The Man With the Twisted Lip

38 min

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

Isa Whitney was the brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s. He was heavily addicted to opium. As I understand it, the habit began with a foolish experiment at college. He had read De Quincey’s account of his dreams and sensations. Hoping to produce the same effects, he soaked his tobacco in laudanum. Like so many others, he found the habit easier to acquire than to break. For many years, he remained a slave to the drug. His friends and relatives regarded him with a mixture of horror and pity. I can see him now, huddled in a chair, his face yellow and pasty, his eyelids drooping and his pupils pinpoints. He was the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

One night in June 1889, my doorbell rang. It was about the time a man first yawns and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair. My wife put her sewing down in her lap and made a small face of disappointment.

“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”

“A patient!” she said. “You’ll have to go out.”

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

I groaned because I had just come back from a tiring day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick footsteps on the linoleum. Our door flew open, and a woman entered the room. She wore dark clothes and a black veil.

“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried; “I do so want a little help.”

“Please excuse me for coming so late,” she began. Then, suddenly losing control of herself, she ran forward and threw her arms around my wife’s neck. She sobbed on her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried. “I really need a little help.”

“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”

“Oh,” said my wife, lifting her veil, “it's Kate Whitney. You startled me, Kate! I had no idea who you were when you came in.”

“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse.

“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” It was always like that. People in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse.

“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?”

“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, have some wine and water, sit here comfortably, and tell us all about it. Or would you rather I sent James to bed?”

“Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!”

“Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa. He hasn’t been home for two days. I’m so frightened about him!”

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?

She had spoken to us before about her husband’s trouble. She had come to me as a doctor and to my wife as an old friend and schoolmate. We did our best to soothe and comfort her. Did she know where her husband was? Could we bring him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

It seems that was true. She had reliable information that lately, when the urge came over him, he had used an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Until now, his binges had always lasted only one day. He would return in the evening, twitching and exhausted. But this time he had been gone for forty-eight hours. No doubt he lay there among the lowest people from the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off its effects. She was sure he could be found at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could a young, timid woman enter such a place and pull her husband away from the ruffians around him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.

That was the situation, and of course there was only one way out. Could I escort her to the place? Then I had a second thought. Why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s doctor, and that gave me influence over him. I could handle the matter better alone. I gave her my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours. That was if he was indeed at the address she had given me. Within ten minutes, I had left my armchair and cheerful sitting room behind. I was speeding east in a hansom cab on what seemed to me a strange errand. Only the future would show just how strange it was to be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

But the first stage of my adventure was not very difficult. Upper Swandam Lane is a filthy alley behind the tall wharves on the north side of the river, east of London Bridge. I found the den I was looking for between a clothing shop and a gin shop. A steep flight of steps led down to a black opening like the mouth of a cave. I told my cab driver to wait and went down the steps. Their centers had been worn hollow by the constant tread of drunken feet. By the light of a flickering oil lamp above the door, I found the latch and entered. Inside was a long, low room, thick with heavy brown opium smoke. Wooden bunks rose in tiers, like those in the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

In the gloom, bodies were barely visible, lying in strange, fantastic poses. Shoulders were bowed, knees bent, heads thrown back, and chins pointed upward. Here and there, a dark, dull eye turned toward the newcomer. Little red circles of light glimmered from the black shadows. They brightened and faded as the burning poison flared and died down in the bowls of metal pipes. Most people lay silent, but some muttered to themselves. Others spoke together in strange, low, monotonous voices. Their conversation came in bursts, then suddenly faded into silence. Each person mumbled their own thoughts, paying little attention to what the others said. At the far end was a small brazier of burning charcoal. Beside it, a tall, thin old man sat on a three-legged wooden stool, staring into the fire. His jaw rested on his fists, and his elbows were on his knees.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant hurried over with a pipe and a supply of the drug. He beckoned me to an empty berth.

“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”

“Thank you. I haven’t come to stay,” I said. “A friend of mine, Mr. Isa Whitney, is here. I’d like to speak with him.”

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.

There was a movement and a cry from my right. I peered through the darkness and saw Whitney staring out at me. He was pale, exhausted, and disheveled.

“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”

“My God! It’s Watson,” he said. He was in a pitiful state, shaking with nerves after the shock. “I say, Watson, what time is it?”

“Nearly eleven.”

“Of what day?”

“Which day?”

“Of Friday, June 19th.”

“Of Friday, June 19.”

“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. Why do you want to scare a guy?” He buried his face in his arms and began to sob in a high-pitched voice.

“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“I’m telling you, it’s Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting for you for two days. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?”

“So I am. But you’re confused, Watson. I’ve only been here a few hours. Three pipes, four pipes, I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate, poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Do you have a cab?”

“Yes, I have one waiting.”

“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”

“Then I’ll go in it. But I must owe something. Find out what I owe, Watson. I feel completely unwell. I can’t do anything for myself.”

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

I walked down the narrow passage between two rows of sleepers, looking for the manager. I held my breath to keep out the drug’s foul, numbing fumes. As I passed the tall man sitting by the brazier, I felt a sudden tug at my skirt. A low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” I heard the words quite clearly. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man beside me. Yet he sat there as lost in thought as ever. He was very thin and wrinkled, and bent with age. An opium pipe hung between his knees, as if it had fallen from his fingers out of sheer exhaustion. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to keep from crying out in surprise. He had turned his back so that no one but me could see him. His body had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, and his dull eyes had regained their fire. There, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight gesture for me to come closer. Then he turned his face halfway back toward the others and instantly became a feeble, loose-lipped old man again.

“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”

“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this place?”

“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”

“As quietly as you can,” he answered. “I have excellent hearing. If you would be kind enough to get rid of your drunken friend, I would be very glad to talk with you.”

“I have a cab outside.”

“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.”

“Then please send him home in it. You can safely trust him because he seems too limp to get into any trouble. I also recommend sending a note to your wife with the cabman, saying that you have decided to join me. If you wait outside, I will be with you in five minutes.”

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

It was hard to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests. They were always so precise, and he made them with such quiet authority. Still, I felt that once Whitney was in the cab, my mission was practically complete. As for the rest, I could wish for nothing better than to join my friend in one of his strange adventures. Such adventures were a normal part of his life. Within minutes, I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill, and led him to the cab. I watched him drive off into the darkness. Soon afterward, a frail old figure emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets, he shuffled along, his back bent and his steps unsteady. Then he glanced quickly around, straightened up, and burst into hearty laughter.

“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views.”

“I suppose, Watson,” he said, “you think I’ve added opium smoking to my cocaine injections and all my other little weaknesses. You’ve been kind enough to share your medical opinions on all of them.”

“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”

“But not more so than I to find you.”

“But not more than I am to find you.”

“I came to find a friend.”

“And I to find an enemy.”

“And I was to find an enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”

“Yes, one of my natural enemies, or perhaps I should say, my natural prey. In short, Watson, I am in the middle of a remarkable investigation. I hoped to find a clue in the drunken ramblings of these men, as I have before. If I had been recognized in that den, my life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase. I have used the place for my own purposes before, and the scoundrel of a Lascar who runs it has sworn revenge on me. At the back of the building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, there is a trapdoor. It could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it on moonless nights.”

“What! You do not mean bodies?”

“What! You don't mean bodies?”

“Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £ 1000 for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.” He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs.

“Yes, bodies, Watson. We would be rich if we had £1,000 for every poor devil murdered in that place. It is the vilest murder trap on the whole riverside. I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it, never to leave again. But our carriage should be here.” He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled sharply. A similar whistle answered from a distance. Soon afterward, they heard the rattle of wheels and the clatter of horses’ hooves.

“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“Now, Watson,” said Holmes as a tall horse-drawn cart raced up through the darkness. Its side lanterns cast two golden beams of light. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“If I can be of use.”

“If I can help.”

“Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.”

“Oh, a trusted companion is always useful, and someone to record events is even more useful. My room at The Cedars has two beds.”

“The Cedars?”

“Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.”

“Yes, that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I’m staying there while I investigate.”

“Where is it, then?”

“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.”

“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive ahead of us.”

“But I am all in the dark.”

“But I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!”

“Of course you are. You’ll know all about it soon. Jump up here. All right, John, we won’t need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me tomorrow, around eleven. Let the horse go. Goodbye, then!”

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we raced through an endless succession of dark, deserted streets. The streets gradually widened, until we were flying across a broad bridge with railings. Below us, the murky river flowed slowly. Beyond the bridge lay another dreary wilderness of brick buildings. Its silence was broken only by the heavy, steady footsteps of a policeman, or by the songs and shouts of late-night revelers. Dark clouds drifted slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled faintly through the gaps. Holmes drove in silence, his head bowed over his chest, looking lost in thought. I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest was that seemed to challenge him so much. Yet I was afraid to interrupt his thoughts. We had driven several miles and were nearing the edge of the suburban villas when he shook himself and shrugged. He lit his pipe, looking like a man who had convinced himself he was doing the best he could.

“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door.”

“You have a wonderful gift for keeping quiet, Watson,” he said. “It makes you invaluable as a companion. Honestly, it is a great comfort to have someone to talk to, because my own thoughts are not very pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman tonight when she meets me at the door.”

“You forget that I know nothing about it.”

“I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.”

“I’ll just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we reach Lee. It seems absurdly simple, but somehow I have nothing to go on. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get hold of the end. Now, I’ll explain the case clearly and briefly, Watson. Maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.”

“Proceed, then.”

“Go on, then.”

“Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £ 88 10s., while he has £ 220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

“Some years ago, in May 1884 to be exact, a gentleman named Neville St. Clair came to Lee. He seemed to have plenty of money. He rented a large villa, had the grounds nicely landscaped, and generally lived in style. Gradually, he made friends in the neighbourhood. In 1887, he married the daughter of a local brewer, and they now have two children. He had no job, but had interests in several companies. He usually went into town in the morning and returned every night on the 5:14 train from Cannon Street. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven. He has moderate habits, is a good husband and a very affectionate father, and is popular with everyone who knows him. I should add that, as far as we have been able to find out, his total debts currently amount to £88 10s. He also has £220 in his account at the Capital and Counties Bank. There is therefore no reason to think that money troubles have been weighing on his mind.

“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company’s office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?”

“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town earlier than usual. Before he left, he said he had two important errands to run. He also said he would bring his little boy a box of bricks. By pure chance, his wife received a telegram that same Monday, shortly after he left. It said that a small, valuable parcel she had been expecting was waiting at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. If you know London well, you will know that the company’s office is in Fresno Street. Fresno Street branches off Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me tonight. Mrs. St. Clair had lunch, went to the City, and did some shopping. She then went to the company’s office and collected her parcel. At exactly 4:35, she found herself walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?”

“It is very clear.”

“If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

“If you remember, Monday was an extremely hot day. Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, looking around for a cab because she disliked the neighborhood. As she walked down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard a shout or cry. She froze when she saw her husband looking down at her from a second-floor window. He seemed to be beckoning to her. The window was open, and she could clearly see his face. She said he looked terribly distressed. He waved his hands frantically at her, then vanished from the window. He disappeared so suddenly that she thought some irresistible force had pulled him back from behind. One unusual detail caught her quick feminine eye. Although he wore a dark coat like the one he had worn to town, he had neither a collar nor a necktie on.

“Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps—for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night—and running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children’s bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home.

“Convinced that something was wrong with him, she rushed down the steps. The house was the very opium den where you found me tonight. She ran through the front room and tried to climb the stairs to the first floor. But at the foot of the stairs she met the Lascar scoundrel I mentioned. He pushed her back, and with the help of a Dane who worked there as an assistant, pushed her into the street. Distraught with doubt and fear, she rushed down the lane. By great good fortune, she met several constables and an inspector in Fresno Street. They were all on their way to patrol their beat. The inspector and two constables went back with her. Despite the proprietor’s continued resistance, they made their way to the room where Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, the only person they found on the entire floor was a crippled man with a hideous appearance. It seemed that he lived there. He and the Lascar both firmly swore that no one else had been in the front room that afternoon. They denied it so forcefully that the inspector was shaken. He had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had imagined it. Then, with a cry, she sprang at a small pine box on the table and tore off the lid. A cascade of children’s bricks fell out. It was the toy her husband had promised to bring home.

“This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

“This discovery, and the cripple’s obvious confusion, made the inspector realize that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully searched, and everything pointed to a dreadful crime. The front room was simply furnished as a sitting room. It led to a small bedroom overlooking the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window was a narrow strip of ground. It was dry at low tide but covered by at least four and a half feet of water at high tide. The bedroom window was wide and opened from the bottom. The inspection revealed traces of blood on the windowsill and several scattered drops on the bedroom’s wooden floor. All of Mr. Neville St. Clair’s clothes, except his coat, had been pushed behind a curtain in the front room. His boots, socks, hat, and watch were all there. None of the clothes showed signs of violence, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. He must apparently have gone out through the window, since no other exit could be found. The ominous bloodstains on the sill gave little hope that he had saved himself by swimming. The tide was at its very highest when the tragedy occurred.

“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman’s clothes.

“And now for the villains who seemed to be directly involved in the matter. The Lascar was known to have a thoroughly vile past. But according to Mrs. St. Clair, he was at the foot of the stairs within seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window. So he could hardly have been more than an accomplice to the crime. In his defence, he claimed to know nothing at all. He insisted that he knew nothing of what his lodger, Hugh Boone, had been doing. He also said he could not explain why the missing gentleman’s clothes were there.

“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest.”

“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives on the second floor of the opium den. He was certainly the last human being to see Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is familiar to everyone who often visits the City. He is a professional beggar, though he pretends to sell a few wax matches to avoid police regulations. “A short way down Threadneedle Street, on the left, there is a small corner in the wall. You may have noticed it. This creature sits there every day, cross-legged, with his small stock of matches on his lap. Because he is such a pitiful sight, a small shower of donations falls into the greasy leather cap beside him. I had watched the fellow more than once, long before I thought of meeting him professionally. I was surprised by how much he collected in a short time. “His appearance, you see, is so striking that no one can pass him without noticing him. He has a shock of orange hair and a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar. The scar has tightened, pulling up the outer edge of his upper lip. He has a bulldog chin and a pair of very piercing dark eyes that contrast strangely with his hair color. All this sets him apart from the usual crowd of beggars. So does his wit. He is always ready with a reply to any teasing from passersby. We now know that this man was the lodger at the opium den. He was also the last man to see the gentleman we are looking for.”

“But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?”

“But he was disabled!” I said. “What could he have done alone against a man in his prime?”

“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.”

“He has a limp, but otherwise he seems strong and well-fed. Surely your medical experience tells you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often offset by exceptional strength in the others.”

“Pray continue your narrative.”

“Please continue your story.”

“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.

“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of blood on the window. The police took her home in a cab because she could not help with their investigation. Inspector Barton, who was in charge of the case, examined the premises very carefully. But he found nothing that shed light on the matter. The police had made one mistake by not arresting Boone immediately. They had allowed him a few minutes in which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar. But they soon corrected this mistake, seizing and searching Boone. They found nothing that could incriminate him. There were some bloodstains on his right shirt sleeve. But he pointed to a cut near the nail of his ring finger and said that it had bled. He added that he had been to the window not long before. He said the stains found there had undoubtedly come from the same cut. He strongly denied ever having seen Mr. Neville St. Clair. He swore that the clothes in his room were as much a mystery to him as to the police. Mrs. St. Clair claimed that she had actually seen her husband at the window. Boone declared that she must have been mad or dreaming. He was taken to the police station, loudly protesting. The inspector stayed on the premises, hoping that the falling tide might provide a fresh clue.

“And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the pockets?”

“And it did, though they hardly found what they had feared on the mudbank. As the tide went out, it uncovered Neville St. Clair’s coat, not Neville St. Clair himself. And what do you think they found in the pockets?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“I can't imagine.”

“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.”

“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket was stuffed with pennies and half-pennies: 421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder the coat had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a powerful whirlpool between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely that the weighted coat had stayed there while the stripped body was sucked into the river.”

“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?”

“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body have been wearing only a coat?”

“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat’s sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.”

“No, sir, but the facts could be given a plausible explanation. Suppose this man Boone had pushed Neville St. Clair through the window. No one could have seen him do it. What would he do then? Of course, he would immediately realize that he must get rid of the incriminating clothes. He would grab the coat and start to throw it out, then realize that it would float rather than sink. He has little time. He has heard the struggle downstairs as the wife tried to force her way up. Perhaps his Lascar accomplice has already told him that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not a moment to lose. He rushes to a secret hoard where he has stored the proceeds of his begging. He stuffs every coin he can find into the pockets to make sure the coat sinks. He throws it out. He would have done the same with the other clothes, but he heard footsteps rushing up from below. He had only just enough time to close the window before the police appeared.”

“It certainly sounds feasible.”

“It certainly sounds possible.”

“Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved—what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.”

“Well, we will use that as a working theory for lack of a better one. As I told you, Boone was arrested and taken to the police station. But there was no evidence that he had ever been in trouble before. He had been known as a professional beggar for years, but his life seemed to have been quiet and innocent. That is where matters stand now. The questions we need to answer remain as far from being solved as ever. What was Neville St. Clair doing in the opium den? What happened to him there? Where is he now? And what did Hugh Boone have to do with his disappearance? I must admit that I cannot recall a case in my experience that seemed so simple at first, yet proved so difficult.”

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

While Sherlock Holmes described this strange series of events, we sped through the outskirts of the great town. We left the last scattered houses behind and rattled along with country hedges on either side. Just as Holmes finished, however, we drove through two villages with scattered houses. A few lights still glimmered in the windows.

“We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse’s feet.”

“We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “On our short drive, we have passed through three English counties. We started in Middlesex, crossed a corner of Surrey, and ended in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars. A woman sits beside that lamp, listening anxiously. I have little doubt she has already heard the clink of our horse’s hooves.”

“But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” I asked.

“But why aren't you working on the case from Baker Street?” I asked.

“Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”

“Because there are many questions to look into out here. Mrs. St. Clair has kindly given me two rooms. You can be sure she will welcome my friend and colleague. I hate to see her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.

We had stopped in front of a large villa set in its own grounds. A stable boy ran out to hold the horse. I jumped down and followed Holmes up the short, winding gravel driveway to the house. As we approached, the door flew open. A petite blonde woman stood in the doorway, wearing some kind of light silk muslin, with fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. Her figure was outlined against the flood of light. She had one hand on the door and the other half raised in eagerness. Her body was bent slightly forward, and she leaned out, her eyes eager and her lips parted. She looked like a question waiting to be answered.

“Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“Well?” she cried, “well?” Then she saw there were two of us and cried out hopefully. But her cry turned into a groan when she saw my companion shake his head and shrug.

“No good news?”

“None.”

“No bad?”

“Not bad?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a long day.”

“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be tired because you’ve had a long day.”

“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation.”

“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been invaluable to me in several cases. By a lucky chance, I was able to bring him along and involve him in this investigation.”

“I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly. “You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us.”

“I’m delighted to see you,” she said, pressing my hand warmly. “I’m sure you’ll forgive any shortcomings in our arrangements, given the sudden blow that has struck us.”

“My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy.”

“My dear madam,” I said, “I am an experienced soldier. Even if I weren't, I can see quite clearly that no apology is needed. If I can help you or my friend here in any way, I would be very happy to do so.”

“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, “I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.”

“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining room. A cold supper had been laid out on the table. “I’d like to ask you one or two straightforward questions, and I ask you to give me straightforward answers.”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”

“Don't worry about my feelings. I'm not hysterical, and I'm not prone to fainting. I just want to hear your real, real opinion.”

“Upon what point?”

“On what point?”

“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”

“Deep down, do you think Neville is alive?”

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly, now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

Sherlock Holmes seemed embarrassed by the question. “Honestly, now!” she repeated. She stood on the rug, looking intently down at him as he leaned back in a wicker chair.

“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”

“Honestly, ma’am, I don’t.”

“You think that he is dead?”

“You think he’s dead?”

“I do.”

“Murdered?”

“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”

“I’m not saying that. Perhaps.”

“And on what day did he meet his death?”

“And what day did he die?”

“On Monday.”

“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day.”

“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you can explain why I received a letter from him today.”

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been given an electric shock.

“What!” he roared.

“Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air.

“Yes, today.” She stood smiling, holding up a small slip of paper.

“May I see it?”

“Certainly.”

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.

He eagerly snatched it from her and smoothed it out on the table. He pulled the lamp closer and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was looking at it over his shoulder. The envelope was very coarse and bore a Gravesend postmark dated that very day. Or rather, it was dated the day before, since it was well after midnight.

“Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your husband’s writing, madam.”

“Rough handwriting,” Holmes murmured. “Surely this isn't your husband's handwriting, ma'am.”

“No, but the enclosure is.”

“I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.”

“I can also see that whoever addressed the envelope had to ask for the address.”

“How can you tell that?”

“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!”

“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink that dried on its own. The rest is grayish, which shows that blotting paper was used. If it had all been written at once and then blotted, none of it would be deep black. This man wrote the name, then paused before writing the address. That can only mean he wasn’t familiar with the address. It’s a small detail, of course, but nothing is as important as small details. Now let’s look at the letter. Ha! Something was enclosed with it!”

“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”

“Yes, there was a ring. His signet ring.”

“And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”

“And are you sure this is your husband’s handwriting?”

“One of his hands.”

“One?”

“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well.”

“His handwriting when he wrote quickly. It is very different from his usual writing, but I know it well.”

“‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”

“‘Dearest, don’t be frightened. Everything will turn out well. There has been a huge mistake, and it may take some time to put it right. Please be patient. NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil on the blank page of a book. The page is octavo size and has no watermark. Hmm! Posted today in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And unless I am very much mistaken, someone who had been chewing tobacco sealed the flap. And you have no doubt that this is your husband’s handwriting, madam?”

“None. Neville wrote those words.”

“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.”

“And they were mailed today in Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, things are looking brighter, though I would not say the danger is over.”

“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”

“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”

“Unless this is a clever forgery meant to mislead us. The ring proves nothing, after all. It may have been taken from him.”

“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”

“No, no, it is, it is his own handwriting!”

“Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day.”

“All right. But it may have been written on Monday and only mailed today.”

“That is possible.”

“If so, much may have happened between.”

“If so, a lot may have happened in between.”

“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?”

“Oh, please don't discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. We are so closely connected that I would know if anything bad happened to him. On the very day I last saw him, he cut himself in the bedroom. I was in the dining room, but I rushed upstairs immediately, certain that something had happened. Do you think I would sense such a small thing and not know if he had died?”

“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?”

“I have seen enough to know that a woman’s impression may be more valuable than an analytical thinker’s conclusion. And this letter is certainly strong evidence to support your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why would he stay away from you?”

“I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.”

“I can't imagine it. It's unthinkable.”

“And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?”

“And on Monday, he didn’t say anything before leaving you?”

“No.”

“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”

“And were you surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”

“Very much so.”

“Was the window open?”

“Yes.”

“Then he might have called to you?”

“Then he might have called out to you?”

“He might.”

“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”

“As I understand it, he only cried out without saying anything?”

“Yes.”

“A call for help, you thought?”

“You thought it was a call for help?”

“Yes. He waved his hands.”

“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?”

“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Could seeing you unexpectedly have startled him into throwing up his hands?”

“It is possible.”

“And you thought he was pulled back?”

“He disappeared so suddenly.”

“He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”

“He might have jumped back. Didn’t you see anyone else in the room?”

“No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.”

“No, but this horrible man admitted he had been there, and the Lascar was at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?”

“Right. As far as you could see, was your husband wearing his usual clothes?”

“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”

“But he wasn't wearing his collar or tie. I clearly saw his bare throat.”

“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”

“Had he ever mentioned Swandam Lane?”

“Never.”

“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”

“Had he ever shown any signs of having taken opium?”

“Never.”

“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.”

“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the main points I wanted to be absolutely clear about. Now we’ll have a little supper and then go to bed, since we may have a very busy day tomorrow.”

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

A large, comfortable room with two beds had been made available to us. I was soon between the sheets, tired after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes, however, could go for days, even a week, without rest when he had an unsolved problem on his mind. He would turn it over, rearrange the facts, and examine it from every angle. He would continue until he had solved it or convinced himself that he lacked enough information. It soon became clear that he was preparing to stay up all night. He took off his coat and waistcoat and put on a large blue dressing gown. Then he wandered around the room, collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. He used these to make a kind of Eastern divan, on which he sat cross-legged. He laid an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches in front of him. In the dim lamplight, I watched him sitting there with an old briar pipe between his lips. His eyes stared blankly at a corner of the ceiling, and blue smoke curled up around him. He was silent and motionless, the light shining on his strong, hawk-like features. He was still sitting there as I fell asleep. A sudden exclamation woke me, and I found the summer sun shining into the room. He was sitting just as before, with the pipe still between his lips and smoke still curling upward. The room was thick with tobacco smoke, but nothing remained of the pile of shag tobacco I had seen the night before.

“Awake, Watson?” he asked.

“Are you awake, Watson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Game for a morning drive?”

“Up for a morning drive?”

“Certainly.”

“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

“Then get dressed. No one is awake yet, but I know where the stable boy sleeps. We’ll soon have the carriage ready.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkling. He seemed like a different man from the gloomy thinker of the night before.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.

As I got dressed, I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder no one was awake. It was 4:25. I had hardly finished dressing when Holmes returned. He said the boy was harnessing the horse.

“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”

“I want to test a little theory of mine,” he said, pulling on his boots. “Watson, I think you are standing in front of one of the biggest fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked all the way from here to Charing Cross. But I think I understand the case now.”

“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.

“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”

“In the bathroom,” he answered. Seeing my doubtful look, he continued, “Oh, yes, I’m not joking. I just went there and took it out. I have it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and let’s see if it fits the lock.”

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.

We went downstairs as quietly as possible and stepped out into the bright morning sunshine. Our horse and carriage stood in the road. The half-dressed stable boy was waiting by the horse's head. We both jumped in and raced down the London Road. A few country carts were out, carrying vegetables into the city. But the rows of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as a city in a dream.

“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”

“In some ways, this has been a strange case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse into a gallop. “I admit I have been as blind as a mole. But it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.

As we drove through the streets on the Surrey side of town, early risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows. We went down Waterloo Bridge Road and crossed the river. Then we raced up Wellington Street, turned sharply right, and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the police, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One held the horse’s head while the other led us inside.

“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.

“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”

“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.”

“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stone-paved passage. He wore a peaked cap and a jacket with braided fastenings. “I’d like to speak with you in private, Bradstreet.”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Come into my room here.”

It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

It was a small room that looked like an office. A huge ledger lay on the table, and a telephone jutted out from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”

“I called about that beggar, Boone. He was charged with involvement in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair of Lee.”

“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”

“Yes. He was brought before the court and remanded for further investigation.”

“So I heard. You have him here?”

“I heard that. Is he here?”

“In the cells.”

“Is he quiet?”

“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”

“Oh, he doesn't cause any trouble. But he's a dirty scoundrel.”

“Dirty?”

“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it.”

“Yes, we can barely get him to wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s. Well, once his case is settled, he’ll have a proper prison bath. And I think if you saw him, you’d agree that he needed one.”

“I should like to see him very much.”

“I would really like to see him.”

“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag.”

“Would you? That’s easy to do. Come this way. You can leave your bag.”

“No, I think that I’ll take it.”

“No, I think I’ll take it.”

“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

“Very well. Please come this way.” He led us down a passage and opened a barred door. He went down a winding staircase and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with doors on both sides.

“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.

“The third one on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly slid open a panel near the top of the door and glanced through.

“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”

“He is asleep,” he said. “You can see him very well.”

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

We both looked through the grating. The prisoner lay facing us, deeply asleep and breathing slowly and heavily. He was a medium-sized man, dressed in rough clothes suited to his occupation. A colored shirt showed through a tear in his ragged coat. As the inspector had said, he was extremely dirty. But the grime covering his face could not hide its repulsive ugliness. A broad ridge from an old scar ran across his face from eye to chin. It had tightened and pulled up one side of his upper lip, exposing three teeth in a permanent snarl. A thick mass of bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.

“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

“He certainly needs a wash,” said Holmes. “I thought he might, so I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” As he spoke, he opened the Gladstone bag and took out a very large bath sponge, much to my astonishment.

“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.

“Heh, heh! You’re a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.

“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.”

“Now, if you would be kind enough to open that door very quietly, we’ll soon make him look much more respectable.”

“Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?” He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.

“Well, I don’t see why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t reflect well on the Bow Street cells, does he?” He put his key in the lock, and we all entered the cell very quietly. The sleeping man turned slightly, then settled back into a deep sleep. Holmes bent over the water jug and wet his sponge. Then he rubbed it vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face twice.

“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent.”

“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, from Lee, Kent.”

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off under the sponge like bark from a tree. The coarse brown color was gone! So was the horrible scar across his face, and the twisted lip that had given him a repulsive sneer! A tug pulled off his tangled red hair. There, sitting up in bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man with black hair and smooth skin. He rubbed his eyes and stared around him in sleepy confusion. Then he suddenly realized he had been exposed. He screamed and threw himself down with his face against the pillow.

“Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the photograph.”

“My God!” cried the inspector. “It really is the missing man. I recognize him from the photograph.”

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?”

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man surrendering to his fate. “So be it,” he said. “And what am I charged with?”

“With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake.”

“With killing Mr. Neville St. Oh, come on, you can’t be charged with that unless they call it attempted suicide,” said the inspector with a grin. “Well, I’ve been on the force for twenty-seven years, but this really takes the cake.”

“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.”

“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then clearly no crime has been committed. So I am being held illegally.”

“No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes. “You would have done better to have trusted your wife.”

“No crime has been committed, but a very serious mistake has been made,” said Holmes. “You should have trusted your wife.”

“It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure! What can I do?”

“It wasn't my wife. It was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God help me, I couldn't bear to have them ashamed of their father. My God! What a disgrace! What can I do?”

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and gently patted his shoulder.

“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.”

“If you leave it to a court to clear up the matter,” he said, “you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, you could convince the police that there is no possible case against you. If you do, I see no reason why the details should reach the newspapers. I am sure Inspector Bradstreet would take notes on anything you tell us. He would then submit those notes to the proper authorities. The case would never go to court at all.”

“God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

“God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have gone to prison, even faced execution, rather than leave my children with the shame of my miserable secret.

“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26s. 4d.

“You are the first person ever to hear my story. My father was a schoolteacher in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I traveled when I was young, became an actor, and finally became a reporter for a London evening newspaper. One day, my editor wanted a series of articles about begging in London, and I volunteered to write them. That was where all my adventures began. The only way I could get the facts for my articles was to try begging myself. As an actor, I had learned all the secrets of makeup. I had been famous among my fellow actors for my skill. Now I put those skills to use. I painted my face and made a convincing scar to look as pitiful as possible. I also used a small strip of flesh-colored plaster to hold one side of my lip in a twist. Then I put on a red wig and suitable clothes and took my place in the city’s business district. I pretended to sell matches, but I was really begging. I worked at it for seven hours. When I returned home that evening, I was surprised to find that I had received no less than 26s. 4d.

“I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for £ 25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

“I wrote my articles and thought little more about it. Some time later, I guaranteed a friend’s debt and was served with a legal claim for £25. I had no idea where to get the money, but then an idea came to me. I begged the creditor to give me two weeks to pay and asked my employers for time off. I spent that time begging in the City in disguise. In ten days, I had the money and paid the debt.

“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at £ 2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.

“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to demanding work for £2 a week. I knew I could earn that much in a day. All I had to do was smear some paint on my face, put my cap on the ground, and sit still. My pride fought a long battle with the money, but the dollars won in the end. I gave up reporting and sat day after day in the corner I had first chosen. My ghastly face stirred people’s pity, and I filled my pockets with copper coins. Only one man knew my secret. He ran a shabby establishment where I used to lodge in Swandam Lane. Each morning, I could come out looking like a filthy beggar. In the evenings, I could turn myself into a well-dressed man about town. I paid this fellow, a Lascar, well for his rooms, so I knew he would keep my secret.

“Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £ 700 a year—which is less than my average takings—but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take £ 2.

“Well, I soon found that I was saving a lot of money. I don't mean that just any beggar on the streets of London could earn £700 a year. That was less than I earned on average. But I had special advantages: I was skilled at applying makeup, and I was quick with a witty reply. My wit improved with practice, and I became quite a well-known character in the City. All day, pennies poured in, with the occasional silver coin. It was a very bad day if I failed to take £2.

“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what.

“As I grew richer, I became more ambitious. I rented a house in the country and eventually married. No one suspected what I really did for a living. My dear wife knew I had business in the City. She had little idea what that business was.

“Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

“Last Monday, I had finished for the day and was getting dressed in my room above the opium den. I looked out of the window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, my wife standing in the street. Her eyes were fixed directly on me. I cried out in surprise and threw up my arms to cover my face. Then I rushed to my confidant, the Lascar, and begged him to stop anyone from coming up to my room. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew she could not come up. I quickly took off my clothes, put on a beggar’s clothes, and applied my makeup and wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not see through such a complete disguise. But then I realized that someone might search the room and that my clothes might give me away. I threw open the window so violently that I reopened a small cut I had given myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I grabbed my coat. It was weighed down by the copper coins I had just moved into it from the leather bag where I carried my takings. I hurled the coat out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. I would have thrown the other clothes out too, but at that moment constables rushed up the stairs. A few minutes later, I found that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was under arrest for his murder. I confess I was rather relieved.

“I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.”

“I don't think there's anything else I need to explain. I was determined to keep my disguise as long as possible, so I preferred to keep my face dirty. I knew my wife would be terribly worried. So, when no police officer was watching, I slipped off my ring and gave it to the Lascar. I also gave him a hurried note telling her she had nothing to fear.”

“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.

“Good God! What a week she must have spent!”

“Good God! What a week she must have had!”

“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days.”

“The police have been watching this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet. “I can understand why he might find it hard to mail a letter without being seen. He probably gave it to a sailor who was a customer of his. The sailor forgot about it for a few days.”

“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”

“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly. “I’m sure of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”

“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”

“Many times, but why should I care about a fine?”

“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”

“However, it must stop here,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to cover this up, there must be no more Hugh Boone.”

“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”

“I have sworn it by the most serious oaths a man can take.”

“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.”

“In that case, I think it is likely that no further action will be taken. But if you are found again, everything must come out. Mr. Holmes, I am sure we are very grateful to you for clearing up the matter. I wish I knew how you arrive at your conclusions.”

“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.”

“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting on five pillows and smoking an ounce of tobacco. Watson, I think if we drive to Baker Street, we’ll be just in time for breakfast.”