st have entered the room, and that third person could only have come in through the window. It seemed to me that a careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply to the inquiry, and it ended by my discovering traces, but very different ones from those which I had expected. There had been a man in the room and he had crossed the lawn coming from the road. I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of his footmarks, one in the roadway itself at the point where he had climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones upon the stained boards near the window where he had entered. He had apparently rushed across the lawn for his toe marks were much deeper than his heels, but it was not the man who surprised me, it was his companion. His companion? Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue paper out of his pocket and carefully unfolded it upon his knee. What do you make of that? he asked. The paper was covered with the tracings of the footmarks of some small animal. It had five well-marked footpads, an indication of long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as a dessert spoon. It's a dog, said I. Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain? I found distinct traces that this creature had done so. A monkey, then? But it is not the print of a monkey. What can it be, then? Neither dog, nor cat, nor monkey, nor any creature that we are familiar with. I have tried to reconstruct it from the measurements. Here are four prints where the beast has been standing motionless. You see that it is no less than 15 inches from four foot to hind. Add to that the length of neck and head, and you get a creature not much less than two feet long. Probably more if there is any tail. But now observe this other measurement. The animal has been moving, and we have the length of its stride. In each case it is only about three inches. You have an indication, you see, of a long body with very short legs attached to it. It has not been considerate enough to leave any of its hair behind, but its general shape must be what I have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is carnivorous. How do you deduce that? Because it ran up the curtain, a canary's cage was hanging in the window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird. Then what was the beast? Ah, if I could give it a name, it might go a long way towards solving the case. On the whole it was probably some creature of the weasel and stote tribe, and yet it is larger than any of these that I have seen. What had it to do with the crime? That is also still obscure, but we have learned a good deal, you perceive. We know that a man stood in the road looking at the quarrel between the barclays, the blinds were up, and the room lighted. We know also that he ran across the lawn, entered the room accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck the kernel, or as is equally possible, that the kernel fell down from sheer fright at the side of him, and cut his head on the corner of the fender. Finally we have the curious fact that the intruder carried away the key with him when he left. Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure than it was before, said I. Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much deeper than was at first conjectured. I thought the matter over, and I came to the conclusion that I must approach the case from another aspect. But really Watson, I'm keeping you up, and I might just as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot tomorrow. Thank you, you've gone rather too far to stop. It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at half past seven, she was on good terms with her husband. She was never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but she was heard by the coachman chatting with the kernel in a friendly fashion. Now it was equally certain that, immediately on her return, she had gone to the room in which she was least likely to see her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman-will, and finally, on his coming into her, had broken into violent recriminations. Therefore something had occurred between 7.30 and 9.00 which had completely altered her feelings towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with her during the whole of that hour and a half. It was absolutely certain, therefore, in spite of her denial that she must know something of the matter. My first conjecture was that possibly there had been some passages between this young lady and the old soldier, which the former had now confessed to the wife. That would account for the angry return, and also for the girl's denial that anything had occurred. Nor would it be entirely incompatible with most of the words overheard, but there was the reference to David, and there was the known affection of the kernel for his wife, to weigh against it to say nothing of the tragic intrusion of this other man, which might of course be entirely disconnected with what had gone before. It was not easy to pick one's steps, but on the whole I was inclined to dismiss the idea that there had been anything between the kernel and Miss Morrison. But more than ever convinced that the young lady held the clue as to what it was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her husband. I took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss M, of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that she held the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a capital charge unless the matter were cleared up. Miss Morrison is a little ethereal slip of a girl with timid eyes and blonde hair, but I found her by no means wanting intrudeness and common sense. She sat thinking for some time after I had spoken, and then turning to me with a brisk air of resolution, she broke into a remarkable statement which I will condense for your benefit. I promise my friend that I would say nothing of the matter, and a promise is a promise, said she. But if I can really help her when so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her own mouth, poor darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am absolved from my promise. I will tell you exactly what happened upon Monday evening. We were returning from the Watt Street mission about a quarter to nine o'clock, on our way we had to pass through Hudson Street which is a very quiet thoroughfare. There was only one lamp in it upon the left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a man coming towards us with his back very bent and something like a box slung over one of his shoulders. He appeared to be deformed, for he carried his head low and walked with his knees bent. We were passing him when he raised his face to look at us in the circle of light for him by the lamp, and as he did so he stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice. My God, it's Nancy! Mrs. Barclay turned as white as death and would have fallen down had the dreadful looking creature not caught hold of her. I was going to call for the police, but she, to my surprise, spoke quite civilly to the fellow.  So I have, said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that he said in it.   Just walk on a little way, dear, said Mrs. Barclay. I want to have a word with this man. There's nothing to be afraid of. She tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and could hardly get her words out for the trembling of her lips. I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few minutes. Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and I saw the crippled wretch standing by the lamp post and shaking his clenched fists in the air as if he were mad with rage. She never said a word until we were at the door here, when she took me by the hand and begged me to tell no one what had happened. It's an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the world, said she. When I promised her I would say nothing, she kissed me, and I've never seen her since. I've told you now the whole truth, and if I withheld it from the police, it is because I did not realize then the danger in which my dear friend stood. I know that it can only be to her advantage that everything should be known. That was her statement, Watson, and to me as you can imagine, it was like a light on a dark night. Everything which had been disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I had a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My next step, obviously, was to find the man who had produced such a remarkable impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still in Aldershot, it should not be a very difficult matter. There are not such a very great number of civilians, and a deformed man was sure to have attracted attention. I spent a day in the search, and by evening this very evening, Watson, I had run him down. The man's name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same street in which the ladies met him. He has only been five days in the place. In the character of a registration agent I had a most interesting gossip with his landlady. The man is by trade a conjurer and performer, going round the canteens after nightfall, and giving a little entertainment at each. He carries some creature about with him in that box, about which the landlady seemed to be inconsiderable trepidation, for she had never seen an animal like it. He uses it in some tricks according to her account, so much the woman was able to tell me, and also that it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and that he spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the last two nights she had heard him groaning and weeping in his bedroom. He was alright as far as money went, but in his deposit he had given her what looked like a bad florin. She showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.  It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted from this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the quarrel between husband and wife through the window, that he rushed in, and that the creature which he carried in his box got loose, that is all very certain, but he is the only person in this world who can tell us exactly what happened in that room. And you intend to ask him? Most certainly, but in the presence of a witness. And I am the witness. If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up well and good, if he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a warrant. But how do you know he'll be there when we return? You may be sure that I took some precautions.  We shall find him in Hudson Street tomorrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal myself if I kept you out of bed any longer. It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the tragedy, and under my companion's guidance we made our way at once to Hudson Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing his emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state of suppressed excitement, while I was myself tingling with that half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably experienced when I associated myself with him in his investigations. This is the street, said he, as we turned into a short thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick houses. Ah, here is Simpson to report. He's in all right, Mr. Holmes, cried a small street-arab running up to us. Good Simpson, said Holmes, patting him on the head. Come along, Watson, this is the house.  In spite of the warm weather, he was crouching over a fire, and the little room was like an oven. The man sat all twisted and huddled in his chair, in a way which gave an indescribable impression of deformity, but the face which he turned towards us, though worn and swarthy, must at some time have been remarkable for its beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of yellow-shot bilious eyes, and without speaking or rising he waved towards two chairs. Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe, said Holmes affably, I've come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay's death. What should I know about that? That's what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, that unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who was an old friend of yours, will in all probability be tried for murder? The man gave a violent start. I don't know who you are, he cried, nor how you come to know what you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you tell me? Why, they're only waiting for her to come to her senses to arrest her. My God, are you in the police yourself? No. What business is it of yours then? It's every man's business to see justice done. You can take my word that she's innocent. Then you are guilty. No, I'm not. Who killed Colonel James Barclay then? It was a just providence that killed him, but mind you this, that if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to do, he would have had no more than his due from my hands. If his own guilty conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough that I might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell the story? Well, I don't know why I shouldn't, for there's no cost for me to be ashamed of it. It was in this way, sir, you see me now with my back like a camel and my ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal Henry Wood was the smartest man in the 117th foot. We were in India then, in Cantonments, at a place we'll call Bertie. Barclay, who died the other day, was sergeant in the same company as myself, and the bell of the regiment, I and the finest girl that ever had the breath of life between her lips, was Nancy DeVoy, the daughter of the colour sergeant. There were two men that loved her, and one that she loved, and you'll smile when you look at this poor thing huddled before the fire and hear me say that it was for my good looks that she loved me. Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her marrying Barclay. I was a harem scarum reckless lad, and he had had an education, and was already marked for the sword belt. But the girl held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her when the mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country. We were shot up in Bertie, the regiment of us, with half a battery of artillery, a company of six, and a lot of civilians and womenfolk. There were ten thousand rebels around us, and they were as keen as a set of terriers round a rat cage. About a second week of it our water gave out, and it was a question whether we could communicate with General Neal's column, which was moving up country. It was our only chance for we could not hope to fight our way out with all the women and children, so I volunteered to go out and to warn General Neal of our danger. My offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Barclay, who was supposed to know the ground better than any other man, and who drew up a route by which I might get through the rebel lines. At ten o'clock the same night I started off upon my journey. There were a thousand lives to save, but it was of only one that I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that night. My way ran down a dried up water course, which we hoped would screen me from the enemy sentries, but as I crept round the corner of it I walked right into six of them, who were crouching down in the dark waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with a blow and bound hand and foot, but the real blow was to my heart and not to my head, for as I came to and listened to as much as I could understand of their talk I heard enough to tell me that my comrade, the very man who had arranged the way that I was to take, had betrayed me by means of a native servant into the hands of the enemy. Well there's no need for me to dwell on that part of it. You know now what James Barclay was capable of. Bertie was relieved by Neil next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their retreat, and it was many a long year before ever I saw a white face again. I was tortured and tried to get away, and was captured and tortured again. You can see for yourselves the state in which I was left. Some of them that fled into Nepal took me with them, and then afterwards I was up past Darjeelen. The hillfolk up there murdered the rebels who had me, and I became their slave for a time until I escaped, but instead of going south I had to go north until I found myself among the Afghans. There I wondered about for many a year, and at last came back to the Punjab, where I lived mostly among the natives and picked up a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What use was it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to make myself known to my old comrades? Even my wish for revenge would not make me do that. I'd rather that Nancy and my old pals should think of Harry Wood as haven't died with a straight back than see him living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee. They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never should. I heard that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was raised in rapidly in the regiment, but even that did not make me speak. But when one gets old one has a longing for home. For years I've been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of England. At last I determined to see them before I died. I saved enough to bring me across, and then I came here where the soldiers are, for I know their ways and how to amuse them, and so earned enough to keep me. Your narrative is most interesting, said Sherlock Holmes. I've already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay and your mutual recognition. You then, as I understand, followed her home and saw through the window an altercation between her husband and her, in which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth. Your own feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and broke in upon them. I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I had never seen a man look before, and over he went with his head on the fender. But he was dead before he fell. I read death on his face as plain as I can read that text over the fire. The bear sight of me was like a bullet through his guilty heart. And then? Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her hand, intending to unlock it and get help. But as I was doing it, it seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the thing might look black against me, and anyway my secret would be out if I were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket and dropped my stick while I was chasing Teddy who had run up the curtain. When I'd got him into his box from which he had slipped, I was off as fast as I could run. Who's Teddy? asked Holmes. The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in the corner. In an instant out there slipped a beautiful reddish-brown creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stote, a long thin nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I saw in an animal's head. It's a mongoose, I cried. Well, some call them that, and some call them inchnimon, said the man. Snake catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing quick on cobras. I've won here without the fangs, and Teddy catches it every night to please the folk in the canteen. Any other point, sir? Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should prove to be in serious trouble. In that case, of course, I'd come forward. But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against a dead man, foully as he has acted. You have at least the satisfaction of knowing that for 30 years of his life, his conscience bitterly reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah, there goes Major Murphy on the other side of the street. Goodbye, Wood. I want to learn if anything has happened since yesterday. We were in time to overtake the Major before he reached the corner. Ah, Holmes, he said. I suppose you have heard that all this fuss has come to nothing. What, then? The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed conclusively that death was due to apoplexy. You see, it was quite a simple case after all. Oh, remarkably superficial, said Holmes, smiling. Come, Watson, I don't think we shall be wanted in Aldershot anymore. There's one thing, said I, as we walk down to the station. If the husband's name was James, and the other was Henry, what was this talk about David? That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole story had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of depicting. It was evidently a term of reproach. Of reproach? Yes. David, straight a little occasionally, you know, and on one occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathshezba. My biblical knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you'll find the story in the first or second of Samuel. End of Adventure 7, The Crooked Man. Chapter 8 of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Adventure 8, The Resident Patient. Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of memoirs in which I have endeavored to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out examples which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes has performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have often been so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying them before the public. On the other hand, it has frequently happened that he has been concerned in some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself taken in determining their causes has been less pronounced than I, as his biographer could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled under the heading of A Study in Scarlet, and that other later one connected with The Loss of the Glorious Scott, may serve as examples of this Silla and Taribdis which are forever threatening the historian. It may be that in the business of which I am now about to write, the part which my friend played is not sufficiently accentuated, and yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this series. It had been a close rainy day in October. Our blinds were half-drawn and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and rereading a letter which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer of ninety was no hardship. But the paper was uninteresting, Parliament had risen, everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of South Sea. A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of people with his filaments stretching out and running through them responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind from the evil doer of the town to track down his brother of the country. Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation, I tossed aside the barren paper and leaning back in my chair I fell into a brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts. You're right Watson, said he, it does seem a very preposterous way of settling dispute. Most preposterous, I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and stared at him in blank amazement. What is this Holmes? I cried. This is beyond anything which I could have imagined. He laughed heartily at my perplexity. You remember, said he, that some little time ago when I read you the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thought of his companion, you were inclined to treat the matter as a mere tour de force of the author, on my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing you expressed incredulity. Oh no. Perhaps not with your tongue my dear Watson, but certainly with your eyebrows, so when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it off and eventually of breaking into it as a proof that I had been in rapport with you. But I was still far from satisfied. In the example which you read to me, said I, the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap of stones looked up at the stars and so on, but I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues have I given you? You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful servants. Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my features?  Perhaps you cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced? No, I cannot.  Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher, which stands upon the top of your books. You then glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious, you were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture over there. You followed me wonderfully, I exclaimed. So far I could hardly have gone astray, but now your thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I remember you expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled and your hands clinched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle.    At this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous, and was glad to find that all my deductions had been correct. Absolutely, said I, and now that you've explained it I confess that I am as amazed as before. It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity the other day, but the evening has brought a breeze with it. What do you say to a ramble through London? I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about together watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the Strand. His characteristic talk with its keen observance of detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and enthralled. It was ten o'clock before we reached Baker Street again. A bram was waiting at our door. Hum! a doctor's general practitioner I perceive, said Holmes, not being long in practice but has had a good deal to do. Come to consult us, I fancy. Lucky we come back. I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes' methods to be able to follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the lamplight inside the bram has given him the data for his swift deduction. The light in our window above showed that this late visitor was indeed intended for us, with some curiosity as to what could have sent a brother-medico to us at such an hour. I followed Holmes into our sanctum. A pale taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than three or four and thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a life which had sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and somber, a black frock coat, dark trousers, and a touch of colour about his necktie. Good evening, doctor, said Holmes cheerily. I'm glad to see that you have only been waiting a very few minutes. You spoke to my coachman then? No, it was the candle on the side table that told me. Pray, resume your seat and let me know how I can serve you. My name is Dr. Percy Trevelyan, said our visitor, and I live at 403 Brookstreet. Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions? I asked. His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was known to me. I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead, said he. My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man. A retired army surgeon. My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to make it an absolute specialty, but of course a man must take what he can get at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact is that a very singular train of events has occurred recently at my house in Brookstreet, and tonight they came to such a head that I felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another hour before asking for your advice and assistance. Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. You're very welcome to both, said he.  One or two of them are so trivial, said Dr. Trevelyan, that really I am almost ashamed to mention them, but the matter is so inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what is essential and what is not. I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own college career. I am a London university man, you know, and I am sure that you will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say that my student career was considered by my professors to be a very promising one. After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to research, occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my research into the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton Prize and Medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to which your friend has just alluded. I should not get too far if I were to say that there was a general impression at that time that a distinguished career lay before me. But the one great stumbling block lay in my want of capital, as you will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square Quarter, all of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some years and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was quite beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might in ten years' time save enough to enable me to put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new prospect to me. This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one morning and plunged into business in an instant. You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a career and won a great prize lately, said he. I bowed. Answer me frankly, he continued, for you will find it to your interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a successful man. Have you the tact? I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question. I trust that I have my share, I said. Any bad habits, not drawn towards drink, eh? Really, sir, I cried. Quite right, that's all right, but I was bound to ask, with all these qualities, why are you not in practice? I shrugged my shoulders. Come, come, said he in his bustling way. It's the old story, more in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say if I were to start you in Brook Street? I stared at him in astonishment. Oh, it's for my sake, not yours, he cried. I'll be perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you, it will suit me very well. I have a few thousands to invest, you see, and I think I'll sink them in you. But why, I gasped. Well, it's just like any other speculation and safer than most. What am I to do, then? I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out your chair in the consulting room. I'll let you have pocket money and everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what you earn, and you keep the other quarter for yourself. This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man Blessington approached me. I won't weary you with the account of how he bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house next lady-day, and starting in practice on very much the same conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears, and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned the two best rooms of the first floor into a sitting room and bedroom for himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning company, and very seldom going out. His life was irregular, but in one respect he was regularity itself. Every evening at the same hour he walked into the consulting room, examined the books, put down five and three pence for every guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest off to the strongbox in his own room. I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the front, and during the last few years I have made him a rich man. So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred to bring me here tonight. Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me and, as it seemed to me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary which he said had been committed in the West End, and he appeared, I remembered, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring that a day should not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state of restlessness, peering continually out of the windows and ceasing to take the short walk which had usually been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject. Gradually as time passed his fears appeared to die away and he had renewed his former habits when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies. What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which I now read to you, neither address nor date is attached to it. A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England it runs, would be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr. Percy Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He proposes to call at about quarter past six tomorrow evening if Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home. This letter interested me deeply because the chief difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may believe then that I was in my consulting room when at the appointed hour the page showed in the patient. He was an elderly man, thin, demure and commonplace, by no means the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark fierce face and the limbs and chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would hardly have expected from his appearance. You will excuse my coming in, doctor, he said to me, speaking English with a slight lisp. This is my father, and his health is a matter of the most overwhelming importance to me. I was touched by this filial anxiety. You would perhaps care to remain during the consultation, said I. Not for the world, he cried with a gesture of horror. It is more painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one of these dreadful seizures, I am convinced that I should never survive it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your permission I will remain in the waiting room while you go into my father's case. To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his limited acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on my turning towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt-up right in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady. My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions, which harmonized with my former experiences. I had obtained good results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrate of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was some little delay in finding it, five minutes, let us say, and then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room empty, and the patient gone. Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting room. The sun had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page, who admits patience, is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits downstairs and runs up to show patience out when I ring the consulting room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as little communication with him as possible. Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian and his son, so you can imagine my amazement, when at the very same hour this evening, they both came marching into my consulting room, just as they had done before. I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt departure yesterday, doctor, said my patient. I confess that I was very much surprised at it, said I. Well, the fact is, he remarked, that when I recover from these attacks, my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent. And I, said the son, seeing my father past the door of the waiting room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realise the true state of affairs. Well, said I, laughing, there is no harm done except that you puzzled me terribly, so if you, sir, would kindly step into the waiting room, I shall be happy to continue our consultation, which has brought to so abrupt an ending. For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's symptoms with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the arm of his son. I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards, and passed upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst into my consulting room like a man who was mad with panic. Who has been in my room, he cried. No one, said I. It's a lie, he yelled. Come up and look. I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him, he pointed to several footprints upon the light carpet. Do you mean to say those are mine, he cried. They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon, as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must have been the case, then, that the man in the waiting room had, for some unknown reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the room of my resident patient. Nothing had been touched or taken, but there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an undoubted fact. Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should have thought possible, though, of course, it was enough to disturb anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an arm chair, and I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion that I should come round to you, and, of course, I at once saw the propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one, though he appears to completely overrate its importance. If you would only come back with me in my braum, you would at least be able to soothe him, though I could hardly hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable occurrence. Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had dripped more heavily over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in The Doctor's Tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my hat, picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped at the door of the physician's residence in Brookstreet, one of those somber, flat-faced houses which one associates with a West End practice. A small page admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stare. But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy, quivering voice. I have a pistol, it cried.  This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington, cried Dr. Trevelyan. Oh, then it is you, Doctor, said the voice, with a great heave of relief. But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to be? We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness. Yes, yes, it's all right, said the voice at last. You can come up, and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you. He relit the stare gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a singular looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice, testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hand. He was of a sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion. In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we advanced. Good evening, Mr. Holmes, said he. I am sure I am very much obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms. Quite so, said Holmes, who are these two men, Mr. Blessington, and why do they wish to molest you? Well, well, said the resident patient in a nervous fashion, of course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer that, Mr. Holmes. Do you mean that you don't know? Come in here, if you please, just have the kindness to step in here. They led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably furnished. You see that, he said pointing to a big black box at the end of his bed. I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes. Never made but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I don't believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves into my rooms. Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his head. I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me, said he. But I have told you everything. Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. Good night, Dr. Trevelyan, said he. And no advice for me, cried Mr. Blessington in a breaking voice. My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth. A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had crossed Oxford Street and were halfway down Harley Street before I could get a word from my companion. Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson, he said at last. It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it. I can make little of it, I confessed. Well, it is quite evident that there are two men, more perhaps, but at least two, who are determined for some reason to get at this fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's room, while his confederate by an ingenious device, kept the doctor from interfering. And the catalepsy? A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate, I have done it myself. And then? By the purest chance, Blessington was out on each occasion. Their reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was obviously to ensure that there should be no other patient in the waiting room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided with Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show that they were not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they had been merely after plunder, they would at least have made some attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it is his own skin that he is frightened for. It is inconceivable that this fellow could have made two such vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of it. I hold it therefore to be certain that he does know who these men are, and that for reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just possible that tomorrow may find him in a more communicative mood. Is there not one alternative, I suggested? Grotesquely and probably, no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyans, who has for his own purposes been in Blessington's rooms? I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this brilliant departure of mine. My dear fellow, he said, it was one of the first solutions which occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale. This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet, which made it quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the room, when I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the doctor's, he will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if we do not hear something further from Brookstreet in the morning. Sherlock Holmes' prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic fashion. At half past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown. There is a braum waiting for us Watson, said he. What's the matter then? The Brookstreet business. Any fresh news? Tragic but ambiguous, said he, pulling up the blind. Look at this, a sheet from a notebook, with, for God's sake, come at once, P.T., scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend the doctor was hard put to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an urgent call. In a quarter of an hour or so, we were back at the physician's house. He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.  What then? Blessington has committed suicide. Holmes whistled. Yes, he hanged himself during the night. We had entered, and the doctor had proceeded us into what was evidently his waiting-room. I really hardly know what I'm doing, he cried. The police are already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully. When did you find out? He has a cup of tea taken to him early every morning. When the maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of the very box that he showed us yesterday. Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought. With your permission, said he at last, I should like to go upstairs and look into the matter. We both ascended, followed by the doctor. It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door. I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook, it was exaggerated and intensified, until he was scarce human in his appearance. The neck was drawn out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his long nightdress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking police inspector who was taking notes in a pocketbook. Ah, Mr. Holmes, said he heartily as my friend entered. I'm delighted to see you. Good morning, Lanner, answered Holmes. You won't think me an intruder, I'm sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to this affair? Yes, I heard something of them. Have you formed any opinion? As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by fright. This bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his impression, deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know, that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair. I should say that he's been dead about three hours, judging by the rigidity of the muscles, said I. Notice anything peculiar about the room, asked Holmes. Found a screw driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four cigar ends that I picked out of the fireplace. Hmm, said Holmes. Have you got his cigar holder? No, I've seen none. His cigar case, then? Yes, it was in his pocket. Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained. Oh, this is an Avena. And these others are cigars of the peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies.  He picked up the four ends and examined them with his pocket lens. Two of these have been smoked from a holder, and two without, said he. Two have been cut by a not-very-sharp knife, and two have had the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide, Mr. Lainer. It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder. Impossible, cried the inspector. And why? Why should anyone murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging him? That is what we have to find out. How could they get in? Through the front door. It was barred in the morning. Then it was barred after them. How do you know? I saw traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give you some further information about it. He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his methodical way. Then he took out the key which was on the inside and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs, the mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined. Until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and laid it reverently under a sheet. How about this rope, he asked? It is cut off this, said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from under the bed. He was morbidly nervous of fire and always kept this beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs were burning. That must have saved them trouble, said Holmes thoughtfully. Yes, the actual facts are very plain. I shall be surprised if, by the afternoon, I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take this photograph of Blessington which I see upon the mantelpiece, as it may help me in my inquiries. But you've told us nothing, cried the doctor. Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events, said Holmes. There were three of them in it, the young man, the old man, and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two I need hardly remark are the same whom masqueraded as the Russian Count and his son, so we can give a very full description of them. They were admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the page who, as I understand, has only recently come into your service, Dr. The young imp cannot be found, said Dr. Trevelyan. The maid and the cook have just been searching for him. Holmes shrugged his shoulders. He has played a not unimportant part in this drama, said he. The three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the rear. My dear Holmes, I ejaculated. Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last night. They ascended then to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they forced round the key, even without the lens you will perceive by the scratches on this ward, where the pressure was applied. On entering the room, their first proceeding must have been to gag Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls were thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to utter one, was unheard. Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicked chair. It was he who used the cigar holder. The younger man sat over yonder. He knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely certain. Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him, the matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows. That screwdriver and those screws were, as I can see, for fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however, they naturally saved themselves the trouble, having finished their work they made off, and the door was barred behind them by their confederate. We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and minute that even when he had pointed them out to us, we could scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on the instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast. I'll be back by three, said he, when we had finished our meal. Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour, and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which the case may still present. Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him. Any news, inspector? We've got the boy, sir. Excellent, and I have got the men. You've got them, we cried all three. Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat. The Worthingdon bank gang cried the inspector. Precisely, said Holmes. Then Blessington must have been Sutton. Exactly, said Holmes. Why, that makes it as clear as crystal, said the inspector. But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment. You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business, said Holmes. Five men were in it, these four, and a fifth called Cartwright. Tobin the caretaker was murdered, and the thieves got away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive. This Blessington, or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned in former. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged, and the other three got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor, and to avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed. A third time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can explain, Dr. Trevelyan? I think you've made it all remarkably clear, said the doctor. No doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he had seen of their release in the newspapers. Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the nearest blind. But why could he not tell you this? Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring himself to divulge it. However wretched he was, he was still living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge. Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the resident patient and the Brook Street doctor. From that night nothing has been seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated steamer Nora Crana, which was lost some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the Brook Street mystery, as it was called, has never until now been fully dealt with in any public print. During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I had never heard him refer to his relations and hardly ever to his own early life. This reticence upon his part had increased the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was preeminent in intelligence. His aversion to women and his disinclination to form new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his own people. I had come to believe that he was an orphan with no relatives living, but one day, to my very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his brother. It was after tea on a summer evening, and the conversation which had roamed in a desultory spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came round at last to the question of atavism and hereditary aptitudes. The point under discussion was, how far any singular gift in an individual was due to his ancestry, and how far to his own early training. In your own case, said I, from all that you have told me, it seems obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar facility for deduction are due to your own systematic training. To some extent, he answered thoughtfully, my ancestors were country squires, who appeared to have led much the same life as is natural to their class, but nonetheless, my turn that way is in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister of Verne, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms. But how do you know that it is hereditary? Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than I do. This was news to me indeed. If there were another man with such singular powers in England, how was it that neither police nor public had heard of him? I put the question, with a hint that it was my companion's modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as his superior. Holmes laughed at my suggestion. My dear Watson, said he, I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician, all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate oneself is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers. When I say therefore that Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth. Is he your junior? Seven years my senior. How comes it that he is unknown? Oh, he's very well known in his own circle. Where, then? Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example. I'd never heard of the institution, and my face must have proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch. The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft, one of the queerest men. He's always there from quarter to five to twenty to eight. It's six now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful evening, I shall be very happy to introduce you to two curiosities. Five minutes later we were in the street walking towards Regent Circus. You wonder, said my companion, why it is that Mycroft does not use his powers for detective work. He's incapable of it. But I thought you said, I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction. If the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an armchair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He will not even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right. Again and again I have taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation which has afterwards proved to be the correct one, and yet he was absolutely incapable of working out the practical points which must be gone into before a case could be laid before a judge or jury. It is not his profession then. By no means. What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the nearest hobby of a dilettante. He has an extraordinary faculty for figures, and audits the books in some of the government departments. Mycroft lodges in Paul Mall, and he walks around the corner into Whitehall every morning and back every evening. From year's end to year's end he takes no other exercise and is seen nowhere else except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms. I cannot recall the name. Very likely not. There are many men in London, you know, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellows, yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the stranger's room, no talking is under any circumstances allowed, and three offenses, if brought to the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere. We had reached Paul Mall as we talked, and were walking down it from the St. James End. Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some little distance from the Carlton, and cautioning me not to speak, he led the way into the hall. Through the glass paneling I caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room, in which a considerable number of men were sitting about and reading papers, each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out into Paul Mall, and then, leaving me for a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knew could only be his brother. Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light watery gray, seemed to always retain that faraway introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock's when he was exerting his full powers.  I hear of Sherlock everywhere since you became his chronicler. By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you round last week to consult me over that manor house case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth. No, I solved it, said my friend, smiling. It was Adams, of course. Yes, it was Adams. I was sure of it from the first. The two sat down together in the bow window of the club. To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot, said Mycroft. Look at the magnificent types. Look at these two men who are coming toward us, for example. The billiard marker and the other? Precisely. What do you make of the other? The two men had stopped opposite the window. Some chalk marks over the waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiards which I could see in one of them. The other was a very small dark fellow, with his hat pushed back and several packages under his arm. An old soldier, I perceive, said Sherlock. And very recently discharged, remarked the brother. Served in India, I see. And a non-commissioned officer. Royal artillery, I fancy, said Sherlock. And a widower. But with a child. Children, my dear boy, children. Come, said I, laughing, this is a little too much. Surely, answered Holmes, it is not hard to say that a man with that bearing expression of authority and sun-baked skin is a soldier is more than a private and is not long from India. That he has not left the service long is shown by his still wearing his ammunition boots, as there called observed Mycroft. He had not the cavalry stride yet he wore his hat on one side as is shown by the lighter skin of that side of his brow. His weight is against his being a sapper. He is in the artillery. Then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he has lost someone very dear. The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as though it were his wife. He has been buying things for children, you perceive. There is a rattle which shows that one of them is very young. The wife probably died in child-bed. The fact that he has a picture book under his arm shows that there is another child to be thought of. I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his brother possessed even keener faculties that he did himself. He glanced across at me and smiled. Mycroft took snuff from a tortoise shell box and brushed away the wandering grains from his coat front with a large red silk handkerchief. By the way, Sherlock, said he, I have had something quite after your own heart, a most singular problem submitted to my judgment. I really had not the energy to follow it up save in a very incomplete fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing speculation, if you would care to hear the facts. My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted. The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocketbook and ringing the bell he handed it to the waiter. I have asked Mr. Mellos to step across, said he. He lodges on the floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him which led him to come to me in his perplexity. Mr. Mellos is a Greek by extraction, as I understand, and he is a remarkable linguist. He earns his living partly as interpreter in the law courts and partly by acting as guide to any wealthy orientals who may visit the Northumberland Avenue hotels. I think I will leave him to tell his very remarkable experience in his own fashion.  He shook hands eagerly with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure when he understood that the specialist was anxious to hear his story. I do not believe that the police credit me on my word I do not, said he in a wailing voice. Just because they have never heard of it before they think that such a thing cannot be, but I know that I shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has become of my poor man with the sticking plaster upon his face. I am all attention, said Sherlock Holmes. This is Wednesday evening, said Mr. Mellos. Well, then it was Monday night, only two days ago you understand, that all this happened. I am an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbour there has told you. I interpret all languages, or nearly all, but as I am Greek by birth and with a Grecian name, it is with that particular tongue that I am principally associated. For many years I have been the chief Greek interpreter in London, and my name is very well known in the hotels. It happens, not unfrequently, that I am sent for at strange hours by foreigners who get into difficulties, or by travellers who arrive late and wish my services. I was not surprised, therefore, on Monday night when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed young man, came up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a cab which was waiting at the door. A Greek friend had come to see him upon business, he said, and as he could speak nothing but his own tongue the services of an interpreter were indispensable. He gave me to understand that his house was some little distance off in Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great hurry, bustling me rapidly into the cab when we had descended to the street. I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to whether it was not a carriage in which I found myself. It was certainly more roomy than the ordinary four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the fittings, though frayed, were of rich quality. Mr. Latimer seated himself opposite to me, and we started off through Charing Cross and up the Shaftsbury Avenue. We had come out upon Oxford Street, and I had ventured some remark as to this being a roundabout way to Kensington when my words were arrested by the extraordinary conduct of my companion. He began by drawing a most formidable-looking bludge unloaded with lead from his pocket, and switching it backward and forward several times as if to test its weight and strength. Then he placed it without a word upon the seat beside him. Having done this, he drew up the windows on each side, and I found to my astonishment that they were covered with paper so as to prevent my seeing through them. I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Mellos, said he. The fact is that I have no intention that you should see what the place is to which we are driving. It might possibly be inconvenient to me if you could find your way there again. As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such an address. My companion was a powerful broad-shouldered young fellow, and apart from the weapon I should not have had the slightest chance in a struggle with him. This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer, I stammered. You must be aware that what you are doing is quite illegal. It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt, said he, but we'll make it up to you. I must warn you, however, Mr. Mellos, that if at any time tonight you attempt to raise an alarm or do anything which is against my interests, you will find it a very serious thing.  His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of saying them which was very menacing. I sat in silence wondering what on earth could be his reason for kidnapping me in this extraordinary fashion. Whatever it might be, it was perfectly clear that there was no possible use in my resisting, and that I could only wait to see what might befall. For nearly two hours we drove without my having the least clue as to where we were going. Sometimes the rattle of the stones told of a paved causeway, and at others our smooth silent course suggested asphalt, but saved by this variation in sound there was nothing at all which could in the remotest way help me to form a guess as to where we were. The paper over each window was impenetrable to light, and a blue curtain was drawn across the glasswork in front. It was a quarter past seven when we left Palmall, and my watch showed me that it was ten minutes to nine when at last we came to a standstill. My companion let down the window, and I caught a glimpse of a low arched doorway with a lamp burning above it. As I was hurried from the carriage it swung open, and I found myself inside the house with a vague impression of a lawn and trees on each side of me as I entered. Whether these were private grounds, however, or bona fide country was more than I could possibly venture to say. There was a coloured gas lamp inside which was turned solo that I could see little save that the hall was of some size and hung with pictures. In the dim light I could make out that the person who had opened the door was a mean-looking middle-aged man with rounded shoulders. As he turned towards us the glint of the light showed me that he was wearing glasses. Is this Mr. Melas, Herald said he? Yes. Well done, well done. No ill will, Mr. Melas, I hope, but we could not get on without you. If you deal fair with us you'll not regret it, but if you try any tricks God help you. He spoke in a nervous, jerky fashion and with little giggling laughs in between, but somehow he impressed me with fear more than the other. What do you want with me? I asked, only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who is visiting us and to let us have the answers, but say no more than you are told to say, or here came the nervous giggle again, you had better never have been born. As he spoke he opened a door and showed the way into a room which appeared to be very richly furnished, but again the only light was afforded by a single lamp half turned down. The chamber was certainly large and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet as I stepped across it told me of its richness. I caught glimpses of velvet chairs, a high white marble mantelpiece, and what seemed to be a suit of Japanese armor at one side of it. There was a chair just under the lamp and the elderly man motioned that I should sit in it. The younger had left us, but he suddenly returned through another door, leading with him a gentleman clad in some sort of loose dressing gown who moved slowly towards us. As he came into the circle of dim light which enables me to see him more clearly I was thrilled with horror at his appearance. He was deadly pale and terribly emaciated, with the protruding brilliant eyes of a man whose spirit was greater than his strength. But what shocked me more than any signs of physical weakness was that his face was grotesquely criss-crossed with sticking plaster and that one large pad of it was fastened over his mouth. Have you the slight herald, cried the older man, as this strange being fell rather than sat down into a chair. Are his hands loose? Now then give him the pencil. You are to ask the questions, Mr. Melas, and he will write the answers. Ask him first of all whether he is prepared to sign the papers. The man's eyes flashed fire. Never, he wrote in Greek upon this late. On no condition, I asked at the bidding of our tyrant, only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek priest whom I know. The man giggled in his venomous way. You know what awaits you then. I care nothing for myself. These are samples of the questions and answers which made up our strange, half-spoken, half-written conversation. Again and again, I had to ask him whether he would give in and sign the documents. Again and again, I had the same indignant reply. But soon a happy thought came to me. I took to adding on little sentences of my own to each question. Innocent ones at first, to test whether either of our companions knew anything of the matter, and then as I found that they showed no signs, I played a more dangerous game. Our conversation ran something like this. You can do no good by this obstinacy. Who are you? I care not. I am a stranger in London.  How long have you been here? Let it be so, three weeks. The property can never be yours. What ails you? It shall not go to villains. They are starving me. You shall go free if you sign. What house is this? I will never sign. I do not know. You are not doing her any service. What is your name? Let me hear her say so. Cratities. You shall see her if you sign. Where are you from? Then I shall never see her. Athens. Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I should have wormed out the whole story under their very noses. My very next question might have cleared the matter up, but at that instant the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. I could not see her clearly enough to know more than that she was tall and graceful with black hair and clad in some sort of loose white gown. Herald said she speaking English with a broken accent. I could not stay away longer. It is so lonely up there with only, oh my God, it is Paul. These last words were in Greek, and at the same instant the man with a convulsive effort tore the plaster from his lips and screaming out, Sophie, Sophie, rushed into the woman's arms. Their embrace was but for an instant, however, for the younger man seized the woman and pushed her out of the room while the elder easily overpowered his emaciated victim and dragged him away through the other door. For a moment I was left alone in the room, and I sprang to my feet with some vague idea that I might in some way get a clue to what this house was in which I found myself. Fortunately, however, I took no steps for looking up I saw that the older man was standing in the doorway with his eyes fixed upon me. That will do, Mr. Melos said he. You perceive that we have taken you into our confidence over some very private business. We should not have troubled you, only that our friend who speaks Greek and who began these negotiations has been forced to return to the east. It was quite necessary for us to find someone to take his place, and we were fortunate in hearing of your powers. I bowed. There are five sovereigns here, said he walking up to me, which will, I hope, be a sufficient fee. But remember, he added, tapping me lightly on the chest and giggling, if you speak to a human soul about this. One human soul, mind. Well, may God have mercy upon your soul. I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which this insignificant-looking man inspired me. I could see him better now as the lamplight shone upon him. His features were peaky and sallow, and his little pointed beard was thready and ill-nourished. He pushed his face forward as he spoke, and his lips and eyelids were continually twitching like a man with St. Vitus' dance. I could not help thinking that his strange, catty little laugh was also a symptom of some nervous malady. The terror of his face lay in his eyes, however, steel gray and glistening coldly, with a malignant inexorable cruelty in their depths. We shall know if you speak of this, said he. We have our own means of information. Now you will find the carriage waiting, and my friend will see you on your way. I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle again, obtaining that momentary glimpse of trees and a garden. Mr. Latimer followed closely at my heels, and took his place opposite to me without a word. In silence we again drove for an interminable distance with the windows raised until it last, just after midnight the carriage pulled up. You will get down here, Mr. Melas, said my companion. I'm sorry to leave you so far from your house, but there is no alternative. Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage can only end in injury to yourself. He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring out when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled away. I looked around me in astonishment. I was on some sort of a heathy common modelled over with dark clumps of furs bushes, far away stretched a line of houses with the light here and there in the upper windows. On the other side I saw the red signal lamps of a railway. The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight. I stood gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be when I saw someone coming towards me in the darkness. As he came up to me I made out that he was a railway porter. Can you tell me what this place is? I asked. Wandsworth Common, said he. Can I get a train into town? If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction, said he, you'll just be in time for the last to Victoria. So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes. I do not know where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor anything save what I have told you. But I know that there is foul play going on and I want to help that unhappy man if I can. I told the whole story to Mr. Mycroft Holmes next morning and subsequently to the police. We all sat in a silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative, then Sherlock looked across at his brother. Any steps, he asked.  Anybody supplying any information to the whereabouts of a Greek gentleman named Paul Crattides from Athens who is unable to speak English will be rewarded. A similar reward paid to anyone giving information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophie X2473. That was in all the dailies, no answer. How about the Greek legation? I have inquired, they know nothing. A wire to the head of the Athens police, then? Sherlock has all the energy of the family, said Mycroft turning to me. Well, you take the case up by all means and let me know if you do any good. Certainly, answered my friend, rising from his chair. I'll let you know, and Mr. Melos also. In the meantime, Mr. Melos, I should certainly be on my guard if I were you, for of course they must know through these advertisements that you have betrayed them. As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a telegraph office and sent off several wires. You see, Watson, he remarked, our evening has been by no means wasted. Some of my most interesting cases have come to me in this way through Mycroft. The problem which we have just listened to, although it can admit of but one explanation, has still some distinguishing features. You have hopes of solving it. Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular indeed if we fail to discover the rest. You must yourself have formed some theory which will explain the facts to which we have listened. In a vague way, yes. What was your idea, then? It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl had been carried off by the young Englishman named Harold Latimer. Carried off from where? Athens, perhaps? Sherlock Holmes shook his head. This young man could not talk a word of Greek, the lady could talk English fairly well, inference that she had been in England some little time, but he had not been in Greece. Well, then we will presume that she had come on a visit to England and that this Harold had persuaded her to fly with him. That is more probable. Then the brother, for that I fancy must be the relationship, comes over from Greece to interfere. He imprudently puts himself into the power of the young man and his older associate. They seize him and use violence towards him in order to make him sign some papers to make over the girl's fortune, of which he may be trustee to them. This he refuses to do. In order to negotiate with him they have to get an interpreter, and they pitch upon this Mr. Mellos, having used some other one before. The girl is not told of the arrival of her brother and finds it out by the nearest accident. Excellent Watson, cried Holmes. I'd really fancy that you are not far from the truth. You see that we hold all the cards, and we have only to fear some sudden active violence on their part. If they give us time, we must have them. But how can we find where this house lies? Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl's name is, or was, Sophie Crattities, we should have no difficulty in tracing her. That must be our main hope, for the brother is, of course, a complete stranger. It is clear that some time has elapsed since this Harold established these relations with the girl, some weeks at any rate, since the brother in Greece has had time to hear of it and come across. If they have been living in the same place during this time, it is probable that we shall have some answer to Mycroft's advertisement. We had reached our house in Baker Street while we had been talking. Holmes ascended the stair first, and as he opened the door of our room he gave a start of surprise. Looking over his shoulder, I was equally astonished. His brother Mycroft was sitting, smoking in the armchair. Come in, Sherlock, come in, sir, said he blandly, smiling at our surprised faces. You don't expect such energy from me, do you, Sherlock? But somehow this case attracts me. How did you get here? I passed you in a handsome. There has been some new development? I had an answer to My advertisement. Ah! Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leaving. And to what effect? Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper. Here it is, said he, written with a j-pen on royal cream paper by a middle-aged man with a weak constitution. Sir, he says, in answer to your advertisement of today's date, I beg to inform you that I know the young lady in question very well. If you should care to call upon me, I should give you some particulars as to her painful history. She is living at present at the Myrtles Beckenham, yours faithfully, J Davenport. He writes from Lower Brixton, said Mycroft Holmes. Do you not think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these particulars? My dear Mycroft, the brother's life is more valuable than the sister's story. I think we should call it Scotland Yard for Inspector Gregson, and go straight out to Beckenham. We know that a man is being done to death, and every hour may be vital. Better pick up, Mr. Melos, on our way, I suggested. We may need an interpreter. Excellent, said Sherlock Holmes, send the boy for a four-wheeler, and we shall be off at once. He opened the table drawer as he spoke, and I noticed that he slipped his revolver into his pocket. Yes, said he in an answer to my glance, I should say from what we have heard that we are dealing with a particularly dangerous gang. It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Paul Mall at the rooms of Mr. Melos. A gentleman had just called for him, and he was gone. Can you tell me where? asked Mycroft Holmes. I don't know, sir, answered the woman who had opened the door. I only know that he drove away with the gentleman in a carriage. Did the gentleman give a name? No, sir. He wasn't a tall, handsome, dark young man. Oh, no, sir, he was a little gentleman with glasses, thin in the face, but very pleasant in his ways, for he was laughing all the time that he was talking. Come along, cried Sherlock Holmes abruptly. This gross serious, he observed as we drove to Scotland Yard. These men have got hold of Melos again. He is a man of no physical courage, as they are well aware from their experience the other night. This villain was able to terrorize him the instant that he got into his presence. No doubt they want his professional services, but having used him they may be inclined to punish him for what they will regard as his treachery. Our hope was that by taking train we might get to Beckenham as soon or sooner than the carriage. On reaching Scotland Yard, however, it was more than an hour before we could get in Specter Gregson and comply with the legal formalities which would enable us to enter the house. It was a quarter to ten before we reached London Bridge, and half past before the four of us alighted on the Beckenham platform. A drive of half a mile brought us to the Myrtles, a large dark house standing back from the road in its own grounds. Here we dismissed our cab and made our way up the drive together. The windows were all dark, remarked the inspector. The house seems deserted. Our birds are flown and the nest empty, said Holmes. Why do you say so? A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out during the last hour. The inspector laughed. I saw the wheel tracks in the light of the gate lamp, but where does the luggage come in? You may have observed the same wheel tracks going the other way, but the outward bound ones were very much deeper, so much so that we can say for a certainty that there was a very considerable weight on the carriage. You get a trifle beyond me there, said the inspector shrugging his shoulder. It will not be an easy door to force, but we will try if we cannot make someone hear us. He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, but without any success. Holmes had slipped away, but he came back in a few minutes. I have a window open, said he. It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force and not against it, Mr. Holmes, remarked the inspector, as he noted the clever way in which my friend had forced back the catch. Well, I think that under the circumstances we may enter without an invitation. One after the other we made our way into a large apartment, which was evidently that in which Mr. Mayloss had found himself. The inspector had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see the two doors, the curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail, as he had described them. On the table lay two glasses, an empty brandy bottle, and the remains of a meal. What is that? asked Holmes suddenly. We all stood and listened. A low, moaning sound was coming from somewhere over our heads. Holmes rushed to the door and out into the hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs. He dashed up, the inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft followed as quickly as his great bulk would permit. Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was from the central of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinking sometimes into a dull mumble, and rising again into a shrill wine. It was locked, but the key had been left on the outside. Holmes flung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in an instant with his hand to his throat. It's charcoal, he cried. Give it time, it will clear. Peering in, we could see that the only light in the room came from a dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod in the center. It threw a livid unnatural circle upon the floor, while in the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of two figures which crouched against the wall. From the open door there reeked a horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and coughing. Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the fresh air, and then, dashing into the room, he threw up the window and hurled the brazen tripod out into the garden. We can enter in a minute, he gasped darting out again. Where is a candle? I doubt if we could strike a match in that atmosphere. Hold the light at the door, and we shall get them out, Mycroft, now. With a rush, we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into the well-lit hall. Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible, with swollen congested faces and protruding eyes. Indeed, so distorted were their features, that save for his black beard and stop figure, we might have failed to recognize in one of them the Greek interpreter, who had parted from us only a few hours before at the Diogenes Club. His hands and feet were securely strapped together, and he bore over one eye the marks of a violent blow. The other, who was secured in a similar fashion, was a tall man in the last stage of emaciation, with several strips of sticking plaster arranged in a grotesque pattern over his face. He had ceased to moan as we laid him down, and a glance showed me that for him, at least, our aid had come too late. Mr. Melos, however, still lived, and in less than an hour with the aid of Ammonia and Brandi, I had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had drawn him back from that dark valley in which all paths meet. It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which did but confirm our own deductions. His visitor, on entering his rooms, had drawn a life preserver from his sleeve, and had so impressed him with the fear of instant and inevitable death, that he had kidnapped him for the second time. Indeed, it was almost mesmeric, the effect which this giggling ruffian had produced upon the unfortunate linguist, for he could not speak of him save with trembling hands and a blanched cheek. He had been taken swiftly to Beckenham, and had acted as interpreter in a second interview, even more dramatic than the first, in which the two Englishmen had menaced their prisoner with instant death if he did not comply with their demands. Finally, finding him proof against every threat, they had hurled him back into his prison, and after reproaching Melas with his treachery, which appeared from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with a blow from a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found us bending over him. And this was the singular case of the Grecian interpreter, the explanation of which is still involved in some mystery. We were able to find out by communicating with the gentleman who had answered the advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady came of a wealthy Grecian family, and that she had been on a visit to some friends in England. While there, she had met a young man named Harold Latimer, who had acquired an ascendancy over her, and had eventually persuaded her to fly with him. Her friends, shocked at the event, had contented themselves with informing her brother at Athens, and had then washed their hands of the matter. The brother on his arrival in England had imprudently placed himself in the power of Latimer and of his associate, whose name was Wilson Kemp, a man of the foulest antecedents. These two, finding that through his ignorance of the language, he was helpless in their hands, had kept him a prisoner, and had endeavored by cruelty and starvation to make him sign away his own and his sister's property. They had kept him in the house without the girl's knowledge, and the plaster over the face had been for the purpose of making recognition difficult, in case she should ever catch a glimpse of him. Her feminine perception, however, had instantly seen through the disguise when on the occasion of the interpreter's visit, she had seen him for the first time. The poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for there was no one about the house except the man who acted as coachmen, and his wife, both of whom were tools of the conspirators. Finding that their secret was out and that their prisoner was not to be coerced, the two villains with the girl had fled away at a few hours' notice from the furnished house, which they had hired, having first as they thought taken vengeance both upon the man who had defied and the one who had betrayed them. Months afterwards, a curious newspaper cutting reached us from Budapest. It told how two Englishmen, who had been travelling with a woman, had met with a tragic end. They had each been stabbed, it seems, and the Hungarian police were of opinion that they had quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each other. Holmes, however, is, I fancy, of a different way of thinking, and holds to this day that if one could find the Cretian girl, one might learn how the wrongs of herself and her brother came to be avenged. End of Adventure 9 The Greek Interpreter Chapter 10 of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Adventure 10 The Naval Treaty Adventure 11 The July, which immediately succeeded my marriage, was made memorable by three cases of interest in which I had the privilege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the headings of The Adventure of the Second Stain, The Adventure of the Naval Treaty, and The Adventure of the Tide Captain. The first of these, however, deals with interest of such importance and implicates so many of the first families in the kingdom that, for many years, it will be impossible to make it public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or has impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris police and Fritz von Woldbaum, the well-known specialist of Danzig, both of whom had wasted their energies upon what proved to be side issues. The new century will have come, however, before the story can be safely told. Meanwhile, I pass on to the second on my list, which promised also at one time to be of national importance and was marked by several incidents which give it a quite unique character. During my school days, I had been intimately associated with a lad named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself, though he was two classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant boy and carried away every prize which the school had to offer, finished his exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on to continue his triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I remember, extremely well connected, and even when we were all little boys together, we knew that his mother's brother was Lord Holdhurst, the great conservative politician. This gaudy relationship did him little good at school. On the contrary, it seemed rather a pecanth thing to us to Chevy him about the playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. But it was another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won him a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed completely out of my mind until the following letter recalled his existence. Briar Bray Woking My dear Watson, I have no doubt that you can remember Tadpole Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you were in the third. It is possible even that you may have heard that through my uncle's influence I obtained a good appointment at the Foreign Office and that I was in a situation of trust and honor until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast my career. There is no use writing of the details of that dreadful event. In the event of your exceeding to my request it is probable that I shall have to narrate them to you. I have only just recovered from nine weeks of brain fever and am still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to have his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me that nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and as soon as possible. Every minute seems an hour while I live in this state of horrible suspense. Assure him that if I have not asked his advice sooner it was not because I did not appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my head ever since the blow fell. Now I am clear again, though I dare not think of it too much for fear of a relapse. I am still so weak that I have to write as you see by dictating. Do try to bring him. Your old school fellow, Percy Phelps. There was something that touched me as I read this letter, something pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So moved was I, that even had it been a difficult matter I should have tried it, but of course I knew well that Holmes loved his art so that he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client could be to receive it. My wife agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the matter before him, and so within an hour of breakfast time I found myself back once more in the old rooms in Baker Street. Holmes was seated at his side table, clad in his dressing gown, and working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved retort was boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and the distilled drops were condensing into a two-liter measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing that his investigation must be of importance, seated myself in an armchair and waited. He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally brought a test tube containing a solution over the table. In his right hand he held a slip of litmus paper. You come at a crisis, Watson, said he. If this paper remains blue all as well, if it turns red it means a man's life. He dipped it into the test tube, and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson. Hmm, I thought as much, he cried. I'll be at your service in an instant, Watson. You'll find tobacco in the Persian slipper. He turned to his desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were handed over to the page boy. Then he threw himself down into the chair opposite, and drew up his knees until his fingers clasped round his long thin shins. A very commonplace murder, said he. You've got something better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrol of crime, Watson. What is it? I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated attention. It does not tell us very much, does it? he remarked as he handed it back to me. Hardly anything. And yet the writing is of interest. But the writing is not his own. Precisely it is a woman's. A man, surely, I cried. No, a woman's, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the commencement of an investigation, it is something to know that your client is in close contact with someone who, for good or evil, has an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened in the case. If you are ready, we will start at once for woking, and see this diplomatist who is in such evil case, and the lady to whom he dictates his letters. We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and in a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir woods and the heather of woking.  On sending in our cards we were shown into an elegantly appointed drawing-room, where we were joined in a few minutes by his rather stout man who received us with much hospitality.   Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah, poor old chap, he clings to any straw. His father and his mother ask me to see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very painful to them. We have no details yet, observed Holmes. I perceive that you are not yourself a member of the family. Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then glancing down he began to laugh. Of course you saw the JH monogram on my locket, said he. For a moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph Harrison is my name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie, I shall at least be a relation by marriage. You'll find my sister in his room, for she has nursed him hand and foot this two months back. Perhaps we'd better go in it once, for I know how impatient he is. The chamber in which we were shown was on the same floor as the drawing-room. It was furnished partly as a sitting, and partly as a bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and corner. A young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near the open window, through which came the rich scent of the garden and the balmy summer air. A woman was sitting beside him, who rose as we entered. Shall I leave, Percy? she asked. He clutched her hand to detain her. How are you, Watson? he said cordially. I should never have known you under that moustache, and I dare say you would not be prepared to swear to me. This I presume is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her hand in that of the invalid.  Her rich tints made the white face of her companion the more worn and haggard by the contrast.  I'll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I was a happy and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of being married, when a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all my prospects in life. I was, as Watson may have told you, in the foreign office, and through the influences of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign minister in this administration, he gave me several missions of trust, and as I always brought them to a successful conclusion, he came at last to have the utmost confidence in my ability intact. Nearly ten weeks ago, to be more accurate on the 23rd of May, he called me into his private room, and after complimenting me on the good work which I had done, he informed me that he had a new commission of trust for me to execute. This, said he, taking a grey roll of paper from his bureau, is the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy of which, I regret to say, some rumours have already got into the public press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further should leak out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an immense sum to learn the contents of these papers. They should not leave my bureau, were it not that it is absolutely necessary to have them copied. You have a desk in your office? Yes, sir. Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give directions that you may remain behind when the others go, so that you may copy it at your leisure, without fear of being overlooked. When you have finished, relock both the original and the draft in the desk, and hand them over to me personally tomorrow morning. I took the papers, and, excuse me an instant, said Holmes, were you alone during this conversation? Absolutely. In a large room, thirty feet each way, in the centre, yes, about it, and speaking low, my uncle's voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at all. Thank you, said Holmes, shutting his eyes. Pray go on. I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the other clerks had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Garote, had some arrears of work to make up, so I left him there and went out to dine. When I returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my work, for I knew that Joseph, the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just now, was in town, and that he would travel down to Woking by the eleven o'clock train, and I wanted if possible to catch it. When I came to examine the treaty, I saw at once that it was of such importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration in what he had said. Without going into details, I may say that it defined the position of Great Britain towards the Triple Alliance, and foreshadowed the policy which this country would pursue in the event of the French fleet gaining a complete ascendancy over that of Italy in the Mediterranean. The questions treated in it were purely navel, at the end were the signatures of the high dignitaries who had signed it. I glanced my eyes over it, and then settled down to my task of copying. It was a long document, written in the French language, and containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I could, but at nine o'clock I had only done nine articles, and it seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was feeling drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner, and also from the effects of a long day's work. A cup of coffee would clear my brain. A commissionaire remains all night in a little lodge at the foot of the stairs, and is in the habit of making coffee at his spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be working over time. I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him. To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the summons, a large, coarse-faced elderly woman in an apron. She explained that she was the commissionaire's wife, who did the charring, and I gave her the order for the coffee. I wrote two more articles, and then, feeling more drowsy than ever, I rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my legs. My coffee had not yet come, and I wondered what the cause of the delay could be. Opening the door, I started down the corridor to find out. There was a straight passage, dimly lighted, which led from the room in which I had been working, and was the only exit from it. It ended in a curving staircase, with the commissionaire's lodge in the passage at the bottom. Halfway down this staircase is a small landing, with another passage running into it at right angles. This second one leads by means of a second small stair to a side door, used by servants and also as a shortcut by clerks when coming from Charles Street. Here is a rough chart of the place. Thank you, I think that I quite follow you, said Sherlock Holmes. It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this point. I went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found the commissionaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle boiling furiously upon the spirit lamp. I took off the kettle, and blew out the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor.  Mr. Phelps, sir, said he looking at me in bewilderment. I came down to see if my coffee was ready. I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir. He looked at me, and then up at the still quivering bell, with an ever-growing astonishment upon his face. If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell, he asked? The bell, I cried. What bell is it? It's the bell of the room you were working in. A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Someone, then, was in that room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I ran frantically up the stair and along the passage. There was no one in the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room. All was exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had been committed to my care had been taken from the desk on which they lay. The copy was there, and the original was gone. Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see that the problem was entirely to his heart. Pray, what did you do then? he murmured. I recognized in an instant that the thief must have come up the stairs from the side door. Of course, I must have met him if he had come the other way. You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in the room all the time, or in the corridor which you have just described as dimly lighted? It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself either in the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all. Thank you. Pray proceed. The commissionaire, seeing by my pale face that something was to be feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed along the corridor, and down the steep steps which led to Charles Street. The door at the bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung it open and rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as we did so, there came three chimes from a neighbouring clock. It was quarter to ten. That is of enormous importance, said Holmes making a note upon his shirt cuff. The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling. There was no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going on as usual in Whitehall at the extremity. We rushed along the pavement, bareheaded as we were, and at the far corner we found a policeman standing. A robbery has been committed, I gasped. A document of immense value has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has anyone passed this way? I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir, said he. Only one person has passed me during that time. A woman, tall and elderly, with a paisley shawl. Ah, that is only my wife, cried the commissionaire. Has no one else passed? No one. Then it must be the other way that the thief took cried the fellow tugging at my sleeve. But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to draw me away increased my suspicions. Which way did the woman go, I cried. I don't know, sir, I noticed her pass, but I had no special reason for watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry. How long ago was it? Oh, not very many minutes. Within the last five? Well, it could not be more than five. You're only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now is of importance, cried the commissionaire. Take my word for it that my old woman has nothing to do with it, and come down to the other end of the street. Well, if you won't, I will, and with that he rushed off in the other direction. But I was after him in an instant, and caught him by the sleeve. Where do you live, said I? Sixteen Ivy Lane, Brixton, he answered, but don't let yourself be drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end of the street, and let us see if we can hear of anything. Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the policemen we both hurried down, but only to find the street full of traffic. Many people coming and going, but all only too eager to get to a place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no lounger who could tell us who had passed. Then we returned to the office, and searched the stairs and the passage without result. The corridor which led to the room was laid down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an impression very easily. We examined it very carefully, but found no outline of any footmark. Had it been raining all evening? Since about seven. How is it then that the woman who came into the room about nine left no traces with her muddy boots? I'm glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at this time, the chairwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the commissioner's office, and putting on list slippers. That is very clear. There were no marks then, though the night was a wet one. The chain of events is certainly one of extraordinary interest. What did you do next? We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a secret door, and the windows are quite thirty feet from the ground. Both of them were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents any possibility of a trapdoor, and the ceiling is of the ordinary whitewashed kind.  How about the fireplace? They use none. There is a stove. The bell rope hangs from the wire just to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have come right up to the desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish to ring the bell? It is a most insoluble mystery. Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next steps? You examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder had left any traces, any cigar end or dropped glove or hairpin or other trifle? There was nothing of the sort. No smell? Well, we never thought of that. Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to us in such an investigation. I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if there had been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no clue of any kind. The only tangible fact was that the commissioner's wife, Mrs. Tangy was the name, had hurried out of the place. He could give no explanation, save that it was about the time when the woman always went home. The policemen and I agreed that our best plan would be to seize the woman before she could get rid of the papers, presuming that she had them. The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr. Forbes, the detective, came round at once and took up the case with a great deal of energy. We hired a handsome, and in half an hour we were at the address which had been given to us. A young woman opened the door, who proved to be Mrs. Tangy's eldest daughter. Her mother had not come back yet, and we were shown into the front room to wait. About ten minutes later a knock came out the door, and here we made the one serious mistake for which I blame myself. Instead of opening the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We heard her say, Mother, there are two men in the house waiting to see you, and in instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet rushing down the passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we both ran into the back room or kitchen, but the woman had got there before us. She stared at us with defiant eyes, and then suddenly recognizing me, an expression of absolute astonishment came over her face. Why, if it isn't Mr. Phelps of the office, she cried. Come, come! Who did you think we were when you ran away from us, asked my companion? I thought you were the brokers, said she. We have had some trouble with the tradesmen. That's not quite good enough, answered Forbes. We have reason to believe that you have taken a paper of importance from the Foreign Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You must come back with us to Scotland Yard to be searched. It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler was brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first made an examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen fire, to see whether she might have made away with the papers during the incident that she was alone. There were no signs, however, of any ashes or scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard, she was handed over at once to the female searcher. I waited in an agony of suspense until she came back with her report. There were no signs of the papers. Then, for the first time, the horror of my situation came in its full force. Hitherto, I had been acting, and action had numbed thought. I had been so confident of regaining the treaty at once that I had not dared to think of what would be the consequence if I failed to do so. But now there was nothing more to be done, and I had leisure to realise my position. It was horrible. Watson there would tell you that I was a nervous, sensitive boy at school. It is my nature. I thought of my uncle and of his colleagues in the cabinet, of the shame which I had brought upon him, upon myself, upon everyone connected with me. What, though, I was the victim of an extraordinary accident. No allowance is made for accidents where diplomatic interests are at stake. I was ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined. I don't know what I did. I fancy I must have made a scene. I have a dim recollection of a group of officials who crowded round me, endeavouring to soothe me. One of them drove down with me to Waterloo, and saw me into the woking train. I believe that he would have come all the way had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near me, was going down by that very train. The doctor most kindly took charge of me, and it was well that he did so, for I had a fit in the station, and before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac. You can imagine the state of things here when they were roused from their beds by the doctors ringing and found me in this condition. Poor Annie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr. Ferrier had just heard enough from the detective at the station to be able to give an idea of what had happened, and his story did not mend matters.  Here I have lain Mr. Holmes for over nine weeks, unconscious, and raving with brain fever. If it had not been for Miss Harrison here and for the doctor's care, I should not be speaking to you now. She has nursed me by day, and a hired nurse has looked after me by night, for in my mad fits I was capable of anything. Slowly my reason is cleared, but it is only during the last three days that my memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish that it never had. The first thing that I did was to wire Mr. Forbes, who had the case in hand. He came out, and assured me that, though everything has been done, no trace of a clue has been discovered. The commissioner and his wife have been examined in every way without any light being thrown upon the matter. The suspicions of the police, then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you may remember, stayed overtime in the office that night. His remaining behind, and his French name were really the only two points which could suggest suspicion. But, as a matter of fact, I did not begin work until he had gone, and his people are of Huguenot extraction, but, as English in sympathy and tradition as you and I are, nothing was found to implicate him in any way, and there the matter dropped.  If you fail me, then my honour as well as my position are forever forfeited. The invalid sank back down upon his cushions, tired out by this long recital, while his nurse poured him out a glass of some stimulating medicine. Holmes sat silently with his head thrown back, and his eyes closed, in an attitude which might seem listless to a stranger, but which I knew betokened the most intense self-absorption. Your statement has been so explicit, said he at last, that you have really left me very few questions to ask. There is one of the very utmost importance, however. Did you tell anyone that you had this special task to perform? No one. Not Miss Harrison here, for example? No, I had not been back to woking between getting the order and executing the commission. And none of your people had by chance been to see you? None. Did any of them know their way about in the office? Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it. Still, of course, if you said nothing to anyone about the treaty, these inquiries are irrelevant. I said nothing. Do you know anything of the commissionaire? Nothing except that he is an old soldier. What regiment? Oh, I have heard cold stream guards. Thank you. I have no doubt I can get details from Forbes. The authorities are excellent at amassing facts, though they do not always use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose is. He walked past the couch to the open window and held up the drooping stalk of a moss rose, looking down at the dainty blend of crimson and green. It was a new phase of his character to me, for I had never before seen him show any keen interest in natural objects. There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary, as in religion, said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the goodness of providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance, but this rose is an extra. Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers. Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at homes during this demonstration with surprise, and a good deal of disappointment written upon their faces. He had fallen into a reverie with the moss rose between his fingers. It had lasted some minutes before the young lady broke in upon it. Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes? She asked with a touch of asperity in her voice. Oh, the mystery! he answered, coming back with a start to the realities of life. Well, it would be absurd to deny that the case is a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise you that I will look into the matter and let you know any points which may strike me. Do you see any clue? You have furnished me with seven, but of course I must test them before I can pronounce upon their value. You suspect someone? I suspect myself. What? Of coming to conclusions too rapidly? Then go to London and test your conclusions. Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison, said Holmes Rising. I think, Watson, we cannot do better. Do not allow yourself to indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a very tangled one. I shall be in a fever until I see you again, cried the Diplomatist. Well, I'll come out by the same train tomorrow, though it's more than likely that my report will be a negative one. God bless you for promising to come, cried our client. It gives me a fresh life to know that something is being done. By the way, I've had a letter from Lord Holdhurst. Huh! What did he say? He was cold, but not harsh. I daresay my severe illness prevented him from being that. He repeated that the matter was of the utmost importance, and added that no steps would be taken about my future, by which he means, of course, my dismissal, until my health was restored, and I had an opportunity of repairing my misfortune. Well, that was reasonable and considerate, said Holmes. Come, Watson, for evil good days work before us in town. Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and we were soon whirling up in a Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk in profound thought, and hardly opened his mouth until we had passed Clapham Junction. It's a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these lines which run high, and allow you to look down upon the houses like this. I thought he was joking, for the view was sorted enough, but he soon explained himself. Look at those big, isolated clumps of building rising up above the slates, like brick islands in a lead-colored sea, the board schools, lighthouses, my boy, beacons of the future, capsules with hundreds of bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring the wiser, better England of the future. I suppose that man Phelps does not drink? I should not think so. Nor should I, but we are bound to take every possibility into account. The poor devil has certainly got himself into very deep water, and it's a question whether we shall ever be able to get him ashore. What did you think of Miss Harrison? A girl of strong character? Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. She and her brother are the only children of an iron master somewhere up Northumberland Way. He got engaged to her when travelling last winter, and she came down to be introduced to his people with her brother as an escort. Then came the smash, and she stayed on to nurse her lover, while Brother Joseph, finding himself pretty snug, stayed on too. I've been making a few independent inquiries, you see, but today must be a day of inquiries. My practice, I began. Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than mine, said Holmes with some asperity. I was going to say that my practice could get along very well for a day or two, since it is the slackest time in the year. Excellent, said he recovering his good humour. Then we'll look into this matter together. I think that we should begin by seeing Forbes. He can probably tell us all the details we want until we know from what side the case is to be approached. You said you had a clue. Well, we have several, but we can only test their value by further inquiry. The most difficult crime to track is the one which is purposeless. Now, this is not purposeless. Who is it who profits by it? There is the French ambassador, there is the Russian, there is whoever might sell it to either of these, and there is Lord Holthurst. Lord Holthurst. Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might find himself in a position where he was not sorry to have such a document accidentally destroyed. Not a statesman with the honourable record of Lord Holthurst. It is a possibility, and we cannot afford to disregard it. We shall see the noble Lord today and find out if he can tell us anything. Meanwhile, I've already