


      I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last
      of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I
      should ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine
      was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many
      hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it
      caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the
      singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man.
      The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown
      to the continued publication of his experiences. So long as he
      was in actual professional practice the records of his successes
      were of some practical value to him, but since he has definitely
      retired from London and betaken himself to study and bee-farming
      on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and he
      has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
      be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him
      that I had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second
      Stain” should be published when the times were ripe, and pointing
      out to him that it is only appropriate that this long series of
      episodes should culminate in the most important international
      case which he has ever been called upon to handle, that I at last
      succeeded in obtaining his consent that a carefully guarded
      account of the incident should at last be laid before the public.
      If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain
      details, the public will readily understand that there is an
      excellent reason for my reticence.

      It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
      nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two
      visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in
      Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and
      dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,
      twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and
      elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty
      of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
      Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
      the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered
      settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces
      that it was business of the most pressing importance which had
      brought them. The Premier’s thin, blue-veined hands were clasped
      tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt,
      ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European
      Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with the
      seals of his watch-chain.

      “When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
      o’clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It
      was at his suggestion that we have both come to you.”

      “Have you informed the police?”

      “No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive
      manner for which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it
      possible that we should do so. To inform the police must, in the
      long run, mean to inform the public. This is what we particularly
      desire to avoid.”

      “And why, sir?”

      “Because the document in question is of such immense importance
      that its publication might very easily—I might almost say
      probably—lead to European complications of the utmost moment. It
      is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon the issue.
      Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost secrecy, then
      it may as well not be recovered at all, for all that is aimed at
      by those who have taken it is that its contents should be
      generally known.”

      “I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged
      if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this
      document disappeared.”

      “That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter—for
      it was a letter from a foreign potentate—was received six days
      ago. It was of such importance that I have never left it in my
      safe, but have taken it across each evening to my house in
      Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked
      despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that I am certain. I
      actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner and saw
      the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-box
      had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night. I am
      a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear
      that no one could have entered the room during the night. And yet
      I repeat that the paper is gone.”

      “What time did you dine?”

      “Half-past seven.”

      “How long was it before you went to bed?”

      “My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
      half-past eleven before we went to our room.”

      “Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?”

      “No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid
      in the morning, and my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest
      of the day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us
      for some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have known
      that there was anything more valuable than the ordinary
      departmental papers in my despatch-box.”

      “Who did know of the existence of that letter?”

      “No one in the house.”

      “Surely your wife knew?”

      “No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper
      this morning.”

      The Premier nodded approvingly.

      “I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,”
      said he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this
      importance it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic
      ties.”

      The European Secretary bowed.

      “You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have
      never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”

      “Could she have guessed?”

      “No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed—nor could anyone have
      guessed.”

      “Have you lost any documents before?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this
      letter?”

      “Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the
      pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was
      increased by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime
      Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I should
      myself have lost it!” His handsome face was distorted with a
      spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair. For a moment we
      caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive, ardent, keenly
      sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was replaced, and the
      gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of the Cabinet
      there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who know
      of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

      “But abroad?”

      “I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote
      it. I am well convinced that his Ministers—that the usual
      official channels have not been employed.”

      Holmes considered for some little time.

      “Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document
      is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous
      consequences?”

      The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier’s
      shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

      “Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue
      colour. There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion.
      It is addressed in large, bold handwriting to——”

      “I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed
      essential as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the
      root of things. What _was_ the letter?”

      “That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that
      I cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the
      aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find such
      an envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have
      deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it
      lies in our power to bestow.”

      Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

      “You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and
      in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I
      regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any
      continuation of this interview would be a waste of time.”

      The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of
      his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not
      accustomed, sir,” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed
      his seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the
      old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

      “We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right,
      and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give
      you our entire confidence.”

      “I agree with you,” said the younger statesman.

      “Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that
      of your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism
      also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the
      country than that this affair should come out.”

      “You may safely trust us.”

      “The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has
      been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this
      country. It has been written hurriedly and upon his own
      responsibility entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers
      know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is couched in so
      unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so
      provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly
      lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country. There
      would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that
      within a week of the publication of that letter this country
      would be involved in a great war.”

      Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
      Premier.

      “Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter—this letter which may
      well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of
      a hundred thousand men—which has become lost in this
      unaccountable fashion.”

      “Have you informed the sender?”

      “Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.”

      “Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”

      “No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
      understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed
      manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country than
      to us if this letter were to come out.”

      “If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come
      out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”

      “There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high
      international politics. But if you consider the European
      situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive.
      The whole of Europe is an armed camp. There is a double league
      which makes a fair balance of military power. Great Britain holds
      the scales. If Britain were driven into war with one confederacy,
      it would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether
      they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”

      “Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
      potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a
      breach between his country and ours?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the
      hands of an enemy?”

      “To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably
      speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as
      steam can take it.”

      Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
      aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

      “It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you.
      There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes,
      you are in full possession of the facts. What course do you
      recommend?”

      Holmes shook his head mournfully.

      “You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there
      will be war?”

      “I think it is very probable.”

      “Then, sir, prepare for war.”

      “That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken
      after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope
      and his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss
      was found out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between
      seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour,
      since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would
      naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir, if a document
      of this importance were taken at that hour, where can it be now?
      No one has any reason to retain it. It has been passed rapidly on
      to those who need it. What chance have we now to overtake or even
      to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”

      The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

      “What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
      matter is indeed out of our hands.”

      “Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the document was taken
      by the maid or by the valet——”

      “They are both old and tried servants.”

      “I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor,
      that there is no entrance from without, and that from within no
      one could go up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the
      house who has taken it. To whom would the thief take it? To one
      of several international spies and secret agents, whose names are
      tolerably familiar to me. There are three who may be said to be
      the heads of their profession. I will begin my research by going
      round and finding if each of them is at his post. If one is
      missing—especially if he has disappeared since last night—we will
      have some indication as to where the document has gone.”

      “Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He
      would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”

      “I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their
      relations with the Embassies are often strained.”

      The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

      “I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
      prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your
      course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot
      neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune.
      Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall
      communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the
      results of your own inquiries.”

      The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

      When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
      silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had
      opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime
      which had occurred in London the night before, when my friend
      gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down
      upon the mantelpiece.

      “Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The
      situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could
      be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
      has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question
      of money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury
      behind me. If it’s on the market I’ll buy it—if it means another
      penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might
      hold it back to see what bids come from this side before he tries
      his luck on the other. There are only those three capable of
      playing so bold a game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and
      Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”

      I glanced at my morning paper.

      “Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”

      “Yes.”

      “You will not see him.”

      “Why not?”

      “He was murdered in his house last night.”

      My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
      adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized
      how completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and
      then snatched the paper from my hands. This was the paragraph
      which I had been engaged in reading when he rose from his chair:

      MURDER IN WESTMINSTER

      A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,
      Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
      eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the
      Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of
      Parliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited for
      some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well-known in society circles
      both on account of his charming personality and because he has
      the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur
      tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four
      years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an
      elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires
      early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for
      the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock
      onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during
      that time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve
      Police-constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street observed
      that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no
      answer. Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced into
      the passage and again knocked, but without reply. He then pushed
      open the door and entered. The room was in a state of wild
      disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and one
      chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and
      still grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the
      house. He had been stabbed to the heart and must have died
      instantly. The knife with which the crime had been committed was
      a curved Indian dagger, plucked down from a trophy of Oriental
      arms which adorned one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to
      have been the motive of the crime, for there had been no attempt
      to remove the valuable contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas
      was so well-known and popular that his violent and mysterious
      fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
      widespread circle of friends.

      “Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a
      long pause.

      “It is an amazing coincidence.”

      “A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
      possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death
      during the very hours when we know that that drama was being
      enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No
      figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events
      are connected—_must_ be connected. It is for us to find the
      connection.”

      “But now the official police must know all.”

      “Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
      know—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only _we_ know
      of both events, and can trace the relation between them. There is
      one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my
      suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only
      a few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret
      agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End. It was
      easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
      connection or receive a message from the European Secretary’s
      household—a small thing, and yet where events are compressed into
      a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?”

      Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver.
      Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to
      me.

      “Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step
      up,” said he.

      A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished
      that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most
      lovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the
      youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description
      of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had
      prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful
      colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that
      autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first
      thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was
      paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the
      brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
      an effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was what sprang
      first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant
      in the open door.

      “Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Yes, madam, he has been here.”

      “Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.”
      Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

      “Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that
      you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I
      cannot make any unconditional promise.”

      She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
      window. It was a queenly presence—tall, graceful, and intensely
      womanly. “Mr. Holmes,” she said—and her white-gloved hands
      clasped and unclasped as she spoke—“I will speak frankly to you
      in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in return.
      There is complete confidence between my husband and me on all
      matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips are
      sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a
      most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that a
      paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
      husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it
      is essential—essential, I say—that I should thoroughly understand
      it. You are the only other person, save only these politicians,
      who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me
      exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all,
      Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client’s interests keep you
      silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he would only see
      it, would be best served by taking me into his complete
      confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?”

      “Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.”

      She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

      “You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit
      to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
      only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
      secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.
      It is him whom you must ask.”

      “I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without
      your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great
      service if you would enlighten me on one point.”

      “What is it, madam?”

      “Is my husband’s political career likely to suffer through this
      incident?”

      “Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
      unfortunate effect.”

      “Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
      resolved.

      “One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my
      husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
      that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
      this document.”

      “If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”

      “Of what nature are they?”

      “Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly
      answer.”

      “Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,
      Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
      your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
      desire, even against his will, to share my husband’s anxieties.
      Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit.”

      She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression
      of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
      mouth. Then she was gone.

      “Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with
      a smile, when the dwindling _frou-frou_ of skirts had ended in
      the slam of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What
      did she really want?”

      “Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”

      “Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson—her manner, her suppressed
      excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.
      Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show
      emotion.”

      “She was certainly much moved.”

      “Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
      that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What
      did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she
      manœuvred to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to
      read her expression.”

      “Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.”

      “And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember
      the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No
      powder on her nose—that proved to be the correct solution. How
      can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may
      mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon
      a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson.”

      “You are off?”

      “Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
      friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the
      solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an
      inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
      theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
      Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I’ll join you at lunch if
      I am able.”

      All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which
      his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out
      and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin,
      sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and
      hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It was
      evident to me that things were not going well with him or his
      quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the
      papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the
      arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
      the deceased. The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful
      Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive
      was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none
      had been taken. The dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.
      They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen
      student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a
      remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been
      on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several
      countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the
      documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
      women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He
      had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one
      whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.
      His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

      As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
      despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could
      be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith
      that night. The _alibi_ was complete. It is true that he started
      home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster
      before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own
      explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable
      enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had actually
      arrived at twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the
      unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
      master. Several of the dead man’s possessions—notably a small
      case of razors—had been found in the valet’s boxes, but he
      explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the
      housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been in
      Lucas’s employment for three years. It was noticeable that Lucas
      did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes he
      visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
      charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she
      had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
      visitor he had himself admitted him.

      So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
      follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
      counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him
      into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close
      touch with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared
      a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole
      question.

      A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police (said the
      _Daily Telegraph_) which raises the veil which hung round the
      tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
      last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers
      will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in
      his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that
      the case broke down on an _alibi_. Yesterday a lady, who has been
      known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue
      Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as
      being insane. An examination showed she had indeed developed
      mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry, the police
      have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a
      journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to
      connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
      photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and
      Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
      deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and
      Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely
      excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of
      jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it
      was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which
      has caused such a sensation in London. Her movements upon the
      Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a
      woman answering to her description attracted much attention at
      Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her
      appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
      therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or
      that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of
      her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account
      of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the
      reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
      who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours upon
      Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

      “What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud
      to him, while he finished his breakfast.

      “My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up
      and down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have
      told you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is
      nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us
      much.”

      “Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”

      “The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—in
      comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
      and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has
      happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
      happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and it
      is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.
      Now, if this letter were loose—no, it _can’t_ be loose—but if it
      isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back?
      That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it,
      indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the
      night when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him?
      If so, why is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his
      carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How
      could I search for it without the French police having their
      suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law
      is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man’s hand is
      against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I
      bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent
      the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the
      front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed
      in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of
      interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down
      together to Westminster.”

      It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy,
      narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
      which gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us
      from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
      constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into which
      we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but
      no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon
      the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the centre
      of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
      old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.
      Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
      which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a
      sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the
      pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste
      which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

      “Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.

      Holmes nodded.

      “Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No
      doubt it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise
      visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
      compartments—he let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She
      told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to
      another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It
      wasn’t all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all
      swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried
      to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen
      it.”

      Holmes raised his eyebrows.

      “And yet you have sent for me?”

      “Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort of
      thing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what you might
      call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can’t
      have, on the face of it.”

      “What is it, then?”

      “Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful
      to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer
      in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried
      and the investigation over—so far as this room is concerned—we
      thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not
      fastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it.
      We found——”

      “Yes? You found——”

      Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

      “Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we
      did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal
      must have soaked through, must it not?”

      “Undoubtedly it must.”

      “Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
      the white woodwork to correspond.”

      “No stain! But there must——”

      “Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”

      He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
      over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

      “But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left
      a mark.”

      Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous
      expert.

      “Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There _is_ a second stain,
      but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As
      he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there,
      sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white
      facing of the old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr.
      Holmes?”

      “Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
      carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it
      was easily done.”

      “The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
      that the carpet must have been turned round. That’s clear enough,
      for the stains lie above each other—if you lay it over this way.
      But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”

      I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that he was vibrating with
      inward excitement.

      “Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the
      passage been in charge of the place all the time?”

      “Yes, he has.”

      “Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before
      us. We’ll wait here. You take him into the back room. You’ll be
      more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he
      dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don’t
      ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you
      _know_ someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full
      confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I
      tell you!”

      “By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade.
      He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying
      voice sounded from the back room.

      “Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
      demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner
      burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the
      floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing
      at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as
      he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid
      of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged
      his eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of
      anger and disappointment. It was empty.

      “Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was
      replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
      Lestrade’s voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes
      leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,
      endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

      “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are
      bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all
      right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your
      most inexcusable conduct.”

      The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

      “I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door
      last evening—mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.
      It’s lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.”

      “Well, what happened then?”

      “She wanted to see where the crime was done—had read about it in
      the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken
      young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.
      When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the
      floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got
      some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the
      corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had
      brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off—ashamed
      of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.”

      “How about moving that drugget?”

      “Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.
      You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with
      nothing to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards.”

      “It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive me, Constable
      MacPherson,” said Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought
      that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a
      mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that
      someone had been admitted to the room. It’s lucky for you, my
      man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in Queer
      Street. I’m sorry to have called you down over such a petty
      business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain
      not corresponding with the first would interest you.”

      “Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been
      here once, constable?”

      “Yes, sir, only once.”

      “Who was she?”

      “Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
      typewriting and came to the wrong number—very pleasant, genteel
      young woman, sir.”

      “Tall? Handsome?”

      “Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might
      say she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very
      handsome. ‘Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had
      pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there was
      no harm in letting her just put her head through the door.”

      “How was she dressed?”

      “Quiet, sir—a long mantle down to her feet.”

      “What time was it?”

      “It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the
      lamps as I came back with the brandy.”

      “Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have
      more important work elsewhere.”

      As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while
      the repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes
      turned on the step and held up something in his hand. The
      constable stared intently.

      “Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes
      put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast
      pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.
      “Excellent!” said he. “Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up
      for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will be
      no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no
      setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign
      will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime
      Minister will have no European complication to deal with, and
      that with a little tact and management upon our part nobody will
      be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly
      incident.”

      My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

      “You have solved it!” I cried.

      “Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
      ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we
      cannot get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and
      bring the matter to a head.”

      When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was
      for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We
      were shown into the morning-room.

      “Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her
      indignation. “This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your
      part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a
      secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into
      his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so
      showing that there are business relations between us.”

      “Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
      commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must
      therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my
      hands.”

      The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an
      instant from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed—she tottered—I
      thought that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she
      rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and
      indignation chased every other expression from her features.

      “You—you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter.”

      She darted to the bell.

      “The butler shall show you out.”

      “Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts
      to avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all
      will be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange
      everything. If you work against me I must expose you.”

      She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon
      his as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell,
      but she had forborne to ring it.

      “You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
      Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
      something. What is it that you know?”

      “Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall.
      I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you.”

      “I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

      “One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo
      Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious return
      to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the
      letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

      She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
      could speak.

      “You are mad, Mr. Holmes—you are mad!” she cried, at last.

      He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the
      face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

      “I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said
      he. “The policeman has recognized it.”

      She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

      “Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
      adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends
      when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my
      advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance.”

      Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

      “I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd
      illusion.”

      Holmes rose from his chair.

      “I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I
      can see that it is all in vain.”

      He rang the bell. The butler entered.

      “Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

      “He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”

      Holmes glanced at his watch.

      “Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”

      The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
      was down on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched,
      her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

      “Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of
      supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so!
      I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would
      break his noble heart.”

      Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come
      to your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant
      to lose. Where is the letter?”

      She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a
      long blue envelope.

      “Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!”

      “How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must
      think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

      “Still in his bedroom.”

      “What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment
      later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

      “How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of
      course you have. Open it!”

      From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box
      flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue
      envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of
      some other document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to
      the bedroom.

      “Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten
      minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you
      will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of
      this extraordinary affair.”

      “Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh,
      Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a
      moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her
      husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted—how I have
      been compelled to act—he would never forgive me. For his own
      honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse
      in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our
      very lives are at stake!”

      “Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

      “It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter
      written before my marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an
      impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have
      thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would
      have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had
      thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard
      from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that
      he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy. He said
      that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain
      document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had
      some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He
      assured me that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in
      my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?”

      “Take your husband into your confidence.”

      “I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed
      certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my
      husband’s paper, still in a matter of politics I could not
      understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust
      they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an
      impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I
      opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to
      Godolphin Street.”

      “What happened there, madam?”

      “I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him
      into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared
      to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a woman
      outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He had my
      letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the
      letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There were
      steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget,
      thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and covered it
      over.

      “What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a
      vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which
      screamed in French, ‘My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last
      I have found you with her!’ There was a savage struggle. I saw
      him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed
      from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next
      morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night
      I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the
      future would bring.

      “It was the next morning that I realized that I had only
      exchanged one trouble for another. My husband’s anguish at the
      loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself
      from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him
      what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the
      past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the full
      enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it my
      whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
      husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for
      it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If
      it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his
      hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two days I
      watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last night I
      made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have
      already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and thought of
      destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without
      confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon
      the stair!”

      The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news,
      Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried.

      “I have some hopes.”

      “Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister
      is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of
      steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this
      terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come
      up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. We
      will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.”

      The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the
      gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he
      shared the excitement of his young colleague.

      “I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at
      every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no
      danger to be apprehended.”

      “But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on
      such a volcano. We must have something definite.”

      “I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I
      think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has
      never left this house.”

      “Mr. Holmes!”

      “If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”

      “But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”

      “I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”

      “Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”

      “I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”

      “Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance
      that it left the box.”

      “Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

      “No. It was not necessary.”

      “You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

      “Impossible, I say.”

      “But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to
      happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have
      got mixed with them.”

      “It was on the top.”

      “Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”

      “No, no, I had everything out.”

      “Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us
      have the despatch-box brought in.”

      The Secretary rang the bell.

      “Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
      time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be
      done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key
      on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord
      Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade,
      note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note
      from Lord Flowers——Good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger!
      Lord Bellinger!”

      The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

      “Yes, it is it—and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate
      you.”

      “Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
      inconceivable—impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a
      sorcerer! How did you know it was there?”

      “Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

      “I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is
      my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we
      heard his voice on the stairs.

      The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

      “Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye.
      How came the letter back in the box?”

      Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those
      wonderful eyes.

      “We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up
      his hat, he turned to the door.

      THE END






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