


      It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was
      interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of
      the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable
      circumstances. The public has already learned those particulars
      of the crime which came out in the police investigation, but a
      good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for
      the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not
      necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end of
      nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links
      which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was
      of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me
      compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the
      greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.
      Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I
      think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,
      amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let
      me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those
      glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and
      actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame me
      if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have
      considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred by a
      positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn
      upon the third of last month.

      It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes
      had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his
      disappearance I never failed to read with care the various
      problems which came before the public. And I even attempted, more
      than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his methods
      in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was
      none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald
      Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a
      verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown,
      I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss which the
      community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There
      were points about this strange business which would, I was sure,
      have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police
      would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by
      the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal
      agent in Europe. All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned over
      the case in my mind and found no explanation which appeared to me
      to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I will
      recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the
      conclusion of the inquest.

      The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of
      Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian
      colonies. Adair’s mother had returned from Australia to undergo
      the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her
      daughter Hilda were living together at 427, Park Lane. The youth
      moved in the best society—had, so far as was known, no enemies
      and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith
      Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by
      mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it
      had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest, the
      man’s life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his
      habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon
      this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most strange
      and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty
      on the night of March 30, 1894.

      Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing continually, but never for
      such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin,
      the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that,
      after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of
      whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the
      afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him—Mr.
      Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran—showed that the game
      was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards.
      Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was
      a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect
      him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he
      was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in
      evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually
      won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some
      weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for
      his recent history as it came out at the inquest.

      On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at
      ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a
      relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front
      room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She
      had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window.
      No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of
      the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say
      good-night, she attempted to enter her son’s room. The door was
      locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries
      and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The
      unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head
      had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but
      no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table
      lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in
      silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying
      amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with
      the names of some club friends opposite to them, from which it
      was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to make
      out his losses or winnings at cards.

      A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the
      case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given
      why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside.
      There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and
      had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least
      twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay
      beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of
      having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow
      strip of grass which separated the house from the road.
      Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had
      fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No one could
      have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a
      man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable
      shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again,
      Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab stand
      within a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot. And
      yet there was the dead man and there the revolver bullet, which
      had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted
      a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the
      circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further
      complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said,
      young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had
      been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.

      All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit
      upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that
      line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be
      the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made
      little progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and
      found myself about six o’clock at the Oxford Street end of Park
      Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a
      particular window, directed me to the house which I had come to
      see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly
      suspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out
      some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen
      to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his
      observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in
      some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed
      man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books
      which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I
      observed the title of one of them, _The Origin of Tree Worship_,
      and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile,
      who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure
      volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was
      evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated
      were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a
      snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved
      back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

      My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the
      problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from
      the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than
      five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to
      get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,
      since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help the
      most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced
      my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes
      when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To
      my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book
      collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of
      white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,
      wedged under his right arm.

      “You’re surprised to see me, sir,” said he, in a strange,
      croaking voice.

      I acknowledged that I was.

      “Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go
      into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to
      myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell
      him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm
      meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my
      books.”

      “You make too much of a trifle,” said I. “May I ask how you knew
      who I was?”

      “Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of
      yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church
      Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect
      yourself, sir. Here’s _British Birds_, and _Catullus_, and _The
      Holy War_—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you
      could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy,
      does it not, sir?”

      I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned
      again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study
      table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter
      amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the
      first and the last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled
      before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone
      and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was
      bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

      “My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a
      thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

      I gripped him by the arms.

      “Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you
      are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of
      that awful abyss?”

      “Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are really fit
      to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my
      unnecessarily dramatic reappearance.”

      “I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my
      eyes. Good heavens! to think that you—you of all men—should be
      standing in my study.” Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and
      felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. “Well, you’re not a spirit
      anyhow,” said I. “My dear chap, I’m overjoyed to see you. Sit
      down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm.”

      He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant
      manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book
      merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white
      hair and old books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and
      keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his
      aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a
      healthy one.

      “I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he. “It is no joke
      when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several
      hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these
      explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard
      and dangerous night’s work in front of us. Perhaps it would be
      better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that
      work is finished.”

      “I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now.”

      “You’ll come with me to-night?”

      “When you like and where you like.”

      “This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a
      mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that
      chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the
      very simple reason that I never was in it.”

      “You never were in it?”

      “No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely
      genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my
      career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late
      Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to
      safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I
      exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his
      courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards
      received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I
      walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I
      reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed
      at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own
      game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We
      tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some
      knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of
      wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I
      slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked
      madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.
      But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he
      went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way.
      Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”

      I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes
      delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.

      “But the tracks!” I cried. “I saw, with my own eyes, that two
      went down the path and none returned.”

      “It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
      disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky
      chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not
      the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three
      others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased
      by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men.
      One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all
      the world was convinced that I was dead they would take
      liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and
      sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for
      me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So
      rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all
      out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the
      Reichenbach Fall.

      “I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your
      picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great
      interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer.
      That was not literally true. A few small footholds presented
      themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff
      is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and
      it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path
      without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed
      my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of
      three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
      suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I
      should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson.
      The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I
      give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty’s voice screaming
      at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More
      than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot
      slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was
      gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge
      several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could
      lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched,
      when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were
      investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the
      circumstances of my death.

      “At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally
      erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left
      alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my
      adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there
      were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from
      above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the
      chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a
      moment later, looking up, I saw a man’s head against the
      darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which
      I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning
      of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A
      confederate—and even that one glance had told me how dangerous a
      man that confederate was—had kept guard while the Professor had
      attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness
      of his friend’s death and of my escape. He had waited, and then
      making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured
      to succeed where his comrade had failed.

      “I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that
      grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the
      precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I
      don’t think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred
      times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think
      of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my
      hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by
      the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path.
      I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the
      darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the
      certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.

      “I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe you many
      apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it
      should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you
      would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end
      had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times
      during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to
      you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me
      should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my
      secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
      you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show
      of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention
      to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable
      results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to
      obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London
      did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty
      gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most
      vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in
      Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and
      spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the
      remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am
      sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news
      of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca,
      and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum
      the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office.
      Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the
      coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at
      Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my
      satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now
      left in London, I was about to return when my movements were
      hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
      which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed
      to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over
      at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw
      Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had
      preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been.
      So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o’clock to-day I found
      myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing
      that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair
      which he has so often adorned.”

      Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that
      April evening—a narrative which would have been utterly
      incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of
      the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had
      never thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my
      own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner
      rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to sorrow,
      my dear Watson,” said he; “and I have a piece of work for us both
      to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion,
      will in itself justify a man’s life on this planet.” In vain I
      begged him to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before
      morning,” he answered. “We have three years of the past to
      discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start
      upon the notable adventure of the empty house.”

      It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself
      seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the
      thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and
      silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere
      features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his
      thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to
      hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well
      assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the
      adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which
      occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good
      for the object of our quest.

      I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes
      stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed
      that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right
      and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the
      utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was
      certainly a singular one. Holmes’s knowledge of the byways of
      London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly
      and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,
      the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at last
      into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us
      into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he
      turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
      gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back
      door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.

      The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an
      empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare
      planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the
      paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes’s cold, thin fingers closed
      round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly
      saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly
      to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty
      room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the
      centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp
      near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only
      just discern each other’s figures within. My companion put his
      hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

      “Do you know where we are?” he whispered.

      “Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through the
      dim window.

      “Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our
      own old quarters.”

      “But why are we here?”

      “Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque
      pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little
      nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show
      yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms—the starting-point
      of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three
      years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise
      you.”

      I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my
      eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The
      blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The
      shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in
      hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There
      was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the
      shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned
      half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black
      silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
      perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out
      my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me.
      He was quivering with silent laughter.

      “Well?” said he.

      “Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”

      “I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite
      variety,” said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and
      pride which the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is
      rather like me, is it not?”

      “I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”

      “The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of
      Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust
      in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker
      Street this afternoon.”

      “But why?”

      “Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for
      wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was
      really elsewhere.”

      “And you thought the rooms were watched?”

      “I _knew_ that they were watched.”

      “By whom?”

      “By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader
      lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew,
      and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they
      believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them
      continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive.”

      “How do you know?”

      “Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my
      window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a
      garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the
      jew’s-harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for
      the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom
      friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff,
      the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the
      man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who is
      quite unaware that we are after _him_.”

      My friend’s plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this
      convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the
      trackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and
      we were the hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness
      and watched the hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front
      of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could tell that he
      was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the
      stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and boisterous night and the
      wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people were
      moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats and
      cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same
      figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared to
      be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house
      some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion’s
      attention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of
      impatience, and continued to stare into the street. More than
      once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his
      fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming
      uneasy, and that his plans were not working out altogether as he
      had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the street
      gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in
      uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him,
      when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again
      experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched
      Holmes’s arm, and pointed upward.

      “The shadow has moved!” I cried.

      It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was
      turned towards us.

      Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his
      temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his
      own.

      “Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler,
      Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that
      some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We
      have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some
      change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an
      hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never
      be seen. Ah!” He drew in his breath with a shrill, excited
      intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole
      attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street was absolutely
      deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the doorway,
      but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save only
      that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure
      outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that
      thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.
      An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of
      the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers
      which clutched me were quivering. Never had I known my friend
      more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched lonely and
      motionless before us.

      But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had
      already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not
      from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very
      house in which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An
      instant later steps crept down the passage—steps which were meant
      to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty
      house. Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did the same,
      my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through
      the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than
      the blackness of the open door. He stood for an instant, and then
      he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was
      within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced
      myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea
      of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the
      window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a
      foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of the
      street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his
      face. The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His
      two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working
      convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting
      nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An
      opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening
      dress shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face
      was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his
      hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it
      down upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the
      pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied
      himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if
      a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon
      the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength
      upon some lever, with the result that there came a long,
      whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click.
      He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his
      hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He
      opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the
      breech-lock. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the
      barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long
      moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered
      along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he
      cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw that amazing target,
      the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of
      his foresight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then
      his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud
      whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant
      Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman’s back, and hurled
      him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with
      convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck
      him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped
      again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my
      comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter
      of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform,
      with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front
      entrance and into the room.

      “That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It’s good to see you
      back in London, sir.”

      “I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected
      murders in one year won’t do, Lestrade. But you handled the
      Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that’s to say, you
      handled it fairly well.”

      We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a
      stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers
      had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the
      window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced
      two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I
      was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.

      It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was
      turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the
      jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great
      capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his
      cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the
      fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow,
      without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals. He took no heed
      of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes’s face with an
      expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended.
      “You fiend!” he kept on muttering. “You clever, clever fiend!”

      “Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar.
      “‘Journeys end in lovers’ meetings,’ as the old play says. I
      don’t think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you
      favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the
      Reichenbach Fall.”

      The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance.
      “You cunning, cunning fiend!” was all that he could say.

      “I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen,
      is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty’s Indian Army,
      and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever
      produced. I believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag
      of tigers still remains unrivalled?”

      The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my
      companion. With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was
      wonderfully like a tiger himself.

      “I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a
      _shikari_,” said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have
      you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with
      your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This
      empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly
      had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers,
      or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you.
      These,” he pointed around, “are my other guns. The parallel is
      exact.”

      Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the
      constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible
      to look at.

      “I confess that you had one small surprise for me,” said Holmes.
      “I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this
      empty house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you
      as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his
      merry men were awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as
      I expected.”

      Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

      “You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” said he,
      “but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the
      gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things
      be done in a legal way.”

      “Well, that’s reasonable enough,” said Lestrade. “Nothing further
      you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?”

      Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was
      examining its mechanism.

      “An admirable and unique weapon,” said he, “noiseless and of
      tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic,
      who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty.
      For years I have been aware of its existence though I have never
      before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very
      specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which
      fit it.”

      “You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade,
      as the whole party moved towards the door. “Anything further to
      say?”

      “Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?”

      “What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr.
      Sherlock Holmes.”

      “Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at
      all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the
      remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I
      congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and
      audacity, you have got him.”

      “Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

      “The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel
      Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an
      expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the
      second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of
      last month. That’s the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you
      can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an
      hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable
      amusement.”

      Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision
      of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I
      entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old
      landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical corner
      and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was
      the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which
      many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The
      diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack—even the Persian
      slipper which contained the tobacco—all met my eyes as I glanced
      round me. There were two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson,
      who beamed upon us both as we entered—the other, the strange
      dummy which had played so important a part in the evening’s
      adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so
      admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a
      small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes’s so
      draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely
      perfect.

      “I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes.

      “I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me.”

      “Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe
      where the bullet went?”

      “Yes, sir. I’m afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it
      passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I
      picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!”

      Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet, as you
      perceive, Watson. There’s genius in that, for who would expect to
      find such a thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I
      am much obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see
      you in your old seat once more, for there are several points
      which I should like to discuss with you.”

      He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the Holmes
      of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his
      effigy.

      “The old _shikari’s_ nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor
      his eyes their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected
      the shattered forehead of his bust.

      “Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through
      the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there
      are few better in London. Have you heard the name?”

      “No, I have not.”

      “Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right, you
      had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one
      of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of
      biographies from the shelf.”

      He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and
      blowing great clouds from his cigar.

      “My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself
      is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the
      poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who
      knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross,
      and, finally, here is our friend of to-night.”

      He handed over the book, and I read:

      _Moran_, _Sebastian_, _Colonel_. Unemployed. Formerly 1st
      Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran,
      C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.
      Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
      (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of _Heavy Game of the
      Western Himalayas_ (1881); _Three Months in the Jungle_ (1884).
      Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the
      Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.

      On the margin was written, in Holmes’s precise hand:

      The second most dangerous man in London.

      “This is astonishing,” said I, as I handed back the volume. “The
      man’s career is that of an honourable soldier.”

      “It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain point he did
      well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still
      told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded
      man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a
      certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly
      eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have a theory
      that the individual represents in his development the whole
      procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good
      or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line
      of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of
      the history of his own family.”

      “It is surely rather fanciful.”

      “Well, I don’t insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran
      began to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India
      too hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again
      acquired an evil name. It was at this time that he was sought out
      by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the
      staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him
      only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary
      criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection of
      the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am
      sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved.
      So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the
      Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not incriminate him. You
      remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how
      I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought
      me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the
      existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of the
      best shots in the world would be behind it. When we were in
      Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly
      he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.

      “You may think that I read the papers with some attention during
      my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying
      him by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would
      really not have been worth living. Night and day the shadow would
      have been over me, and sooner or later his chance must have come.
      What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should
      myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing to a
      magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what would
      appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But
      I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I
      should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My
      chance had come at last. Knowing what I did, was it not certain
      that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played cards with the lad,
      he had followed him home from the club, he had shot him through
      the open window. There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone
      are enough to put his head in a noose. I came over at once. I was
      seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the colonel’s
      attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden
      return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure
      that he would make an attempt to get me out of the way _at once_,
      and would bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I
      left him an excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the
      police that they might be needed—by the way, Watson, you spotted
      their presence in that doorway with unerring accuracy—I took up
      what seemed to me to be a judicious post for observation, never
      dreaming that he would choose the same spot for his attack. Now,
      my dear Watson, does anything remain for me to explain?”

      “Yes,” said I. “You have not made it clear what was Colonel
      Moran’s motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?”

      “Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of
      conjecture, where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may
      form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is
      as likely to be correct as mine.”

      “You have formed one, then?”

      “I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came
      out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between
      them, won a considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly
      played foul—of that I have long been aware. I believe that on the
      day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating.
      Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had threatened to
      expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the
      club, and promised not to play cards again. It is unlikely that a
      youngster like Adair would at once make a hideous scandal by
      exposing a well-known man so much older than himself. Probably he
      acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean ruin
      to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains. He therefore
      murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how
      much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by
      his partner’s foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies
      should surprise him and insist upon knowing what he was doing
      with these names and coins. Will it pass?”

      “I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth.”

      “It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come
      what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous
      air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum,
      and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to
      examining those interesting little problems which the complex
      life of London so plentifully presents.”





