


      It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of
      the winter of ’97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my
      shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his
      eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was
      amiss.

      “Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word!
      Into your clothes and come!”

      Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the
      silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first
      faint winter’s dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly
      see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us,
      blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes
      nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the
      same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken
      our fast.

      It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and
      taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently
      thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his
      pocket, and read aloud:

      Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent, 3:30 A.M.
      MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

      I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what
      promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in
      your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that
      everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not
      to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace
      there.

      Yours faithfully,
      STANLEY HOPKINS.

      “Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
      summons has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that
      every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,
      and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,
      which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your
      fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a
      story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what might
      have been an instructive and even classical series of
      demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
      delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
      excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”

      “Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some
      bitterness.

      “I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,
      fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
      composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
      detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
      case of murder.”

      “You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

      “I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows considerable agitation,
      and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been
      violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere
      suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to the
      release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in
      her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life, Watson,
      crackling paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque
      address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his
      reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
      crime was committed before twelve last night.”

      “How can you possibly tell?”

      “By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The
      local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with
      Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send
      for me. All that makes a fair night’s work. Well, here we are at
      Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest.”

      A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought
      us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
      lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
      great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between
      lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
      pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part
      was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large
      windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one
      wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful
      figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins
      confronted us in the open doorway.

      “I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr.
      Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not
      have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she
      has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not
      much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of
      burglars?”

      “What, the three Randalls?”

      “Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their work. I have not a
      doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were
      seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so
      near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It’s a hanging matter
      this time.”

      “Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

      “Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

      “Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”

      “Exactly—one of the richest men in Kent—Lady Brackenstall is in
      the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
      experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think
      you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we
      will examine the dining-room together.”

      Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so
      graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a
      face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no
      doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such
      colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and
      haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over
      one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a
      tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and
      water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her quick,
      observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression
      of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her
      courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was
      enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a
      black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

      “I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said,
      wearily. “Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it
      necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they
      been in the dining-room yet?”

      “I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.”

      “I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to
      me to think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried
      her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back
      from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

      “You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red
      spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily
      covered it.

      “It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
      to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you
      all I can.

      “I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married
      about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
      conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that
      all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt
      to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought
      up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,
      and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is
      not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact,
      which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was
      a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is
      unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and
      high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
      sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is
      binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a
      curse upon the land—God will not let such wickedness endure.” For
      an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing
      from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong,
      soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the
      cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At
      last she continued:

      “I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that
      in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This
      central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
      behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my
      room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who
      are in the farther wing. This must have been well-known to the
      robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

      “Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had
      already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had
      remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her
      services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
      book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went
      upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have
      explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into
      the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the gun-room, the
      billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As
      I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I
      suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was
      open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face
      with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped into
      the room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a
      door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my
      hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others,
      who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow
      was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
      by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a
      savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the
      ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when
      I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the bell-rope,
      and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair which stands at the
      head of the dining-table. I was so firmly bound that I could not
      move, and a handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from
      uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortunate
      husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some suspicious
      sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. He was
      dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
      cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another—it was
      an elderly man—stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and
      struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and
      never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only
      have been for a very few minutes during which I was insensible.
      When I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver
      from the sideboard, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which
      stood there. Each of them had a glass in his hand. I have already
      told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the
      others young, hairless lads. They might have been a father with
      his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then they came
      over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally they
      withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter
      of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams
      brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon
      alarmed, and we sent for the local police, who instantly
      communicated with London. That is really all that I can tell you,
      gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go
      over so painful a story again.”

      “Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

      “I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall’s
      patience and time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the
      dining-room, I should like to hear your experience.” He looked at
      the maid.

      “I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she.
      “As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight
      down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the
      time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my mistress
      scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as she says,
      and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over the room. It
      was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied there, and her
      very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted courage, did
      Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey
      Grange hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned her long
      enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,
      just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”

      With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
      mistress and led her from the room.

      “She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her
      as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left
      Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and
      the kind of maid you don’t pick up nowadays. This way, Mr.
      Holmes, if you please!”

      The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s expressive face, and
      I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had
      departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what
      were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands with
      them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has
      been called in for a case of measles would experience something
      of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s eyes. Yet the scene
      in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange
      to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest.

      It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,
      oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer’s heads and ancient
      weapons around the walls. At the further end from the door was
      the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller
      windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold
      winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a
      massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was a
      heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom. In and
      out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was
      secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the
      lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which
      it had been secured still remained. These details only struck our
      attention afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by
      the terrible object which lay upon the tigerskin hearthrug in
      front of the fire.

      It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of
      age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white
      teeth grinning through his short, black beard. His two clenched
      hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick
      lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were
      convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his
      dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently
      been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a
      foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from
      his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room
      bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck
      him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by
      the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable
      wreck which it had wrought.

      “He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

      “Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is
      a rough customer.”

      “You should have no difficulty in getting him.”

      “Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and
      there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we
      know that the gang are here, I don’t see how they can escape. We
      have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be
      offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have done
      so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them and
      that we could not fail to recognize the description.”

      “Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence Lady
      Brackenstall as well.”

      “They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had
      recovered from her faint.”

      “That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would
      not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem
      to have heard some queer stories about him.”

      “He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend
      when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he
      seldom really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him
      at such times, and he was capable of anything. From what I hear,
      in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly came our
      way once or twice. There was a scandal about his drenching a dog
      with petroleum and setting it on fire—her ladyship’s dog, to make
      the matter worse—and that was only hushed up with difficulty.
      Then he threw a decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright—there was
      trouble about that. On the whole, and between ourselves, it will
      be a brighter house without him. What are you looking at now?”

      Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the
      knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured.
      Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it
      had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

      “When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have
      rung loudly,” he remarked.

      “No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of
      the house.”

      “How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull
      at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”

      “Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I
      have asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that
      this fellow must have known the house and its habits. He must
      have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed
      at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly
      hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in
      close league with one of the servants. Surely that is evident.
      But there are eight servants, and all of good character.”

      “Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the
      one at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would
      involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems
      devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have
      Randall you will probably find no difficulty in securing his
      accomplice. The lady’s story certainly seems to be corroborated,
      if it needed corroboration, by every detail which we see before
      us.” He walked to the French window and threw it open. “There are
      no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one would not
      expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece have
      been lighted.”

      “Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady’s bedroom
      candle, that the burglars saw their way about.”

      “And what did they take?”

      “Well, they did not take much—only half a dozen articles of plate
      off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were
      themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did
      not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done.”

      “No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I
      understand.”

      “To steady their nerves.”

      “Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been
      untouched, I suppose?”

      “Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it.”

      “Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?”

      The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with
      wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The
      bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a
      long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the
      bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers
      had enjoyed.

      A change had come over Holmes’s manner. He had lost his listless
      expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his
      keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

      “How did they draw it?” he asked.

      Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table
      linen and a large corkscrew.

      “Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”

      “No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the
      bottle was opened.”

      “Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was _not_ used. This
      bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a
      knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will
      examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was
      driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has never
      been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it and
      drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow, you
      will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his
      possession.”

      “Excellent!” said Hopkins.

      “But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall
      actually _saw_ the three men drinking, did she not?”

      “Yes; she was clear about that.”

      “Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet,
      you must admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable,
      Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it
      pass. Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special
      powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex
      explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be
      a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins. I
      don’t see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to have
      your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
      arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust
      that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful
      conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves
      more profitably at home.”

      During our return journey, I could see by Holmes’s face that he
      was much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now
      and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression, and
      talk as if the matter were clear, but then his doubts would
      settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted
      eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the
      great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this midnight
      tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as
      our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on to
      the platform and pulled me out after him.

      “Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear
      carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, “I am sorry to
      make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life,
      Watson, I simply _can’t_ leave that case in this condition. Every
      instinct that I possess cries out against it. It’s wrong—it’s all
      wrong—I’ll swear that it’s wrong. And yet the lady’s story was
      complete, the maid’s corroboration was sufficient, the detail was
      fairly exact. What have I to put up against that? Three
      wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things for
      granted, if I had examined everything with the care which I
      should have shown had we approached the case _de novo_ and had no
      cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have found
      something more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down
      on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst arrives, and
      allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring you in the
      first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea that anything
      which the maid or her mistress may have said must necessarily be
      true. The lady’s charming personality must not be permitted to
      warp our judgment.

      “Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in
      cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
      considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of
      them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
      naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
      imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,
      burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,
      only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
      embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
      for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
      burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
      would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
      unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
      sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
      content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
      their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual
      for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
      unusuals strike you, Watson?”

      “Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each
      of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of
      all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the
      chair.”

      “Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
      that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way
      that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at
      any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain
      element of improbability about the lady’s story? And now, on the
      top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses.”

      “What about the wineglasses?”

      “Can you see them in your mind’s eye?”

      “I see them clearly.”

      “We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you
      as likely?”

      “Why not? There was wine in each glass.”

      “Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have
      noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

      “The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing.”

      “Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
      that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily
      charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only
      two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was
      violently agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing.
      That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am
      right.”

      “What, then, do you suppose?”

      “That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were
      poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression
      that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing
      would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced
      that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of
      this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from
      the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only
      mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied
      to us, that not one word of their story is to be believed, that
      they have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal,
      and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any
      help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and
      here, Watson, is the Sydenham train.”

      The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our
      return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had
      gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
      dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself
      for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations
      which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of
      deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested
      student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I
      followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
      curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope—each in turn was
      minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate
      baronet had been removed, and all else remained as we had seen it
      in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on
      to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few
      inches of red cord which were still attached to the wire. For a
      long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get
      nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the
      wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end
      of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself
      which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down
      with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

      “It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case—one of
      the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how
      slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
      blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing
      links, my chain is almost complete.”

      “You have got your men?”

      “Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong
      as a lion—witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three
      in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,
      finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story
      is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the
      handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that
      bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have left us a
      doubt.”

      “Where was the clue?”

      “Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would
      you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached
      to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as
      this one has done?”

      “Because it is frayed there?”

      “Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was
      cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is
      not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were
      on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without
      any mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred.
      The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of
      giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang
      up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on
      the bracket—you will see the impression in the dust—and so got
      his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by
      at least three inches—from which I infer that he is at least
      three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat
      of the oaken chair! What is it?”

      “Blood.”

      “Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady’s story out of
      court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done,
      how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair _after_
      the death of her husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a
      corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo,
      Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends
      in victory. I should like now to have a few words with the nurse,
      Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if we are to get the
      information which we want.”

      She was an interesting person, this stern Australian
      nurse—taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before
      Holmes’s pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she
      said thawed her into a corresponding amiability. She did not
      attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.

      “Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard
      him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
      dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that
      he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
      left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and
      she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he
      has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that
      you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come from a
      stab with a hatpin. The sly devil—God forgive me that I should
      speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if ever
      one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him—only
      eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen
      years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first
      voyage—she had never been from home before. He won her with his
      title and his money and his false London ways. If she made a
      mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did
      we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we arrived. We
      arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in January of
      last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room again, and I have
      no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of her,
      for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand.”

      Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
      brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began
      once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress’s brow.

      “I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine
      me again?”

      “No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause
      you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole
      desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that
      you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and
      trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “To tell me the truth.”

      “Mr. Holmes!”

      “No, no, Lady Brackenstall—it is no use. You may have heard of
      any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the
      fact that your story is an absolute fabrication.”

      Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
      frightened eyes.

      “You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say
      that my mistress has told a lie?”

      Holmes rose from his chair.

      “Have you nothing to tell me?”

      “I have told you everything.”

      “Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
      frank?”

      For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then
      some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

      “I have told you all I know.”

      Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he
      said, and without another word we left the room and the house.
      There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way.
      It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
      convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then
      passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for
      Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

      “It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
      something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,”
      said he. “I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I
      think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of
      the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall
      Mall, if I remember right. There is a second line of steamers
      which connect South Australia with England, but we will draw the
      larger cover first.”

      Holmes’s card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,
      and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed.
      In June of ’95, only one of their line had reached a home port.
      It was the _Rock of Gibraltar_, their largest and best boat. A
      reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of
      Adelaide, with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was
      now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia.
      Her officers were the same as in ’95, with one exception. The
      first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was
      to take charge of their new ship, the _Bass Rock_, sailing in two
      days’ time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was
      likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to
      wait for him.

      No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to
      know more about his record and character.

      His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet
      to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a
      wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship—hot-headed,
      excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith
      of the information with which Holmes left the office of the
      Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard,
      but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with his brows drawn
      down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove round to the
      Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message, and then, at
      last, we made for Baker Street once more.

      “No, I couldn’t do it, Watson,” said he, as we reentered our
      room. “Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would
      save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more
      real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done
      by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather play
      tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. Let
      us know a little more before we act.”

      Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins.
      Things were not going very well with him.

      “I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do
      sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how
      on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom
      of that pond?”

      “I didn’t know it.”

      “But you told me to examine it.”

      “You got it, then?”

      “Yes, I got it.”

      “I am very glad if I have helped you.”

      “But you haven’t helped me. You have made the affair far more
      difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and
      then throw it into the nearest pond?”

      “It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going
      on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did
      not want it—who merely took it for a blind, as it were—then they
      would naturally be anxious to get rid of it.”

      “But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

      “Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the
      French window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole
      in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a
      better hiding-place?”

      “Ah, a hiding-place—that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes,
      yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the
      roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they
      sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast
      was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes—that is better than your idea of
      a blind.”

      “Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that
      my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have
      ended in discovering the silver.”

      “Yes, sir—yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad
      setback.”

      “A setback?”

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this
      morning.”

      “Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory
      that they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

      “It is fatal, Mr. Holmes—absolutely fatal. Still, there are other
      gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang
      of which the police have never heard.”

      “Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the
      bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

      “I have given you one.”

      “Which?”

      “Well, I suggested a blind.”

      “But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”

      “Ah, that’s the question, of course. But I commend the idea to
      your mind. You might possibly find that there was something in
      it. You won’t stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know
      how you get on.”

      Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to
      the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet
      to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his
      watch.

      “I expect developments, Watson.”

      “When?”

      “Now—within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather
      badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?”

      “I trust your judgment.”

      “A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way:
      what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the
      right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all,
      or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not
      put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information
      until my own mind is clear upon the matter.”

      “But when will that be?”

      “The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of
      a remarkable little drama.”

      There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to
      admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He
      was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a
      skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step,
      which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was strong.
      He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with clenched
      hands and heaving breast, choking down some overmastering
      emotion.

      “Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?”

      Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the
      other of us with questioning eyes.

      “I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard
      that you had been down to the office. There was no getting away
      from you. Let’s hear the worst. What are you going to do with me?
      Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can’t sit there and play with me
      like a cat with a mouse.”

      “Give him a cigar,” said Holmes. “Bite on that, Captain Crocker,
      and don’t let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit
      here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common
      criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me and we may do
      some good. Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you.”

      “What do you wish me to do?”

      “To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey
      Grange last night—a _true_ account, mind you, with nothing added
      and nothing taken off. I know so much already that if you go one
      inch off the straight, I’ll blow this police whistle from my
      window and the affair goes out of my hands forever.”

      The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
      great sunburned hand.

      “I’ll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your
      word, and a white man, and I’ll tell you the whole story. But one
      thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret
      nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be
      proud of the job. Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a
      cat, he would owe them all to me! But it’s the lady, Mary—Mary
      Fraser—for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I
      think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just
      to bring one smile to her dear face, it’s that that turns my soul
      into water. And yet—and yet—what less could I do? I’ll tell you
      my story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask you, as man to man, what
      less could I do?

      “I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect
      that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was
      first officer of the _Rock of Gibraltar_. From the first day I
      met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I
      loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the
      darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship
      because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged
      to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I
      have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
      good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a
      free woman, but I could never again be a free man.

      “Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well,
      why shouldn’t she marry whom she liked? Title and money—who could
      carry them better than she? She was born for all that is
      beautiful and dainty. I didn’t grieve over her marriage. I was
      not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck
      had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a
      penniless sailor. That’s how I loved Mary Fraser.

      “Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
      promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait
      for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in
      a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me
      all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you,
      gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he
      should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not
      worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself—and
      met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the other day
      I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week,
      and I determined that I would see her once before I left. Theresa
      was always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain
      almost as much as I did. From her I learned the ways of the
      house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little room
      downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched at the
      window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
      know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the
      frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front
      window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the
      dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made my
      blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the
      woman I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just
      inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he
      rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest name
      that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across the face
      with the stick he had in his hand. I had sprung for the poker,
      and it was a fair fight between us. See here, on my arm, where
      his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through him
      as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry? Not
      I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was his
      life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this
      madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what
      would either of you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my
      position?

      “She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old
      Theresa down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on
      the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between Mary’s
      lips, for she was half dead with shock. Then I took a drop
      myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as much
      as mine. We must make it appear that burglars had done the thing.
      Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress, while I
      swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed her in her
      chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look
      natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could
      have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and
      pots of silver, to carry out the idea of the robbery, and there I
      left them, with orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of
      an hour’s start. I dropped the silver into the pond, and made off
      for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my life I had done a real
      good night’s work. And that’s the truth and the whole truth, Mr.
      Holmes, if it costs me my neck.”

      Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room,
      and shook our visitor by the hand.

      “That’s what I think,” said he. “I know that every word is true,
      for you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but
      an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from
      the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots
      with which the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had this
      lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was on her
      voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life, since she
      was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that she loved him.
      You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you when once
      I had started upon the right trail.”

      “I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge.”

      “And the police haven’t, nor will they, to the best of my belief.
      Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious matter,
      though I am willing to admit that you acted under the most
      extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected. I am not
      sure that in defence of your own life your action will not be
      pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British jury to
      decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you that, if you
      choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will promise
      you that no one will hinder you.”

      “And then it will all come out?”

      “Certainly it will come out.”

      The sailor flushed with anger.

      “What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of
      law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you
      think I would leave her alone to face the music while I slunk
      away? No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven’s
      sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out of
      the courts.”

      Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

      “I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it
      is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have
      given Hopkins an excellent hint and if he can’t avail himself of
      it I can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we’ll do this in
      due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British
      jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to
      represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you
      have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not
      guilty?”

      “Not guilty, my lord,” said I.

      “_Vox populi, vox Dei_. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So
      long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe from
      me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future and
      yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced this
      night!”





