


      “From the point of view of the criminal expert,” said Mr.
      Sherlock Holmes, “London has become a singularly uninteresting
      city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.”

      “I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to
      agree with you,” I answered.

      “Well, well, I must not be selfish,” said he, with a smile, as he
      pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. “The community is
      certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor
      out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man
      in the field, one’s morning paper presented infinite
      possibilities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the
      faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the
      great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the
      edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the
      centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage—to the
      man who held the clue all could be worked into one connected
      whole. To the scientific student of the higher criminal world, no
      capital in Europe offered the advantages which London then
      possessed. But now——” He shrugged his shoulders in humorous
      deprecation of the state of things which he had himself done so
      much to produce.

      At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some
      months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned to
      share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named
      Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given
      with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured
      to ask—an incident which only explained itself some years later,
      when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes, and
      that it was my friend who had really found the money.

      Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had
      stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period
      includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also
      the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship _Friesland_, which so
      nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was
      always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public
      applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no
      further word of himself, his methods, or his successes—a
      prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been
      removed.

      Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
      whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a
      leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a
      tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow
      drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with
      his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the
      hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a
      wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and
      palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one to the other
      of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that
      some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You mustn’t blame me. I am
      nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”

      He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both
      his visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion’s
      unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him than to me.

      “Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he, pushing his case
      across. “I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson
      here would prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very
      warm these last few days. Now, if you feel a little more
      composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair,
      and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is
      that you want. You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize
      it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are
      a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know
      nothing whatever about you.”

      Familiar as I was with my friend’s methods, it was not difficult
      for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of
      attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the
      breathing which had prompted them. Our client, however, stared in
      amazement.

      “Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most
      unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven’s sake,
      don’t abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I
      have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I may
      tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that
      you were working for me outside.”

      “Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is really most grati—most
      interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?”

      “Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
      Norwood.”

      My companion’s expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I
      am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

      “Dear me,” said he, “it was only this moment at breakfast that I
      was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had
      disappeared out of our papers.”

      Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the
      _Daily Telegraph_, which still lay upon Holmes’s knee.

      “If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance
      what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I
      feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man’s
      mouth.” He turned it over to expose the central page. “Here it
      is, and with your permission I will read it to you. Listen to
      this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: ‘Mysterious Affair at Lower
      Norwood. Disappearance of a Well-known Builder. Suspicion of
      Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.’ That is the clue which
      they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it leads
      infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
      Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant
      to arrest me. It will break my mother’s heart—it will break her
      heart!” He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and
      swayed backward and forward in his chair.

      I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being
      the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and
      handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue
      eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His
      age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that
      of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light summer overcoat
      protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his
      profession.

      “We must use what time we have,” said Holmes. “Watson, would you
      have the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in
      question?”

      Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted, I
      read the following suggestive narrative:

      “Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at
      Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr.
      Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he
      has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr.
      Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep
      Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has
      had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
      and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from
      the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable
      wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of
      the house, and last night, about twelve o’clock, an alarm was
      given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon
      upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
      was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had
      been entirely consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the
      appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem to
      point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence of
      the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire, and
      an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared from
      the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed had
      not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a
      number of important papers were scattered about the room, and
      finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight
      traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
      walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle.
      It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in
      his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been
      identified as the property of this person, who is a young London
      solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham
      and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings, E.C. The police believe
      that they have evidence in their possession which supplies a very
      convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be
      doubted that sensational developments will follow.
          “LATER.—It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
          McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the
          murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a
          warrant has been issued. There have been further and sinister
          developments in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the
          signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it
          is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is
          on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were
          marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across to the
          wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains
          have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The
          police theory is that a most sensational crime has been
          committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his own
          bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across
          to the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all
          traces of the crime. The conduct of the criminal
          investigation has been left in the experienced hands of
          Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the
          clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.”

      Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips together
      to this remarkable account.

      “The case has certainly some points of interest,” said he, in his
      languid fashion. “May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane,
      how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to
      be enough evidence to justify your arrest?”

      “I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr.
      Holmes, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr.
      Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my
      business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in
      the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw
      the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case
      into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested
      either at my city office or at my home. A man followed me from
      London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt—Great heaven! what is
      that?”

      It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps
      upon the stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared
      in the doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or
      two uniformed policemen outside.

      “Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

      Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

      “I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of
      Lower Norwood.”

      McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into
      his chair once more like one who is crushed.

      “One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less
      can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to
      give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might
      aid us in clearing it up.”

      “I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up,” said
      Lestrade, grimly.

      “None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested
      to hear his account.”

      “Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything,
      for you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past,
      and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At
      the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to
      warn him that anything he may say will appear in evidence against
      him.”

      “I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I ask is that you
      should hear and recognize the absolute truth.”

      Lestrade looked at his watch. “I’ll give you half an hour,” said
      he.

      “I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that I knew nothing of
      Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years
      ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart.
      I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three
      o’clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city.
      But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of his
      visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook, covered
      with scribbled writing—here they are—and he laid them on my
      table.

      “‘Here is my will,’ said he. ‘I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast
      it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.’

      “I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment
      when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his
      property to me. He was a strange little ferret-like man, with
      white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen
      grey eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could hardly
      believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he explained
      that he was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he
      had known my parents in his youth, and that he had always heard
      of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that his
      money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer
      out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed
      by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I
      have explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then
      informed me that there were a number of documents—building
      leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth—which it was
      necessary that I should see and understand. He said that his mind
      would not be easy until the whole thing was settled, and he
      begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that night,
      bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. ‘Remember, my
      boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
      everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
      them.’ He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise
      it faithfully.

      “You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to
      refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and
      all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I
      sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important
      business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how
      late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to
      have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before that
      hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it
      was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him——”

      “One moment!” said Holmes. “Who opened the door?”

      “A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper.”

      “And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?”

      “Exactly,” said McFarlane.

      “Pray proceed.”

      McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:

      “I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal
      supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into
      his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened
      and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together. It
      was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He remarked that
      we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out through his
      own French window, which had been open all this time.”

      “Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

      “I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down.
      Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the
      window. I could not find my stick, and he said, ‘Never mind, my
      boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep
      your stick until you come back to claim it.’ I left him there,
      the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.
      It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I
      spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more
      until I read of this horrible affair in the morning.”

      “Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?” said
      Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this
      remarkable explanation.

      “Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

      “You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

      “Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant,” said Holmes,
      with his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more
      experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that brain
      could cut through that which was impenetrable to him. I saw him
      look curiously at my companion.

      “I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr.
      Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my
      constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler waiting.”
      The wretched young man arose, and with a last beseeching glance
      at us walked from the room. The officers conducted him to the
      cab, but Lestrade remained.

      Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of
      the will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon
      his face.

      “There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there
      not?” said he, pushing them over.

      The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

      “I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the
      second page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as
      print,” said he, “but the writing in between is very bad, and
      there are three places where I cannot read it at all.”

      “What do you make of that?” said Holmes.

      “Well, what do _you_ make of it?”

      “That it was written in a train. The good writing represents
      stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing
      passing over points. A scientific expert would pronounce at once
      that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in
      the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick a
      succession of points. Granting that his whole journey was
      occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express,
      only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge.”

      Lestrade began to laugh.

      “You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories,
      Mr. Holmes,” said he. “How does this bear on the case?”

      “Well, it corroborates the young man’s story to the extent that
      the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday.
      It is curious—is it not?—that a man should draw up so important a
      document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not
      think it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man
      drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective, he
      might do it so.”

      “Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time,” said
      Lestrade.

      “Oh, you think so?”

      “Don’t you?”

      “Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me
      yet.”

      “Not clear? Well, if that isn’t clear, what _could_ be clearer?
      Here is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older
      man dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says
      nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some
      pretext to see his client that night. He waits until the only
      other person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude of
      a man’s room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and
      departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in the room and
      also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he
      imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the
      body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his
      death—traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to him. Is
      not all this obvious?”

      “It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too
      obvious,” said Holmes. “You do not add imagination to your other
      great qualities, but if you could for one moment put yourself in
      the place of this young man, would you choose the very night
      after the will had been made to commit your crime? Would it not
      seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between
      the two incidents? Again, would you choose an occasion when you
      are known to be in the house, when a servant has let you in? And,
      finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the body, and
      yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the criminal?
      Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely.”

      “As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a
      criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool
      man would avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the
      room. Give me another theory that would fit the facts.”

      “I could very easily give you half a dozen,” said Holmes. “Here
      for example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you
      a free present of it. The older man is showing documents which
      are of evident value. A passing tramp sees them through the
      window, the blind of which is only half down. Exit the solicitor.
      Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he observes there,
      kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body.”

      “Why should the tramp burn the body?”

      “For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?”

      “To hide some evidence.”

      “Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had
      been committed.”

      “And why did the tramp take nothing?”

      “Because they were papers that he could not negotiate.”

      Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner
      was less absolutely assured than before.

      “Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and
      while you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future
      will show which is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes:
      that so far as we know, none of the papers were removed, and that
      the prisoner is the one man in the world who had no reason for
      removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into them
      in any case.”

      My friend seemed struck by this remark.

      “I don’t mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very
      strongly in favour of your theory,” said he. “I only wish to
      point out that there are other theories possible. As you say, the
      future will decide. Good-morning! I dare say that in the course
      of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are getting
      on.”

      When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his
      preparations for the day’s work with the alert air of a man who
      has a congenial task before him.

      “My first movement Watson,” said he, as he bustled into his
      frockcoat, “must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath.”

      “And why not Norwood?”

      “Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close
      to the heels of another singular incident. The police are making
      the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second,
      because it happens to be the one which is actually criminal. But
      it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is
      to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first
      incident—the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected
      an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed. No, my
      dear fellow, I don’t think you can help me. There is no prospect
      of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you. I
      trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to
      report that I have been able to do something for this unfortunate
      youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection.”

      It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a glance
      at his haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with which
      he had started had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away
      upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits.
      At last he flung down the instrument, and plunged into a detailed
      account of his misadventures.

      “It’s all going wrong, Watson—all as wrong as it can go. I kept a
      bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for
      once the fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong.
      All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the other,
      and I much fear that British juries have not yet attained that
      pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to my
      theories over Lestrade’s facts.”

      “Did you go to Blackheath?”

      “Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the
      late lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The
      father was away in search of his son. The mother was at home—a
      little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and
      indignation. Of course, she would not admit even the possibility
      of his guilt. But she would not express either surprise or regret
      over the fate of Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of him with
      such bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably
      strengthening the case of the police for, of course, if her son
      had heard her speak of the man in this fashion, it would
      predispose him towards hatred and violence. ‘He was more like a
      malignant and cunning ape than a human being,’ said she, ‘and he
      always was, ever since he was a young man.’

      “‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

      “‘Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of mine.
      Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to
      marry a better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him, Mr. Holmes,
      when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a cat loose in
      an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty that I
      would have nothing more to do with him.’ She rummaged in a
      bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman,
      shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife. ‘That is my own
      photograph,’ she said. ‘He sent it to me in that state, with his
      curse, upon my wedding morning.’

      “‘Well,’ said I, ‘at least he has forgiven you now, since he has
      left all his property to your son.’

      “‘Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or
      alive!’ she cried, with a proper spirit. ‘There is a God in
      heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished that
      wicked man will show, in His own good time, that my son’s hands
      are guiltless of his blood.’

      “Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which
      would help our hypothesis, and several points which would make
      against it. I gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.

      “This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring
      brick, standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped
      lawn in front of it. To the right and some distance back from the
      road was the timber-yard which had been the scene of the fire.
      Here’s a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook. This window on the
      left is the one which opens into Oldacre’s room. You can look
      into it from the road, you see. That is about the only bit of
      consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was not there, but his
      head constable did the honours. They had just found a great
      treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among the ashes
      of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred organic remains
      they had secured several discoloured metal discs. I examined them
      with care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser buttons.
      I even distinguished that one of them was marked with the name of
      ‘Hyams,’ who was Oldacres tailor. I then worked the lawn very
      carefully for signs and traces, but this drought has made
      everything as hard as iron. Nothing was to be seen save that some
      body or bundle had been dragged through a low privet hedge which
      is in a line with the wood-pile. All that, of course, fits in
      with the official theory. I crawled about the lawn with an August
      sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour no wiser than
      before.

      “Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined
      that also. The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and
      discolourations, but undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been
      removed, but there also the marks were slight. There is no doubt
      about the stick belonging to our client. He admits it. Footmarks
      of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any
      third person, which again is a trick for the other side. They
      were piling up their score all the time and we were at a
      standstill.

      “Only one little gleam of hope did I get—and yet it amounted to
      nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had
      been taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made up
      into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by the
      police. They were not, so far as I could judge, of any great
      value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in such
      very affluent circumstances. But it seemed to me that all the
      papers were not there. There were allusions to some
      deeds—possibly the more valuable—which I could not find. This, of
      course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade’s
      argument against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew
      that he would shortly inherit it?

      “Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent,
      I tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her
      name—a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong
      eyes. She could tell us something if she would—I am convinced of
      it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane
      in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had withered before she
      had done so. She had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room was
      at the other end of the house, and she could hear nothing of what
      had passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best of
      her belief his stick, in the hall. She had been awakened by the
      alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been murdered.
      Had he any enemies? Well, every man had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre
      kept himself very much to himself, and only met people in the way
      of business. She had seen the buttons, and was sure that they
      belonged to the clothes which he had worn last night. The
      wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained for a month. It
      burned like tinder, and by the time she reached the spot, nothing
      could be seen but flames. She and all the firemen smelled the
      burned flesh from inside it. She knew nothing of the papers, nor
      of Mr. Oldacre’s private affairs.

      “So, my dear Watson, there’s my report of a failure. And yet—and
      yet—” he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction—“I
      _know_ it’s all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is something
      that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows it. There was a
      sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only goes with guilty
      knowledge. However, there’s no good talking any more about it,
      Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes our way I fear that
      the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure in that chronicle
      of our successes which I foresee that a patient public will
      sooner or later have to endure.”

      “Surely,” said I, “the man’s appearance would go far with any
      jury?”

      “That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson. You remember that
      terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in
      ’87? Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young
      man?”

      “It is true.”

      “Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this
      man is lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now
      be presented against him, and all further investigation has
      served to strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little
      point about those papers which may serve us as the starting-point
      for an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I found that the
      low state of the balance was principally due to large checks
      which have been made out during the last year to Mr. Cornelius. I
      confess that I should be interested to know who this Mr.
      Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such very large
      transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the
      affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip
      to correspond with these large payments. Failing any other
      indication, my researches must now take the direction of an
      inquiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these
      checks. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end
      ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will certainly
      be a triumph for Scotland Yard.”

      I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night,
      but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed,
      his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The
      carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with
      the early editions of the morning papers. An open telegram lay
      upon the table.

      “What do you think of this, Watson?” he asked, tossing it across.

      It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

      Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane’s guilt definitely
      established. Advise you to abandon case.—LESTRADE.

      “This sounds serious,” said I.

      “It is Lestrade’s little cock-a-doodle of victory,” Holmes
      answered, with a bitter smile. “And yet it may be premature to
      abandon the case. After all, important fresh evidence is a
      two-edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very different
      direction to that which Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast,
      Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do. I
      feel as if I shall need your company and your moral support
      today.”

      My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his
      peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit
      himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron
      strength until he has fainted from pure inanition. “At present I
      cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion,” he would say
      in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,
      therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind
      him, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid
      sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was
      just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates
      Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner
      grossly triumphant.

      “Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you
      found your tramp?” he cried.

      “I have formed no conclusion whatever,” my companion answered.

      “But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct,
      so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of
      you this time, Mr. Holmes.”

      “You certainly have the air of something unusual having
      occurred,” said Holmes.

      Lestrade laughed loudly.

      “You don’t like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,”
      said he. “A man can’t expect always to have it his own way, can
      he, Dr. Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I
      think I can convince you once for all that it was John McFarlane
      who did this crime.”

      He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.

      “This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
      after the crime was done,” said he. “Now look at this.” With
      dramatic suddenness he struck a match, and by its light exposed a
      stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the match
      nearer, I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the
      well-marked print of a thumb.

      “Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Yes, I am doing so.”

      “You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?”

      “I have heard something of the kind.”

      “Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax
      impression of young McFarlane’s right thumb, taken by my orders
      this morning?”

      As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not
      take a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from
      the same thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate client
      was lost.

      “That is final,” said Lestrade.

      “Yes, that is final,” I involuntarily echoed.

      “It is final,” said Holmes.

      Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him.
      An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing
      with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It
      seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to restrain a
      convulsive attack of laughter.

      “Dear me! Dear me!” he said at last. “Well, now, who would have
      thought it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure!
      Such a nice young man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to
      trust our own judgment, is it not, Lestrade?”

      “Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-sure,
      Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. The man’s insolence was maddening,
      but we could not resent it.

      “What a providential thing that this young man should press his
      right thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such
      a very natural action, too, if you come to think of it.” Holmes
      was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of
      suppressed excitement as he spoke.

      “By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?”

      “It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night
      constable’s attention to it.”

      “Where was the night constable?”

      “He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was
      committed, so as to see that nothing was touched.”

      “But why didn’t the police see this mark yesterday?”

      “Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination
      of the hall. Besides, it’s not in a very prominent place, as you
      see.”

      “No, no—of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the mark
      was there yesterday?”

      Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of
      his mind. I confess that I was myself surprised both at his
      hilarious manner and at his rather wild observation.

      “I don’t know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail
      in the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence
      against himself,” said Lestrade. “I leave it to any expert in the
      world whether that is not the mark of his thumb.”

      “It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”

      “There, that’s enough,” said Lestrade. “I am a practical man, Mr.
      Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions.
      If you have anything to say, you will find me writing my report
      in the sitting-room.”

      Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to
      detect gleams of amusement in his expression.

      “Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?”
      said he. “And yet there are singular points about it which hold
      out some hopes for our client.”

      “I am delighted to hear it,” said I, heartily. “I was afraid it
      was all up with him.”

      “I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The
      fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to
      which our friend attaches so much importance.”

      “Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”

      “Only this: that I _know_ that that mark was not there when I
      examined the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a
      little stroll round in the sunshine.”

      With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of
      hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the
      garden. Holmes took each face of the house in turn, and examined
      it with great interest. He then led the way inside, and went over
      the whole building from basement to attic. Most of the rooms were
      unfurnished, but none the less Holmes inspected them all
      minutely. Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside three
      untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with a spasm of
      merriment.

      “There are really some very unique features about this case,
      Watson,” said he. “I think it is time now that we took our friend
      Lestrade into our confidence. He has had his little smile at our
      expense, and perhaps we may do as much by him, if my reading of
      this problem proves to be correct. Yes, yes, I think I see how we
      should approach it.”

      The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when
      Holmes interrupted him.

      “I understood that you were writing a report of this case,” said
      he.

      “So I am.”

      “Don’t you think it may be a little premature? I can’t help
      thinking that your evidence is not complete.”

      Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid
      down his pen and looked curiously at him.

      “What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen.”

      “Can you produce him?”

      “I think I can.”

      “Then do so.”

      “I will do my best. How many constables have you?”

      “There are three within call.”

      “Excellent!” said Holmes. “May I ask if they are all large,
      able-bodied men with powerful voices?”

      “I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices
      have to do with it.”

      “Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things
      as well,” said Holmes. “Kindly summon your men, and I will try.”

      Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.

      “In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw,”
      said Holmes. “I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I
      think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing the
      witness whom I require. Thank you very much. I believe you have
      some matches in your pocket Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask
      you all to accompany me to the top landing.”

      As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran
      outside three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were
      all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and
      Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation, and
      derision chasing each other across his features. Holmes stood
      before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.

      “Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of
      water? Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on
      either side. Now I think that we are all ready.”

      Lestrade’s face had begun to grow red and angry. “I don’t know
      whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
      said he. “If you know anything, you can surely say it without all
      this tomfoolery.”

      “I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason
      for everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you
      chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your
      side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little pomp and
      ceremony now. Might I ask you, Watson, to open that window, and
      then to put a match to the edge of the straw?”

      I did so, and driven by the draught a coil of grey smoke swirled
      down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.

      “Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade.
      Might I ask you all to join in the cry of ‘Fire!’? Now then; one,
      two, three——”

      “Fire!” we all yelled.

      “Thank you. I will trouble you once again.”

      “Fire!”

      “Just once more, gentlemen, and all together.”

      “Fire!” The shout must have rung over Norwood.

      It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door
      suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the
      end of the corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it,
      like a rabbit out of its burrow.

      “Capital!” said Holmes, calmly. “Watson, a bucket of water over
      the straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with
      your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre.”

      The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement. The
      latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and
      peering at us and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious
      face—crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-grey eyes and
      white lashes.

      “What’s this, then?” said Lestrade, at last. “What have you been
      doing all this time, eh?”

      Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red
      face of the angry detective.

      “I have done no harm.”

      “No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged.
      If it wasn’t for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you
      would not have succeeded.”

      The wretched creature began to whimper.

      “I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke.”

      “Oh! a joke, was it? You won’t find the laugh on your side, I
      promise you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room
      until I come. Mr. Holmes,” he continued, when they had gone, “I
      could not speak before the constables, but I don’t mind saying,
      in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is the brightest thing
      that you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me how you did
      it. You have saved an innocent man’s life, and you have prevented
      a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my reputation in
      the Force.”

      Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

      “Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
      reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few
      alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will
      understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector
      Lestrade.”

      “And you don’t want your name to appear?”

      “Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the
      credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous
      historian to lay out his foolscap once more—eh, Watson? Well,
      now, let us see where this rat has been lurking.”

      A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six
      feet from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was
      lit within by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture
      and a supply of food and water were within, together with a
      number of books and papers.

      “There’s the advantage of being a builder,” said Holmes, as we
      came out. “He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place
      without any confederate—save, of course, that precious
      housekeeper of his, whom I should lose no time in adding to your
      bag, Lestrade.”

      “I’ll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr.
      Holmes?”

      “I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house.
      When I paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the
      corresponding one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I
      thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of
      fire. We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it
      amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I owed you a
      little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning.”

      “Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in
      the world did you know that he was in the house at all?”

      “The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was,
      in a very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day
      before. I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as
      you may have observed, and I had examined the hall, and was sure
      that the wall was clear. Therefore, it had been put on during the
      night.”

      “But how?”

      “Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre
      got McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb
      upon the soft wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally,
      that I daresay the young man himself has no recollection of it.
      Very likely it just so happened, and Oldacre had himself no
      notion of the use he would put it to. Brooding over the case in
      that den of his, it suddenly struck him what absolutely damning
      evidence he could make against McFarlane by using that
      thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for him to
      take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much
      blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon
      the wall during the night, either with his own hand or with that
      of his housekeeper. If you examine among those documents which he
      took with him into his retreat, I will lay you a wager that you
      find the seal with the thumb-mark upon it.”

      “Wonderful!” said Lestrade. “Wonderful! It’s all as clear as
      crystal, as you put it. But what is the object of this deep
      deception, Mr. Holmes?”

      It was amusing to me to see how the detective’s overbearing
      manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions
      of its teacher.

      “Well, I don’t think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
      malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting
      us downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane’s
      mother? You don’t! I told you that you should go to Blackheath
      first and Norwood afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would
      consider it, has rankled in his wicked, scheming brain, and all
      his life he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his chance.
      During the last year or two, things have gone against him—secret
      speculation, I think—and he finds himself in a bad way. He
      determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he pays
      large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine,
      himself under another name. I have not traced these checks yet,
      but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some
      provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double
      existence. He intended to change his name altogether, draw this
      money, and vanish, starting life again elsewhere.”

      “Well, that’s likely enough.”

      “It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all
      pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an ample and
      crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the
      impression that he had been murdered by her only child. It was a
      masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master. The
      idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the
      crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the retention
      of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains and buttons in
      the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from which it
      seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible escape.
      But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of
      when to stop. He wished to improve that which was already
      perfect—to draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his
      unfortunate victim—and so he ruined all. Let us descend,
      Lestrade. There are just one or two questions that I would ask
      him.”

      The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a
      policeman upon each side of him.

      “It was a joke, my good sir—a practical joke, nothing more,” he
      whined incessantly. “I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed
      myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am
      sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would
      have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane.”

      “That’s for a jury to decide,” said Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall
      have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder.”

      “And you’ll probably find that your creditors will impound the
      banking account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes.

      The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my
      friend.

      “I have to thank you for a good deal,” said he. “Perhaps I’ll pay
      my debt some day.”

      Holmes smiled indulgently.

      “I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very
      fully occupied,” said he. “By the way, what was it you put into
      the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits,
      or what? You won’t tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well,
      well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account both for
      the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an
      account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn.”





