


      One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by
      my own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for
      my day’s work had been an exhausting one. My wife had already
      gone upstairs, and the sound of the locking of the hall door some
      time before told me that the servants had also retired. I had
      risen from my seat and was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when
      I suddenly heard the clang of the bell.

      I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not
      be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and
      possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into
      the hall and opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock
      Holmes who stood upon my step.

      “Ah, Watson,” said he, “I hoped that I might not be too late to
      catch you.”

      “My dear fellow, pray come in.”

      “You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum!
      You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then!
      There’s no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It’s easy to
      tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.
      You’ll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep
      that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could
      you put me up to-night?”

      “With pleasure.”

      “You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see
      that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand
      proclaims as much.”

      “I shall be delighted if you will stay.”

      “Thank you. I’ll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that
      you’ve had the British workman in the house. He’s a token of
      evil. Not the drains, I hope?”

      “No, the gas.”

      “Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum
      just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper
      at Waterloo, but I’ll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure.”

      I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and
      smoked for some time in silence. I was well aware that nothing
      but business of importance would have brought him to me at such
      an hour, so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.

      “I see that you are professionally rather busy just now,” said
      he, glancing very keenly across at me.

      “Yes, I’ve had a busy day,” I answered. “It may seem very foolish
      in your eyes,” I added, “but really I don’t know how you deduced
      it.”

      Holmes chuckled to himself.

      “I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,”
      said he. “When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is
      a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots,
      although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are
      at present busy enough to justify the hansom.”

      “Excellent!” I cried.

      “Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the
      reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his
      neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point
      which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my
      dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of
      yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon
      your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem
      which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present I am in
      the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand
      several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever
      perplexed a man’s brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are
      needful to complete my theory. But I’ll have them, Watson, I’ll
      have them!” His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his
      thin cheeks. For an instant only. When I glanced again his face
      had resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so many
      regard him as a machine rather than a man.

      “The problem presents features of interest,” said he. “I may even
      say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into
      the matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my
      solution. If you could accompany me in that last step you might
      be of considerable service to me.”

      “I should be delighted.”

      “Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?”

      “I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice.”

      “Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”

      “That would give me time.”

      “Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of
      what has happened, and of what remains to be done.”

      “I was sleepy before you came. I am quite wakeful now.”

      “I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting
      anything vital to the case. It is conceivable that you may even
      have read some account of the matter. It is the supposed murder
      of Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Mallows, at Aldershot, which I
      am investigating.”

      “I have heard nothing of it.”

      “It has not excited much attention yet, except locally. The facts
      are only two days old. Briefly they are these:

      “The Royal Mallows is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish
      regiments in the British army. It did wonders both in the Crimea
      and the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon
      every possible occasion. It was commanded up to Monday night by
      James Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private,
      was raised to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of
      the Mutiny, and so lived to command the regiment in which he had
      once carried a musket.

      “Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant,
      and his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the
      daughter of a former colour-sergeant in the same corps. There
      was, therefore, as can be imagined, some little social friction
      when the young couple (for they were still young) found
      themselves in their new surroundings. They appear, however, to
      have quickly adapted themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I
      understand, been as popular with the ladies of the regiment as
      her husband was with his brother officers. I may add that she was
      a woman of great beauty, and that even now, when she has been
      married for upwards of thirty years, she is still of a striking
      and queenly appearance.

      “Colonel Barclay’s family life appears to have been a uniformly
      happy one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures
      me that he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the
      pair. On the whole, he thinks that Barclay’s devotion to his wife
      was greater than his wife’s to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if
      he were absent from her for a day. She, on the other hand, though
      devoted and faithful, was less obtrusively affectionate. But they
      were regarded in the regiment as the very model of a middle-aged
      couple. There was absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to
      prepare people for the tragedy which was to follow.

      “Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits
      in his character. He was a dashing, jovial old soldier in his
      usual mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show
      himself capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness. This
      side of his nature, however, appears never to have been turned
      towards his wife. Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and
      three out of five of the other officers with whom I conversed,
      was the singular sort of depression which came upon him at times.
      As the major expressed it, the smile had often been struck from
      his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he has been joining
      the gayeties and chaff of the mess-table. For days on end, when
      the mood was on him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This
      and a certain tinge of superstition were the only unusual traits
      in his character which his brother officers had observed. The
      latter peculiarity took the form of a dislike to being left
      alone, especially after dark. This puerile feature in a nature
      which was conspicuously manly had often given rise to comment and
      conjecture.

      “The first battalion of the Royal Mallows (which is the old
      117th) has been stationed at Aldershot for some years. The
      married officers live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during
      all this time occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile
      from the north camp. The house stands in its own grounds, but the
      west side of it is not more than thirty yards from the high-road.
      A coachman and two maids form the staff of servants. These with
      their master and mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for
      the Barclays had no children, nor was it usual for them to have
      resident visitors.

      “Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the
      evening of last Monday.”

      “Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic
      Church, and had interested herself very much in the establishment
      of the Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with
      the Watt Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with
      cast-off clothing. A meeting of the Guild had been held that
      evening at eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in
      order to be present at it. When leaving the house she was heard
      by the coachman to make some commonplace remark to her husband,
      and to assure him that she would be back before very long. She
      then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next
      villa, and the two went off together to their meeting. It lasted
      forty minutes, and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned
      home, having left Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.

      “There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine. This
      faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the
      lawn. The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from
      the highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into
      this room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were
      not down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs.
      Barclay herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane
      Stewart, the housemaid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was
      quite contrary to her usual habits. The Colonel had been sitting
      in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife had returned he
      joined her in the morning-room. The coachman saw him cross the
      hall and enter it. He was never seen again alive.

      “The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten
      minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised
      to hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious
      altercation. She knocked without receiving any answer, and even
      turned the handle, but only to find that the door was locked upon
      the inside. Naturally enough she ran down to tell the cook, and
      the two women with the coachman came up into the hall and
      listened to the dispute which was still raging. They all agreed
      that only two voices were to be heard, those of Barclay and of
      his wife. Barclay’s remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that none
      of them were audible to the listeners. The lady’s, on the other
      hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her voice could be
      plainly heard. ‘You coward!’ she repeated over and over again.
      ‘What can be done now? What can be done now? Give me back my
      life. I will never so much as breathe the same air with you
      again! You coward! You coward!’ Those were scraps of her
      conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man’s voice,
      with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman. Convinced
      that some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door
      and strove to force it, while scream after scream issued from
      within. He was unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids
      were too distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him. A
      sudden thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall
      door and round to the lawn upon which the long French windows
      open. One side of the window was open, which I understand was
      quite usual in the summer-time, and he passed without difficulty
      into the room. His mistress had ceased to scream and was
      stretched insensible upon a couch, while with his feet tilted
      over the side of an armchair, and his head upon the ground near
      the corner of the fender, was lying the unfortunate soldier stone
      dead in a pool of his own blood.

      “Naturally, the coachman’s first thought, on finding that he
      could do nothing for his master, was to open the door. But here
      an unexpected and singular difficulty presented itself. The key
      was not in the inner side of the door, nor could he find it
      anywhere in the room. He went out again, therefore, through the
      window, and having obtained the help of a policeman and of a
      medical man, he returned. The lady, against whom naturally the
      strongest suspicion rested, was removed to her room, still in a
      state of insensibility. The Colonel’s body was then placed upon
      the sofa, and a careful examination made of the scene of the
      tragedy.

      “The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was
      found to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of
      his head, which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from
      a blunt weapon. Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon
      may have been. Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a
      singular club of hard carved wood with a bone handle. The Colonel
      possessed a varied collection of weapons brought from the
      different countries in which he had fought, and it is conjectured
      by the police that his club was among his trophies. The servants
      deny having seen it before, but among the numerous curiosities in
      the house it is possible that it may have been overlooked.
      Nothing else of importance was discovered in the room by the
      police, save the inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs.
      Barclay’s person nor upon that of the victim nor in any part of
      the room was the missing key to be found. The door had eventually
      to be opened by a locksmith from Aldershot.

      “That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday
      morning I, at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot
      to supplement the efforts of the police. I think that you will
      acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my
      observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more
      extraordinary than would at first sight appear.

      “Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but
      only succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already
      stated. One other detail of interest was remembered by Jane
      Stewart, the housemaid. You will remember that on hearing the
      sound of the quarrel she descended and returned with the other
      servants. On that first occasion, when she was alone, she says
      that the voices of her master and mistress were sunk so low that
      she could hear hardly anything, and judged by their tones rather
      than their words that they had fallen out. On my pressing her,
      however, she remembered that she heard the word ‘David’ uttered
      twice by the lady. The point is of the utmost importance as
      guiding us towards the reason of the sudden quarrel. The
      Colonel’s name, you remember, was James.

      “There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest
      impression both upon the servants and the police. This was the
      contortion of the Colonel’s face. It had set, according to their
      account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror
      which a human countenance is capable of assuming. More than one
      person fainted at the mere sight of him, so terrible was the
      effect. It was quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and
      that it had caused him the utmost horror. This, of course, fitted
      in well enough with the police theory, if the Colonel could have
      seen his wife making a murderous attack upon him. Nor was the
      fact of the wound being on the back of his head a fatal objection
      to this, as he might have turned to avoid the blow. No
      information could be got from the lady herself, who was
      temporarily insane from an acute attack of brain-fever.

      “From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember
      went out that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any
      knowledge of what it was which had caused the ill-humour in which
      her companion had returned.

      “Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over
      them, trying to separate those which were crucial from others
      which were merely incidental. There could be no question that the
      most distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the
      singular disappearance of the door-key. A most careful search had
      failed to discover it in the room. Therefore it must have been
      taken from it. But neither the Colonel nor the Colonel’s wife
      could have taken it. That was perfectly clear. Therefore a third
      person must have entered the room. And that third person could
      only have come in through the window. It seemed to me that a
      careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly
      reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my
      methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply
      to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces, but very
      different ones from those which I had expected. There had been a
      man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming from the
      road. I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of his
      footmarks: one in the roadway itself, at the point where he had
      climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones
      upon the stained boards near the window where he had entered. He
      had apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were
      much deeper than his heels. But it was not the man who surprised
      me. It was his companion.”

      “His companion!”

      Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and
      carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

      “What do you make of that?” he asked.

      The paper was covered with the tracings of the footmarks of some
      small animal. It had five well-marked footpads, an indication of
      long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as a
      dessert-spoon.

      “It’s a dog,” said I.

      “Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain? I found
      distinct traces that this creature had done so.”

      “A monkey, then?”

      “But it is not the print of a monkey.”

      “What can it be, then?”

      “Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are
      familiar with. I have tried to reconstruct it from the
      measurements. Here are four prints where the beast has been
      standing motionless. You see that it is no less than fifteen
      inches from fore-foot to hind. Add to that the length of neck and
      head, and you get a creature not much less than two feet
      long—probably more if there is any tail. But now observe this
      other measurement. The animal has been moving, and we have the
      length of its stride. In each case it is only about three inches.
      You have an indication, you see, of a long body with very short
      legs attached to it. It has not been considerate enough to leave
      any of its hair behind it. But its general shape must be what I
      have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is
      carnivorous.”

      “How do you deduce that?”

      “Because it ran up the curtain. A canary’s cage was hanging in
      the window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird.”

      “Then what was the beast?”

      “Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards
      solving the case. On the whole, it was probably some creature of
      the weasel and stoat tribe—and yet it is larger than any of these
      that I have seen.”

      “But what had it to do with the crime?”

      “That, also, is still obscure. But we have learned a good deal,
      you perceive. We know that a man stood in the road looking at the
      quarrel between the Barclays—the blinds were up and the room
      lighted. We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the
      room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck
      the Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell
      down from sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on
      the corner of the fender. Finally, we have the curious fact that
      the intruder carried away the key with him when he left.”

      “Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure
      that it was before,” said I.

      “Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much
      deeper than was at first conjectured. I thought the matter over,
      and I came to the conclusion that I must approach the case from
      another aspect. But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I
      might just as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot
      to-morrow.”

      “Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop.”

      “It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at
      half-past seven she was on good terms with her husband. She was
      never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but
      she was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a
      friendly fashion. Now, it was equally certain that, immediately
      on her return, she had gone to the room in which she was least
      likely to see her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman
      will, and finally, on his coming in to her, had broken into
      violent recriminations. Therefore something had occurred between
      seven-thirty and nine o’clock which had completely altered her
      feelings towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with her during
      the whole of that hour and a half. It was absolutely certain,
      therefore, in spite of her denial, that she must know something
      of the matter.

      “My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some
      passages between this young lady and the old soldier, which the
      former had now confessed to the wife. That would account for the
      angry return, and also for the girl’s denial that anything had
      occurred. Nor would it be entirely incompatible with most of the
      words overheard. But there was the reference to David, and there
      was the known affection of the Colonel for his wife, to weigh
      against it, to say nothing of the tragic intrusion of this other
      man, which might, of course, be entirely disconnected with what
      had gone before. It was not easy to pick one’s steps, but, on the
      whole, I was inclined to dismiss the idea that there had been
      anything between the Colonel and Miss Morrison, but more than
      ever convinced that the young lady held the clue as to what it
      was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her husband. I
      took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss
      Morrison, of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that
      she held the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that
      her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a
      capital charge unless the matter were cleared up.

      “Miss Morrison is a little, ethereal slip of a girl, with timid
      eyes and blonde hair, but I found her by no means wanting in
      shrewdness and common sense. She sat thinking for some time after
      I had spoken, and then, turning to me with a brisk air of
      resolution, she broke into a remarkable statement which I will
      condense for your benefit.

      “‘I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter,
      and a promise is a promise,’ said she; ‘but if I can really help
      her when so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her
      own mouth, poor darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am
      absolved from my promise. I will tell you exactly what happened
      upon Monday evening.

      “‘We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter
      to nine o’clock. On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street,
      which is a very quiet thoroughfare. There is only one lamp in it,
      upon the left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a
      man coming towards us with his back very bent, and something like
      a box slung over one of his shoulders. He appeared to be
      deformed, for he carried his head low and walked with his knees
      bent. We were passing him when he raised his face to look at us
      in the circle of light thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he
      stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice, “My God, it’s
      Nancy!” Mrs. Barclay turned as white as death, and would have
      fallen down had the dreadful-looking creature not caught hold of
      her. I was going to call for the police, but she, to my surprise,
      spoke quite civilly to the fellow.

      “‘“I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry,” said
      she, in a shaking voice.

      “‘“So I have,” said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that
      he said it in. He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in
      his eyes that comes back to me in my dreams. His hair and
      whiskers were shot with grey, and his face was all crinkled and
      puckered like a withered apple.

      “‘“Just walk on a little way, dear,” said Mrs. Barclay; “I want
      to have a word with this man. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
      She tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and
      could hardly get her words out for the trembling of her lips.

      “‘I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few
      minutes. Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and
      I saw the crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking
      his clenched fists in the air as if he were mad with rage. She
      never said a word until we were at the door here, when she took
      me by the hand and begged me to tell no one what had happened.

      “‘“It’s an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the
      world,” said she. When I promised her I would say nothing she
      kissed me, and I have never seen her since. I have told you now
      the whole truth, and if I withheld it from the police it is
      because I did not realize then the danger in which my dear friend
      stood. I know that it can only be to her advantage that
      everything should be known.’

      “There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine,
      it was like a light on a dark night. Everything which had been
      disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I
      had a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My
      next step obviously was to find the man who had produced such a
      remarkable impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still in
      Aldershot it should not be a very difficult matter. There are not
      such a very great number of civilians, and a deformed man was
      sure to have attracted attention. I spent a day in the search,
      and by evening—this very evening, Watson—I had run him down. The
      man’s name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same
      street in which the ladies met him. He has only been five days in
      the place. In the character of a registration-agent I had a most
      interesting gossip with his landlady. The man is by trade a
      conjurer and performer, going round the canteens after nightfall,
      and giving a little entertainment at each. He carries some
      creature about with him in that box; about which the landlady
      seemed to be in considerable trepidation, for she had never seen
      an animal like it. He uses it in some of his tricks according to
      her account. So much the woman was able to tell me, and also that
      it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and
      that he spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the
      last two nights she had heard him groaning and weeping in his
      bedroom. He was all right, as far as money went, but in his
      deposit he had given her what looked like a bad florin. She
      showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.

      “So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it
      is I want you. It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted
      from this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the
      quarrel between husband and wife through the window, that he
      rushed in, and that the creature which he carried in his box got
      loose. That is all very certain. But he is the only person in
      this world who can tell us exactly what happened in that room.”

      “And you intend to ask him?”

      “Most certainly—but in the presence of a witness.”

      “And I am the witness?”

      “If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up, well and
      good. If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a
      warrant.”

      “But how do you know he’ll be there when we return?”

      “You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have one of my
      Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him
      like a burr, go where he might. We shall find him in Hudson
      Street to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal
      myself if I kept you out of bed any longer.”

      It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the
      tragedy, and, under my companion’s guidance, we made our way at
      once to Hudson Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing
      his emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state of
      suppressed excitement, while I was myself tingling with that
      half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably
      experienced when I associated myself with him in his
      investigations.

      “This is the street,” said he, as we turned into a short
      thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick houses. “Ah, here
      is Simpson to report.”

      “He’s in all right, Mr. Holmes,” cried a small street Arab,
      running up to us.

      “Good, Simpson!” said Holmes, patting him on the head. “Come
      along, Watson. This is the house.” He sent in his card with a
      message that he had come on important business, and a moment
      later we were face to face with the man whom we had come to see.
      In spite of the warm weather he was crouching over a fire, and
      the little room was like an oven. The man sat all twisted and
      huddled in his chair in a way which gave an indescribable
      impression of deformity; but the face which he turned towards us,
      though worn and swarthy, must at some time have been remarkable
      for its beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of
      yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or rising, he
      waved towards two chairs.

      “Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably.
      “I’ve come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay’s death.”

      “What should I know about that?”

      “That’s what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, that
      unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old
      friend of yours, will in all probability be tried for murder.”

      The man gave a violent start.

      “I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “nor how you come to know
      what you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you
      tell me?”

      “Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to
      arrest her.”

      “My God! Are you in the police yourself?”

      “No.”

      “What business is it of yours, then?”

      “It’s every man’s business to see justice done.”

      “You can take my word that she is innocent.”

      “Then you are guilty.”

      “No, I am not.”

      “Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?”

      “It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind you this,
      that if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to
      do, he would have had no more than his due from my hands. If his
      own guilty conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough
      that I might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell
      the story. Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t, for there’s no
      cause for me to be ashamed of it.

      “It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back like a
      camel and my ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal
      Henry Wood was the smartest man in the 117th Foot. We were in
      India then, in cantonments, at a place we’ll call Bhurtee.
      Barclay, who died the other day, was sergeant in the same company
      as myself, and the belle of the regiment, ay, and the finest girl
      that ever had the breath of life between her lips, was Nancy
      Devoy, the daughter of the colour-sergeant. There were two men
      that loved her, and one that she loved, and you’ll smile when you
      look at this poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear me say
      that it was for my good looks that she loved me.

      “Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her
      marrying Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had
      had an education, and was already marked for the sword-belt. But
      the girl held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her
      when the Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.

      “We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a
      battery of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians
      and women-folk. There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they
      were as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage. About the
      second week of it our water gave out, and it was a question
      whether we could communicate with General Neill’s column, which
      was moving up country. It was our only chance, for we could not
      hope to fight our way out with all the women and children, so I
      volunteered to go out and to warn General Neill of our danger. My
      offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Barclay,
      who was supposed to know the ground better than any other man,
      and who drew up a route by which I might get through the rebel
      lines. At ten o’clock the same night I started off upon my
      journey. There were a thousand lives to save, but it was of only
      one that I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that night.

      “My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would
      screen me from the enemy’s sentries; but as I crept round the
      corner of it I walked right into six of them, who were crouching
      down in the dark waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with
      a blow and bound hand and foot. But the real blow was to my heart
      and not to my head, for as I came to and listened to as much as I
      could understand of their talk, I heard enough to tell me that my
      comrade, the very man who had arranged the way that I was to
      take, had betrayed me by means of a native servant into the hands
      of the enemy.

      “Well, there’s no need for me to dwell on that part of it. You
      know now what James Barclay was capable of. Bhurtee was relieved
      by Neill next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their
      retreat, and it was many a long year before ever I saw a white
      face again. I was tortured and tried to get away, and was
      captured and tortured again. You can see for yourselves the state
      in which I was left. Some of them that fled into Nepaul took me
      with them, and then afterwards I was up past Darjeeling. The
      hill-folk up there murdered the rebels who had me, and I became
      their slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going
      south I had to go north, until I found myself among the Afghans.
      There I wandered about for many a year, and at last came back to
      the Punjab, where I lived mostly among the natives and picked up
      a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What use was
      it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to make
      myself known to my old comrades? Even my wish for revenge would
      not make me do that. I had rather that Nancy and my old pals
      should think of Harry Wood as having died with a straight back,
      than see him living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee.
      They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never
      should. I heard that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was
      rising rapidly in the regiment, but even that did not make me
      speak.

      “But when one gets old one has a longing for home. For years I’ve
      been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of
      England. At last I determined to see them before I died. I saved
      enough to bring me across, and then I came here where the
      soldiers are, for I know their ways and how to amuse them and so
      earn enough to keep me.”

      “Your narrative is most interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I
      have already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your
      mutual recognition. You then, as I understand, followed her home
      and saw through the window an altercation between her husband and
      her, in which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth.
      Your own feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and
      broke in upon them.”

      “I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never
      seen a man look before, and over he went with his head on the
      fender. But he was dead before he fell. I read death on his face
      as plain as I can read that text over the fire. The bare sight of
      me was like a bullet through his guilty heart.”

      “And then?”

      “Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her
      hand, intending to unlock it and get help. But as I was doing it
      it seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the
      thing might look black against me, and any way my secret would be
      out if I were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket,
      and dropped my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up
      the curtain. When I got him into his box, from which he had
      slipped, I was off as fast as I could run.”

      “Who’s Teddy?” asked Holmes.

      The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in
      the corner. In an instant out there slipped a beautiful
      reddish-brown creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat,
      a long, thin nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I
      saw in an animal’s head.

      “It’s a mongoose,” I cried.

      “Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon,” said
      the man. “Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing
      quick on cobras. I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy
      catches it every night to please the folk in the canteen.

      “Any other point, sir?”

      “Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should
      prove to be in serious trouble.”

      “In that case, of course, I’d come forward.”

      “But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against
      a dead man, foully as he has acted. You have at least the
      satisfaction of knowing that for thirty years of his life his
      conscience bitterly reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah,
      there goes Major Murphy on the other side of the street. Good-by,
      Wood. I want to learn if anything has happened since yesterday.”

      We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the
      corner.

      “Ah, Holmes,” he said: “I suppose you have heard that all this
      fuss has come to nothing?”

      “What then?”

      “The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed
      conclusively that death was due to apoplexy. You see it was quite
      a simple case after all.”

      “Oh, remarkably superficial,” said Holmes, smiling. “Come,
      Watson, I don’t think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more.”

      “There’s one thing,” said I, as we walked down to the station.
      “If the husband’s name was James, and the other was Henry, what
      was this talk about David?”

      “That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole
      story had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of
      depicting. It was evidently a term of reproach.”

      “Of reproach?”

      “Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one
      occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You
      remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba? My biblical
      knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story
      in the first or second of Samuel.”




IX. 
