Sherlock Holmes complete collection by sir arthur conan doyle

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

ISA WHITNEY, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D. D., Principal of theTheological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium. Thehabit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when hewas at college; for having read De Quincey's description of his dreamsand sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attemptto produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, thatthe practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years hecontinued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pityto his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face,drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck andruin of a noble man.One night-it was in June, '89-there came a ring to my bell, about thehour [230] when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I satup in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap andmade a little face of disappointment."A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick stepsupon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in somedark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room."You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenlylosing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife'sneck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!" she cried;"I do so want a little help.""Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How youstartled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.""I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was alwaysthe way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse."It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine andwater, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should yourather that I sent James off to bed?""Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about Isa. Hehas not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!"It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband'strouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and schoolcompanion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we couldfind. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we couldbring him back to her?It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had,when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and hehad come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spellhad been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtlessamong the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off theeffects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, inUpper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a youngand timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husbandout from among the ruffians who surrounded him?There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, whyshould she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as suchI had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. Ipromised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within twohours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so inten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me,and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemedto me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was tobe.But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharveswhich line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of stepsleading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den ofwhich I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps,worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread [231] of drunken feet; andby the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch andmade my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brownopium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of anemigrant ship.Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying instrange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back,and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eyeturned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmeredlittle red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poisonwaxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, butsome muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low,monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and thensuddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts andpaying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was asmall brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged woodenstool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists,and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe forme and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth."Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of minehere, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peeringthrough the gloom I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staringout at me."My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?""Nearly eleven.""Of what day?""Of Friday, June 19th.""Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. Whatd'you want to frighten the chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms andbegan to sob in a high treble key."I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this twodays for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!""So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here afew hours, three pipes, four pipes-I forget how many. But I'll go homewith you. I wouldn't frighten Kate-poor little Kate. Give me your hand!Have you a cab?""Yes, I have one waiting.""Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, andlooking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by thebrazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell quite distinctlyupon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the oldman at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, verywrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between hisknees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I tooktwo steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to preventme from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his backso that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkleswere gone, the [232] dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting bythe fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than SherlockHolmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, ashe turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into adoddering, loose-lipped senility."Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?""As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you wouldhave the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I shouldbe exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.""I have a cab outside.""Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for heappears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend youalso to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you havethrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you infive minutes."It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes's requests, for theywere always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet airof mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in thecab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of thosesingular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. Ina few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out tothe cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time adecrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking downthe street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with abent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, hestraightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter."I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have addedopium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesseson which you have favoured me with your medical views.""I was certainly surprised to find you there.""But not more so than I to find you.""I came to find a friend.""And I to find an enemy.""An enemy?""Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and Ihave hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as Ihave done before now. Had I been recognized in that den my life wouldnot have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it before now formy own purposes, and the rascally lascar who runs it has sworn to havevengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, nearthe corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of whathas passed through it upon the moonless nights.""What! You do not mean bodies?""Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for everypoor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murdertrap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered itnever to leave it more. But our trap should be here." He put his twoforefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly-a signal which wasanswered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by therattle of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs."Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through thegloom, [233] throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its sidelanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?""If I can be of use.""Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so.My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.""The Cedars?""Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I conductthe inquiry.""Where is it, then?""Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.""But I am all in the dark.""Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here.All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out forme to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!"He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through theendless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widenedgradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with themurky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dullwilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy,regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belatedparty of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and astar or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds.Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the airof a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learnwhat this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely,and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had drivenseveral miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt ofsuburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and litup his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he isacting for the best."You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes youquite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great thing for meto have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. Iwas wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night whenshe meets me at the door.""You forget that I know nothing about it.""I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get toLee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow, I can get nothing to goupon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get the end of it intomy hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson,and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me." "Proceed, then.""Some years ago-to be definite, in May, 1884-there came to Lee agentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty ofmoney. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and livedgenerally in good style. By degrees he made friends in theneighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, bywhom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interestedin several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning,returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair isnow thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a goodhusband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with allwho know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, asfar as we have been able to ascertain, amount to [234] £88 10s., while hehas £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There isno reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighingupon his mind."Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier thanusual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissionsto perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks.Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this sameMonday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcelof considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for herat the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are wellup in your London, you will know that the office of the company is inFresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where youfound me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, didsome shopping, proceeded to the company's office, got her packet, andfound herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her wayback to the station. Have you followed me so far?""It is very clear.""If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as shedid not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she waswalking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard anejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking downat her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floorwindow. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, whichshe describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically toher, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to herthat he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that althoughhe wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had onneither collar nor necktie."Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down thesteps- for the house was none other than the opium den in which youfound me to-night -and running through the front room she attempted toascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs,however, she met this lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, whothrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushedher out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears,she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Streeta number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat.The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of thecontinued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room inwhich Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. Infact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found save acrippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there.Both he and the lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the frontroom during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that theinspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St.Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal boxwhich lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascadeof children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home."This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed,made the inspector realize that the matter was serious. The rooms werecarefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. Thefront room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon [235] the back of one of the wharves.Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which isdry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feetof water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below.On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the window-sill, andseveral scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of thebedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all theclothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots,his socks, his hat, and his watch-all were there. There were no signs ofviolence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces ofMr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone,for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains uponthe sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, forthe tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy."And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicatedin the matter. The lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents,but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have been at the foot ofthe stair within a very few seconds of her husband's appearance at thewindow, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime.His defense was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he hadno knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that hecould not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman'sclothes."So much for the lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who livesupon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the lasthuman being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is HughBoone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man whogoes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order toavoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas.Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side,there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it isthat this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged, with his tiny stock ofmatches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charitydescends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement besidehim. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought ofmaking his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at theharvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is soremarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock oforange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by itscontraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin,and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrastto the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowdof mendicants, and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a replyto any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. Thisis the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den,and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are inquest.""But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handedagainst a man in the prime of life?""He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in otherrespects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely yourmedical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb isoften compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.""Pray continue your narrative.""Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window,and [236] she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presencecould be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, whohad charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises,but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. Onemistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he wasallowed some few minutes during which he might have communicatedwith his friend the lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he wasseized and searched, without anything being found which couldincriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his rightshirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near thenail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he hadbeen to the window not long before, and that the stains which had beenobserved there came doubtless from the same source. He deniedstrenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that thepresence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as tothe police. As to Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen herhusband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad ordreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, whilethe inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tidemight afford some fresh clue."And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what theyhad feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St.Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you thinkthey found in the pockets?" "I cannot imagine.""No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with penniesand half-pennies-421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder thatit had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a differentmatter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemedlikely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the strippedbody had been sucked away into the river.""But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?""No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose thatthis man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there isno human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? Itwould of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-talegarments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing itout, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He haslittle time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried toforce her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his lascarconfederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not aninstant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he hasaccumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins uponwhich he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat'ssinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the othergarments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had timeto close the window when the police appeared.""It certainly sounds feasible.""Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better.Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but itcould not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him.He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his lifeappeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matterstands at present, and the questions which have to be solved-what NevilleSt. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there,where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance-[237] are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recallany case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simpleand yet which presented such difficulties."While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series ofevents, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town untilthe last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along witha country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, wedrove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmeredin the windows."We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We havetouched on three English counties in our short drive, starting inMiddlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See thatlight among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits awoman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught theclink of our horse's feet.""But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I asked. "Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs.St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may restassured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend andcolleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of herhusband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its owngrounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and springingdown I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led tothe house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blondewoman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline desoie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stoodwith her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door,one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and faceprotruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question."Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two of us,she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that mycompanion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders."No good news?""None.""No bad?""No.""Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you havehad a long day.""This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me inseveral of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me tobring him out and associate him with this investigation.""I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. "Youwill, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in ourarrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenlyupon us.""My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were not Ican very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance,either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy.""Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a well-litdining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, "Ishould very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which Ibeg that you will give a plain answer.""Certainly, madam."[238] "Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor givento fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.""Upon what point?""In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. "Frankly,now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down athim as he leaned back in a basket-chair."Frankly, then, madam, I do not.""You think that he is dead?""I do.""Murdered?""I don't say that. Perhaps.""And on what day did he meet his death?""On Monday.""Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how itis that I have received a letter from him to-day."Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanized."What!" he roared."Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in theair."May I see it?""Certainly."He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon thetable he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chairand was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarseone and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date ofthat very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably aftermidnight."Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not yourhusband's writing, madam.""No, but the enclosure is.""I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go andinquire as to the address.""How can you tell that?""The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself.The rest is of the grayish colour, which shows that blotting-paper hasbeen used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none wouldbe of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there hasthen been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean thathe was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing soimportant as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been anenclosure here!" "Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.""And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?""One of his hands.""One?""His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing,and yet I know it well.""Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is ahuge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait inpatience."NEVILLE.[239] Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no watermark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha!And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by aperson who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it isyour husband's hand, madam?""None. Neville wrote those words.""And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, theclouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.""But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.""Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring,after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.""No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!""Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and onlyposted to-day.""That is possible.""If so, much may have happened between.""Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is wellwith him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know ifevil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself inthe bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly withthe utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that Iwould respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?""I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman maybe more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And inthis letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence tocorroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to writeletters, why should he remain away from you?""I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.""And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?""No.""And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?""Very much so.""Was the window open?""Yes.""Then he might have called to you?""He might.""He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?" "Yes.""A call for help, you thought?""Yes. He waved his hands.""But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at theunexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?""It is possible.""And you thought he was pulled back?""He disappeared so suddenly.""He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?""No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and thelascar was at the foot of the stairs.""Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinaryclothes on?""But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.""Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"[240] "Never.""Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?""Never.""Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about whichI wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and thenretire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow."A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at ourdisposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after mynight of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when hehad an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even fora week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at itfrom every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convincedhimself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that hewas now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat andwaistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered aboutthe room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa andarmchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon whichhe perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a boxof matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw himsitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantlyupon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. Sohe sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculationcaused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into theapartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curledupward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothingremained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night."Awake, Watson?" he asked."Yes.""Game for a morning drive?""Certainly.""Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boysleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He chuckled to himself as hespoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombrethinker of the previous night.As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one wasstirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished whenHolmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse."I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his boots. "Ithink, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of themost absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here toCharing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.""And where is it?" I asked, smiling."In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," hecontinued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there, and Ihave taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, myboy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into thebright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with thehalf-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away wedashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearingin vegetables to the metropolis, [241] but the lines of villas on either sidewere as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream."It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking thehorse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all."In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily fromtheir windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passingdown the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashingup Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves inBow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the twoconstables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse's headwhile the other led us in."Who is on duty?" asked Holmes."Inspector Bradstreet, sir.""Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down thestone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I wish tohave a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.""Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here."It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, anda telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk."What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?""I called about that beggarman, Boone-the one who was charged withbeing concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.""Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.""So I heard. You have him here?""In the cells.""Is he quiet?""Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.""Dirty?""Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is asblack as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been settled, he willhave a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agreewith me that he needed it.""I should like to see him very much.""Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave yourbag.""No, I think that I'll take it.""Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a passage,opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to awhitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side."The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it is!" Hequietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glancedthrough."He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his facetowards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was amiddle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a colouredshirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as theinspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his facecould not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scarran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned upone side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetualsnarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead. "He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.[242] "He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an ideathat he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me." Heopened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment,a very large bath-sponge."He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector."Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door veryquietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.""Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't look acredit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his key into the lock,and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned, and thensettled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the waterjug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across anddown the prisoner's face."Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee,in the county of Kent."Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled offunder the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse browntint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and thetwisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitchbrought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was apale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned,rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Thensuddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow."Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing man. Iknow him from the photograph."The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandonshimself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray, what am I chargedwith?""With making away with Mr. Neville St. - - Oh, come, you can't becharged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it," saidthe inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been twenty-seven years in theforce, but this really takes the cake.""If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has beencommitted, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.""No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes."You would have done better to have trusted your wife.""It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner. "Godhelp me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! Whatan exposure! What can I do?"Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted himkindly on the shoulder."If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said he, "ofcourse you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convincethe police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do notknow that there is any reason that the details should find their way intothe papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes uponanything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities.The case would then never go into court at all.""God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would haveendured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left mymiserable secret as a family blot to my children."You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was aschool-master in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. Itravelled in my youth, took [243] to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished tohave a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteeredto supply them. There was the point from which all my adventuresstarted. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get thefacts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course,learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the greenroom for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted myface, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar andfixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of fleshcoloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, Itook my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a matchseller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when Ireturned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had receivedno less than 26s. 4d."I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, sometime later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for£25. I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a sudden ideacame to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the creditor, asked for aholiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the Cityunder my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt."Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous workat £2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearingmy face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still.It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars wonat last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which Ihad first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pocketswith coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a lowden in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could everymorning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myselfinto a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a lascar, was well paidby me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in hispossession."Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums ofmoney. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn£700 a year- which is less than my average takings-but I had exceptionaladvantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee,which improved by practice and made me quite a recognized character inthe City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me,and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take £2."As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my realoccupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She littleknew what."Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my roomabove the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to myhorror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with hereyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms tocover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the lascar, entreated him toprevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled onthose of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyescould not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me thatthere might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me.I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which Ihad [244] inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then Iseized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had justtransferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. Ihurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The otherclothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush ofconstables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess,to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I wasarrested as his murderer."I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I wasdetermined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence mypreference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terriblyanxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the lascar at a momentwhen no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl,telling her that she had no cause to fear.""That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes."Good God! What a week she must have spent!""The police have watched this lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet, "and Ican quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letterunobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, whoforgot all about it for some days.""That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt ofit. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?""Many times; but what was a fine to me?""It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are to hushthis thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.""I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.""In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may betaken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr.Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared thematter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.""I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows andconsuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to BakerStreet we shall just be in time for breakfast."