his companion; and if ever, as must frequently have
been the case, he described some experience personal to himself, it
was so aptly dissimulated as to pass unnoticed with the rest.

At length the talk wandered on to the late robberies and the Rajah's
Diamond.

"That diamond would be better in the sea," observed Prince Florizel.

"As a Vandeleur," replied the Dictator, "your Highness may imagine my
dissent."

"I speak on grounds of public policy," pursued the Prince.  "Jewels
so valuable should be reserved for the collection of a Prince or the
treasury of a great nation.  To hand them about among the common sort
of men is to set a price on Virtue's head; and if the Rajah of
Kashgar--a Prince, I understand, of great enlightenment--desired
vengeance upon the men of Europe, he could hardly have gone more
efficaciously about his purpose than by sending us this apple of
discord.  There is no honesty too robust for such a trial.  I myself,
who have many duties and many privileges of my own--I myself, Mr.
Vandeleur, could scarce handle the intoxicating crystal and be safe.
As for you, who are a diamond-hunter by taste and profession, I do
not believe there is a crime in the calendar you would not
perpetrate--I do not believe you have a friend in the world whom you
would not eagerly betray--I do not know if you have a family, but if
you have I declare you would sacrifice your children--and all this
for what?  Not to be richer, nor to have more comforts or more
respect, but simply to call this diamond yours for a year or two
until you die, and now and again to open a safe and look at it as one
looks at a picture."

"It is true," replied Vandeleur.  "I have hunted most things, from
men and women down to mosquitoes; I have dived for coral; I have
followed both whales and tigers; and a diamond is the tallest quarry
of the lot.  It has beauty and worth; it alone can properly reward
the ardors of the chase.  At this moment, as your Highness may fancy,
I am upon the trail; I have a sure knack, a wide experience; I know
every stone of price in my brother's collection as a shepherd knows
his sheep; and I wish I may die if I do not recover them every one!"

"Sir Thomas Vandeleur will have great cause to thank you," said the
Prince.

"I am not so sure," returned the Dictator, with a laugh.  "One of the
Vandeleurs will.  Thomas or John--Peter or Paul--we are all apostles."

"I did not catch your observation," said the Prince with some disgust.

And at the same moment the waiter informed Mr. Vandeleur that his cab
was at the door.

Mr. Rolles glanced at the clock, and saw that he also must be moving;
and the coincidence struck him sharply and unpleasantly, for he
desired to see no more of the diamond-hunter.

Much study having somewhat shaken the young man's nerves, he was in
the habit of traveling in the most luxurious manner; and for the
present journey he had taken a sofa in the sleeping carriage.

"You will be very comfortable," said the guard; "there is no one in
your compartment, and only one old gentleman in the other end."

It was close upon the hour, and the tickets were being examined, when
Mr. Rolles beheld this other fellow-passenger ushered by several
porters into his place; certainly, there was not another man in the
world whom he would not have preferred--for it was old John
Vandeleur, the ex-Dictator.

The sleeping carriages on the Great Northern line were divided into
three compartments--one at each end for travelers, and one in the
centre fitted with the conveniences of a lavatory.  A door running in
grooves separated each of the others from the lavatory; but as there
were neither bolts nor locks, the whole suite was practically common
ground.

When Mr. Rolles had studied his position, he perceived himself
without defense.  If the Dictator chose to pay him a visit in the
course of the night, he could do no less than receive it; he had no
means of fortification, and lay open to attack as if he had been
lying in the fields.  This situation caused him some agony of mind.
He recalled with alarm the boastful statements of his fellow-traveler
across the dining-table, and the professions of immorality which he
had heard him offering to the disgusted Prince.  Some persons, he
remembered to have read, are endowed with a singular quickness of
perception for the neighborhood of precious metals; through walls and
even at considerable distances they are said to divine the presence
of gold.  Might it not be the same with diamonds? he wondered; and if
so, who was more likely to enjoy this transcendental sense than the
person who gloried in the appellation of the Diamond Hunter?  From
such a man he recognized that he had everything to fear, and longed
eagerly for the arrival of the day.

In the meantime he neglected no precaution, concealed his diamond in
the most internal pocket of a system of greatcoats, and devoutly
recommended himself to the care of Providence.

The train pursued its usual even and rapid course; and nearly half
the journey had been accomplished before slumber began to triumph
over uneasiness in the breast of Mr. Rolles.  For some time he
resisted its influence; but it grew upon him more and more, and a
little before York he was fain to stretch himself upon one of the
couches and suffer his eyes to close; and almost at the same instant
consciousness deserted the young clergyman.  His last thought was of
his terrifying neighbor.

When he awoke it was still pitch dark except for the flicker of the
veiled lamp; and the continual roaring and oscillation testified to
the unrelaxed velocity of the train.  He sat upright in a panic, for
he had been tormented by the most uneasy dreams; it was some seconds
before he recovered his self-command; and even after he had resumed a
recumbent attitude sleep continued to flee him, and he lay awake with
his brain in a state of violent agitation, and his eyes fixed upon
the lavatory door.  He pulled his clerical felt hat over his brow
still further to shield him from the light; and he adopted the usual
expedients, such as counting a thousand or banishing thought, by
which experienced invalids are accustomed to woo the approach of
sleep.  In the case of Mr. Rolles they proved one and all vain; he
was harassed by a dozen different anxieties--the old man in the other
end of the carriage haunted him in the most alarming shapes; and in
whatever attitude he chose to lie the diamond in his pocket
occasioned him a sensible physical distress.  It burned, it was too
large, it bruised his ribs; and there were infinitesimal fractions of
a second in which he had half a mind to throw it from the window.

While he was thus lying, a strange incident took place.

The sliding-door into the lavatory stirred a little, and then a
little more, and was finally drawn back for the space of about twenty
inches.  The lamp in the lavatory was unshaded, and in the lighted
aperture thus disclosed Mr. Rolles could see the head of Mr.
Vandeleur in an attitude of deep attention.  He was conscious that
the gaze of the Dictator rested intently on his own face and the
instinct of self-preservation moved him to hold his breath, to
refrain from the least movement, and keeping his eyes lowered, to
watch his visitor from underneath the lashes.  After about a moment
the head was withdrawn and the door of the lavatory replaced.

The Dictator had not come to attack, but to observe; his action was
not that of a man threatening another, but that of a man who was
himself threatened; if Mr. Rolles was afraid of him, it appeared that
he, in his turn, was not quite easy on the score of Mr. Rolles.  He
had come, it would seem, to make sure that his only fellow-traveler
was asleep; and, when satisfied on that point, he had at once
withdrawn.

The clergyman leaped to his feet.  The extreme of terror had given
place to a reaction of foolhardy daring.  He reflected that the
rattle of the flying train concealed all other sounds, and
determined, come what might, to return the visit he had just
received.  Divesting himself of his cloak, which might have
interfered with the freedom of his action, he entered the lavatory
and paused to listen.  As he had expected, there was nothing to be
heard above the roar of the train's progress; and laying his hand on
the door at the further side, he proceeded cautiously to draw it back
for about six inches.  Then he stopped, and could not contain an
ejaculation of surprise.

John Vandeleur wore a fur traveling cap with lappets to protect his
ears; and this may have combined with the sound of the express to
keep him in ignorance of what was going forward.  It is certain, at
least, that he did not raise his head, but continued without
interruption to pursue his strange employment.  Between his feet
stood an open hat-box; in one hand he held the sleeve of his sealskin
greatcoat; in the other a formidable knife, with which he had just
slit up the lining of the sleeve.  Mr. Rolles had read of persons
carrying money in a belt; and as he had no acquaintance with any but
cricket-belts, he had never been able rightly to conceive how this
was managed.  But here was a stranger thing before his eyes; for John
Vandeleur, it appeared, carried diamonds in the lining of his sleeve;
and even as the young clergyman gazed, he could see one glittering
brilliant drop after another into the hat-box.

He stood riveted to the spot, following this unusual business with
his eyes.  The diamonds were, for the most part, small, and not
easily distinguishable either in shape or fire.  Suddenly the
Dictator appeared to find a difficulty; he employed both hands and
stopped over his task; but it was not until after considerable
maneuvring that he extricated a large tiara of diamonds from the
lining, and held it up for some seconds' examination before he placed
it with the others in the hat-box.  The tiara was a ray of light to
Mr. Rolles; he immediately recognized it for a part of the treasure
stolen from Harry Hartley by the loiterer.  There was no room for
mistake; it was exactly as the detective had described it; there were
the ruby stars, with a great emerald in the centre; there were the
interlacing crescents; and there were the pear-shaped pendants, each
a single stone, which gave a special value to Lady Vandeleur's tiara.

Mr. Rolles was hugely relieved.  The Dictator was as deeply in the
affair as he was; neither could tell tales upon the other.  In the
first glow of happiness, the clergyman suffered a deep sigh to escape
him; and as his bosom had become choked and his throat dry during his
previous suspense, the sigh was followed by a cough.

Mr. Vandeleur looked up; his face contracted with the blackest and
most deadly passion; his eyes opened widely, and his under jaw
dropped in an astonishment that was upon the brink of fury.  By an
instinctive movement he had covered the hat-box with the coat.  For
half a minute the two men stared upon each other in silence.  It was
not a long interval, but it sufficed for Mr. Rolles; he was one of
those who think swiftly on dangerous occasions; he decided on a
course of action of a singularly daring nature; and although he felt
he was setting his life upon the hazard, he was the first to break
silence.

"I beg your pardon," said he.

The Dictator shivered slightly, and when he spoke his voice was
hoarse.

"What do you want here?" he asked.

"I take a particular interest in diamonds," replied Mr. Rolles, with
an air of perfect self-possession.  "Two connoisseurs should be
acquainted.  I have here a trifle of my own which may perhaps serve
for an introduction."

And so saying, he quietly took the case from his pocket, showed the
Rajah's Diamond to the Dictator for an instant, and replaced it in
security.

"It was once your brother's," he added.

John Vandeleur continued to regard him with a look of almost painful
amazement; but he neither spoke nor moved.

"I was pleased to observe," resumed the young man, "that we have gems
from the same collection."

The Dictator's surprise overpowered him.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "I begin to perceive that I am growing
old!  I am positively not prepared for little incidents like this.
But set my mind at rest upon one point: do my eyes deceive me, or are
you indeed a parson?"

"I am in holy orders," answered Mr. Rolles.

"Well," cried the other, "as long as I live I will never hear another
word against the cloth!"

"You flatter me," said Mr. Rolles.

"Pardon me," replied Vandeleur; "pardon me, young man.  You are no
coward, but it still remains to be seen whether you are not the worst
of fools.  Perhaps," he continued, leaning back upon his seat,
"perhaps you would oblige me with a few particulars.  I must suppose
you had some object in the stupefying impudence of your proceedings,
and I confess I have a curiosity to know it."

"It is very simple," replied the clergyman; "it proceeds from my
great inexperience of life."

"I shall be glad to be persuaded," answered Vandeleur.

Whereupon Mr. Rolles told him the whole story of his connection with
the Rajah's Diamond, from the time he found it in Raeburn's garden to
the time when he left London in the Flying Scotchman.  He added a
brief sketch of his feelings and thoughts during the journey, and
concluded in these words:

"When I recognized the tiara I knew we were in the same attitude
toward Society, and this inspired me with a hope, which I trust you
will say was not ill-founded, that you might become in some sense my
partner in the difficulties and, of course, the profits of my
situation.  To one of your special knowledge and obviously great
experience the negotiation of the diamond would give but little
trouble, while to me it was a matter of impossibility.  On the other
part, I judged that I might lose nearly as much by cutting the
diamond, and that not improbably with an unskilful hand, as might
enable me to pay you with proper generosity for your assistance.  The
subject was a delicate one to broach; and perhaps I fell short in
delicacy.  But I must ask you to remember that for me the situation
was a new one, and I was entirely unacquainted with the etiquette in
use.  I believe without vanity that I could have married or baptized
you in a very acceptable manner; but every man has his own aptitudes,
and this sort of bargain was not among the list of my
accomplishments."

"I do not wish to flatter you," replied Vandeleur; "but, upon my
word, you have an unusual disposition for a life of crime.  You have
more accomplishments than you imagine; and though I have encountered
a number of rogues in different quarters of the world, I never met
with one so unblushing as yourself.  Cheer up, Mr. Rolles, you are in
the right profession at last!  As for helping you, you may command me
as you will.  I have only a day's business in Edinburgh on a little
matter for my brother; and once that is concluded, I return to Paris,
where I usually reside.  If you please you may accompany me thither.
And before the end of a month I believe I shall have brought your
little business to a satisfactory conclusion."


[At this point, contrary to all the canons of his art, our Arabian
Author breaks off the "Story of the Young Man in Holy Orders."  I
regret and condemn such practises; but I must follow my original, and
refer the reader for the conclusion of Mr. Rolles's adventures to the
next number of the cycle, the "Story of the House with the Green
Blinds."]



STORY OF THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS

Francis Scrymgeour, a clerk in the Bank of Scotland at Edinburgh, had
attained the age of twenty-five in a sphere of quiet, creditable, and
domestic life.  His mother died while he was young; but his father, a
man of sense and probity, had given him an excellent education at
school, and brought him up at home to orderly and frugal habits.
Francis, who was of a docile and affectionate disposition, profited
by these advantages with zeal, and devoted himself heart and soul to
his employment.  A walk upon Saturday afternoon, an occasional dinner
with members of his family, and a yearly tour of a fortnight in the
Highlands or even on the continent of Europe, were his principal
distractions, and he grew rapidly in favor with his superiors, and
enjoyed already a salary of nearly two hundred pounds a year, with
the prospect of an ultimate advance to almost double that amount.
Few young men were more contented, few more willing and laborious,
than Francis Scrymgeour.  Sometimes at night, when he had read the
daily paper, he would play upon the flute to amuse his father, for
whose qualities he entertained a great respect.

One day he received a note from a well-known firm of Writers to the
Signet, requesting the favor of an immediate interview with him.  The
letter was marked "Private and Confidential," and had been addressed
to him at the bank, instead of at home--two unusual circumstances
which made him obey the summons with the more alacrity.  The senior
member of the firm, a man of much austerity of manner, made him
gravely welcome, requested him to take a seat, and proceeded to
explain the matter in hand in the picked expressions of a veteran man
of business.  A person, who must remain nameless, but of whom the
lawyer had every reason to think well--a man, in short, of some
station in the country--desired to make Francis an annual allowance
of five hundred pounds.  The capital was to be placed under the
control of the lawyer's firm and two trustees who must also remain
anonymous.  There were conditions annexed to this liberality, but he
was of opinion that his new client would find nothing either
excessive or dishonorable in the terms; and he repeated these two
words with emphasis, as though he desired to commit himself to
nothing more.

Francis asked their nature.

"The conditions," said the Writer to the Signet, "are, as I have
twice remarked, neither dishonorable nor excessive.  At the same time
I can not conceal from you that they are most unusual.  Indeed, the
whole case is very much out of our way; and I should certainly have
refused it had it not been for the reputation of the gentleman who
entrusted it to my care, and, let me add, Mr. Scrymgeour, the
interest I have been led to take in yourself by many complimentary
and, I have no doubt, well-deserved reports."

Francis entreated him to be more specific.

"You can not picture my uneasiness as to these conditions," he said.

"They are two," replied the lawyer, "only two; and the sum, as you
will remember, is five hundred a year--and unburdened, I forgot to
add, unburdened."

And the lawyer raised his eyebrows at him with solemn gusto.

"The first," he resumed, "is of remarkable simplicity.  You must be
in Paris by the afternoon of Sunday, the 15th; there you will find,
at the box-office of the Comedie Française, a ticket for admission
taken in your name and waiting you.  You are requested to sit out the
whole performance in the seat provided, and that is all."

"I should certainly have preferred a week-day," replied Francis.
"But, after all, once in a way--"

"And in Paris, my dear sir," added the lawyer, soothingly.  "I
believe I am something of a precisian myself, but upon such a
consideration, and in Paris, I should not hesitate an instant."

And the pair laughed pleasantly together.

"The other is of more importance," continued the Writer to the
Signet.  "It regards your marriage.  My client, taking a deep
interest in your welfare, desires to advise you absolutely in the
choice of a wife.  Absolutely, you understand," he repeated.

"Let us be more explicit, if you please," returned Francis.  "Am I to
marry any one, maid or widow, black or white, whom this invisible
person chooses to propose?"

"I was to assure you that suitability of age and position should be a
principle with your benefactor," replied the lawyer.  "As to race, I
confess the difficulty had not occurred to me, and I failed to
inquire; but if you like I will make a note of it at once, and advise
you on the earliest opportunity."

"Sir," said Francis, "it remains to be seen whether this whole affair
is not a most unworthy fraud.  The circumstances are inexplicable--I
had almost said incredible; and until I see a little more daylight,
and some plausible motive, I confess I should be very sorry to put a
hand to the transaction.  I appeal to you in this difficulty for
information.  I must learn what is at the bottom of it all.  If you
do not know, can not guess, or are not at liberty to tell me, I shall
take my hat and go back to my bank as I came."

"I do not know," answered the lawyer, "but I have an excellent guess.
Your father, and no one else, is at the root of this apparently
unnatural business."

"My father!" cried Francis, in extreme disdain.  "Worthy man, I know
every thought of his mind, every penny of his fortune!"

"You misinterpret my words," said the lawyer.  "I do not refer to Mr.
Scrymgeour, senior; for he is not your father.  When he and his wife
came to Edinburgh, you were already nearly one year old, and you had
not yet been three months in their care.  The secret has been well
kept; but such is the fact.  Your father is unknown, and I say again
that I believe him to be the original of the offers I am charged at
present to transmit to you."

It would be impossible to exaggerate the astonishment of Francis
Scrymgeour at this unexpected information.  He pleaded this confusion
to the lawyer.

"Sir," said he, "after a piece of news so startling, you must grant
me some hours for thought.  You shall know this evening what
conclusion I have reached."

The lawyer commended his prudence; and Francis, excusing himself upon
some pretext at the bank, took a long walk into the country, and
fully considered the different steps and aspects of the case.  A
pleasant sense of his own importance rendered him the more
deliberate: but the issue was from the first not doubtful.  His whole
carnal man leaned irresistibly toward the five hundred a year, and
the strange conditions with which it was burdened; he discovered in
his heart an invincible repugnance to the name of Scrymgeour, which
he had never hitherto disliked; he began to despise the narrow and
unromantic interests of his former life; and when once his mind was
fairly made up, he walked with a new feeling of strength and freedom,
and nourished himself with the gayest anticipations.

He said but a word to the lawyer, and immediately received a check
for two quarters' arrears; for the allowance was antedated from the
first of January.  With this in his pocket, he walked home.  The flat
in Scotland Street looked mean in his eyes; his nostrils, for the
first time, rebelled against the odor of broth; and he observed
little defects of manner in his adoptive father which filled him with
surprise and almost with disgust.  The next day, he determined,
should see him on his way to Paris.

In that city, where he arrived long before the appointed date, he put
up at a modest hotel frequented by English and Italians, and devoted
himself to improvement in the French tongue; for this purpose he had
a master twice a week, entered into conversation with loiterers in
the Champs Elysées, and nightly frequented the theatre.  He had his
whole toilet fashionably renewed; and was shaved and had his hair
dressed every morning by a barber in a neighboring street.  This gave
him something of a foreign air, and seemed to wipe off the reproach
of his past years.

At length, on the Saturday afternoon, he betook himself to the
box-office of the theatre in the Rue Richelieu.  No sooner had he
mentioned his name than the clerk produced the order in an envelope
of which the address was scarcely dry.

"It has been taken this moment," said the clerk.

"Indeed!" said Francis.  "May I ask what the gentleman was like?"

"Your friend is easy to describe," replied the official.  "He is old
and strong and beautiful, with white hair and a sabre-cut across his
face.  You can not fail to recognize so marked a person."

"No, indeed," returned Francis; "and I thank you for your politeness."

"He can not yet be far distant," added the clerk.  "If you make haste
you might still overtake him."

Francis did not wait to be twice told; he ran precipitately from the
theatre into the middle of the street and looked in all directions.
More than one white-haired man was within sight; but though he
overtook each of them in succession, all wanted the sabre-cut.  For
nearly half an hour he tried one street after another in the
neighborhood, until at length, recognizing the folly of continued
search, he started on a walk to compose his agitated feelings; for
this proximity of an encounter with him to whom he could not doubt he
owed the day had profoundly moved the young man.

It chanced that his way lay up the Rue Drouot and thence up the Rue
des Martyrs; and chance, in this case, served him better than all the
forethought in the world.  For on the outer boulevard he saw two men
in earnest colloquy upon a seat.  One was dark, young, and handsome,
secularly dressed, but with an indelible clerical stamp; the other
answered in every particular to the description given him by the
clerk.  Francis felt his heart beat high in his bosom; he knew he was
now about to hear the voice of his father; and making a wide circuit,
he noiselessly took his place behind the couple in question, who were
too much interested in their talk to observe much else.  As Francis
had expected, the conversation was conducted in the English language.

"Your suspicions begin to annoy me, Rolles," said the older man.  "I
tell you I am doing my utmost; a man can not lay his hand on millions
in a moment.  Have I not taken you up, a mere stranger, out of pure
goodwill?  Are you not living largely on my bounty?"

"On your advances, Mr. Vandeleur," corrected the other.

"Advances, if you choose; and interest instead of good-will, if you
prefer it," returned Vandeleur, angrily.  "I am not here to pick
expressions.  Business is business; and your business, let me remind
you, is too muddy for such airs.  Trust me, or leave me alone and
find some one else; but let us have an end, for God's sake, of your
jeremiads."

"I am beginning to learn the world," replied the other, "and I see
that you have every reason to play me false, and not one to deal
honestly.  I am not here to pick expressions, either; you wish the
diamond for yourself; you know you do--you dare not deny it.  Have
you not already forged my name, and searched my lodging in my
absence?  I understand the cause of your delays; you are lying in
wait; you are the diamond-hunter, forsooth; and sooner or later, by
fair means or foul, you'll lay your hands upon it.  I tell you, it
must stop; push me much further and I promise you a surprise."

"It does not become you to use threats," returned Vandeleur.  "Two
can play at that.  My brother is here in Paris; the police are on the
alert; and if you persist in wearying me with your caterwauling, I
will arrange a little astonishment for you, Mr. Rolles.  But mine
shall be once and for all.  Do you understand, or would you prefer me
to tell it you in Hebrew?  There is an end to all things, and you
have come to the end of my patience.  Tuesday, at seven; not a day,
not an hour sooner, not the least part of a second, if it were to
save your life.  And if you do not choose to wait, you may go to the
bottomless pit for me, and welcome."

And so saying, the Dictator arose from the bench, and marched off in
the direction of Montmartre, shaking his head and swinging his cane
with a most furious air; while his companion remained where he was,
in an attitude of great dejection.

Francis was at the pitch of surprise and horror; his sentiments had
been shocked to the last degree; the hopeful tenderness with which he
had taken his place upon the bench was transformed into repulsion and
despair; old Mr. Scrymgeour, he reflected, was a far more kindly and
creditable parent than this dangerous and violent intriguer; but he
retained his presence of mind, and suffered not a moment to elapse
before he was on the trail of the Dictator.

That gentleman's fury carried him forward at a brisk pace, and he was
so completely occupied in his angry thoughts that he never so much as
cast a look behind him till he reached his own door.

His house stood high up in the Rue Lepic, commanding a view of all
Paris and enjoying the pure air of the heights.  It was two stories
high, with green blinds and shutters; and all the windows looking on
the street were hermetically closed.  Tops of trees showed over the
high garden wall, and the wall was protected by chevaux-de-frise.
The Dictator paused a moment while he searched his pocket for a key;
and then, opening a gate, disappeared within the enclosure.

Francis looked about him; the neighborhood was very lonely; the house
isolated in its garden.  It seemed as if his observation must here
come to an abrupt end.  A second glance, however, showed him a tall
house next door presenting a gable to the garden, and in this gable a
single window.  He passed to the front and saw a ticket offering
unfurnished lodgings by the month; and, on inquiry, the room which
commanded the Dictator's garden proved to be one of those to let.
Francis did not hesitate a moment; he took the room, paid an advance
upon the rent, and returned to his hotel to seek his baggage.

The old man with the sabre-cut might or might not be his father; he
might or he might not be upon the true scent; but he was certainly on
the edge of an exciting mystery, and he promised himself that he
would not relax his observation until he had got to the bottom of the
secret.

From the window of his new apartment Francis Scrymgeour commanded a
complete view into the garden of the house with the green blinds.
Immediately below him a very comely chestnut with wide boughs
sheltered a pair of rustic tables where people might dine in the
height of summer.  On all sides save one a dense vegetation concealed
the soil; but there, between the tables and the house, he saw a patch
of gravel walk leading from the veranda to the garden gate.  Studying
the place from between the boards of the Venetian shutters, which he
durst not open for fear of attracting attention, Francis observed but
little to indicate the manners of the inhabitants, and that little
argued no more than a close reserve and a taste for solitude.  The
garden was conventual, the house had the air of a prison.  The green
blinds were all drawn down upon the outside; the door into the
veranda was closed; the garden, as far as he could see it, was left
entirely to itself in the evening sunshine.  A modest curl of smoke
from a single chimney alone testified to the presence of living
people.

In order that he might not be entirely idle, and to give a certain
color to his way of life, Francis had purchased Euclid's Geometry in
French, which he set himself to copy and translate on the top of his
portmanteau and seated on the floor against the wall; for he was
equally without chair or table.  From time to time he would rise and
cast a glance into the enclosure of the house with the green blinds;
but the windows remained obstinately closed and the garden empty.

Only late in the evening did anything occur to reward his continued
attention.  Between nine and ten the sharp tinkle of a bell aroused
him from a fit of dozing; and he sprang to his observatory in time to
hear an important noise of locks being opened and bars removed, and
to see Mr. Vandeleur, carrying a lantern and clothed in a flowing
robe of black velvet with a skull-cap to match, issue from under the
veranda and proceed leisurely toward the garden gate.  The sound of
bolts and bars was then repeated; and a moment after Francis
perceived the Dictator escorting into the house, in the mobile light
of the lantern, an individual of the lowest and most despicable
appearance.

Half an hour afterward the visitor was reconducted to the street; and
Mr. Vandeleur, setting his light upon one of the rustic tables,
finished a cigar with great deliberation under the foliage of the
chestnut.  Francis, peering through a clear space among the leaves,
was able to follow his gestures as he threw away the ash or enjoyed a
copious inhalation; and beheld a cloud upon the old man's brow and a
forcible action of the lips which testified to some deep and probably
painful train of thought.  The cigar was already almost at an end,
when the voice of a young girl was heard suddenly crying the hour
from the interior of the house.

"In a moment," replied John Vandeleur.

And, with that, he threw away the stump and, taking up the lantern,
sailed away under the veranda for the night.  As soon as the door was
closed, absolute darkness fell upon the house.  Francis might try his
eyesight as much as he pleased, he could not detect so much as a
single chink of light below a blind; and he concluded, with great
good sense, that the bedchambers were all upon the other side.

Early the next morning (for he was early awake after an uncomfortable
night upon the floor), he saw cause to adopt a different explanation.
The blinds rose, one after another, by means of a spring in the
interior, and disclosed steel shutters such as we see on the front of
shops; these in their turn were rolled up by a similar contrivance;
and, for the space of about an hour, the chambers were left open to
the morning air.  At the end of that time Mr. Vandeleur, with his own
hand, once more closed the shutters and replaced the blinds from
within.

While Francis was still marveling at these precautions, the door
opened and a young girl came forth to look about her in the garden.
It was not two minutes before she reentered the house, but even in
that short time he saw enough to convince him that she possessed the
most unusual attractions.  His curiosity was not only highly excited
by this incident, but his spirits were improved to a still more
notable degree.  The alarming manners and more than equivocal life of
his father ceased from that moment to prey upon his mind; from that
moment he embraced his new family with ardor; and whether the young
lady should prove his sister or his wife, he felt convinced she was
an angel in disguise.  So much was this the case that he was seized
with a sudden horror when he reflected how little he really knew, and
how possible it was that he had followed the wrong person when he
followed Mr. Vandeleur.

The porter, whom he consulted, could afford him little information;
but, such as it was, it had a mysterious and questionable sound.  The
person next door was an English gentleman of extraordinary wealth,
and proportionately eccentric in his tastes and habits.  He possessed
great collections, which he kept in the house beside him; and it was
to protect these that he had fitted the place with steel shutters,
elaborate fastenings, and chevaux-de-frise along the garden wall.  He
lived much alone, in spite of some strange visitors with whom, it
seemed, he had business to transact; and there was no one else in the
house, except Mademoiselle and an old woman servant.

"Is Mademoiselle his daughter?" inquired Francis.

"Certainly," replied the porter.  "Mademoiselle is the daughter of
the house; and strange it is to see how she is made to work.  For all
his riches, it is she who goes to market; and every day in the week
you may see her going by with a basket on her arm."

"And the collections?" asked the other.

"Sir," said the man, "they are immensely valuable.  More I can not
tell you.  Since M. de Vandeleur's arrival no one in the quarter has
so much as passed the door."

"Suppose not," returned Francis, "you must surely have some notion
what these famous galleries contain.  Is it pictures, silks, statues,
jewels, or what?"

"My faith, sir," said the fellow with a shrug, "it might be carrots,
and still I could not tell you.  How should I know?  The house is
kept like a garrison, as you perceive."

And then as Francis was returning disappointed to his room, the
porter called him back.

"I have just remembered, sir," said he.  "M. de Vandeleur has been in
all parts of the world, and I once heard the old woman declare that
he had brought many diamonds back with him.  If that be the truth,
there must be a fine show behind those shutters."

By an early hour on Sunday Francis was in his place at the theatre.
The seat which had been taken for him was only two or three numbers
from the left-hand side, and directly opposite one of the lower
boxes.  As the seat had been specially chosen there was doubtless
something to be learned from its position; and he judged by an
instinct that the box upon his right was, in some way or other, to be
connected with the drama in which he ignorantly played a part.
Indeed it was so situated that its occupants could safely observe him
from beginning to end of the piece, if they were so minded; while,
profiting by the depth, they could screen themselves sufficiently
well from any counter-examination on his side.  He promised himself
not to leave it for a moment out of sight; and while he scanned the
rest of the theatre, or made a show of attending to the business of
the stage, he always kept a corner of an eye upon the empty box.

The second act had been some time in progress, and was even drawing
toward a close, when the door opened and two persons entered and
ensconced themselves in the darkest of the shade.  Francis could
hardly control his emotion.  It was Mr. Vandeleur and his daughter.
The blood came and went in his arteries and veins with stunning
activity; his ears sang; his head turned.  He dared not look lest he
should awake suspicion; his play-bill, which he kept reading from end
to end and over and over again, turned from white to red before his
eyes; and when he cast a glance upon the stage, it seemed
incalculably far away, and he found the voices and gestures of the
actors to the last degree impertinent and absurd.

From time to time he risked a momentary look in the direction which
principally interested him; and once at least he felt certain that
his eyes encountered those of the young girl.  A shock passed over
his body, and he saw all the colors of the rainbow.  What would he
not have given to overhear what passed between the Vandeleurs?  What
would he not have given for the courage to take up his opera-glass
and steadily inspect their attitude and expression?  There, for aught
he knew, his whole life was being decided--and he not able to
interfere, not able even to follow the debate, but condemned to sit
and suffer where he was, in impotent anxiety.

At last the act came to an end.  The curtain fell, and the people
around him began to leave their places for the interval.  It was only
natural that he should follow their example; and if he did so, it was
not only natural but necessary that he should pass immediately in
front of the box in question.  Summoning all his courage, but keeping
his eyes lowered, Francis drew near the spot.  His progress was slow,
for the old gentleman before him moved with incredible deliberation,
wheezing as he went.  What was he to do?  Should he address the
Vandeleurs by name as he went by?  Should he take the flower from his
buttonhole and throw it into the box?  Should he raise his face and
direct one long and affectionate look upon the lady who was either
his sister or his betrothed?  As he found himself thus struggling
among so many alternatives, he had a vision of his old equable
existence in the bank, and was assailed by a thought of regret for
the past.

By this time he had arrived directly opposite the box; and although
he was still undetermined what to do or whether to do anything, he
turned his head and lifted his eyes.  No sooner had he done so than
he uttered a cry of disappointment and remained rooted to the spot.
The box was empty.  During his slow advance Mr. Vandeleur and his
daughter had quietly slipped away.

A polite person in his rear reminded him that he was stopping the
path; and he moved on again with mechanical footsteps, and suffered
the crowd to carry him unresisting out of the theatre.  Once in the
street, the pressure ceasing, he came to a halt, and the cool night
air speedily restored him to the possession of his faculties.  He was
surprised to find that his head ached violently, and that he
remembered not one word of the two acts which he had witnessed.  As
the excitement wore away, it was succeeded by an over-weening
appetite for sleep, and he hailed a cab and drove to his lodging in a
state of extreme exhaustion and some disgust of life.

Next morning he lay in wait for Miss Vandeleur on her road to market,
and by eight o'clock beheld her stepping down a lane.  She was
simply, and even poorly, attired; but in the carriage of her head and
body there was something flexible and noble that would have lent
distinction to the meanest toilet.  Even her basket, so aptly did she
carry it, became her like an ornament.  It seemed to Francis, as he
slipped into a doorway, that the sunshine followed and the shadows
fled before her as she walked; and he was conscious, for the first
time, of a bird singing in a cage above the lane.

He suffered her to pass the doorway, and then, coming forth once
more, addressed her by name from behind.

"Miss Vandeleur," said he.

She turned, and, when she saw who he was, became deadly pale.

"Pardon me," he continued; "Heaven knows I had no will to startle
you; and, indeed, there should be nothing startling in the presence
of one who wishes you so well as I do.  And, believe me, I am acting
rather from necessity than choice.  We have many things in common,
and I am sadly in the dark.  There is much that I should be doing,
and my hands are tied.  I do not know even what to feel, nor who are
my friends and enemies."

She found her voice with an effort.

"I do not know who you are," she said.

"Ah, yes!  Miss Vandeleur, you do," returned Francis; "better than I
do myself.  Indeed it is on that, above all, that I seek light.  Tell
me what you know," he pleaded.  "Tell me who I am, who you are, and
how our destinies are intermixed.  Give me a little help with my
life, Miss Vandeleur--only a word or two to guide me, only the name
of my father, if you will--and I shall be grateful and content."

"I will not attempt to deceive you," she replied.  "I know who you
are, but I am not at liberty to say."

"Tell me, at least, that you have forgiven my presumption, and I
shall wait with all the patience I have," he said.  "If I am not to
know, I must do without.  It is cruel, but I can bear more upon a
push.  Only do not add to my troubles the thought that I have made an
enemy of you."

"You did only what was natural," she said, "and I have nothing to
forgive you.  Farewell."

"Is it to be _farewell_?" he asked.

"Nay, that I do not know myself," she answered.  "Farewell for the
present, if you like."

And with these words she was gone.

Francis returned to his lodging in a state of considerable commotion
of mind.  He made the most trifling progress with his Euclid for that
forenoon, and was more often at the window than at his improvised
writing-table.  But beyond seeing the return of Miss Vandeleur, and
the meeting between her and her father, who was smoking a
Trichinopoli cigar in the veranda, there was nothing notable in the
neighborhood of the house with the green blinds before the time of
the midday meal.  The young man hastily allayed his appetite in a
neighboring restaurant, and returned with the speed of unallayed
curiosity to the house in the Rue Lepic.  A mounted servant was
leading a saddle-horse to and fro before the garden wall; and the
porter of Francis's lodging was smoking a pipe against the door-post,
absorbed in contemplation of the livery and the steeds.

"Look!" he cried to the young man, "what fine cattle! what an elegant
costume!  They belong to the brother of M. de Vandeleur, who is now
within upon a visit.  He is a great man, a general, in your country;
and you doubtless know him well by reputation."

"I confess," returned Francis, "that I have never heard of General
Vandeleur before.  We have many officers of that grade, and my
pursuits have been exclusively civil."

"It is he," replied the porter, "who lost the great diamond of the
Indies.  Of that at least you must have read often in the papers."

As soon as Francis could disengage himself from the porter he ran
upstairs and hurried to the window.  Immediately below the clear
space in the chestnut leaves, the two gentlemen were seated in
conversation over a cigar.  The General, a red, military-looking man,
offered some traces of a family resemblance to his brother; he had
something of the same features, something, although very little, of
the same free and powerful carriage; but he was older, smaller, and
more common in air; his likeness was that of a caricature, and he
seemed altogether a poor and debile being by the side of the Dictator.

They spoke in tones so low, leaning over the table with every
appearance of interest, that Francis could catch no more than a word
or two on an occasion.  For as little as he heard, he was convinced
that the conversation turned upon himself and his own career; several
times the name of Scrymgeour reached his ear, for it was easy to
distinguish, and still more frequently he fancied he could
distinguish the name Francis.

At length the General, as if in a hot anger, broke forth into several
violent exclamations.

"Francis Vandeleur!" he cried, accentuating the last word.  "Francis
Vandeleur, I tell you."

The Dictator made a movement of his whole body, half affirmative,
half contemptuous, but his answer was inaudible to the young man.

Was he the Francis Vandeleur in question? he wondered.  Were they
discussing the name under which he was to be married?  Or was the
whole affair a dream and a delusion of his own conceit and
self-absorption?

After another interval of inaudible talk, dissension seemed again to
arise between the couple underneath the chestnut, and again the
General raised his voice angrily so as to be audible to Francis.

"My wife?" he cried.  "I have done with my wife for good.  I will not
hear her name.  I am sick of her very name."

And he swore aloud and beat the table with his fist.

The Dictator appeared, by his gestures, to pacify him after a
paternal fashion; and a little after he conducted him to the garden
gate.  The pair shook hands affectionately enough; but as soon as the
door had closed behind his visitor, John Vandeleur fell into a fit of
laughter which sounded unkindly and even devilish in the ears of
Francis Scrymgeour.

So another day had passed, and little more learned.  But the young
man remembered that the morrow was Tuesday, and promised himself some
curious discoveries; all might be well, or all might be ill; he was
sure, at least, to glean some curious information, and, perhaps, by
good luck, get at the heart of the mystery which surrounded his
father and his family.

As the hour of the dinner drew near many preparations were made in
the garden of the house with the green blinds.  That table which was
partly visible to Francis through the chestnut leaves was destined to
serve as a sideboard, and carried relays of plates and the materials
for salad; the other, which was almost entirely concealed, had been
set apart for the diners, and Francis could catch glimpses of white
cloth and silver plate.

Mr. Rolles arrived, punctual to the minute; he looked like a man upon
his guard, and spoke low and sparingly.  The Dictator, on the other
hand, appeared to enjoy an unusual flow of spirits; his laugh, which
was youthful and pleasant to hear, sounded frequently from the
garden; by the modulation and the changes of his voice it was obvious
that he told many droll stories and imitated the accents of a variety
of different nations; and before he and the young clergyman had
finished their vermuth all feeling of distrust was at an end, and
they were talking together like a pair of school companions.

At length Miss Vandeleur made her appearance, carrying the
soup-tureen.  Mr. Rolles ran to offer her assistance which she
laughingly refused; and there was an interchange of pleasantries
among the trio which seemed to have reference to this primitive
manner of waiting by one of the company.

"One is more at one's ease," Mr. Vandeleur was heard to declare.

Next moment they were all three in their places, and Francis could
see as little as he could hear of what passed.  But the dinner seemed
to go merrily; there was a perpetual babble of voices and sound of
knives and forks below the chestnut; and Francis, who had no more
than a roll to gnaw, was affected with envy by the comfort and
deliberation of the meal.  The party lingered over one dish after
another, and then over a delicate dessert, with a bottle of old wine
carefully uncorked by the hand of the Dictator himself.  As it began
to grow dark a lamp was set upon the table and a couple of candles on
the sideboard; for the night was perfectly pure, starry, and
windless.  Light overflowed besides from the door and window in the
veranda, so that the garden was fairly illuminated and the leaves
twinkled in the darkness.

For perhaps the tenth time Miss Vandeleur entered the house; and on
this occasion she returned with the coffee-tray, which she placed
upon the sideboard.  At the same moment her father rose from his seat.

"The coffee is my province," Francis heard him say.

And next moment he saw his supposed father standing by the sideboard
in the light of the candles.

Talking over his shoulder all the while, Mr. Vandeleur poured out two
cups of the brown stimulant, and then, by a rapid act of
prestidigitation, emptied the contents of a tiny phial into the
smaller of the two.  The thing was so swiftly done that even Francis,
who looked straight into his face, had hardly time to perceive the
movement before it was completed.  And next instant, and still
laughing, Mr. Vandeleur had turned again toward the table with a cup
in either hand.

"Ere we have done with this," said he, "we may expect our famous
Hebrew."

It would be impossible to depict the confusion and distress of
Francis Scrymgeour.  He saw foul play going forward before his eyes,
and he felt bound to interfere, but knew not how.  It might be a mere
pleasantry, and then how should he look if he were to offer an
unnecessary warning?  Or again, if it were serious, the criminal
might be his own father, and then how should he not lament if he were
to bring ruin on the author of his days?  For the first time he
became conscious of his own position as a spy.  To wait inactive at
such a juncture and with such a conflict of sentiments in his bosom
was to suffer the most acute torture; he clung to the bars of the
shutters, his heart beat fast and with irregularity, and he felt a
strong sweat break forth upon his body.

Several minutes passed.

He seemed to perceive the conversation die away and grow less and
less in vivacity and volume; but still no sign of any alarming or
even notable event.

Suddenly the ring of a glass breaking was followed by a faint and
dull sound, as of a person who should have fallen forward with his
head upon the table.  At the same moment a piercing scream rose from
the garden.

"What have you done?" cried Miss Vandeleur.  "He is dead!"

The Dictator replied in a violent whisper, so strong and sibilant
that every word was audible to the watcher at the window.

"Silence!" said Mr. Vandeleur; "the man is as well as I am.  Take him
by the heels while I carry him by the shoulders."

Francis heard Miss Vandeleur break forth into a passion of tears.

"Do you hear what I say?" resumed the Dictator, in the same tones.
"Or do you wish to quarrel with me?  I give you your choice, Miss
Vandeleur."

There was another pause, and the Dictator spoke again.

"Take that man by the heels," he said.  "I must have him brought into
the house.  If I were a little younger, I could help myself against
the world.  But now that years and dangers are upon me and my hands
are weakened, I must turn to you for aid."

"It is a crime," replied the girl.

"I am your father," said Mr. Vandeleur.

This appeal seemed to produce its effect.  A scuffling noise followed
upon the gravel, a chair was overset, and then Francis saw the father
and daughter stagger across the walk and disappear under the veranda,
bearing the inanimate body of Mr. Rolles embraced about the knees and
shoulders.  The young clergyman was limp and pallid, and his head
rolled upon his shoulders at every step.

Was he alive or dead?  Francis, in spite of the Dictator's
declaration, inclined to the latter view.  A great crime had been
committed; a great calamity had fallen upon the inhabitants of the
house with the green blinds.  To his surprise, Francis found all
horror for the deed swallowed up in sorrow for a girl and an old man
whom he judged to be in the height of peril.  A tide of generous
feeling swept into his heart; he, too, would help his father against
man and mankind, against fate and justice; and casting open the
shutters he closed his eyes and threw himself with outstretched arms
into the foliage of the chestnut.

Branch after branch slipped from his grasp or broke under his weight;
then he caught a stalwart bough under his armpit, and hung suspended
for a second; and then he let himself drop and fell heavily against
the table.  A cry of alarm from the house warned him that his
entrance had not been effected unobserved.  He recovered himself with
a stagger, and in three bounds crossed the intervening space and
stood before the door in the veranda.

In a small apartment, carpeted with matting and surrounded by glazed
cabinets full of rare and costly curios, Mr. Vandeleur was stooping
over the body of Mr. Rolles.  He raised himself as Francis entered,
and there was an instantaneous passage of hands.  It was the business
of a second; as fast as an eye can wink the thing was done; the young
man had not the time to be sure, but it seemed to him as if the
Dictator had taken something from the curate's breast, looked at it
for the least fraction of time as it lay in his hand, and then
suddenly and swiftly passed it to his daughter.

All this was over while Francis had still one foot upon the
threshold, and the other raised in air.  The next instant he was on
his knees to Mr. Vandeleur.

"Father!" he cried.  "Let me too help you.  I will do what you wish
and ask no questions; I will obey you with my life; treat me as a
son, and you will find I have a son's demotion."

A deplorable explosion of oaths was the Dictator's first reply.

"Son and father?" he cried.  "Father and son?  What d----d unnatural
comedy is all this?  How do you come in my garden?  What do you want?
And who, in God's name, are you?"

Francis, with a stunned and shamefaced aspect, got upon his feet
again, and stood in silence.

Then a light seemed to break upon Mr. Vandeleur, and he laughed aloud.

"I see," cried he.  "It is the Scrymgeour.  Very well, Mr.
Scrymgeour.  Let me tell you in a few words how you stand.  You have
entered my private residence by force, or perhaps by fraud, but
certainly with no encouragement from me; and you come at a moment of
some annoyance, a guest having fainted at my table, to besiege me
with your protestations.  You are no son of mine.  You are my
brother's bastard by a fishwife, if you want to know.  I regard you
with an indifference closely bordering on aversion; and from what I
now see of your conduct, I judge your mind to be exactly suitable to
your exterior.  I recommend you these mortifying reflections for your
leisure; and, in the meantime, let me beseech you to rid us of your
presence.  If I were not occupied," added the Dictator, with a
terrifying oath, "I should give you the unholiest drubbing ere you
went!"

Francis listened in profound humiliation.  He would have fled had it
been possible; but as he had no means of leaving the residence into
which he had so unfortunately penetrated, he could do no more than
stand foolishly where he was.

It was Miss Vandeleur who broke the silence.

"Father," she said, "you speak in anger.  Mr. Scrymgeour may have
been mistaken, but he meant well and kindly."

"Thank you for speaking," returned the Dictator.  "You remind me of
some other observations which I hold it a point of honor to make to
Mr. Scrymgeour.  My brother," he continued, addressing the young man,
"has been foolish enough to give you an allowance; he was foolish
enough and presumptuous enough to propose a match between you and
this young lady.  You were exhibited to her two nights ago; and I
rejoice to tell you that she rejected the idea with disgust.  Let me
add that I have considerable influence with your father; and it shall
not be my fault if you are not beggared of your allowance and sent
back to your scrivening ere the week be out."

The tones of the old man's voice were, if possible, more wounding
than his language; Francis felt himself exposed to the most cruel,
blighting, and unbearable contempt; his head turned, and he covered
his face with his hands, uttering at the same time a tearless sob of
agony.  But Miss Vandeleur once again interfered in his behalf.

"Mr. Scrymgeour," she said, speaking in clear and even tones, "you
must not be concerned at my father's harsh expressions.  I felt no
disgust for you; on the contrary, I asked an opportunity to make your
better acquaintance.  As for what has passed to-night, believe me, it
has filled my mind with both pity and esteem."

Just then Mr. Rolles made a convulsive movement with his arm, which
convinced Francis that he was only drugged, and was beginning to
throw off the influence of the opiate.  Mr. Vandeleur stooped over
him and examined his face for an instant.

"Come, come!" cried he, raising his head.  "Let there be an end of
this.  And since you are so pleased with his conduct, Miss Vandeleur,
take a candle and show the bastard out."

The young lady hastened to obey.

"Thank you," said Francis, as soon as he was alone with her in the
garden.  "I thank you from my soul.  This has been the bitterest
evening of my life, but it will have always one pleasant
recollection."

"I spoke as I felt," she replied, "and in justice to you.  It made my
heart sorry that you should be so unkindly used."

By this time they had reached the garden gate; and Miss Vandeleur,
having set the candle on the ground, was already unfastening the
bolts.

"One word more," said Francis.  "This is not for the last time--I
shall see you again, shall I not?"

"Alas!" she answered.  "You have heard my father.  What can I do but
obey?"

"Tell me at least that it is not with your consent," returned
Francis; "tell me that you have no wish to see the last of me."

"Indeed," replied she, "I have none.  You seem to me both brave and
honest."

"Then," said Francis, "give me a keepsake."

She paused for a moment, with her hand upon the key; for the various
bars and bolts were all undone, and there was nothing left but to
open the lock.

"If I agree," she said, "will you promise to do as I tell you from
point to point?"

"Can you ask?" replied Francis.  "I would do so willingly on your
bare word."

She turned the key and threw open the door.

"Be it so," said she.  "You do not know what you ask, but be it so.
Whatever you hear," she continued, "whatever happens, do not return
to this house; hurry fast until you reach the lighted and populous
quarters of the city; even there be upon your guard.  You are in a
greater danger than you fancy.  Promise me you will not so much as
look at my keepsake until you are in a place of safety."

"I promise," replied Francis.

She put something loosely wrapped in a handkerchief into the young
man's hand; and at the same time, with more strength than he could
have anticipated, she pushed him into the street.

"Now, run!" she cried.

He heard the door close behind him, and the noise of the bolts being
replaced.

"My faith," said he, "since I have promised!"

And he took to his heels down the lane that leads into the Rue
Ravignan.

He was not fifty paces from the house with the green blinds when the
most diabolical outcry suddenly arose out of the stillness of the
night.  Mechanically he stood still; another passenger followed his
example; in the neighboring floors he saw people crowding to the
windows; a conflagration could not have produced more disturbance in
this empty quarter.  And yet it seemed to be all the work of a single
man, roaring between grief and rage, like a lioness robbed of her
whelps; and Francis was surprised and alarmed to hear his own name
shouted with English imprecations to the wind.

His first movement was to return to the house; his second, as he
remembered Miss Vandeleur's advice, to continue his flight with
greater expedition than before; and he was in the act of turning to
put his thought in action, when the Dictator, bare-headed, bawling
aloud, his white hair blowing about his head, shot past him like a
ball out of the cannon's mouth, and went careering down the street.

"That was a close shave," thought Francis to himself.  "What he wants
with me, and why he should be so disturbed, I can not think; but he
is plainly not good company for the moment, and I can not do better
than follow Miss Vandeleur's advice."

So saying, he turned to retrace his steps, thinking to double and
descend by the Rue Lepic itself while his pursuer should continue to
follow after him on the other line of street.  The plan was
ill-devised: as a matter of fact, he should have taken his seat in
the nearest café, and waited there until the first heat of the
pursuit was over.  But besides that Francis had no experience and
little natural aptitude for the small war of private life, he was so
unconscious of any evil on his part, that he saw nothing to fear
beyond a disagreeable interview.  And to disagreeable interviews he
felt he had already served his apprenticeship that evening; nor could
he suppose that Miss Vandeleur had left anything unsaid.  Indeed, the
young man was sore both in body and mind--the one was all bruised,
the other was full of smarting arrows; and he owned to himself that
Mr. Vandeleur was master of a very deadly tongue.

The thought of his bruises reminded him that he had not only come
without a hat, but that his clothes had considerably suffered in his
descent through the chestnut.  At the first magazine he purchased a
cheap wideawake, and had the disorder of his toilet summarily
repaired.  The keepsake, still rolled in the handkerchief, he thrust
in the meanwhile into his trousers pocket.

Not many steps beyond the shop he was conscious of a sudden shock, a
hand upon his throat, an infuriated face close to his own, and an
open mouth bawling curses in his ear.  The Dictator, having found no
trace of his quarry, was returning by the other way.  Francis was a
stalwart young fellow, but he was no match for his adversary whether
in strength or skill; and after a few ineffectual struggles he
resigned himself entirely to his captor.

"What do you want with me?" said he.

"We will talk of that at home," returned the Dictator, grimly.

And he continued to march the young man up hill in the direction of
the house with the green blinds.

But Francis, although he no longer struggled, was only waiting an
opportunity to make a bold push for freedom.  With a sudden jerk he
left the collar of his coat in the hands of Mr. Vandeleur, and once
more made off at his best speed in the direction of the Boulevards.

The tables were now turned.  If the Dictator was the stronger,
Francis, in the top of his youth, was the more fleet of foot, and he
had soon effected his escape among the crowds.  Relieved for a
moment, but with a growing sentiment of alarm and wonder in his mind,
he walked briskly until he debouched upon the Place de l'Opera, lit
up like day with electric lamps.

"This, at least," thought he, "should satisfy Miss Vandeleur."

And turning to his right along the Boulevards, he entered the Café
Americain and ordered some beer.  It was both late and early for the
majority of the frequenters of the establishment.  Only two or three
persons, all men, were dotted here and there at separate tables in
the hall; and Francis was too much occupied by his own thoughts to
observe their presence.

He drew the handkerchief from his pocket.  The object wrapped in it
proved to be a morocco case, clasped and ornamented in gilt, which
opened by means of a spring, and disclosed to the horrified young man
a diamond of monstrous bigness and extraordinary brilliancy.  The
circumstance was so inexplicable, the value of the stone was plainly
so enormous, that Francis sat staring into the open casket without
movement, without conscious thought, like a man stricken suddenly
with idiocy.

A hand was laid upon his shoulder, lightly but firmly, and a quiet
voice, which yet had in it the ring of command, uttered these words
in his ear:

"Close the casket, and compose your face."

Looking up, he beheld a man, still young, of an urbane and tranquil
presence, and dressed with rich simplicity.  This personage had risen
from a neighboring table, and, bringing his glass with him, had taken
a seat beside Francis.

"Close the casket," repeated the stranger, "and put it quietly back
into your pocket, where I feel persuaded it should never have been.
Try, if you please, to throw off your bewildered air, and act as
thought I were one of your acquaintances whom you had met by chance.
So!  Touch glasses with me.  That is better.  I fear, sir, you must
be an amateur."

And the stranger pronounced these last words with a smile of peculiar
meaning, leaned back in his seat, and enjoyed a deep inhalation of
tobacco.

"For God's sake," said Francis, "tell me who you are and what this
means?  Why I should obey your most unusual suggestions I am sure I
know not; but the truth is, I have fallen this evening into so many
perplexing adventures, and all I meet conduct themselves so
strangely, that I think I must either have gone mad or wandered into
another planet Your face inspires me with confidence; you seem wise,
good, and experienced; tell me, for Heaven's sake, why you accost me
in so odd a fashion?"

"All in due time," replied the stranger.  "But I have the first hand,
and you must begin by telling me how the Rajah's Diamond is in your
possession."

"The Rajah's Diamond!" echoed Francis.

"I would not speak so loud, if I were you," returned the other.  "But
most certainly you have the Rajah's Diamond in your pocket.  I have
seen and handled it a score of times in Sir Thomas Vandeleur's
collection."

"Sir Thomas Vandeleur!  The General!  My father!" cried Francis.

"Your father?" repeated the stranger.  "I was not aware the General
had any family."

"I am illegitimate, sir," replied Francis, with a flush.

The other bowed with gravity.  It was a respectful bow, as of a man
silently apologizing to his equal; and Francis felt relieved and
comforted, he scarce knew why.  The society of this person did him
good; he seemed to touch firm ground; a strong feeling of respect
grew up in his bosom, and mechanically he removed his wideawake as
though in the presence of a superior.

"I perceive," said the stranger, "that your adventures have not all
been peaceful.  Your collar is torn, your face is scratched, you have
a cut upon your temple; you will, perhaps, pardon my curiosity when I
ask you to explain how you came by these injuries, and how you happen
to have stolen property to an enormous value in your pocket."

"I must differ from you!" returned Francis, hotly.  "I possess no
stolen property.  And if you refer to the diamond, it was given to me
not an hour ago by Miss Vandeleur in the Rue Lepic."

"By Miss Vandeleur of the Rue Lepic!" repeated the other.  "You
interest me more than you suppose.  Pray continue."

"Heavens!" cried Francis.

His memory had made a sudden bound.  He had seen Mr. Vandeleur take
an article from the breast of his drugged visitor, and that article,
he was now persuaded, was a morocco case.

"You have a light?" inquired the stranger.

"Listen," replied Francis.  "I know not who you are, but I believe
you to be worthy of confidence and helpful; I find myself in strange
waters; I must have counsel and support, and since you invite me I
shall tell you all."

And he briefly recounted his experiences since the day when he was
summoned from the bank by his lawyer.

"Yours is indeed a remarkable history," said the stranger, after the
young man had made an end of his narrative; "and your position is
full of difficulty and peril.  Many would counsel you to seek out
your father, and give the diamond to him; but I have other views.
Waiter!" he cried.

The waiter drew near.

"Will you ask the manager to speak with me a moment?" said he; and
Francis observed once more, both in his tone and manner, the evidence
of a habit of command.

The waiter withdrew, and returned in a moment with the manager, who
bowed with obsequious respect.

"What," said he, "can I do to serve you?"

"Have the goodness," replied the stranger, indicating Francis, "to
tell this gentleman my name."

"You have the honor, sir," said the functionary, addressing young
Scrymgeour, "to occupy the same table with His Highness Prince
Florizel of Bohemia."

Francis rose with precipitation, and made a grateful reverence to the
Prince, who bade him resume his seat.

"I thank you," said Florizel, once more addressing the functionary;
"I am sorry to have deranged you for so small a matter."

And he dismissed him with a movement of his hand.

"And now," added the Prince, turning to Francis, "give me the
diamond."

Without a word the casket was handed over.

"You have done right," said Florizel; "your sentiments have properly
inspired you, and you will live to be grateful for the misfortunes of
to-night.  A man, Mr. Scrymgeour, may fall into a thousand
perplexities, but if his heart be upright and his intelligence
unclouded, he will issue from them all without dishonor.  Let your
mind be at rest; your affairs are in my hand; and with the aid of
Heaven I am strong enough to bring them to a good end.  Follow me, if
you please, to my carriage."

So saying, the Prince arose and, having left a piece of gold for the
waiter, conducted the young man from the café and along the Boulevard
to where an unpretentious brougham and a couple of servants out of
livery awaited his arrival.

"This carriage," said he, "is at your disposal; collect your baggage
as rapidly as you can make it convenient, and my servants will
conduct you to a villa in the neighborhood of Paris where you can
wait in some degree of comfort until I have had time to arrange your
situation.  You will find there a pleasant garden, a library of good
authors, a cook, a cellar, and some good cigars, which I recommend to
your attention.  Jerome," he added, turning to one of the servants,
"you have heard what I say; I leave Mr. Scrymgeour in your charge;
you will, I know, be careful of my friend."

Francis uttered some broken phrases of gratitude.

"It will be time enough to thank me," said the Prince, "when you are
acknowledged by your father and married to Miss Vandeleur."

And with that the Prince turned away and strolled leisurely in the
direction of Montmarte.  He hailed the first passing cab, gave an
address, and a quarter of an hour afterward, having discharged the
driver some distance lower, he was knocking at Mr. Vandeleur's
garden-gate.

It was opened with singular precautions by the Dictator in person.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"You must pardon me this late visit, Mr. Vandeleur," replied the
Prince.

"Your Highness is always welcome," returned Mr. Vandeleur, stepping
back.

The Prince profited by the open space, and without waiting for his
host walked right into the house and opened the door of the salon.
Two people were seated there; one was Miss Vandeleur, who bore the
marks of weeping about her eyes, and was still shaken from time to
time by a sob; in the other the Prince recognized the young man who
had consulted him on literary matters about a month before, in a club
smoking-room.

"Good-evening, Miss Vandeleur," said Florizel; "you look fatigued.
Mr. Rolles, I believe?  I hope you have profited by the study of
Gaboriau, Mr. Rolles."

But the young clergyman's temper was too much embittered for speech;
and he contented himself with bowing stiffly, and continued to gnaw
his lip.

"To what good wind," said Mr. Vandeleur, following his guest, "am I
to attribute the honor of your Highness's presence?"

"I am come on business," returned the Prince; "on business with you;
as soon as that is settled I shall request Mr. Rolles to accompany me
for a walk.  Mr. Rolles," he added, with severity, "let me remind you
that I have not yet sat down."

The clergyman sprang to his feet with an apology; whereupon the
Prince took an armchair beside the table, handed his hat to Mr.
Vandeleur, his cane to Mr. Rolles, and, leaving them standing and
thus menially employed upon his service, spoke as follows:

"I have come here, as I said, upon business; but, had I come looking
for pleasure, I could not have been more displeased with my reception
nor more dissatisfied with my company.  You, sir," addressing Mr.
Rolles, "you have treated your superior in station with discourtesy;
you, Vandeleur, receive me with a smile, but you know right well that
your hands are not yet cleansed from misconduct.  I do not desire to
be interrupted, sir," he added, imperiously; "I am here to speak, and
not to listen; and I have to ask you to hear me with respect, and to
obey punctiliously.  At the earliest possible date your daughter
shall be married at the Embassy to my friend, Francis Scrymgeour,
your brother's acknowledged son.  You will oblige me by offering not
less than ten thousand pounds dowry.  For yourself, I will indicate
to you in writing a mission of some importance in Siam which I
destine to your care.  And now, sir, you will answer me in two words
whether or not you agree to these conditions."

"Your Highness will pardon me," said Mr. Vandeleur, "and permit me,
with all respect, to submit to him two queries?"

"The permission is granted," replied the Prince.

"Your Highness," resumed the Dictator, "has called Mr. Scrymgeour his
friend.  Believe me, had I known he was thus honored, I should have
treated him with proportional respect."

"You interrogate adroitly," said the Prince; "but it will not serve
your turn.  You have my commands; if I had never seen that gentleman
before to-night, it would not render them less absolute."

"Your Highness interprets my meaning with his usual subtlety,"
returned Vandeleur.  "Once more: I have, unfortunately, put the
police upon the track of Mr. Scrymgeour on a charge of theft; am I to
withdraw or to uphold the accusation?"

"You will please yourself," replied Florizel.  "The question is one
between your conscience and the laws of this land.  Give me my hat;
and you, Mr. Rolles, give me my cane and follow me.  Miss Vandeleur,
I wish you good-evening.  I judge," he added to Vandeleur, "that your
silence means unqualified assent."

"If I can do no better," replied the old man, "I shall submit; but I
warn you openly it shall not be without a struggle."

"You are old," said the Prince; "but years are disgraceful to the
wicked.  Your age is more unwise than the youth of others.  Do not
provoke me, or you may find me harder than you dream.  This is the
first time that I have fallen across your path in anger; take care
that it be the last."

With these words, motioning the clergyman to follow, Florizel left
the apartment and directed his steps toward the garden gate; and the
Dictator, following with a candle, gave them light, and once more
undid the elaborate fastenings with which he sought to protect
himself from intrusion.

"Your daughter is no longer present," said the Prince, turning on the
threshold.  "Let me tell you that I understand your threats; and you
have only to lift your hand to bring upon yourself sudden and
irremediable ruin."

The Dictator made no reply; but as the Prince turned his back upon
him in the lamplight he made a gesture full of menace and insane
fury; and the next moment, slipping round a corner, he was running at
full speed for the nearest cab-stand.


[Here, says my Arabian, the thread of events is finally diverted from
"The House with the Green Blinds."  One more adventure, he adds, and
we have done with "The Rajah's Diamond."  That last link in the chain
is known among the inhabitants of Bagdad by the name of "The
Adventure of Prince Florizel and a Detective."]



THE ADVENTURE OF PRINCE FLORIZEL AND A DETECTIVE

Prince Florizel walked with Mr. Rolles to the door of a small hotel
where the latter resided.  They spoke much together, and the
clergyman was more than once affected to tears by the mingled
severity and tenderness of Florizel's reproaches.

"I have made ruin of my life," he said at last.  "Help me; tell me
what I am to do; I have, alas! neither the virtues of a priest nor
the dexterity of a rogue."

"Now that you are humbled," said the Prince, "I command no longer;
the repentant have to do with God and not with princes.  But if you
will let me advise you, go to Australia as a colonist, seek menial
labor in the open air, and try to forget that you have ever been a
clergyman, or that you ever set eyes on that accursed stone."

"Accursed, indeed!" replied Mr. Rolles.  "Where is it now?  What
further hurt is it not working for mankind?"

"It will do no more evil," returned the Prince.  "It is here in my
pocket.  And this," he added, kindly, "will show that I place some
faith in your penitence, young as it is."

"Suffer me to touch your hand," pleaded Mr. Rolles.

"No," replied Prince Florizel, "not yet."

The tone in which he uttered these last words was eloquent in the
ears of the young clergyman; and for some minutes after the Prince
had turned away he stood on the threshold following with his eyes the
retreating figure and invoking the blessing of Heaven upon a man so
excellent in counsel.

For several hours the Prince walked alone in unfrequented streets.
His mind was full of concern; what to do with the diamond, whether to
return it to its owner, whom he judged unworthy of this rare
possession, or to take some sweeping and courageous measure and put
it out of the reach of all mankind at once and forever, was a problem
too grave to be decided in a moment.  The manner in which it had come
into his hands appeared manifestly providential; and as he took out
the jewel and looked at it under the street lamps, its size and
surprising brilliancy inclined him more and more to think of it as of
an unmixed and dangerous evil for the world.

"God help me!" he thought; "if I look at it much oftener I shall
begin to grow covetous myself."

At last, though still uncertain in his mind, he turned his steps
toward the small but elegant mansion on the riverside which had
belonged for centuries to his royal family.  The arms of Bohemia are
deeply graved over the door and upon the tall chimneys; passengers
have a look into a green court set with the most costly flowers, and
a stork, the only one in Paris, perches on the gable all day long and
keeps a crowd before the house.  Grave servants are seen passing to
and fro within; and from time to time the great gate is thrown open
and a carriage rolls below the arch.  For many reasons this residence
was especially dear to the heart of Prince Florizel; he never drew
near to it without enjoying that sentiment of home-coming so rare in
the lives of the great; and on the present evening he beheld its tall
roof and mildly illuminated windows with unfeigned relief and
satisfaction.

As he was approaching the postern-door by which he always entered
when alone, a man stepped forth from the shadow and presented himself
with an obeisance in the Prince's path.

"I have the honor of addressing Prince Florizel of Bohemia?" said he.

"Such is my title," replied the Prince.  "What do you want with me?"

"I am," said the man, "a detective, and I have to present your
Highness with this billet from the Prefect of Police."

The Prince took the letter and glanced it through by the light of the
street lamp.  It was highly apologetic, but requested him to follow
the bearer to the Prefecture without delay.

"In short," said Florizel, "I am arrested."

"Your Highness," replied the officer, "nothing, I am certain, could
be further from the intention of the Prefect.  You will observe that
he has not granted a warrant.  It is mere formality, or call it, if
you prefer, an obligation that your Highness lays on the authorities."

"At the same time," asked the Prince, "if I were to refuse to follow
you?"

"I will not conceal from your Highness that a considerable discretion
has been granted me," replied the detective with a bow.

"Upon my word," cried Florizel, "your effrontery astounds me!
Yourself, as an agent, I must pardon; but your superiors shall dearly
smart for their misconduct.  What, have you any idea, is the cause of
this impolitic and unconstitutional act?  You will observe that I
have as yet neither refused nor consented, and much may depend on
your prompt and ingenuous answer.  Let me remind you, officer, that
this is an affair of some gravity."

"Your Highness," said the detective humbly, "General Vandeleur and
his brother have had the incredible presumption to accuse you of
theft.  The famous diamond, they declare, is in your hands.  A word
from you in denial will most amply satisfy the Prefect; nay, I go
further: if your Highness would so far honor a subaltern as to
declare his ignorance of the matter even to myself, I should ask
permission to retire upon the spot."

Florizel, up to the last moment, had regarded his adventure in the
light of a trifle, only serious upon international considerations.
At the name of Vandeleur the horrible truth broke upon him in a
moment; he was not only arrested, but he was guilty.  This was not
only an annoying incident--it was a peril to his honor.  What was he
to say?  What was he to do?  The Rajah's Diamond was indeed an
accursed stone; and it seemed as if he were to be the last victim to
its influence.

One thing was certain.  He could not give the required assurance to
the detective.  He must gain time.

His hesitation had not lasted a second.

"Be it so," said he, "let us walk together to the Prefecture."

The man once more bowed, and proceeded to follow Florizel at a
respectful distance in the rear.

"Approach," said the Prince.  "I am in a humor to talk, and, if I
mistake not, now I look at you again, this is not the first time that
we have met."

"I count it an honor," replied the officer, "that your Highness
should recollect my face.  It is eight years since I had the pleasure
of an interview."

"To remember faces," returned Florizel, "is as much a part of my
profession as it is of yours.  Indeed, rightly looked upon, a Prince
and a detective serve in the same corps.  We are both combatants
against crime; only mine is the more lucrative and yours the more
dangerous rank, and there is a sense in which both may be made
equally honorable to a good man.  I had rather, strange as you may
think it, be a detective of character and parts than a weak and
ignoble sovereign."

The officer was overwhelmed.

"Your Highness returns good for evil," said he.  "To an act of
presumption he replies by the most amiable condescension."

"How do you know," replied Florizel, "that I am not seeking to
corrupt you?"

"Heaven preserve me from the temptation!" cried the detective.

"I applaud your answer," returned the Prince.  "It is that of a wise
and honest man.  The world is a great place and stocked with wealth
and beauty, and there is no limit to the rewards that may be offered.
Such a one who would refuse a million of money may sell his honor for
an empire or the love of a woman; and I myself, who speak to you,
have seen occasions so tempting, provocations so irresistible to the
strength of human virtue, that I have been glad to tread in your
steps and recommend myself to the grace of God.  It is thus, thanks
to that modest and becoming habit alone," he added, "that you and I
can walk this town together with untarnished hearts."

"I had always heard that you were brave," replied the officer, "but I
was not aware that you were wise and pious.  You speak the truth, and
you speak it with an accent that moves me to the heart.  This world
is indeed a place of trial."

"We are now," said Florizel, "in the middle of the bridge.  Lean your
elbows on the parapet and look over.  As the water rushing below, so
the passions and complications of life carry away the honesty of weak
men.  Let me tell you a story."

"I receive your Highness's commands," replied the man.

And, imitating the Prince, he leaned against the parapet, and
disposed himself to listen.  The city was already sunk in slumber;
had it not been for the infinity of lights and the outline of
buildings on the starry sky, they might have been alone beside some
country river.

"An officer," began Prince Florizel, "a man of courage and conduct,
who had already risen by merit to an eminent rank, and won not only
admiration but respect, visited, in an unfortunate hour for his peace
of mind, the collections of an Indian prince.  Here he beheld a
diamond so extraordinary for size and beauty that from that instant
he had only one desire in life: honor, reputation, friendship, the
love of country, he was ready to sacrifice all for this lump of
sparkling crystal.  For three years he served this semi-barbarian
potentate as Jacob served Laban; he falsified frontiers, he connived
at murders, he unjustly condemned and executed a brother-officer who
had the misfortune to displease the Rajah by some honest freedoms;
lastly, at a time of great danger to his native land, he betrayed a
body of his fellow-soldiers, and suffered them to be defeated and
massacred by thousands.  In the end, he had amassed a magnificent
fortune, and brought home with him the coveted diamond.

"Years passed," continued the Prince, "and at length the diamond is
accidentally lost.  It falls into the hands of a simple and laborious
youth, a student, a minister of God, just entering on a career of
usefulness and even distinction.  Upon him also the spell is cast; he
deserts everything, his holy calling, his studies, and flees with the
gem into a foreign country.  The officer has a brother, an astute,
daring, unscrupulous man, who learns the clergyman's secret.  What
does he do?  Tell his brother, inform the police?  No; upon this man
also the Satanic charm has fallen; he must have the stone for
himself.  At the risk of murder, he drugs the young priest and seizes
the prey.  And now, by an accident which is not important to my
moral, the jewel passes out of his custody into that of another, who,
terrified at what he sees, gives it into the keeping of a man in high
station and above reproach.

"The officer's name is Thomas Vandeleur," continued Florizel.  "The
stone is called the Rajah's Diamond.  And"--suddenly opening his
hand--"you behold it here before your eyes."  The officer started
back with a cry.

"We have spoken of corruption," said the Prince.  "To me this nugget
of bright crystal is as loathsome as though it were crawling with the
worms of death; it is as shocking as though it were compacted out of
innocent blood.  I see it here in my hand, and I know it is shining
with hell-fire.  I have told you but a hundredth part of its story;
what passed in former ages, to what crimes and treacheries it incited
men of yore, the imagination trembles to conceive; for years and
years it has faithfully served the powers of hell; enough, I say, of
blood, enough of disgrace, enough of broken lives and friendships;
all things come to an end, the evil like the good; pestilence as well
as beautiful music; and as for this diamond, God forgive me if I do
wrong, but its empire ends to-night."

The Prince made a sudden movement with his hand, and the jewel,
describing an arc of light, dived with a splash into the flowing
river.

"Amen," said Florizel, with gravity.  "I have slain a cockatrice!"

"God pardon me!" cried the detective.  "What have you done?  I am a
ruined man."

"I think," returned the Prince with a smile, "that many well to do
people in this city might envy you your ruin."

"Alas! your Highness!" said the officer, "and you corrupt me after
all?"

"It seems there was no help for it," replied Florizel.  "And now let
us go forward to the Prefecture."


Not long after, the marriage of Francis Scrymgeour and Miss Vandeleur
was celebrated in great privacy; and the Prince acted on that
occasion as groomsman.  The two Vandeleurs surmised some rumor of
what had happened to the diamond; and their vast diving operations on
the River Seine are the wonder and amusement of the idle.  It is true
that through some miscalculation they have chosen the wrong branch of
the river.  As for the Prince, that sublime person, having now served
his turn, may go, along with the "Arabian Author," topsy-turvy into
space.  But if the reader insists on more specific information, I am
happy to say that a recent revolution hurled him from the throne of
Bohemia, in consequence of his continued absence and edifying neglect
of public business; and that his Highness now keeps a cigar store in
Rupert Street, much frequented by other foreign refugees.  I go there
from time to time to smoke and have a chat, and find him as great a
creature as in the days of his prosperity; he has an Olympian air
behind the counter; and although a sedentary life is beginning to
tell upon his waistcoat, he is probably, take him for all in all, the
handsomest tobacconist in London.




THE MYSTERY OF THE STEEL DISK

BY BROUGHTON BRANDENBURG

_Broughton Brandenburg, a young Ohioan, was educated at Otterbein and
Princeton Universities, became a war correspondent at twenty, serving
in the Spanish-American and Boer wars, and shortly thereafter
attracted attention as a traveler and sociological investigator.  He
studied immigration disguised as an Italian peasant, and sea-faring
life as a common sailor and stevedore.  Then he began to write sea
stories, immigration articles, circus stories, and occasionally
unusually interesting detective stories.  "Lawrence Rand" has been
the central figure in a number of tales notable for business-like
handling of real people._



THE MYSTERY OF THE STEEL DISK

By BROUGHTON BRANDENBURG

The telephone bell in the outer office rang, and opening the switch
at the side of my desk I took up my stand-'phone and answered:

"Hello.  Well?"

"Hello, is this Duncan & Betts?" inquired a man's voice with a slight
foreign accent.

"Yes."

"I want to speak wit' Mister Lawrence Duncan."

"This is Mr. Duncan.  What can I do for you?"

"T'is is Mr. Martin Anderson of 196 Gramercy Park.  Yust now while I
was eating my breakwast in my rooms over my real estate office, I was
called to my telephone by Mr. George Rhodes, who is in t'e Municipal
Bank.  He is a young man who wants to marry my daughter Marie, and he
called me up to tell me t'at when he opened t'e wault a little while
ago he found t'at since he closed it t'e night before a package wit'
more t'an a million dollars in bonds was gone.  He is responsible for
t'e wault and no one else, and he called me up to tell me, and say he
did not take it, to tell Marie t'at, but he wit'drew his request for
her hand.  Now, t'en, Mr. Duncan, I don't care one tam about him, but
my daughter must not be made to come in in t'is case wit' t'e
noos-papers or t'e gossip, so I want you to go over to t'e bank and
see him and help him out in every way, yust so he keep his mout' shut
about Marie, and if t'ey lock him up I want t'at she don't get to see
him or no such foolishness.  I send you my check for five hundred
t'is morning, and I want to know all about what you do, at my house
to-night.  Will you do it?"

"Yes, I will go over at once," I answered.

"T'at is all.  Good-by--"

"Thank you.  Good-by.  I will call this evening."

"Good-by, Mr. Duncan."

My first impression as I hung up the receiver was a thrill at being
thus thrust into the centre of what appeared to be one of the biggest
cases which had transpired in years.  My second was a pleasurable
recognition of the crisp, direct, clear, and ample statement of the
matter which the old real estate man had made.  It had all been done
in two minutes or less.  It is not often that we lawyers encounter
people outside of our own and the newspaper profession who can state
anything so concisely and not lose any value in it.

At this moment, Betts, my partner, and the stenographer came in, so I
hurried over to the Municipal Bank.

Business was just beginning for the day.  I could see at a glance
over the men behind the brass screens that they as a whole did not as
yet know that the bank was a loser by a million.  The cashier's door
was open, and he was just smoothing out his morning mail in the
calmest of manners.  No one looked up as I entered; that showed
normal state of mind among the clerks.

I asked for Mr. George Rhodes, and a tall, broad shouldered,
clean-cut young chap came forward from a desk in the extreme rear of
the place and took my card through the bars.  Even with the slight
view I could get of his face, I perceived he was pale and haggard.
He opened a side door and admitted me to the anteroom of the
directors' chamber.  I told him I had come in his interest, retained
by Mr. Anderson, and stated my client's reason for sending me,
namely, to prevent his daughter's name from being mentioned in the
matter at any or all times, and asked the young man what I could do
for him.

He had been sitting running his thumb-nail precisely along the edge
of my card, and now he looked up and said, in a dull, expressionless
way:

"Really, Mr. Duncan, I have thought the matter over carefully, and
there is nothing to do."

He seemed so numbed and hopeless that I was amused.

"You surprise me, Mr. Rhodes," I said.  "Surely a thing like this can
not in itself shut off any action.  In the first place, give me the
facts.  We will see what can be done."

"The facts are few enough," he answered, simply.  "The bonds were in
a package four inches thick.  They were '90 government fours, clipped
and worth one million two hundred thousand when entered the first of
the month, three weeks ago.  They were marked with a typewritten slip
on the end and lay in the securities compartment of the vault.  Last
night, with the assistant cashier and the receiving teller, as is our
rule here, I checked the cash and books going in.  We together do not
check securities in that compartment except once every month, but I
go over them every night and morning in the way that I was instructed
by the cashier; that is, the packets are piled in alphabetical
classification, and the piling is done so that if a packet were taken
out it would make a hole which I should see at a glance, and by
reference to my list see what it was.  Last night there was nothing
missing, for the pile was perfectly even across the top, and we
closed the vault and set the time-lock.  This morning the time-lock
was still running when I arrived and the safe was absolutely just as
I left it.  When I opened the vault, I went over the securities as
usual, and, observing a slight depression in the rear tier, put my
hand on it.  It gave way enough to show something was missing, and I
checked off the packets and found the '90 governments gone.  I
checked them over three times, and then, when I had got over the
shock, went into the booth outside and telephoned Mr. Anderson just
what I have told you.  Having asked him for his daughter, I felt I
owed that to them and to myself.  The assistant cashier and the
assistant receiving teller were with me when I opened the vault, and
I checked out the books and cash so that they know the safe had not
been touched overnight; now you see it is up to me to account for
those bonds.  Mr. Anderson asked me to wait and see you before I told
the cashier.  The president is not down yet."

I had been watching him covertly as he spoke, and the instant that he
had given me the case I felt the conviction stealing over me that he
had the bonds, or had had them.  The case of a small-salaried trust
company clerk, who put four hundred thousand dollars of his
employer's money into Wall Street in four weeks, rose in my mind.  No
matter, however, whether he had taken them or not, a fifteen or
twenty years' term stared him in the face.  Perhaps he thought that
worth the gain.  I supposed that, of course, he was bonded for one or
two hundred thousand by some one of the fidelity companies, so I did
not trouble to ask him as to that.  I merely remarked, drawing on my
gloves:

"Well, Mr. Rhodes, I would advise you to put back the bonds if you
can do it without detection, or else--slide."

A red flush crept up to his temples.  It was either anger or guilt,
probably both, but he controlled himself and said almost between his
teeth, rising and turning away:

"I wish to bid you good-morning, Mr. Duncan.  You can go back to Mr.
Anderson and tell him Marie will receive a last note from me in an
hour, and now, if you will excuse me, I shall inform the cashier."

Something in his manner and the remembrance of his quixotic haste in
calling up his sweetheart's father caused a pang of remorse to shoot
through me and I put out my hand and stopped him.

"I beg your pardon, Rhodes.  I did not mean to be brutal, but the
facts--"

The tense line of his white lips relaxed into a sickly smile.

"Yes, the facts--I know.  I am not in a position to resent being
reminded of them.  But, I have made up my mind to tell the cashier."

We left the room together, and I walked with him along the outer
corridor to the cashier's door, where the stenographer said he had
gone out, and we found the president would not be down until one
o'clock.

"See here, Rhodes," I said with sudden determination, "I'm going to
do what I can in this matter.  Is there any reason why it will become
known as a matter of course?"

"The first of the month, a week from to-morrow, will be the triple
checking-up time."

"Very well, just you hold off this morning, anyhow.  You will
probably have three-quarters of an hour for lunch; meet me at Haan's
at 12:15."

"All right.  Good-morning."

After I had gone twenty yards from the bank I was sorry that I had
made the engagement.  It was not in the line of my duty to my client,
Mr. Anderson, and I was likely to become unprofitably involved with
young Rhodes.  I saw, even without thought, that there were two
alternatives.  Either he had taken the bonds or they had been removed
overnight from the vault, and I believed he was telling the truth
when he said the vault was all right in the morning, for if it had
not been, he would have eagerly seized on the circumstance; and
furthermore, the fact would have been known by the other officials
and the state of peace which I had found on entering would not have
existed.  There was but one thing to think: Rhodes had taken the
bonds, or was shielding the thief.

I related the case to Betts when I reached the office, and he laughed
incredulously:

"Say, Duncan," he said, "that is a bit too wild a tale for me.
Twelve hundred thousand dollars gone from a time-locked bank vault
overnight without opening it!  Gee!  Why don't you consult that man
Rand, Lawrence Rand, the fellow who has been untying some of those
hard knots out West?  Don't you remember the Johnstone mirror
poisoning case and the Rebstock mines affair?"

"Yes, I do.  Is Rand his name?  Where is he to be found?"

"Jordan went up to his place one night--I think it is in
Fifty-seventh Street, in some apartment house.  Here, look him up in
the telephone book."

I found him entered there.  "Lawrence Rand, Special Agent.  32088
Plaza."  And calling him up made an engagement for an hour later.

I was ushered into the reception-room of his apartment by a
dark-skinned young giant, whom I at first thought a negro, but as I
saw him in the full light and noted his straight hair and heavy
coppery features, I was surprised to find he was a full-blooded
Indian.  He was dressed in clothes that did not seem compatible with
the rank of a servant.

Rand entered with a brisk step, a frank smile on his keen face.  As
he gripped my hand I realized that far more physical power was in his
possession than one would think by his frame, of medium height and
slender almost to thinness.  It was afterward that I found every inch
of him was whipcord and steel.

We sat down in the inner room and I told him the story of Rhodes and
the bonds.  When I had finished he frowned ever so slightly and said,
"Is that all?"

I thought I had been rather explicit.  So I replied with a little
rigor: "That seems to cover the case."

"Do you know whether there is one night-watchman or two?  What is the
make of the safe?  Have there ever been any attempts at robbery of
the bank?  Are all of the members of the bank staff present this
morning?  Has the president been on the right side of the market for
the past year?"

The questions came like shots from a rapid-fire gun.  He did not wait
for me to answer.

"I see you do not know.  We will waste no time.  You are to meet
young Rhodes at lunch.  I want you to invite me, too, for I want to
see him."

We took a Sixth Avenue train to Rector Street, and at 12:15 chose our
seats in a corner compartment in Haan's.  We had been at the table a
moment when Rhodes, still very pale, entered and looked around for
me.  As I introduced him to Rand, I noticed that the latter, after
looking the bank clerk full in the eyes a second, let his gaze play
like lightning over Rhodes's head and features, and before we sat
down he even sought a pretext to step behind Rhodes and look at the
back of his head.

Rhodes was subjected to a severe questioning at once, and some of the
queries seemed to be anything but relevant, and in sum were meant to
make sure that it was impossible for any one but Rhodes to take the
bonds at any time the safe was open.  After the books and cash had
been checked out, Rhodes said, a sliding steel screen was drawn over
the approach to the vault at such times as he was not inside to get
or replace papers or securities ordered out on written slip by some
one of the officers.  He was sure the bonds could not have been given
out by mistake on a slip for other securities because the list
tallied.

"Then either you took the bonds or they were extracted from the safe
after the time-lock was set, and the time-lock being all right up to
the present minute, you are facing toward Sing Sing," summarized
Rand, tilting his cigar and spilling salt into his beer.

Rhodes looked down and swallowed hard at something in his throat, but
could not answer.

"Who made the vault, when and where?" asked Rand.

"Mahler, in 1890, in Cincinnati."

"Hm, is that so--a Mahler vault, eh?  Did I understand you to say the
watchman is an old Irishman named Hanahan, has been at the bank
twenty years and has considerable property?  How do you know about
his property?"

"When I was on accounts he always had fifteen or twenty thousand on
time deposits, and drew some large checks or made heavy deposits when
Mr. Anderson bought or sold property for him--"

"Whom did you say, Mr. Anderson?  The real estate agent who sent Mr.
Duncan to see you?"

"Yes, Mr. Martin Anderson.  He is Hanahan's agent.  They were old
volunteer firemen together in Williamsburg shortly after they came to
this country."

"Indeed!  How do you know that?"

"Well, one evening shortly after I met Marie, I went to call on her
and she said her father was not at home; that he was down at our bank
chatting with Hanahan and having a smoke.  Then she told me about
their having belonged to the same fire company.  After the old man
had taken a dislike to me and threatened to shoot me if I came to the
house again, I used to watch for Hanahan's check, for every time he
drew, I knew he was expecting to see Mr. Anderson and I would go up
to the house.  I never missed it."

Rand smiled as if he enjoyed the humor in the instance.  He thought a
moment and then said:

"Well, now, if you will go back to the bank I will be over presently
accompanied by a man from the Broadway office of Mahler's, and you
will be asked to show us the vault.  Please do not indicate that you
know me."

When Rhodes was gone, Rand turned to me quickly and said: "Mr.
Duncan, kindly go over to Mr. Robert Steele in Hargan's office in
Wall Street and tell him I sent you.  Ask him whether any government
fours of '90 have been in evidence in the market recently.  Meet me
in half an hour at the telephone booth in the Park Row drug store."

I hurried to the office of the great firm of Hargan & Company and
sent in my card to Mr. Steele with "through Mr. Rand" on the corner.
I was ushered in immediately.

"Mr. Steele, I was sent here by Mr. Rand to inquire whether there
have been any '90 government fours on the market in more than the
usual quantity recently?"

At the question he started visibly and whirled abruptly around in his
desk chair to face me.  He stared at me a moment as if weighing his
words forthcoming.

"Well--yes," he said slowly, dropping his eyes in a manner that was
anything but frank.  "Yes, there have been--some."  He paused and
looked up at me again, took off his glasses, and, wiping them
tentatively, put them on and looked me full in the face as if decided
on his course.

"Since Mr. Rand sent you, it must be all right, for we trust Mr. Rand
thoroughly here.  Tell him that a pile of them has been dumped into
the market in the past week, not into the market exactly, but Strauss
brokers had them and loans on them were used to buy Overland Pacific
at an average of 87, and when it reached 161 last Thursday, whoever
was in this pool began to take profits as nearly as we can tell and
closed out the line at an average of 157.  Of course Overland went to
136, but she is--let me see--let me see--" he looked at the tape--"is
206, so whoever held these bonds must have been outside of Strauss's
pool.  It cost us about three million dollars, and if you can tell me
any more about it I will be very grateful."

I told him there was absolutely nothing of which I knew personally.

Suddenly I remembered that I had not learned even the name of the
president of the Municipal Bank, and if Rand had asked Rhodes at
lunch I had let it slip by me.  Inwardly ashamed of my loose methods,
compared with Rand's thorough ones, I hastened to ask of Mr. Steele,
as a by-matter, being sure that he would know.  I was at the door
ready to go out when the matter flashed into my mind.

"By the way, Mr. Steele," I said, "do you happen to know the
president of the Municipal Bank--"

"J. R. Farrington Smith?"  He jerked his head around sharply toward
me as he interrupted me.  "Indeed I do."  Then he emitted a short,
grating laugh, and continued, looking at me sharply all the while:
"How odd I should be thinking of him also at that moment!  Do you
know, Mr. Duncan, that Strauss is or was his broker?  Yet, he was on
the short end of Overland very badly; that I know, to my sorrow."

He dropped his voice to a confidence-inviting tone, and said as he
leaned forward, motioning me to a chair once more:

"Come now, Mr. Duncan, why should we dissemble?  You are evidently
very well informed in this matter.  Did Smith flop and put up those
bonds to go long on Overland?  He made a pretty penny if he did.
Honestly, is that the way he played fast and loose with us?"

I remained standing and put on my hat to further signify that I was
about to go.

"Mr. Steele, to tell the truth, I did not know until a moment ago
that J. R. Farrington Smith is president of the Municipal Bank.  You
have just informed me."

He became very stiff in his manner, and turned to his papers as if
already thinking of them, and said quietly:

"Oh, then we are talking to no purpose.  Good morning, Mr. Duncan."

By a short cut and a brisk walk up Nassau Street I reached the Park
Row drug store on the minute of the half hour.  A man was in the
telephone booth talking, and just outside the half-open door was
Rand, directing the queries that the man was making.  The stranger
was evidently the man from Mahler's.  As I approached Rand motioned
me to silence.

"Well, my books show the number is D186N," the safe man was saying;
"we have no record of complaints or repairs back to '94.  Have you
any before that?--All right, I'll hold the wire.--Hello, yes.  You
have none at all.  Now, what is the pattern of the
time-lock?--Neilson patent, yes.--  Well, who superintended the
Secret Construction Room when this one was made?--The old man
himself, eh?--Where is Neilson now?--How long has he been
dead?--Well, was his brother-in-law working with him in 1890?--Wait a
moment--"

He kept the receiver to his ear and turned to Rand.

"Is there anything else you wish me to ask, Mr. Rand?"

"Inquire if there has ever been any trouble with any D class vaults.
That will be all."

The safe man repeated the question into the 'phone; received the
answer, hung up the receiver, turned around and said:

"None but an attempt to blow one open in the Produce Exchange in
Springfield.  It failed.  He says the man who controlled the secret
measurements on that set of vaults was the patentee of the time-lock
and he is dead.  The measurements are sealed and filed.  The patents
went to his brother-in-law, who worked with him, who sold them
outright to the company for a song."

"What was his name?" asked Rand, with disappointment in his voice and
manner.

"They have no record and do not remember.  He was just a drunken
thick-headed Swede."

When Rand was paying the telephone toll the clerk figured on the rate
to Cincinnati, so I knew they had been talking to the Mahler offices
at the factory.  I told Rand just what had happened in Steele's
office, and he smiled slightly and said:

"Well, well, the lost bonds or others have been used as collateral
for a week past, eh, and Farrington Smith was on the wrong side of
the market?  I do not think Rhodes will 'do any time' if he is
clever.  I have learned that he was a favorite employee of Smith's.
Let us go over to the Municipal."

At the bank, the man from Mahler's spoke a moment to the cashier and
received his permission to show the vault to "two prospective
customers," and a boy was sent to tell Rhodes that the visitors had
been accorded the courtesy.

As we passed the president's inner office door, I saw Smith at his
desk and noticed how pale and careworn he appeared.  I saw that Rand
observed it also.

Rhodes admitted us to the enclosure, and, according to Rand's
previous instructions, gave us no sign of recognition.  Rand and the
man from Mahler's examined the interior of the electrically lighted
vault.  The safe man tapped the floor all around with the stick he
carried, sounding for concealed tunneling, but the inspection was
unfruitful.  The place was in perfect order, and the lock responded
repeatedly to the safe man's skilled touch in a way that showed it
was in excellent condition.  Rand had been standing still, looking
carefully at everything within range of his keen eyes, stroking his
silver-touched hair lightly with one hand in a way I have observed
many times since.

Suddenly he pulled out his watch, looked at the dial of the
time-lock, then at his watch, then at the bank clock, an electrically
regulated affair hung on the wall.  The clock read 2 P.M. to the
second.

"I beg pardon," said Rand to Rhodes.  "What time is it by your watch?"

Rhodes took out his timepiece, and said: "I have two o'clock flat."

I now noticed that the dial of the time-lock stood 1.58:30.

"When did you notice that the clock of the time-lock was slow?"

"It is slow, isn't it?  Why, I had forgot that.  It was last Monday
morning, a week ago.  I remember I was a little late," replied Rhodes.

"Has any one swept in here since?"

Rand asked this with his eyes fixed on a dark corner at the heel of
the right door.

"No, not in the vault."

Rand stooped and put his hand into the corner.  For a moment I
thought he was picking up something, but he straightened up and
brushed his fingers one against the other as if ridding them of dust,
so I knew his hands were empty.

In a moment he signified he was through and we left the place, and at
the corner parted with the man from Mahler's.  We walked on toward my
office.

"What do you make of that?" said Rand suddenly, and I saw that he was
holding something toward me between his thumb and forefinger.  I was
sure he had put neither hand in his pockets since we had left the
bank.

The small, bright object was merely a plain, smooth-worn bit of
steel, thinner than a penny, and not as broad, with a small round
hole in the centre.  Just a tiny disk of steel.

"Did you pick that up in the vault?" I asked.

"Yes, out of that dark corner by the door."

"Why, how is that?  I saw your hands as you rose and they were empty."

"Oh, no, you were mistaken, just as that man from Mahler's was.  I
merely palmed the disk, that is all, so he could not see it.  There
is no reason why he should be on the inside of this case.  He thinks
too much of his own cleverness as it is."

"Well, what is this thing?" I said, slightly irritated at having been
so easily tricked.

"I wish I could answer that question as easily as you ask it,"
replied Rand, and relapsed into silence.

As we entered the building in which I had my office, there emerged
from an elevator car that had just descended a girl, whose appearance
caught my attention.  She was attired in a dark street suit that set
her small, trim figure to advantage, but by contrast emphasized the
pallor of her face.  Her hair was of that abundant flaxen quality so
often seen in Germans and Scandinavians, and her eyes were large and
dark blue.  They were very troubled and it was plain she had been
crying.  There was something bravely piteous in every line of her
face.  She paused a moment as if half expecting some one and hurried
out as we entered the next up-bound car.

When I went into the office, Betts came in with a slip of paper in
his hand.  After I had introduced him to Rand, he said:

"Duncan, for shame not to be in when nice young ladies call on you.
The pretty daughter of your old real estate client, Anderson, was
just here.  She has received a letter from the young fellow who took
those bonds in which he says he wishes her to forget him.  She
refuses to believe he is guilty, and has had a scene with her father,
who must have told her that he has retained you, for she came down
here demanding that you take her to see the young chap, wherever he
is locked up.  Has he been arrested yet?"

"No," I said, "he is over in the bank."

"I think he will be there for some time yet," observed Rand, looking
out the window.

"Well, she will be back in half an hour," said Betts, laying down the
strip of paper on my desk.  "She did not have a card and wrote her
name.  Excuse me, Mr. Rand, I am not through with my correspondence
yet, and it will soon be three o'clock."

As Betts went out Rand rose and looked at the strip with the name
written in a tall, delicate hand, "Miss Marie Neilson Anderson."

In a short time Miss Anderson came into the outer office and I
brought her in and closed the door.  With trembling lips and tears
constantly ready to fall, she repeated what she had already told
Betts and demanded that I arrange an interview with Rhodes at once.

I reassured her to the best of my ability.  Rand sat quiet and said
nothing.  I thought he might at least have repeated to her what he
had just said to Betts, though I could not exactly make out what were
his grounds for the statement.  Instead, just before she was leaving,
much comforted and calmer, he said:

"Excuse me, Miss Anderson, when did you last see Mr. Rhodes?"

"Oh, I have had a letter from him nearly every day, but I have not
talked with him since Sunday night a week ago, when he came to see me
at the house."

"How long have you known him?"

"Nearly two years."

"How did you meet him?"

"Why, he knew papa at the bank, and one day when papa was ill he sent
for George to come up to the house to get some papers about his
accounts and papa introduced us.  When we were first engaged, he did
not seem to dislike George, and often sat talking with him about
matters in the bank and other things."

"By the way, how old are you, Miss Anderson?"

She did not seem to mind the blunt question and replied quickly:

"I am twenty-one."

"Were you born in this country?"

"Yes, I was born in New York."

"Thank you, kindly; that is all," said Rand, and was promptly so deep
in thought that he barely rose and bowed as she left a few minutes
later.  He kept his feet and put on his hat as if he, too, were going.

"I believe you told me that you were to go to Anderson's house
to-night and report, did you not?" he asked.

"Yes, I am sorry that I can not make a better showing both for my
client and for Rhodes."

"I suppose you mean that you hoped a man of my reputation would have
offered better support to you in yours," he observed with a quizzical
smile that nettled me as he walked over to the door.

"I should like to go with you, Mr. Duncan," he continued.  "I will
meet you at the northwest corner of Gramercy Park at eight o'clock.
Will you be so kind as to bring young Rhodes with you?  'Phone him at
the bank, now, and you might come prepared for anything in the way of
a fight for--we will close up the case to-night."

He shut the door and went out.  I was wild to call him back and get
an explanation, but pride restrained me.

That evening Rhodes met me by appointment at the Fifth Avenue Hotel
and we walked over to the corner Rand had named.  We had been
standing there a moment when a carriage drove up, stopped, and Rand
alighted, followed by J. R. Farrington Smith and the brawny Indian.

I could see by the street light that Smith was very white, and the
Indian kept just at his elbow and a little behind him as they
advanced to meet us.  Rand presented me to Smith, who bowed coldly.
If Smith and Rhodes exchanged salutations I did not notice it.  Rand
said to me as we walked along to the house after he had told the
cabman to wait for him:

"Will you kindly ask Mr. Anderson to see Mr. Duncan and some
gentlemen?"

I was angry with him for a number of small things which had occurred
during the day, but more than ever now for bringing Smith into the
case, and at Anderson's house, a proceeding which would be sure to
involve Anderson and his daughter in the exposé that must occur in so
short a time.

A little maid admitted us at a door beside Anderson's real estate
office, and passed back along a narrow hall and up to a
well-furnished apartment immediately over the offices.  The maid
vanished through portières, and I judged by the sounds that she found
Anderson in the third room to the rear.  I could hear him clearing
his throat as he came.

As he stepped through the portières, I saw he was a man of fifty, of
good appearance, short and heavy, with large hands and a massive jaw.
His eyes were very small and nearly hidden by the overfolding
wrinkles about them.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," he said cheerily, looking about in a
pleasant though puzzled way.  I rose and went forward, saying:

"I am Mr. Duncan, Mr. Anderson.  I believe you know Mr. Smith and Mr.
Rhodes.  This is Mr. Lawrence Rand, with whom I have consulted in
this matter."

The Indian, whom I scarcely knew how to consider, whether companion
of Rand's or his servant, had stepped back into the shadow by the
portières, and I do not think Anderson saw him, so I made no
reference to him whatever.  I was very busy thinking just what to say
and how to say it, for Rand's bringing Smith with him showed Smith
was informed in part or wholly, and was so unexpected that I had had
no chance to ask him aside just what the situation was.  He left me
in no uncertainty.  He gracefully superseded me in the initiative by
drawing back a chair at a small table in the centre of the room, in
the full glow of the shaded light, and saying:

"Would you mind sitting here, please, Mr. Anderson?  I shall want you
to write something in a moment and it will be more convenient for
you."

Anderson sat down, as requested, and turned his face toward Rand as
if he knew where the power lay.  I could see the arteries in his neck
throbbing.  I noticed that Rhodes was very pale, and the bank
president was laboring under great excitement.

"Now, to be brief, gentlemen, we are about to adjust this matter of
the disappearance of twelve hundred thousand dollars' worth of bonds
from the vault of the Municipal Bank."

Rand spoke in a soft even voice.  I think I was the only man who
moved a muscle.  I could see that at least Anderson's blood did not
quicken any.  His eyes may have turned toward Rhodes.  I could not
tell.  Rand went on:

"Before I say anything further, I wish to remind the interested
parties that I have brought an officer with me and any violence would
be inadvisable.

"Mr. Anderson, you will kindly turn over to Mr. Smith that packet of
'90 government fours.  Mr. Smith will give you a receipt in full.
You will also give Mr. Smith your order on Strauss & Company for four
hundred thousand dollars, which is approximately what Mr. Smith lost
when caught short on Overland Pacific ten days ago, and also your
order to Mr. George Rhodes for the remainder of your profits when you
went long on Overland Pacific this last week by using the Municipal
Bank as an involuntary partner.  You will also give your consent to
his marriage with your daughter.  Mr. Duncan here will arrange the
matter of fees and that will close the incident.  _If you do not, Mr.
Smith will prosecute you and I will furnish the evidence.  If Mr.
Smith does not perform his share I will, in behalf of Mr. Rhodes,
inform the bank directors of his hand in Overland.  Kindly do as I
have requested, Mr. Anderson._"

The old fellow never changed color one whit, nor did the throbbing of
the arteries in his neck increase.  They diminished, if anything.  A
bitter sneer came on his face, and as he spoke he dropped into very
broken English.

"Vot iss diss nonsense, Meester, vot-afer-your nem-iss?  Vot a ni'ice
liddle scheme bote _Ah don't ma'eke no mohney baycoss Ah aindt got
dey bonts-s--_"

Rand held up a forefinger and the old man stopped.  He was now
breathing hard and was flushed.  Rand drew from his vest pocket and
laid on the table before Anderson the _little steel disk_.

Before Rand could speak, the portières parted, and in the opening
stood Marie Anderson, very white and drawn up to her full height.  In
one hand she extended the packet with the typewritten slip still on
the end.

"Father," she said slowly, in a low, tense voice, "here are the
bonds.  By accident I just found them in a jar on the sideboard."

With surprising quickness Anderson drew out a drawer in the table at
which he sat, snatched up a revolver, leaped to the doorway,
thrusting his daughter aside, but as he turned and fired pointblank
at Rand, who had vaulted the table to reach him, the Indian knocked
up the muzzle of the revolver from behind.  The bullet struck the
ceiling and the next instant Anderson was on the floor, helpless in
the bearlike clasp of the big red man.

The girl had reeled as if about to faint.  Rhodes had sprung to her
assistance, but she recovered herself and seemed to be anxious to get
away from her father, as if from a reptile.  Rhodes led her to the
other side of the room.

"Take the gun away from him and set him on the chair again, Tom,"
said Rand, as if nothing had happened.  He returned to his own seat,
and we too sat down.

In fifteen seconds the smoke floating about the ceiling was the only
sign of the crisis just passed.  Rand began again:

"In order to give you an opportunity to recover your composure before
you begin writing, Mr. Anderson, and to prevent your indulging in any
more foolish lies, I will tell you the evidence against you.  You
helped your brother-in-law, Neilson, make the time-lock on the vault
ordered for the Municipal Bank in 1890.  You inserted in the journal
of the main standard of the clock works a steel disk instead of a
brass one, knowing that the steel against steel would make a friction
that would wear out both in several years' time.  By means of a
second time-lock accurately duplicated, and which, if I am not
mistaken, is ticking away in that black box on the mantel behind you,
you were able to tell very nearly the very hour when you could turn
back the bolts of the Municipal vault without let or hindrance.  When
your brother-in-law died, you sold his patents to the company,
returned to New York, and began to live for the hour when you could
help yourself to whatever you wished.  You stopped drinking and
settled down.  You went into the real estate business because you
could obtain in that manner a permanent hold on Hanahan, the watchman
at the Municipal, whom you already knew, and you drew him into the
habit of seeing you on business regularly at the bank at night.  You
have his perfect confidence.  When you found that about the time you
were ready to make your haul George Rhodes would be the young man in
charge of the vault, you called him to the house on a pretext and
made him acquainted with your daughter and encouraged his visits that
you might get from him in your chats, bit by bit, knowledge of just
what to put your hand on in the short time you were in the vault, and
how to conceal the theft long enough for you to convert the
securities.  This is one of the deepest and cleverest criminal plots
of which I have ever heard.  Your life for all these years has been
devoted to it.  I am not surprised that you succeeded.  Your one
mistake was in giving so flimsy a pretext to Mr. Duncan for calling
him up and retaining him.  That attracted my attention to you.  What
you really wanted was to be able to have constant information from
Mr. Duncan when he should become Rhodes's counsel in the natural
course of events, as to efforts to explain the disappearance of the
bonds in order to defend Rhodes.  In that way you would always know
how close he was on the track of the real thief, Mr. Martin Anderson.
Few men pay attorneys $500 retaining fees to persuade young men who
really love their daughters from dragging them into a scandal which
does not essentially concern the daughters at best.  You were
surprised into this mistake when Rhodes called you up and
crystallized your plan to force your choice of counsel on him too
hastily.

"On Sunday night a week ago you went to the bank, as your duplicate
time-lock showed you the steel disk was worn so thin a jar on the
door would cause the standard to drop and the lock to release.
Hanahan, as he told me an hour ago, went across the street for some
tobacco that Sunday night, leaving you in the bank.  In ninety
seconds you had opened the vault, taken the right packet, opened the
case of the time-lock, replaced the disk with a brass one, closed the
case, and closed the vault, but--_you carelessly dropped this worn
disk on the floor_.

"You used the bonds as collateral to buy stock, not as a speculation,
but as an investment that would conceal the bonds, and by chance
chose Overland Pacific at a low figure and it rose.  You thought best
to take your profits, and only your greed prevented you from
returning the bonds to Rhodes by mail.  As we have seen, you had not
thought long enough or deeply enough what you would do with your
lifetime harvest after you got it in your hands, and suddenly you
found yourself out of your depth.  You hid the bonds in a jar, just
like a foolish old woman.  But I must compliment you on your clear
thinking and previous planning.  I have never known of anything so
deliberate, and only a phlegmatic Scandinavian would be capable of
it, especially to end up with such good nerves as you have shown
to-night.  Mr. Smith does not wish to prosecute you and expose his
speculations.  Since Mr. Smith and Mr. Duncan doubtless have other
engagements to-night, kindly write as I requested a few minutes ago."

Muttering objurgations in his native tongue, Anderson wrote the two
drafts, Rhodes's being for more than one hundred thousand, and both
Rhodes and Smith receipted.  Smith took the bonds and thrust them
into his overcoat pocket.  Miss Anderson refused to remain an hour
longer under her father's roof, and left the house to go to the home
of a distant relative.  I pocketed the odd little steel disk, which
lies before me as I write, with a slip copied from a page of Rand's
notebook that lays out so plainly and simply his quick, sure, and
unerring processes in this remarkable case, that I can not refrain
from giving it.

(1) Anderson's retaining Duncan very strange.

(2) Rhodes's cranium shows moral incapacity for theft.  Innocent.

(3) Neilson's brother-in-law could know lock construction.

(4) Smith lost speculating.  Thief won half million with bonds.

(5) Time-clock lost 90 sec. Sunday night, week before discovery.

(6) Disk of steel instead of brass.  Meant to wear out.  Is discarded
part of lock.  Must be a new disk in lock.  Work of expert.  Prepared
since making of lock.

(7) Marie _Neilson_ Anderson.

(8) Anderson was alone in bank 3 min.  Sunday night of robbery.

Anderson guilty.  Proved and confessed.  Adjusted, no proceedings, by
L. R.




THE CHRONICLES OF ADDINGTON PEACE

BY B. FLETCHER ROBINSON

_Fletcher Robinson is a London journalist, the editor of "Vanity
Fair," and author of a dozen detective stories in which are recorded
the startling adventures of Mr. Addington Peace of Scotland Yard.  He
collaborated with Conan Doyle in "The Hound of the Baskervilles."
When some of these stories appeared in the American magazines, for an
unexplained reason (presumably editorial) the name of the hero was
changed to Inspector Hartley._



THE CHRONICLES OF ADDINGTON PEACE

By B. FLETCHER ROBINSON


THE VANISHED MILLIONAIRE

I, James Phillips, stood with my back to the fire, smoking and
puzzling over it.  It was worth all the headlines the newspapers had
given it; there was no loophole to the mystery.

Both sides of the Atlantic knew Silas J. Ford.  He had established a
business reputation in America that had made him a celebrity in
England from the day he stepped off the liner.  Once in London his
syndicates and companies and consolidations had startled the
slow-moving British mind.  The commercial sky of the United Kingdom
was overshadowed by him and his schemes.  The papers were full of
praise and blame, of puffs and denunciations.  He was a millionaire;
he was on the verge of a smash that would paralyze the markets of the
world.  He was an abstainer, a drunkard, a gambler, a most religious
man.  He was a confirmed bachelor, a woman hater; his engagement was
to be announced shortly.  So was the gossip kept rolling with the
limelight always centred upon the spot where Silas J. Ford happened
to be standing.

And now he had disappeared, vanished, evaporated.

On the night of December 18, a Thursday, he had left London for
Meudon Hall, the fine old Hampshire mansion that he had rented from
Lord Beverley.  The two most trusted men in his office accompanied
him.  Friday morning he had spent with them; but at three o'clock the
pair had returned to London, leaving their chief behind.  From four
to seven he had been shut up with his secretary.  It was a hard time
for every one, a time verging upon panic, and at such times Silas J.
Ford was not an idle man.

At eight o'clock he had dined.  His one recreation was music, and
after the meal he had played the organ in the picture gallery for an
hour.  At a quarter past eleven he retired to his bedroom, dismissing
Jackson, his body servant, for the night.  Three-quarters of an hour
later, however, Harbord, his secretary, had been called to the
private telephone, for Mr. Ford had brought an extension wire from
the neighboring town of Camdon.  It was a London message, and so
urgent that he decided to wake his chief.  There was no answer to his
knock, and on entering the room he found that Mr. Ford was not in
bed.  He was surprised, but in no way suspicious, and started to
search the house.  He was joined by a footman, and, a little later,
by Jackson and the butler.  Astonishment changed to alarm.  Other
servants were roused to aid in the quest.  Finally, a party, provided
with lanterns from the stables, commenced to examine the grounds.

Snow had fallen early in the day, covering the great lawns in front
of the entrance porch with a soft white blanket, about an inch in
thickness.  It was the head groom who struck the trail.  Apparently
Mr. Ford had walked out of the porch, and so over the drive and
across the lawn toward the wall that bounded the public road.  This
road, which led from Meudon village to the town of Camdon, crossed
the front of Meudon Hall at a distance of some quarter of a mile.

There was no doubt as to the identity of the footprints, for Silas
Ford affected a broad, square-toed boot, easily recognizable from its
unusual impression.

They tracked him by their lanterns to the park wall, and there all
trace of him disappeared.  The wall was of rough stone, easily
surmountable by an active man.  The snow that covered the road
outside had been churned into muddy paste by the traffic of the day;
there were no further footprints observable.

The party returned to the house in great bewilderment.  The telephone
to London brought no explanation, and the following morning Mr.
Harbord caught the first train to town to make inquiries.  For
private reasons his friends did not desire publicity for the affair,
and it was not until the late afternoon, when all their
investigations had proved fruitless, that they communicated with
Scotland Yard.  When the papers went to press the whereabouts of the
great Mr. Ford still remained a mystery.

In keen curiosity I set off up the stairs to Inspector Peace's room.
Perhaps the little detective had later news to give me.

I found him standing with his back to the fire puffing at his
cigarette with a plump solemnity.  A bag, neatly shaped, lay on the
rug at his feet.  He nodded a welcome, watching me over his glasses.

"I expected you, Mr. Phillips," he said.  "And how do you explain it?"

"A love affair or temporary insanity," I suggested vaguely.

"Surely we can combine those solutions," he smiled.  "Anything else?"

"No.  I came to ask your opinion."

"My mind is void of theories, Mr. Phillips, and I shall endeavor to
keep it so for the present.  If you wish to amuse yourself by
discussing possibilities, I would suggest your consideration of the
reason why, if he wanted to disappear quietly, he should leave so
obvious a track through the snow of his own lawn.  For myself, as I
am leaving for Camdon via Waterloo Station in ten minutes, I shall
hope for more definite data before night."

"Peace," I asked him eagerly, "may I come with you?"

"If you can be ready in time," he said.

It was past two o'clock when we arrived at the old town of Camdon.  A
carriage met us at the station.  Five minutes more and we were clear
of the narrow streets and climbing the first bare ridge of the downs.
It was a desolate prospect enough--a bare expanse of wind-swept land
that rose and fell with the sweeping regularity of the Pacific swell.
Here and there a clump of ragged firs showed black against the snow.
Under that gentle carpet the crisp turf of the crests and the broad
plow lands of the lower ground alike lay hidden.  I shivered, drawing
my coat more closely about me.

It was half an hour later that we topped a swelling rise and saw the
gray towers of the ancient mansion beneath us.  In the shelter of the
valley by the quiet river, that now lay frozen into silence, the
trees had grown into splendid woodlands, circling the hall on the
further side.  From the broad front the white lawns crept down to the
road on which we were driving.  Dark masses of shrubberies and the
tracery of scattered trees broke their silent curves.  The park wall
that fenced them from the road stood out like an ink line ruled upon
paper.

"It must have been there that he disappeared," I cried, with a
speculative finger.

"So I imagine," said Peace.  "And if he has spent two nights on the
Hampshire downs, he will be looking for a fire to-day.  You have
rather more than your fair share of the rug, Mr. Phillips, if you
will excuse my mentioning it."

A man was standing on the steps of the entrance porch when we drove
up.  As we unrolled ourselves he stepped forward to help us.  He was
a thin, pale-faced fellow, with fair hair and indeterminate eyes.

"My name is Harbord," he said.  "You are Inspector Addington Peace, I
believe."

His hand shook as he stretched it out in a tremulous greeting.
Plainly the secretary was afraid, visibly and anxiously afraid.

"Mr. Ransome, the manager of Mr. Ford's London office, is here," he
continued.  "He is waiting to see you in the library."

We followed him through a great hall into a room lined with books
from floor to ceiling.  A stout, dark man, who was pacing it like a
beast in a cage, stopped at the sight of us.  His face, as he turned
it toward us, looked pinched and gray in the full light.

"Inspector Peace, eh?" he said.  "Well, Inspector, if you want a
reward, name it.  If you want to pull the house down, only say the
word.  But find him for us, or, by heaven, we're done."

"Is it as bad as that?"

"You can keep a secret, I suppose.  Yes--it couldn't well be worse.
It was a tricky time; he hid half his schemes in his own head; he
never trusted even me altogether.  If he were dead I could plan
something, but now--"

He thumped his hand on the table and turned away to the window.

"When you last saw Mr. Ford was he in good health?  Did he stand the
strain?"

"Ford had no nerves.  He was never better in his life."

"In these great transactions he would have his enemies.  If his plans
succeeded there would be many hard hit, perhaps ruined.  Have you any
suspicion of a man who, to save himself, might make away with Mr.
Ford?"

"No," said the manager after a moment's thought.  "No, I can not give
you a single name.  The players are all big men, Inspector.  I don't
say that their consciences would stop them from trying such a trick,
but it wouldn't be worth their while.  They hold off when jail is the
certain punishment."

"Was this financial crisis in his own affairs generally known?"

"Certainly not."

"Who would know of it?"

"There might be a dozen men on both sides of the Atlantic who would
suspect the truth.  But I don't suppose that more than four people
were actually in possession of the facts."

"And who would they be?"

"His two partners in America, myself, and Mr. Harbord there."

Peace turned to the young man with a smile and a polite bow.

"Can you add any names to the list?" he asked.

"No," said Harbord, staring at the detective with a puzzled look, as
if trying to catch the drift of his questions.

"Thank you," said the Inspector; "and now will you show me the place
where this curious disappearance occurred?"

We crossed the drive, where the snow lay torn and trampled by the
carriages, and so to the white, even surface of the lawn.  We soon
struck the trail, a confused path beaten by many footprints.  Peace
stooped for a moment, and then turned to the secretary with an angry
glance.

"Were you with them?" he said.

"Yes."

"Then why, in the name of common sense, didn't you keep them off his
tracks?  You have simply trampled them out of existence, between you."

"We were in a hurry, Inspector," said the secretary meekly.  "We
didn't think about it."

We walked forward, following the broad trail until we came to a
circular patch of trodden snow.  Evidently the searchers had stopped
and stood talking together.  On the further side I saw the footprints
of a man plainly defined.  There were some half-dozen clear
impressions and they ended at the base of the old wall, which was
some six feet in height.

"I am glad to see that you and your friends have left me something,
Mr. Harbord," said the Inspector.

He stepped forward and, kneeling down, examined the nearest footprint.

"Mr. Ford dressed for dinner?" he inquired, glancing up at the
secretary.

"Certainly!  Why do you ask?"

"Merely that he had on heavy shooting boots when he took this evening
stroll.  It will be interesting to discover what clothes he wore."

The Inspector walked up to the wall, moving parallel to the tracks in
the snow.  With singular activity for his plump and unathletic figure
he climbed to the top and seated himself while he stared about him.
Then on his hands and knees he began to crawl forward along the
coping.  It was a quaint spectacle, but the extraordinary care and
vigilance of the little man took the farce out of it.

Presently he stopped and looked down at us with a gentle smile.

"Please stay where you are," he said, and disappeared on the further
side.

Harbord offered me a cigarette, and we waited with due obedience till
the Inspector's bullet-head again broke the horizon as he struggled
back to his position on the coping of the wall.

He seemed in a very pleasant temper when he joined us; but he said
nothing of his discoveries, and I had grown too wise to inquire.
When we reached the entrance hall he asked for Jackson, the valet,
and in a couple of minutes the man appeared.  He was a tall,
hatchet-faced fellow, very neatly dressed in black.  He made a little
bow, and then stood watching us in a most respectful attitude.

"A queer business this, Jackson," said Addington Peace.

"Yes, sir."

"And what is your opinion on it?"

"To be frank, sir, I thought at first that Mr. Ford had run away; but
now I don't know what to make of it."

"And why should he run away?"

"I have no idea, sir; but he seemed to me rather strange in his
manner yesterday."

"Have you been with him long?"

"No, sir.  I was valet to the Honorable John Dorn, Lord Beverley's
second son.  Mr. Ford took me from Mr. Dorn at the time he rented the
Hall."

"I see.  And now will you show me your master's room?  I shall see
you again later, Mr. Harbord," he continued; "in the meanwhile I will
leave my assistant with you."

We sat and smoked in the secretary's room.  He was not much of a
talker, consuming cigarette after cigarette in silence.  The winter
dusk had already fallen when the Inspector joined us, and we retired
to our rooms to prepare for dinner.  I tried a word with Peace upon
the staircase, but he shook his head and walked on.

The meal dragged itself to an end somehow, and we left Ransome with a
second decanter of port before him.  Peace slipped away again, and I
consoled myself with a book in the library until half-past ten, when
I walked off to bed.  A servant was switching off the light in the
hall when I mounted the great staircase.

My room was in the old wing at the further side of the picture
gallery, and I had some difficulty in steering my way through the
dark corridors.  The mystery that hung over the house had shaken my
nerves, and I remember that I started at every creak of a board and
peered into the shadows as I passed along with, Heaven knows, what
ghostly expectations.  I was glad enough to close my door upon them
and see the wood fire blazing cheerfully in the open hearth.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I woke with a start that left me sitting up in bed, with my heart
thumping in my ribs like a piston rod.  I am not generally a light
sleeper, but that night, even while I snored, my nerves were active.
Some one had tapped at my door--that was my impression.

I listened with the uncertain fear that comes to the newly waked.
Then I heard it again--on the wall near my head this time.  A board
creaked.  Some one was groping his way down the dark corridor
without.  Presently he stopped, and a faint line of illumination
sprang out under my door.  It winked, and then grew still.  He had
lighted a candle.

Assurance came with the streak of light.  What was he doing, groping
in the dark, if he had a candle with him?  I crept over to the door,
opened it, and stared cautiously out.

About a dozen feet away a man was standing, a striking figure against
the light he carried.  His back was toward me, but I could see that
his hand was shading the candle from his eyes while he stared into
the shadows that clung about the further end of the corridor.

Presently he began to move forward.

The picture gallery and the body of the house lay behind.  The
corridor in which he stood terminated in a window, set deep into the
stone of the old walls.  The man walked slowly, throwing the light to
right and left.  His attitude was of nervous expectation--that of a
man who looked for something that he feared to see.

At the window he stopped, staring about him and listening.  He
examined the fastenings, and then tried a door on his right.  It was
locked against him.  As he did so I caught his profile against the
light.  It was Harbord, the secretary.  From where I stood he was not
more than forty feet away.  There was no possibility of a mistake.

As he turned to come back I retreated into my room, closing the door.
The fellow was in a state of great agitation, and I could hear him
muttering to himself as he walked.  When he had passed by I peeped
out to see him and his light dwindle, reach the corner by the picture
gallery, and fade into a reflection, a darkness.

I took care to turn the key before I got back into bed.

I woke again at seven, and, hurrying on my clothes, set off to tell
Peace all about it.  I took him to the place, and together we
examined the corridor.  There were only two rooms beyond mine.  The
one on the left was occupied by Ransome; that on the right was a
large store-room, the door of which was locked.  The housekeeper kept
the key, we learned upon inquiry.  Whom had Harbord followed?  The
problem was beyond me.  As for Inspector Peace, he did not indulge in
verbal speculations.

It was in the central hall that we encountered the secretary on his
way to the breakfast-room.  The man looked nervous and depressed; he
nodded to us and was passing on, when Peace stopped him.

"Good-morning, Mr. Harbord," he said.  "Can I have a word with you?"

"Certainly, Inspector.  What is it?"

"I have a favor to ask.  My assistant and myself have our hands full
here.  If necessary, could you help us by running up to London and--"

"For the day?" he interrupted.

"No.  It may be an affair of three or four days."

"Then I must refuse.  I am sorry, but--"

"Don't apologize, Mr. Harbord," said the little man, cheerfully.  "I
shall have to find some one else, that is all."

We walked into the breakfast-room, and a few minutes later Ransome
appeared with a great bundle of letters and telegrams in his hand.
He said not a word to any of us, but dropped into a chair, tearing
open the envelopes and glancing at their contents.  His face grew
darker as he read, and once he thumped his hand upon the table with a
crash that set the china jingling.

"Well, Inspector?" he said at last.

The little detective's head shook out a negative.

"Perhaps you require an incentive," he sneered.  "Is it a matter of a
reward?"

"No, Mr. Ransome; but it is becoming one of my personal reputation."

"Then, by thunder, you are in danger of losing it.  Why don't you and
your friend hustle instead of loitering around as if you were paid by
the job?  I tell you, man, there are thousands, hundreds of thousands
melting, slipping through our fingers, every hour of the day."

He sprang from his seat and started his walk again, up and down, up
and down, as we had first seen him.

"Shall you be returning to London?"

At the question the manager halted in his stride, staring sharply
down into the Inspector's bland countenance.

"No," he said; "I shall stay here, Mr. Addington Peace, until such
time as you have something definite to tell me."

"I have an inquiry to make which I would rather place in the hands of
some one who has personal knowledge of Mr. Ford.  Neither Mr. Harbord
nor yourself desire to leave Meudon.  Is there any one else you can
suggest?"

"There is Jackson, Ford's valet," said the manager, after a moment's
thought.  "He can go if you think him bright enough.  I'll send for
him."

While the footman who answered the bell was gone upon his errand we
waited in an uneasy silence.  There was the shadow of an ugly mystery
upon us all.  Jackson, as he entered, was the only one who seemed at
his ease.  He stood there, a tall figure of all the respectabilities.

"The Inspector here wishes you to go to London, Jackson," said the
manager.  "He will explain the details.  There is a fast train from
Camdon at eleven."

"Certainly, sir.  Do I return to-night?"

"No, Jackson," said Peace.  "It will take a day or two."

The man took a couple of steps toward the door, hesitated, and then
returned to his former place.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he began, addressing Ransome.  "But I would
rather remain at Meudon under present circumstances."

"What on earth do you mean?" thundered the manager.

"Well, sir, I was the last to see Mr. Ford.  There is, as it were, a
suspicion upon me.  I should like to be present while the search
continues, both for his sake--and my own."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," growled Ransome.  "But you either do
what I tell you, Jackson, or you pack your boxes and clear out.  So
be quick and make up your mind."

"I think you are treating me most unfairly, sir.  But I can not be
persuaded out of what I know to be my duty."

"You impertinent rascal!--" began the furious manager.  But Peace was
already on his feet with a chubby hand outstretched.

"Perhaps, after all, I can make other arrangements, Mr. Ransome," he
said.  "It is natural that Jackson should consider his own reputation
in this affair.  That is all, Jackson; you may go now."

It was half an hour afterward, when the end of breakfast had
dispersed the party, that I spoke to Peace about it, offering to go
to London myself and do my best to carry out his instructions.

"I had bad luck in my call for volunteers," he said.

"I should have thought they would have been glad enough to get the
chance of work.  They can find no particular amusement in loafing
about the place all day."

"Doubtless they all had excellent reasons," he said with a smile.
"But, anyway, you can not be spared, Mr. Phillips."

"You flatter me."

"I want you to stay in your bedroom.  Write, read, do what you like,
but keep your door ajar.  If any one passes down the corridor, see
where he goes, only don't let him know that you are watching him if
you can help it.  I will take my turn at half-past one.  I don't mean
to starve you."

I obeyed.  After all, it was, in a manner, promotion that the
Inspector had given me; yet it was a tedious, anxious time.  No one
came my way, barring a sour-looking housemaid.  I tried to argue out
the case, but the deeper I got the more conflicting grew my theories.
I was never more glad to see a friendly face than when the little man
came in upon me.

The short winter's afternoon crept on, the Inspector and I taking
turn and turn about in our sentry duty.  Dinner-time came and went.
I had been off duty from nine, but at ten-thirty I poured out a
whisky and soda and went back to join him.  He was sitting in the
middle of the room smoking a pipe in great apparent satisfaction.

"Bed-time, isn't it?" I grumbled, sniffing at his strong tobacco.

"Oh, no," he said.  "The fact is, we are going to sit up all night."

I threw myself on a couch by the window without reply.  Perhaps I was
not in the best of tempers; certainly I did not feel so.

"You insisted on coming down with me," he suggested.

"I know all about that," I told him.  "I haven't complained, have I?
If you want me to shut myself up for a week I'll do it; but I should
prefer to have some idea of the reason why."

"I don't wish to create mysteries, Mr. Phillips," he said kindly;
"but believe me there is nothing to be gained in vague discussions."

I knew that settled it as far as he was concerned, so I nodded my
head and filled a pipe.  At eleven he walked across the room and
switched off the light.

"If nothing happens you can take your turn in four hours from now,"
he said.  "In the meanwhile get to sleep.  I will keep the first
watch."

I shut my eyes, but there was no rest in me that night.  I lay
listening to the silence of the old house with a dull speculation.
Somewhere far down in the lower floor a great gong-like clock chimed
the hours and quarters.  I heard them every one, from twelve to one,
from one to two.  Peace had stopped smoking.  He sat as silent as a
cat at a mousehole.

It must have been some fifteen minutes after two that I heard the
faint, faint creak of a board in the corridor outside.  I sat up,
every nerve strung to a tense alertness.  And then there came a sound
I knew well, the soft drawing touch of a hand groping in the darkness
as some one felt his way along the paneled walls.  It passed us and
was gone.  Yet Peace never moved.  Could he have fallen asleep?  I
whispered his name.

"Hush!"

The answer came to me like a gentle sigh.

One minute, two minutes more and the room sprang into sight under the
steady glow of an electric hand-lamp.  The Inspector rose from his
seat and slid through the door with me upon his heels.  The light he
carried searched the clustered shadows; but the corridor was empty,
nor was there any place where a man might hide.

"You waited too long," I whispered impatiently.

"The man is no fool, Mr. Phillips.  Do you imagine that he was not
listening and staring like a hunted beast?  A noisy board, a stumble,
or a flash of light, and we should have wasted a tiring day."

"Nevertheless he has got clear away."

"I think not."

As we crept forward I saw that a strip of the oak flooring along the
walls was gray with dust.  If it had been in such a neglected state
in the afternoon I should surely have noticed it.  In some curiosity
I stooped to examine the phenomenon.

"Flour," whispered the little man touching my shoulder.

"Flour?"

"Yes.  I sprinkled it myself.  Look--there is the first result."

He steadied his light as he spoke, pointing with his other hand.  On
the powdery surface was the half footprint of a man.

The flour did not extend more than a couple of feet from the walls,
so that it was only here and there that we caught up the trail.  We
had passed the bedroom on the left--yet the footprints still went on;
we were at the store-room door, yet they still were visible before
us.  There was no other egress from the corridor.  The tall window at
the end was, as I knew, a good twenty feet from the ground.  Had this
man also vanished off the earth like Silas Ford?

Suddenly the inspector stopped, grasping my arm.  The light he held
fell upon two footprints close together.  They were at right angles
to the passage.  Apparently the man had passed into the solid wall!

"Peace, what does this mean?"

You, sir, sitting peaceably at home, with a good light and an easy
conscience, may think I was a timid fool; yet I was afraid--honestly
and openly afraid.  The little detective heard the news of it in my
voice, for he gave me a reassuring pat upon the back.

"Have you never heard of a 'priest's hole'?" he whispered.  "In the
days when Meudon Hall was built, no country house was without its
hiding-place.  Protestants and priests, Royalists and Republicans,
they all used the secret burrow at one time or another."

"How did he get in?"

"That is what we are here to discover, and as I have no wish to
destroy Mr. Ford's old oak panels I think our simplest plan will be
to wait until he comes back again."

The shadows leaped upon us as Peace extinguished the light he
carried.  The great window alone was luminous with the faint
starlight that showed the tracery of its ancient stonework; for the
rest, the darkness hedged us about in impenetrable barriers.  Side by
side, we stood by the wall in which we knew the secret entrance must
exist.

It may have been ten minutes or more when from the
distance--somewhere below our feet, or so it seemed to me--there came
the faint echo of a closing door.  It was only in such cold silence
that we could have heard it.  The time ticked on.  Suddenly, upon the
black of the floor, there shone a thin reflection like the slash of a
sword--a reflection that grew into a broad gush of light as the
sliding panel in the wall, six feet from where we stood, rose to the
full opening.  There followed another pause, during which I could see
Peace draw himself together as if for some unusual exertion.

A shadow darkened the reflection on the floor, and a head came
peering out.  The light but half displayed the face, but I could see
that the teeth were bare and glistening, like those of a man in some
deadly expectation.  The next moment he stepped across the threshold.
With a spring like the rush of a terrier, Addington Peace was upon
him, driving him off his balance with the impact of the blow.  Before
I could reach them, the little detective had him down, though he
still kicked viciously until I lent a hand.  The click of the
handcuffs on his wrist ended the matter.

It was Ford's valet, the man Jackson.

We were not long by ourselves.  I heard a key turned in the lock, and
Ransome burst out of his room into the corridor like an angry bull.
Almost at the same moment there sounded a quick patter of naked feet
from behind us, and Harbord, the secretary, came running up, swinging
a heavy stick in his hand.  They both stopped at the edge of the
patch of light in which we were, staring from us to the gaping hole
in the wall.

"What in thunder are you about?" cried the manager.

"Finding a solution to your problem," said the little detective,
getting to his feet.  "Perhaps, gentlemen, you will be good enough to
follow me."

He stepped through the opening in the wall, and lifted the candle
which the valet had placed on the floor while he was raising the
panel from within.  By its light I could see the first steps of a
flight which led down into darkness.

"We will take Jackson with us," he continued.  "Keep an eye on him,
Mr. Phillips, if you please."

It was a strange procession that we made.  First Peace, with the
candle, then Ransome, with the valet, following, while I and Harbord
brought up the rear.  We descended some thirty steps, formed in the
thickness of the wall, opened a heavy door, and so found ourselves in
a narrow chamber, some twelve feet long by seven broad.  Upon a
mattress at the further end lay a man, gagged and bound.  As the
light fell upon his features, Ransome sprang forward, shouting his
name.

"Silas Ford, by thunder!"

With eager fingers we loosened the gag and cut the ropes that bound
his wrists.  He sat up, turning his long, thin face from one to the
other of us as he stretched the cramp from his limbs.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said he.  "Well, Ransome, how are things?"

"Bad, sir; but it's not too late."

He nodded his head, passing his hands through his hair with a quick,
nervous movement.

"You've caught my clever friend, I see.  Kindly go through his
pockets, will you?  He has something I must ask him to return to me."

We found it in Jackson's pocket-book--a check, antedated a week, for
five thousand pounds, with a covering letter to the manager of the
bank.  Ford took the bit of stamped paper, twisting it to and fro in
his supple fingers.

"It was smart of you, Jackson," he said, addressing the bowed figure
before him: "I give you credit for the idea.  To kidnap a man just as
he was bringing off a big deal--well, you would have earned the
money."

"But how did you get down here?" struck in the manager.

"He told me that he had discovered an old hiding-place--a 'priest's
hole,' he called it--and I walked into the trap as the best man may
do sometimes.  As we got to the bottom of that stairway he slipped a
sack over my head and had me fixed in thirty seconds.  He fed me
himself twice a day, standing by to see I didn't halloo.  When I paid
up he was to have twenty-four hours' start; then he would let you
know where I was.  I held out awhile, but I gave in to-night.  The
delay was getting too dangerous.  Have you a cigarette, Harbord?
Thank you.  And who may you be?"

It was to the detective he spoke.

"My name is Peace, Inspector Addington Peace, from Scotland Yard."

"And I owe my rescue to you?"

The little man bowed.

"You will have no reason to regret it.  And what did they think had
become of me, Inspector?"

"It was the general opinion that you had taken to yourself wings, Mr.
Ford."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

It was as we traveled up to town next day that Peace told me his
story.  I will set it down as briefly as may be.

"I soon came to the conclusion that Ford, whether dead or alive, was
inside the grounds of Meudon Hall.  If he had bolted, for some
reason, by the way, which was perfectly incomprehensible, a man of
his ability would not have left a broad trail across the centre of
his lawn for all to see.  There was, moreover, no trace of him that
our men could ferret out at any station within reasonable distance.
A motor was possible, but there were no marks of its presence next
morning in the mud of the roads.  That fact I learned from a curious
groom who had aided in the search, and who, with a similar idea upon
him, had carefully examined the highway at daybreak.

"When I clambered to the top of the wall I found that the snow upon
the coping had been dislodged.  I traced the marks, as you saw, for
about a dozen yards.  Where they ended I, too, dropped to the ground
outside.  There I made a remarkable discovery.  Upon a little drift
of snow that lay in the shallow ditch beneath were more footprints.
But they were not those of Ford.  They were the marks of long and
narrow boots, which led into the road, where they were lost in the
track of a flock of sheep that had been driven over it the day before.

"I took a careful measurement of those footprints.  They might, of
course, belong to some private investigator; but they gave me an
idea.  Could some man have walked across the lawn in Ford's boots,
changed them to his own on the top of the wall, and so departed?  Was
it the desire of someone to let it be supposed that Ford had run away?

"When I examined Ford's private rooms I was even more fortunate.
From the boot-boy I discovered that the master had three pairs of
shooting boots.  There were three pairs in the stand.  Some one had
made a very serious mistake.  Instead of hiding the pair he had used
on the lawn, he had returned them to their place.  The trick was
becoming evident.  But where was Ford?  In the house or grounds, dead
or alive, but where?

"I was able, through my friend the boot-boy, to examine the boots on
the night of our arrival.  My measurements corresponded with those
that Jackson, the valet, wore.  Was he acting for himself, or was
Harbord, or even Ransome, in the secret?  That, too, it was necessary
to discover before I showed my hand.

"Your story of Harbord's midnight excursion supplied a clue.  The
secretary had evidently followed some man who had disappeared
mysteriously.  Could there be the entrance to a secret chamber in
that corridor?  That would explain the mystification of Harbord as
well as the disappearance of Silas Ford.  If so, Harbord was not
involved.

"If Ford were held a prisoner he must be fed.  His jailer must of
necessity remain in the house.  But the trap I set in the suggested
journey to town was an experiment singularly unsuccessful, for all
the three men I desired to test refused.  However, if I were right
about the secret chamber I could checkmate the blackmailer by keeping
a watch on him from your room, which commanded the line of
communications.  But Jackson was clever enough to leave his
victualing to the night-time.  I scattered the flour to try the
result of that ancient trick.  It was successful.  That is all.  Do
you follow me?"

"Yes," said I; "but how did Jackson come to know the secret hiding
place?"

"He has long been a servant of the house.  You had better ask his old
master."



END OF VOLUME ONE











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