"PART I.\n\n(_Being a reprint from the reminiscences of_ JOHN H. WATSON, M.D., _late\nof the Army Medical Department._) \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.\n\n\nIN the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the\nUniversity of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course\nprescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there,\nI was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant\nSurgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before\nI could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at\nBombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and\nwas already deep in the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many\nother officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded\nin reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once\nentered upon my new duties.\n\nThe campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had\nnothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and\nattached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of\nMaiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which\nshattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have\nfallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the\ndevotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a\npack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.\n\nWorn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had\nundergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to\nthe base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved\nso far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little\nupon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse\nof our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and\nwhen at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and\nemaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost\nin sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the\ntroopship \"Orontes,\" and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with\nmy health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal\ngovernment to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.\n\nI had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as\nair--or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will\npermit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to\nLondon, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of\nthe Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at\na private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless\nexistence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely\nthan I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that\nI soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate\nsomewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in\nmy style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making\nup my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less\npretentious and less expensive domicile.\n\nOn the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at\nthe Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning\nround I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at\nBarts. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is\na pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never\nbeen a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm,\nand he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the\nexuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and\nwe started off together in a hansom.\n\n\"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?\" he asked in\nundisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.\n\"You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.\"\n\nI gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it\nby the time that we reached our destination.\n\n\"Poor devil!\" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my\nmisfortunes. \"What are you up to now?\"\n\n\"Looking for lodgings.\" I answered. \"Trying to solve the problem\nas to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable\nprice.\"\n\n\"That's a strange thing,\" remarked my companion; \"you are the second man\nto-day that has used that expression to me.\"\n\n\"And who was the first?\" I asked.\n\n\"A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital.\nHe was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone\nto go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which\nwere too much for his purse.\"\n\n\"By Jove!\" I cried, \"if he really wants someone to share the rooms and\nthe expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner\nto being alone.\"\n\nYoung Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. \"You\ndon't know Sherlock Holmes yet,\" he said; \"perhaps you would not care\nfor him as a constant companion.\"\n\n\"Why, what is there against him?\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer\nin his ideas--an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I\nknow he is a decent fellow enough.\"\n\n\"A medical student, I suppose?\" said I.\n\n\"No--I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well\nup in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know,\nhe has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are\nvery desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way\nknowledge which would astonish his professors.\"\n\n\"Did you never ask him what he was going in for?\" I asked.\n\n\"No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be\ncommunicative enough when the fancy seizes him.\"\n\n\"I should like to meet him,\" I said. \"If I am to lodge with anyone, I\nshould prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong\nenough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in\nAfghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How\ncould I meet this friend of yours?\"\n\n\"He is sure to be at the laboratory,\" returned my companion. \"He either\navoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to\nnight. If you like, we shall drive round together after luncheon.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other\nchannels.\n\nAs we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford\ngave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to\ntake as a fellow-lodger.\n\n\"You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him,\" he said; \"I know\nnothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in\nthe laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me\nresponsible.\"\n\n\"If we don't get on it will be easy to part company,\" I answered. \"It\nseems to me, Stamford,\" I added, looking hard at my companion, \"that you\nhave some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow's\ntemper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be mealy-mouthed about it.\"\n\n\"It is not easy to express the inexpressible,\" he answered with a laugh.\n\"Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes--it approaches to\ncold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of\nthe latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand,\nbut simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea\nof the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself\nwith the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and\nexact knowledge.\"\n\n\"Very right too.\"\n\n\"Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the\nsubjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking\nrather a bizarre shape.\"\n\n\"Beating the subjects!\"\n\n\"Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him\nat it with my own eyes.\"\n\n\"And yet you say he is not a medical student?\"\n\n\"No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we\nare, and you must form your own impressions about him.\" As he spoke, we\nturned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which\nopened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me,\nand I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and\nmade our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed\nwall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low arched passage\nbranched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.\n\nThis was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.\nBroad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,\ntest-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames.\nThere was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant\ntable absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round\nand sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. \"I've found it! I've\nfound it,\" he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a\ntest-tube in his hand. \"I have found a re-agent which is precipitated\nby hoemoglobin, and by nothing else.\" Had he discovered a gold mine,\ngreater delight could not have shone upon his features.\n\n\"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,\" said Stamford, introducing us.\n\n\"How are you?\" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength\nfor which I should hardly have given him credit. \"You have been in\nAfghanistan, I perceive.\"\n\n\"How on earth did you know that?\" I asked in astonishment.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said he, chuckling to himself. \"The question now is about\nhoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of\nmine?\"\n\n\"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,\" I answered, \"but\npractically----\"\n\n\"Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.\nDon't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains. Come\nover here now!\" He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and\ndrew me over to the table at which he had been working. \"Let us have\nsome fresh blood,\" he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and\ndrawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. \"Now, I\nadd this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that\nthe resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion\nof blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however,\nthat we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.\" As he\nspoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added\nsome drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a\ndull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom\nof the glass jar.\n\n\"Ha! ha!\" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a\nchild with a new toy. \"What do you think of that?\"\n\n\"It seems to be a very delicate test,\" I remarked.\n\n\"Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and\nuncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The\nlatter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears\nto act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been\ninvented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long\nago have paid the penalty of their crimes.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" I murmured.\n\n\"Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is\nsuspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His\nlinen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon them.\nAre they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains,\nor what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert,\nand why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock\nHolmes' test, and there will no longer be any difficulty.\"\n\nHis eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his\nheart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his\nimagination.\n\n\"You are to be congratulated,\" I remarked, considerably surprised at his\nenthusiasm.\n\n\"There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would\ncertainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was\nMason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier,\nand Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it\nwould have been decisive.\"\n\n\"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,\" said Stamford with a\nlaugh. \"You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police News\nof the Past.'\"\n\n\"Very interesting reading it might be made, too,\" remarked Sherlock\nHolmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger.\n\"I have to be careful,\" he continued, turning to me with a smile, \"for I\ndabble with poisons a good deal.\" He held out his hand as he spoke, and\nI noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster,\nand discoloured with strong acids.\n\n\"We came here on business,\" said Stamford, sitting down on a high\nthree-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with\nhis foot. \"My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were\ncomplaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought\nthat I had better bring you together.\"\n\nSherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with\nme. \"I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,\" he said, \"which would\nsuit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco,\nI hope?\"\n\n\"I always smoke 'ship's' myself,\" I answered.\n\n\"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally\ndo experiments. Would that annoy you?\"\n\n\"By no means.\"\n\n\"Let me see--what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at\ntimes, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am\nsulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right. What\nhave you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the\nworst of one another before they begin to live together.\"\n\nI laughed at this cross-examination. \"I keep a bull pup,\" I said, \"and\nI object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts\nof ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices\nwhen I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present.\"\n\n\"Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?\" he asked,\nanxiously.\n\n\"It depends on the player,\" I answered. \"A well-played violin is a treat\nfor the gods--a badly-played one----\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" he cried, with a merry laugh. \"I think we may\nconsider the thing as settled--that is, if the rooms are agreeable to\nyou.\"\n\n\"When shall we see them?\"\n\n\"Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle\neverything,\" he answered.\n\n\"All right--noon exactly,\" said I, shaking his hand.\n\nWe left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards\nmy hotel.\n\n\"By the way,\" I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, \"how\nthe deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?\"\n\nMy companion smiled an enigmatical smile. \"That's just his little\npeculiarity,\" he said. \"A good many people have wanted to know how he\nfinds things out.\"\n\n\"Oh! a mystery is it?\" I cried, rubbing my hands. \"This is very piquant.\nI am much obliged to you for bringing us together. 'The proper study of\nmankind is man,' you know.\"\n\n\"You must study him, then,\" Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.\n\"You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager he learns more\nabout you than you about him. Good-bye.\"\n\n\"Good-bye,\" I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably\ninterested in my new acquaintance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION.\n\n\nWE met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B,\nBaker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They\nconsisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large\nairy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad\nwindows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate\ndid the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain was\nconcluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession.\nThat very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the\nfollowing morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and\nportmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and\nlaying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we\ngradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new\nsurroundings.\n\nHolmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet\nin his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be\nup after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out\nbefore I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical\nlaboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long\nwalks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the City.\nNothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but\nnow and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would\nlie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving\na muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such\na dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him\nof being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance\nand cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.\n\nAs the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his\naims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and\nappearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual\nobserver. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively\nlean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and\npiercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded;\nand his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of\nalertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness\nwhich mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably\nblotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of\nextraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe\nwhen I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.\n\nThe reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how\nmuch this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured\nto break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned\nhimself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how\nobjectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention.\nMy health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was\nexceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and\nbreak the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, I\neagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and\nspent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.\n\nHe was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question,\nconfirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to\nhave pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree in\nscience or any other recognized portal which would give him an entrance\ninto the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable,\nand within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample\nand minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man\nwould work so hard or attain such precise information unless he had some\ndefinite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the\nexactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small matters\nunless he has some very good reason for doing so.\n\nHis ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary\nliterature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing.\nUpon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he\nmight be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however,\nwhen I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory\nand of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human\nbeing in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth\ntravelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact\nthat I could hardly realize it.\n\n\"You appear to be astonished,\" he said, smiling at my expression of\nsurprise. \"Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it.\"\n\n\"To forget it!\"\n\n\"You see,\" he explained, \"I consider that a man's brain originally is\nlike a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture\nas you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he\ncomes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets\ncrowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that\nhe has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful workman\nis very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will\nhave nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of\nthese he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It\nis a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can\ndistend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every\naddition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is\nof the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing\nout the useful ones.\"\n\n\"But the Solar System!\" I protested.\n\n\"What the deuce is it to me?\" he interrupted impatiently; \"you say\nthat we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a\npennyworth of difference to me or to my work.\"\n\nI was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something\nin his manner showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I\npondered over our short conversation, however, and endeavoured to draw\nmy deductions from it. He said that he would acquire no knowledge which\ndid not bear upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he\npossessed was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own\nmind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he was\nexceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down.\nI could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It ran\nin this way--\n\n\nSHERLOCK HOLMES--his limits.\n\n  1. Knowledge of Literature.--Nil.\n  2.              Philosophy.--Nil.\n  3.              Astronomy.--Nil.\n  4.              Politics.--Feeble.\n  5.              Botany.--Variable.  Well up in belladonna,\n                              opium, and poisons generally.\n                              Knows nothing of practical gardening.\n  6.              Geology.--Practical, but limited.\n                               Tells at a glance different soils\n                               from each other.  After walks has\n                               shown me splashes upon his trousers,\n                               and told me by their colour and\n                               consistence in what part of London\n                               he had received them.\n  7.              Chemistry.--Profound.\n  8.              Anatomy.--Accurate, but unsystematic.\n  9.              Sensational Literature.--Immense.  He appears\n                              to know every detail of every horror\n                              perpetrated in the century.\n  10. Plays the violin well.\n  11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.\n  12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.\n\n\nWhen I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair.\n\"If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all\nthese accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all,\"\nI said to myself, \"I may as well give up the attempt at once.\"\n\nI see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These\nwere very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments.\nThat he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because\nat my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other\nfavourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any\nmusic or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of\nan evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle\nwhich was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and\nmelancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they\nreflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided\nthose thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim\nor fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against\nthese exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them\nby playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a\nslight compensation for the trial upon my patience.\n\nDuring the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think\nthat my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently,\nhowever, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most\ndifferent classes of society. There was one little sallow rat-faced,\ndark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came\nthree or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl called,\nfashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same\nafternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew\npedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closely\nfollowed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an old\nwhite-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on\nanother a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these\nnondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to\nbeg for the use of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bed-room.\nHe always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. \"I have\nto use this room as a place of business,\" he said, \"and these people\nare my clients.\" Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point blank\nquestion, and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to\nconfide in me. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for\nnot alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to\nthe subject of his own accord.\n\nIt was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I\nrose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not\nyet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to my\nlate habits that my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With\nthe unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt\nintimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table\nand attempted to while away the time with it, while my companion munched\nsilently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the\nheading, and I naturally began to run my eye through it.\n\nIts somewhat ambitious title was \"The Book of Life,\" and it attempted to\nshow how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic\nexamination of all that came in his way. It struck me as being a\nremarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was\nclose and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched\nand exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch\nof a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's inmost thoughts.\nDeceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one\ntrained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible\nas so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appear\nto the uninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he had\narrived at them they might well consider him as a necromancer.\n\n\"From a drop of water,\" said the writer, \"a logician could infer the\npossibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of\none or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is\nknown whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts,\nthe Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired\nby long and patient study nor is life long enough to allow any mortal\nto attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to\nthose moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest\ndifficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more elementary\nproblems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to\ndistinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to\nwhich he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the\nfaculties of observation, and teaches one where to look and what to look\nfor. By a man's finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his\ntrouser knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his\nexpression, by his shirt cuffs--by each of these things a man's calling\nis plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the\ncompetent enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable.\"\n\n\"What ineffable twaddle!\" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the\ntable, \"I never read such rubbish in my life.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Sherlock Holmes.\n\n\"Why, this article,\" I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat\ndown to my breakfast. \"I see that you have read it since you have marked\nit. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It\nis evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these\nneat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not\npractical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class\ncarriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his\nfellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him.\"\n\n\"You would lose your money,\" Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. \"As for\nthe article I wrote it myself.\"\n\n\"You!\"\n\n\"Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The\ntheories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so\nchimerical are really extremely practical--so practical that I depend\nupon them for my bread and cheese.\"\n\n\"And how?\" I asked involuntarily.\n\n\"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the\nworld. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is.\nHere in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private\nones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to\nput them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I\nam generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of\ncrime, to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance about\nmisdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger\nends, it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade\nis a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over a\nforgery case, and that was what brought him here.\"\n\n\"And these other people?\"\n\n\"They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are\nall people who are in trouble about something, and want a little\nenlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and\nthen I pocket my fee.\"\n\n\"But do you mean to say,\" I said, \"that without leaving your room you\ncan unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they\nhave seen every detail for themselves?\"\n\n\"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case\nturns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and\nsee things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledge\nwhich I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters wonderfully.\nThose rules of deduction laid down in that article which aroused your\nscorn, are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is\nsecond nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our\nfirst meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan.\"\n\n\"You were told, no doubt.\"\n\n\"Nothing of the sort. I _knew_ you came from Afghanistan. From long\nhabit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I\narrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps.\nThere were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, 'Here is a\ngentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly\nan army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is\ndark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are\nfair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says\nclearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and\nunnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have\nseen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The\nwhole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you\ncame from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.\"\n\n\"It is simple enough as you explain it,\" I said, smiling. \"You remind\nme of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did\nexist outside of stories.\"\n\nSherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. \"No doubt you think that you are\ncomplimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,\" he observed. \"Now, in my\nopinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking\nin on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of\nan hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some\nanalytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as\nPoe appeared to imagine.\"\n\n\"Have you read Gaboriau's works?\" I asked. \"Does Lecoq come up to your\nidea of a detective?\"\n\nSherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. \"Lecoq was a miserable bungler,\"\nhe said, in an angry voice; \"he had only one thing to recommend him, and\nthat was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was\nhow to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four\nhours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a text-book for\ndetectives to teach them what to avoid.\"\n\nI felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired\ntreated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood\nlooking out into the busy street. \"This fellow may be very clever,\" I\nsaid to myself, \"but he is certainly very conceited.\"\n\n\"There are no crimes and no criminals in these days,\" he said,\nquerulously. \"What is the use of having brains in our profession. I know\nwell that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has\never lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural\ntalent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the\nresult? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy\nwith a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see\nthrough it.\"\n\nI was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought it\nbest to change the topic.\n\n\"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?\" I asked, pointing to a\nstalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the\nother side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had\na large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a\nmessage.\n\n\"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,\" said Sherlock Holmes.\n\n\"Brag and bounce!\" thought I to myself. \"He knows that I cannot verify\nhis guess.\"\n\nThe thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were\nwatching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across\nthe roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps\nascending the stair.\n\n\"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,\" he said, stepping into the room and handing\nmy friend the letter.\n\nHere was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little\nthought of this when he made that random shot. \"May I ask, my lad,\" I\nsaid, in the blandest voice, \"what your trade may be?\"\n\n\"Commissionaire, sir,\" he said, gruffly. \"Uniform away for repairs.\"\n\n\"And you were?\" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my\ncompanion.\n\n\"A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,\nsir.\"\n\nHe clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was\ngone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY \n\n\nI CONFESS that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the\npractical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powers\nof analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking\nsuspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged\nepisode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have\nin taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him he\nhad finished reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant,\nlack-lustre expression which showed mental abstraction.\n\n\"How in the world did you deduce that?\" I asked.\n\n\"Deduce what?\" said he, petulantly.\n\n\"Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines.\"\n\n\"I have no time for trifles,\" he answered, brusquely; then with a smile,\n\"Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but perhaps\nit is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a\nsergeant of Marines?\"\n\n\"No, indeed.\"\n\n\"It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you\nwere asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some\ndifficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the\nstreet I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the\nfellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,\nhowever, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He was\na man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command.\nYou must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung\nhis cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of\nhim--all facts which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant.\"\n\n\"Wonderful!\" I ejaculated.\n\n\"Commonplace,\" said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that he\nwas pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. \"I said just now that\nthere were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong--look at this!\" He\nthrew me over the note which the commissionaire had brought. \n\n\"Why,\" I cried, as I cast my eye over it, \"this is terrible!\"\n\n\"It does seem to be a little out of the common,\" he remarked, calmly.\n\"Would you mind reading it to me aloud?\"\n\nThis is the letter which I read to him----\n\n\n\"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--\n\n\"There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens,\noff the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in\nthe morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected that something\nwas amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare\nof furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed, and\nhaving cards in his pocket bearing the name of 'Enoch J. Drebber,\nCleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no robbery, nor is there any\nevidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in\nthe room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to\nhow he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler.\nIf you can come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find\nme there. I have left everything _in statu quo_ until I hear from you.\nIf you are unable to come I shall give you fuller details, and would\nesteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with your opinion.\nYours faithfully,\n\n\"TOBIAS GREGSON.\"\n\n\n\"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,\" my friend remarked;\n\"he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and\nenergetic, but conventional--shockingly so. They have their knives\ninto one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional\nbeauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put\nupon the scent.\"\n\nI was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. \"Surely there is\nnot a moment to be lost,\" I cried, \"shall I go and order you a cab?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy\ndevil that ever stood in shoe leather--that is, when the fit is on me,\nfor I can be spry enough at times.\"\n\n\"Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for.\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the\nwhole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will\npocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage.\"\n\n\"But he begs you to help him.\"\n\n\"Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but\nhe would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person.\nHowever, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my\nown hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!\"\n\nHe hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that\nan energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.\n\n\"Get your hat,\" he said.\n\n\"You wish me to come?\"\n\n\"Yes, if you have nothing better to do.\" A minute later we were both in\na hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.\n\nIt was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the\nhouse-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets\nbeneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away\nabout Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and\nan Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the\nmelancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.\n\n\"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,\" I said at\nlast, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.\n\n\"No data yet,\" he answered. \"It is a capital mistake to theorize before\nyou have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.\"\n\n\"You will have your data soon,\" I remarked, pointing with my finger;\n\"this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much\nmistaken.\"\n\n\"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!\" We were still a hundred yards or so from\nit, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey upon\nfoot.\n\nNumber 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was\none of four which stood back some little way from the street, two being\noccupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant\nmelancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here and\nthere a \"To Let\" card had developed like a cataract upon the bleared\npanes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly\nplants separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed\nby a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of a\nmixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the\nrain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by a\nthree-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and\nagainst this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded by\na small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes\nin the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.\n\nI had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the\nhouse and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be\nfurther from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the\ncircumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up\nand down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the\nopposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny,\nhe proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass\nwhich flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice\nhe stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation\nof satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey\nsoil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was\nunable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it.\nStill I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his\nperceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal\nwhich was hidden from me.\n\nAt the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,\nflaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and\nwrung my companion's hand with effusion. \"It is indeed kind of you to\ncome,\" he said, \"I have had everything left untouched.\"\n\n\"Except that!\" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. \"If a herd\nof buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No\ndoubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you\npermitted this.\"\n\n\"I have had so much to do inside the house,\" the detective said\nevasively. \"My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him\nto look after this.\"\n\nHolmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. \"With two\nsuch men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be\nmuch for a third party to find out,\" he said.\n\nGregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. \"I think we have done\nall that can be done,\" he answered; \"it's a queer case though, and I\nknew your taste for such things.\"\n\n\"You did not come here in a cab?\" asked Sherlock Holmes.\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Nor Lestrade?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Then let us go and look at the room.\" With which inconsequent remark he\nstrode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed\nhis astonishment.\n\nA short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices.\nTwo doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these\nhad obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the\ndining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious affair had\noccurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feeling\nat my heart which the presence of death inspires.\n\nIt was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence\nof all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was\nblotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips had\nbecome detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath.\nOpposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of\nimitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a\nred wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was\nhazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which was\nintensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.\n\nAll these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was\ncentred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon\nthe boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured\nceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years of\nage, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and\na short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat\nand waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar\nand cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the floor\nbeside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while\nhis lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been a\ngrievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror,\nand as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human\nfeatures. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low\nforehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly\nsimious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,\nunnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has\nit appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy\napartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban\nLondon.\n\nLestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, and\ngreeted my companion and myself.\n\n\"This case will make a stir, sir,\" he remarked. \"It beats anything I\nhave seen, and I am no chicken.\"\n\n\"There is no clue?\" said Gregson.\n\n\"None at all,\" chimed in Lestrade.\n\nSherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it\nintently. \"You are sure that there is no wound?\" he asked, pointing to\nnumerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.\n\n\"Positive!\" cried both detectives.\n\n\"Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual--\npresumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It reminds me of\nthe circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in\nthe year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It\nhas all been done before.\"\n\nAs he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere,\nfeeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same\nfar-away expression which I have already remarked upon. So swiftly was\nthe examination made, that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness\nwith which it was conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips,\nand then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.\n\n\"He has not been moved at all?\" he asked.\n\n\"No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination.\"\n\n\"You can take him to the mortuary now,\" he said. \"There is nothing more\nto be learned.\"\n\nGregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered\nthe room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raised\nhim, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed\nit up and stared at it with mystified eyes.\n\n\"There's been a woman here,\" he cried. \"It's a woman's wedding-ring.\"\n\nHe held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all gathered\nround him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of\nplain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.\n\n\"This complicates matters,\" said Gregson. \"Heaven knows, they were\ncomplicated enough before.\"\n\n\"You're sure it doesn't simplify them?\" observed Holmes. \"There's\nnothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his\npockets?\"\n\n\"We have it all here,\" said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects\nupon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. \"A gold watch, No. 97163, by\nBarraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring,\nwith masonic device. Gold pin--bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes.\nRussian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland,\ncorresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose\nmoney to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of\nBoccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the\nfly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph\nStangerson.\"\n\n\"At what address?\"\n\n\"American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are both\nfrom the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their\nboats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to\nreturn to New York.\"\n\n\"Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?\"\n\n\"I did it at once, sir,\" said Gregson. \"I have had advertisements\nsent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American\nExchange, but he has not returned yet.\"\n\n\"Have you sent to Cleveland?\"\n\n\"We telegraphed this morning.\"\n\n\"How did you word your inquiries?\"\n\n\"We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be glad\nof any information which could help us.\"\n\n\"You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to\nbe crucial?\"\n\n\"I asked about Stangerson.\"\n\n\"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears\nto hinge? Will you not telegraph again?\"\n\n\"I have said all I have to say,\" said Gregson, in an offended voice.\n\nSherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make\nsome remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we\nwere holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene,\nrubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.\n\n\"Mr. Gregson,\" he said, \"I have just made a discovery of the highest\nimportance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a\ncareful examination of the walls.\"\n\nThe little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in\na state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his\ncolleague.\n\n\"Come here,\" he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of\nwhich felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. \"Now, stand\nthere!\"\n\nHe struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.\n\n\"Look at that!\" he said, triumphantly.\n\nI have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this\nparticular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a\nyellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was\nscrawled in blood-red letters a single word--\n\n                         RACHE.\n\n\n\"What do you think of that?\" cried the detective, with the air of a\nshowman exhibiting his show. \"This was overlooked because it was in the\ndarkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The\nmurderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear where\nit has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide\nanyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See\nthat candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was\nlit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of\nthe wall.\"\n\n\"And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?\" asked Gregson in a\ndepreciatory voice.\n\n\"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name\nRachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You mark\nmy words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find that a\nwoman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very well for\nyou to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but\nthe old hound is the best, when all is said and done.\"\n\n\"I really beg your pardon!\" said my companion, who had ruffled the\nlittle man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. \"You\ncertainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,\nand, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the other\nparticipant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this\nroom yet, but with your permission I shall do so now.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying\nglass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly\nabout the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once\nlying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that\nhe appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to\nhimself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire\nof exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of\nencouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded\nof a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards and\nforwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes\nacross the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his\nresearches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between\nmarks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his\ntape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place\nhe gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor,\nand packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass\nthe word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the most\nminute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he\nreplaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.\n\n\"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,\" he\nremarked with a smile. \"It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to\ndetective work.\"\n\nGregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur\ncompanion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently\nfailed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that\nSherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed towards some\ndefinite and practical end.\n\n\"What do you think of it, sir?\" they both asked.\n\n\"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume\nto help you,\" remarked my friend. \"You are doing so well now that it\nwould be a pity for anyone to interfere.\" There was a world of\nsarcasm in his voice as he spoke. \"If you will let me know how your\ninvestigations go,\" he continued, \"I shall be happy to give you any help\nI can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable who found\nthe body. Can you give me his name and address?\"\n\nLestrade glanced at his note-book. \"John Rance,\" he said. \"He is off\nduty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.\"\n\nHolmes took a note of the address.\n\n\"Come along, Doctor,\" he said; \"we shall go and look him up. I'll tell\nyou one thing which may help you in the case,\" he continued, turning to\nthe two detectives. \"There has been murder done, and the murderer was a\nman. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had\nsmall feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a\nTrichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab,\nwhich was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his\noff fore leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and the\nfinger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a\nfew indications, but they may assist you.\"\n\nLestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.\n\n\"If this man was murdered, how was it done?\" asked the former.\n\n\"Poison,\" said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. \"One other thing,\nLestrade,\" he added, turning round at the door: \"'Rache,' is the German\nfor 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss Rachel.\"\n\nWith which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals\nopen-mouthed behind him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL.\n\n\nIT was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock\nHolmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a\nlong telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us\nto the address given us by Lestrade.\n\n\"There is nothing like first hand evidence,\" he remarked; \"as a matter\nof fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still we may as\nwell learn all that is to be learned.\"\n\n\"You amaze me, Holmes,\" said I. \"Surely you are not as sure as you\npretend to be of all those particulars which you gave.\"\n\n\"There's no room for a mistake,\" he answered. \"The very first thing\nwhich I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts with\nits wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had no rain\nfor a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep impression must\nhave been there during the night. There were the marks of the horse's\nhoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly cut than\nthat of the other three, showing that that was a new shoe. Since the cab\nwas there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during the\nmorning--I have Gregson's word for that--it follows that it must have\nbeen there during the night, and, therefore, that it brought those two\nindividuals to the house.\"\n\n\"That seems simple enough,\" said I; \"but how about the other man's\nheight?\"\n\n\"Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from\nthe length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though\nthere is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow's stride\nboth on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a way of\nchecking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his instinct leads\nhim to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just\nover six feet from the ground. It was child's play.\"\n\n\"And his age?\" I asked.\n\n\"Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest\neffort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth\nof a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked across.\nPatent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had hopped over.\nThere is no mystery about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary\nlife a few of those precepts of observation and deduction which I\nadvocated in that article. Is there anything else that puzzles you?\"\n\n\"The finger nails and the Trichinopoly,\" I suggested.\n\n\"The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in\nblood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly\nscratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the man's\nnail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor.\nIt was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash as is only made by a\nTrichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes--in fact, I\nhave written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can\ndistinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand, either of cigar\nor of tobacco. It is just in such details that the skilled detective\ndiffers from the Gregson and Lestrade type.\"\n\n\"And the florid face?\" I asked.\n\n\"Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was\nright. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair.\"\n\nI passed my hand over my brow. \"My head is in a whirl,\" I remarked; \"the\nmore one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came these two\nmen--if there were two men--into an empty house? What has become of the\ncabman who drove them? How could one man compel another to take poison?\nWhere did the blood come from? What was the object of the murderer,\nsince robbery had no part in it? How came the woman's ring there? Above\nall, why should the second man write up the German word RACHE before\ndecamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible way of reconciling\nall these facts.\"\n\nMy companion smiled approvingly.\n\n\"You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,\" he\nsaid. \"There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up\nmy mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade's discovery it was simply\na blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting\nSocialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if\nyou noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion. Now, a real\nGerman invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we may safely\nsay that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy imitator who\noverdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong\nchannel. I'm not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You\nknow a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained his trick,\nand if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the\nconclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.\"\n\n\"I shall never do that,\" I answered; \"you have brought detection as near\nan exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.\"\n\nMy companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way\nin which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive\nto flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.\n\n\"I'll tell you one other thing,\" he said. \"Patent leathers and\nSquare-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway\ntogether as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability.\nWhen they got inside they walked up and down the room--or rather,\nPatent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I\ncould read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he\ngrew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of his\nstrides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no doubt,\ninto a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I know myself\nnow, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working\nbasis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to\nHalle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.\"\n\nThis conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way\nthrough a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the\ndingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand.\n\"That's Audley Court in there,\" he said, pointing to a narrow slit in\nthe line of dead-coloured brick. \"You'll find me here when you come\nback.\"\n\nAudley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us\ninto a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We\npicked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of\ndiscoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which\nwas decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was\nengraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we were\nshown into a little front parlour to await his coming.\n\nHe appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in\nhis slumbers. \"I made my report at the office,\" he said.\n\nHolmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it\npensively. \"We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own\nlips,\" he said.\n\n\"I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,\" the constable\nanswered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.\n\n\"Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred.\"\n\nRance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though\ndetermined not to omit anything in his narrative.\n\n\"I'll tell it ye from the beginning,\" he said. \"My time is from ten at\nnight to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the 'White\nHart'; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o'clock it\nbegan to rain, and I met Harry Murcher--him who has the Holland Grove\nbeat--and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin'.\nPresently--maybe about two or a little after--I thought I would take\na look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was\nprecious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down,\nthough a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin' down, thinkin'\nbetween ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when\nsuddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same\nhouse. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty\non account of him that owns them who won't have the drains seen to,\nthough the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o' typhoid\nfever. I was knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in\nthe window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the\ndoor----\"\n\n\"You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,\" my companion\ninterrupted. \"What did you do that for?\"\n\nRance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost\namazement upon his features.\n\n\"Why, that's true, sir,\" he said; \"though how you come to know it,\nHeaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still and\nso lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the worse for some one with me.\nI ain't afeared of anything on this side o' the grave; but I thought\nthat maybe it was him that died o' the typhoid inspecting the drains\nwhat killed him. The thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I walked back\nto the gate to see if I could see Murcher's lantern, but there wasn't no\nsign of him nor of anyone else.\"\n\n\"There was no one in the street?\"\n\n\"Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself\ntogether and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside,\nso I went into the room where the light was a-burnin'. There was a\ncandle flickerin' on the mantelpiece--a red wax one--and by its light I\nsaw----\"\n\n\"Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times,\nand you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried\nthe kitchen door, and then----\"\n\nJohn Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in\nhis eyes. \"Where was you hid to see all that?\" he cried. \"It seems to me\nthat you knows a deal more than you should.\"\n\nHolmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.\n\"Don't get arresting me for the murder,\" he said. \"I am one of the\nhounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for\nthat. Go on, though. What did you do next?\"\n\nRance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified expression.\n\"I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher\nand two more to the spot.\"\n\n\"Was the street empty then?\"\n\n\"Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\nThe constable's features broadened into a grin. \"I've seen many a drunk\nchap in my time,\" he said, \"but never anyone so cryin' drunk as\nthat cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up agin the\nrailings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's\nNew-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less\nhelp.\"\n\n\"What sort of a man was he?\" asked Sherlock Holmes.\n\nJohn Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. \"He was\nan uncommon drunk sort o' man,\" he said. \"He'd ha' found hisself in the\nstation if we hadn't been so took up.\"\n\n\"His face--his dress--didn't you notice them?\" Holmes broke in\nimpatiently.\n\n\"I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up--me\nand Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower\npart muffled round----\"\n\n\"That will do,\" cried Holmes. \"What became of him?\"\n\n\"We'd enough to do without lookin' after him,\" the policeman said, in an\naggrieved voice. \"I'll wager he found his way home all right.\"\n\n\"How was he dressed?\"\n\n\"A brown overcoat.\"\n\n\"Had he a whip in his hand?\"\n\n\"A whip--no.\"\n\n\"He must have left it behind,\" muttered my companion. \"You didn't happen\nto see or hear a cab after that?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"There's a half-sovereign for you,\" my companion said, standing up and\ntaking his hat. \"I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the\nforce. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You\nmight have gained your sergeant's stripes last night. The man whom you\nheld in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and\nwhom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell you\nthat it is so. Come along, Doctor.\"\n\nWe started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous,\nbut obviously uncomfortable.\n\n\"The blundering fool,\" Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our\nlodgings. \"Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good\nluck, and not taking advantage of it.\"\n\n\"I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this\nman tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why\nshould he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way\nof criminals.\"\n\n\"The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no\nother way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I\nshall have him, Doctor--I'll lay you two to one that I have him. I must\nthank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have\nmissed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?\nWhy shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the scarlet thread of\nmurder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is\nto unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And now\nfor lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing\nare splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays so\nmagnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.\"\n\nLeaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a\nlark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.\n\n\nOUR morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was\ntired out in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the concert, I\nlay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours' sleep.\nIt was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that\nhad occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into\nit. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted\nbaboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the\nimpression which that face had produced upon me that I found it\ndifficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its\nowner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most\nmalignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of\nCleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and that the\ndepravity of the victim was no condonment in the eyes of the law.\n\nThe more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion's\nhypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he\nhad sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected something\nwhich had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not poison, what\nhad caused the man's death, since there was neither wound nor marks of\nstrangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay so\nthickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had the\nvictim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. As\nlong as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be\nno easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confident\nmanner convinced me that he had already formed a theory which explained\nall the facts, though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture.\n\nHe was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concert\ncould not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table before\nhe appeared.\n\n\"It was magnificent,\" he said, as he took his seat. \"Do you remember\nwhat Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and\nappreciating it existed among the human race long before the power of\nspeech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced\nby it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries\nwhen the world was in its childhood.\"\n\n\"That's rather a broad idea,\" I remarked.\n\n\"One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret\nNature,\" he answered. \"What's the matter? You're not looking quite\nyourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.\"\n\n\"To tell the truth, it has,\" I said. \"I ought to be more case-hardened\nafter my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at\nMaiwand without losing my nerve.\"\n\n\"I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the\nimagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have you\nseen the evening paper?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the\nfact that when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding ring fell upon\nthe floor. It is just as well it does not.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Look at this advertisement,\" he answered. \"I had one sent to every\npaper this morning immediately after the affair.\"\n\nHe threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It\nwas the first announcement in the \"Found\" column. \"In Brixton Road,\nthis morning,\" it ran, \"a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway\nbetween the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson,\n221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.\"\n\n\"Excuse my using your name,\" he said. \"If I used my own some of these\ndunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.\"\n\n\"That is all right,\" I answered. \"But supposing anyone applies, I have\nno ring.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, you have,\" said he, handing me one. \"This will do very well. It\nis almost a facsimile.\"\n\n\"And who do you expect will answer this advertisement.\"\n\n\"Why, the man in the brown coat--our florid friend with the square toes.\nIf he does not come himself he will send an accomplice.\"\n\n\"Would he not consider it as too dangerous?\"\n\n\"Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason\nto believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose the\nring. According to my notion he dropped it while stooping over Drebber's\nbody, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house he\ndiscovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police already in\npossession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle burning. He had\nto pretend to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have\nbeen aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that\nman's place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred to him\nthat it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving\nthe house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly look out for the\nevening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found. His\neye, of course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should\nhe fear a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding\nof the ring should be connected with the murder. He would come. He will\ncome. You shall see him within an hour?\"\n\n\"And then?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?\"\n\n\"I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.\"\n\n\"You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man,\nand though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for\nanything.\"\n\nI went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with\nthe pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his\nfavourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.\n\n\"The plot thickens,\" he said, as I entered; \"I have just had an answer\nto my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one.\"\n\n\"And that is?\" I asked eagerly.\n\n\"My fiddle would be the better for new strings,\" he remarked. \"Put your\npistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary\nway. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too\nhard.\"\n\n\"It is eight o'clock now,\" I said, glancing at my watch.\n\n\"Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly.\nThat will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a\nqueer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--'De Jure inter\nGentes'--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles'\nhead was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed\nvolume was struck off.\"\n\n\"Who is the printer?\"\n\n\"Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very\nfaded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who William\nWhyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. His\nwriting has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think.\"\n\nAs he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose\nsoftly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the\nservant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she\nopened it.\n\n\"Does Dr. Watson live here?\" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We\ncould not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some one\nbegan to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling\none. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he\nlistened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble\ntap at the door.\n\n\"Come in,\" I cried.\n\nAt my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very\nold and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be\ndazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she\nstood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket\nwith nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face\nhad assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do to\nkeep my countenance.\n\nThe old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our\nadvertisement. \"It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen,\" she said,\ndropping another curtsey; \"a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It\nbelongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth,\nwhich her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he'd say if\nhe come 'ome and found her without her ring is more than I can think, he\nbeing short enough at the best o' times, but more especially when he\nhas the drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night along\nwith----\"\n\n\"Is that her ring?\" I asked.\n\n\"The Lord be thanked!\" cried the old woman; \"Sally will be a glad woman\nthis night. That's the ring.\"\n\n\"And what may your address be?\" I inquired, taking up a pencil.\n\n\"13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here.\"\n\n\"The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,\" said\nSherlock Holmes sharply.\n\nThe old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little\nred-rimmed eyes. \"The gentleman asked me for _my_ address,\" she said.\n\"Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.\"\n\n\"And your name is----?\"\n\n\"My name is Sawyer--her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her--and\na smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no steward in the\ncompany more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and what\nwith liquor shops----\"\n\n\"Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,\" I interrupted, in obedience to a sign\nfrom my companion; \"it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad\nto be able to restore it to the rightful owner.\"\n\nWith many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old crone\npacked it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock\nHolmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed into\nhis room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and\na cravat. \"I'll follow her,\" he said, hurriedly; \"she must be an\naccomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me.\" The hall door had\nhardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair.\nLooking through the window I could see her walking feebly along the\nother side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance behind.\n\"Either his whole theory is incorrect,\" I thought to myself, \"or else he\nwill be led now to the heart of the mystery.\" There was no need for him\nto ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible until\nI heard the result of his adventure.\n\nIt was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might\nbe, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages\nof Henri Murger's \"Vie de Bohème.\" Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the\nfootsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the\nmore stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same\ndestination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of\nhis latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not\nbeen successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for the\nmastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst into a\nhearty laugh.\n\n\"I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,\" he cried,\ndropping into his chair; \"I have chaffed them so much that they would\nnever have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I\nknow that I will be even with them in the long run.\"\n\n\"What is it then?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had\ngone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being\nfoot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which\nwas passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the address, but\nI need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to\nbe heard at the other side of the street, 'Drive to 13, Duncan Street,\nHoundsditch,' she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought, and\nhaving seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind. That's an art\nwhich every detective should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and\nnever drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped off\nbefore we came to the door, and strolled down the street in an easy,\nlounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw\nhim open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When\nI reached him he was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and\ngiving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I\nlistened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it\nwill be some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13\nwe found that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, named\nKeswick, and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever\nbeen heard of there.\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say,\" I cried, in amazement, \"that that tottering,\nfeeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion,\nwithout either you or the driver seeing her?\"\n\n\"Old woman be damned!\" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. \"We were the old\nwomen to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an\nactive one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was\ninimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means\nof giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as\nlonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risk\nsomething for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my advice\nand turn in.\"\n\nI was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I\nleft Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the\nwatches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin,\nand knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem which he\nhad set himself to unravel.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.\n\n\nTHE papers next day were full of the \"Brixton Mystery,\" as they termed\nit. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had leaders upon it\nin addition. There was some information in them which was new to me. I\nstill retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing\nupon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:--\n\nThe _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime there had\nseldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German\nname of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister\ninscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political\nrefugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in\nAmerica, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten laws,\nand been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht,\naqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian\ntheory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the\narticle concluded by admonishing the Government and advocating a closer\nwatch over foreigners in England.\n\nThe _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sort\nusually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from the\nunsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakening\nof all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman who had\nbeen residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the\nboarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.\nHe was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph\nStangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday, the\n4th inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention of\ncatching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen together upon\nthe platform. Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber's body\nwas, as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,\nmany miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, are\nquestions which are still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the\nwhereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and\nMr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it\nis confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily\nthrow light upon the matter.\n\nThe _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being\na political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animated\nthe Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to our shores\na number of men who might have made excellent citizens were they not\nsoured by the recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these\nmen there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was\npunished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary,\nStangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of the\ndeceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of the address\nof the house at which he had boarded--a result which was entirely due to\nthe acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.\n\nSherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, and\nthey appeared to afford him considerable amusement.\n\n\"I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure\nto score.\"\n\n\"That depends on how it turns out.\"\n\n\"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught, it\nwill be _on account_ of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be _in\nspite_ of their exertions. It's heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever\nthey do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot\nqui l'admire.'\"\n\n\"What on earth is this?\" I cried, for at this moment there came the\npattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by\naudible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.\n\n\"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force,\" said my\ncompanion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a\ndozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped\neyes on.\n\n\"'Tention!\" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little\nscoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. \"In\nfuture you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you\nmust wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?\"\n\n\"No, sir, we hain't,\" said one of the youths.\n\n\"I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are\nyour wages.\" He handed each of them a shilling.\n\n\"Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time.\"\n\nHe waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many rats,\nand we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.\n\n\"There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than\nout of a dozen of the force,\" Holmes remarked. \"The mere sight of an\nofficial-looking person seals men's lips. These youngsters, however, go\neverywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all\nthey want is organisation.\"\n\n\"Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a matter\nof time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance!\nHere is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every\nfeature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he\nis!\"\n\nThere was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the\nfair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and\nburst into our sitting-room.\n\n\"My dear fellow,\" he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,\n\"congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day.\"\n\nA shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's expressive face.\n\n\"Do you mean that you are on the right track?\" he asked.\n\n\"The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key.\"\n\n\"And his name is?\"\n\n\"Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy,\" cried\nGregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.\n\nSherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.\n\n\"Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,\" he said. \"We are anxious to\nknow how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?\"\n\n\"I don't mind if I do,\" the detective answered. \"The tremendous\nexertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have worn\nme out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain upon\nthe mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both\nbrain-workers.\"\n\n\"You do me too much honour,\" said Holmes, gravely. \"Let us hear how you\narrived at this most gratifying result.\"\n\nThe detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently\nat his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of\namusement.\n\n\"The fun of it is,\" he cried, \"that that fool Lestrade, who thinks\nhimself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is\nafter the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime\nthan the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this\ntime.\"\n\nThe idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.\n\n\"And how did you get your clue?\"\n\n\"Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is\nstrictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to contend\nwith was the finding of this American's antecedents. Some people would\nhave waited until their advertisements were answered, or until parties\ncame forward and volunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson's\nway of going to work. You remember the hat beside the dead man?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Holmes; \"by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.\"\n\nGregson looked quite crest-fallen.\n\n\"I had no idea that you noticed that,\" he said. \"Have you been there?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; \"you should never neglect a\nchance, however small it may seem.\"\n\n\"To a great mind, nothing is little,\" remarked Holmes, sententiously.\n\n\"Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of that\nsize and description. He looked over his books, and came on it at once.\nHe had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier's Boarding\nEstablishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address.\"\n\n\"Smart--very smart!\" murmured Sherlock Holmes.\n\n\"I next called upon Madame Charpentier,\" continued the detective.\n\"I found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,\ntoo--an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about\nthe eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape\nmy notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock\nHolmes, when you come upon the right scent--a kind of thrill in your\nnerves. 'Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder Mr.\nEnoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.\n\n\"The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word. The daughter\nburst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew something\nof the matter.\n\n\"'At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?' I\nasked.\n\n\"'At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her\nagitation. 'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two\ntrains--one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first. \n\n\"'And was that the last which you saw of him?'\n\n\"A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the question.\nHer features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds before she\ncould get out the single word 'Yes'--and when it did come it was in a\nhusky unnatural tone.\n\n\"There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm\nclear voice.\n\n\"'No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said. 'Let us be\nfrank with this gentleman. We _did_ see Mr. Drebber again.'\n\n\"'God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and\nsinking back in her chair. 'You have murdered your brother.'\n\n\"'Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl answered\nfirmly.\n\n\"'You had best tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-confidences are\nworse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of it.'\n\n\"'On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then, turning to me,\n'I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on behalf\nof my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand in this\nterrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however,\nthat in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to be\ncompromised. That however is surely impossible. His high character, his\nprofession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'\n\n\"'Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I answered.\n'Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.'\n\n\"'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said, and her\ndaughter withdrew. 'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no intention of\ntelling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I\nhave no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you all\nwithout omitting any particular.'\n\n\"'It is your wisest course,' said I.\n\n\"'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his secretary,\nMr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I noticed a\n\"Copenhagen\" label upon each of their trunks, showing that that had been\ntheir last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his\nemployer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his\nhabits and brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he became\nvery much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve o'clock in the\nday he could hardly ever be said to be sober. His manners towards the\nmaid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he\nspeedily assumed the same attitude towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke\nto her more than once in a way which, fortunately, she is too innocent\nto understand. On one occasion he actually seized her in his arms and\nembraced her--an outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him\nfor his unmanly conduct.'\n\n\"'But why did you stand all this,' I asked. 'I suppose that you can get\nrid of your boarders when you wish.'\n\n\"Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would to God that\nI had given him notice on the very day that he came,' she said. 'But\nit was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day each--fourteen\npounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in\nthe Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the\nbest. This last was too much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on\naccount of it. That was the reason of his going.'\n\n\"'Well?'\n\n\"'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave\njust now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper\nis violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed the\ndoor behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in\nless than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr.\nDrebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the worse for\ndrink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting with my\ndaughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed his train.\nHe then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her that\nshe should fly with him. \"You are of age,\" he said, \"and there is no law\nto stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the old girl\nhere, but come along with me now straight away. You shall live like a\nprincess.\" Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away from him,\nbut he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the\ndoor. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room.\nWhat happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused sounds\nof a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I did look up\nI saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand.\n\"I don't think that fine fellow will trouble us again,\" he said. \"I will\njust go after him and see what he does with himself.\" With those words\nhe took his hat and started off down the street. The next morning we\nheard of Mr. Drebber's mysterious death.'\n\n\"This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gasps and\npauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words. I\nmade shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that there should\nbe no possibility of a mistake.\"\n\n\"It's quite exciting,\" said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. \"What happened\nnext?\"\n\n\"When Mrs. Charpentier paused,\" the detective continued, \"I saw that the\nwhole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way which\nI always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour her son\nreturned.\n\n\"'I do not know,' she answered.\n\n\"'Not know?'\n\n\"'No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'\n\n\"'After you went to bed?'\n\n\"'Yes.'\n\n\"'When did you go to bed?'\n\n\"'About eleven.'\n\n\"'So your son was gone at least two hours?'\n\n\"'Yes.'\n\n\"'Possibly four or five?'\n\n\"'Yes.'\n\n\"'What was he doing during that time?'\n\n\"'I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very lips.\n\n\"Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found\nout where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and\narrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to come\nquietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, 'I suppose you\nare arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel\nDrebber,' he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his\nalluding to it had a most suspicious aspect.\"\n\n\"Very,\" said Holmes.\n\n\"He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as\nhaving with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel.\"\n\n\"What is your theory, then?\"\n\n\"Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton Road.\nWhen there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the course of\nwhich Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of the stomach,\nperhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The night was so\nwet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim\ninto the empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and the writing\non the wall, and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the\npolice on to the wrong scent.\"\n\n\"Well done!\" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. \"Really, Gregson, you\nare getting along. We shall make something of you yet.\"\n\n\"I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly,\" the detective\nanswered proudly. \"The young man volunteered a statement, in which he\nsaid that after following Drebber some time, the latter perceived him,\nand took a cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an\nold shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this\nold shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I\nthink the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What amuses me is to\nthink of Lestrade, who had started off upon the wrong scent. I am afraid\nhe won't make much of Why, by Jove, here's the very man himself!\"\n\nIt was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were\ntalking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness\nwhich generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however, wanting.\nHis face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were disarranged\nand untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of consulting\nwith Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be\nembarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling\nnervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. \"This is a most\nextraordinary case,\" he said at last--\"a most incomprehensible affair.\"\n\n\"Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!\" cried Gregson, triumphantly. \"I\nthought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the\nSecretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?\"\n\n\"The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,\" said Lestrade gravely, \"was\nmurdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.\n\n\nTHE intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so\nunexpected, that we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson sprang\nout of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I\nstared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his\nbrows drawn down over his eyes.\n\n\"Stangerson too!\" he muttered. \"The plot thickens.\"\n\n\"It was quite thick enough before,\" grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair.\n\"I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war.\"\n\n\"Are you--are you sure of this piece of intelligence?\" stammered\nGregson.\n\n\"I have just come from his room,\" said Lestrade. \"I was the first to\ndiscover what had occurred.\"\n\n\"We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter,\" Holmes observed.\n\"Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?\"\n\n\"I have no objection,\" Lestrade answered, seating himself. \"I freely\nconfess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in\nthe death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was\ncompletely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out\nwhat had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at Euston\nStation about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At two in the\nmorning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The question which\nconfronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been employed between\n8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of him afterwards.\nI telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of the man, and warning\nthem to keep a watch upon the American boats. I then set to work calling\nupon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You\nsee, I argued that if Drebber and his companion had become separated,\nthe natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the\nvicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again next\nmorning.\"\n\n\"They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,\"\nremarked Holmes.\n\n\"So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making\nenquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early, and\nat eight o'clock I reached Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little George\nStreet. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there,\nthey at once answered me in the affirmative.\n\n\"'No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,' they said. 'He\nhas been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'\n\n\"'Where is he now?' I asked.\n\n\"'He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'\n\n\"'I will go up and see him at once,' I said.\n\n\"It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and\nlead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me\nthe room: it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor\nleading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about to\ngo downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel sickish, in\nspite of my twenty years' experience. From under the door there curled\na little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the passage and\nformed a little pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a cry,\nwhich brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. The door\nwas locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it, and knocked it\nin. The window of the room was open, and beside the window, all huddled\nup, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had\nbeen for some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned\nhim over, the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman\nwho had engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause\nof death was a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated\nthe heart. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you\nsuppose was above the murdered man?\"\n\nI felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror,\neven before Sherlock Holmes answered.\n\n\"The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,\" he said.\n\n\"That was it,\" said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all\nsilent for a while.\n\nThere was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the\ndeeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to\nhis crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle\ntingled as I thought of it.\n\n\"The man was seen,\" continued Lestrade. \"A milk boy, passing on his way\nto the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews\nat the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay\nthere, was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which\nwas wide open. After passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the\nladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to\nbe some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel. He took no particular\nnotice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that it was early for him\nto be at work. He has an impression that the man was tall, had a reddish\nface, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in\nthe room some little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained\nwater in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on the\nsheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife.\"\n\nI glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which\ntallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of\nexultation or satisfaction upon his face.\n\n\"Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the\nmurderer?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but it seems\nthat this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd\npounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of these\nextraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them. There were\nno papers or memoranda in the murdered man's pocket, except a single\ntelegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing\nthe words, 'J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name appended to this\nmessage.\"\n\n\"And there was nothing else?\" Holmes asked.\n\n\"Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he had read\nhimself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair\nbeside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the\nwindow-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.\"\n\nSherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.\n\n\"The last link,\" he cried, exultantly. \"My case is complete.\"\n\nThe two detectives stared at him in amazement.\n\n\"I have now in my hands,\" my companion said, confidently, \"all the\nthreads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course, details\nto be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the\ntime that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the\ndiscovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own\neyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand\nupon those pills?\"\n\n\"I have them,\" said Lestrade, producing a small white box; \"I took them\nand the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of\nsafety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my taking these\npills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any importance to\nthem.\"\n\n\"Give them here,\" said Holmes. \"Now, Doctor,\" turning to me, \"are those\nordinary pills?\"\n\nThey certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small,\nround, and almost transparent against the light. \"From their lightness\nand transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in water,\" I\nremarked.\n\n\"Precisely so,\" answered Holmes. \"Now would you mind going down and\nfetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long,\nand which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday.\"\n\nI went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It's laboured\nbreathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end.\nIndeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded\nthe usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the\nrug.\n\n\"I will now cut one of these pills in two,\" said Holmes, and drawing his\npenknife he suited the action to the word. \"One half we return into the\nbox for future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass,\nin which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the\nDoctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves.\"\n\n\"This may be very interesting,\" said Lestrade, in the injured tone of\none who suspects that he is being laughed at, \"I cannot see, however,\nwhat it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.\"\n\n\"Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has\neverything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the\nmixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he laps\nit up readily enough.\"\n\nAs he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and\nplaced it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock\nHolmes' earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in\nsilence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some startling\neffect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched\nupon tho cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently\nneither the better nor the worse for its draught.\n\nHolmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without\nresult, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared\nupon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the\ntable, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. So great\nwas his emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two\ndetectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which\nhe had met.\n\n\"It can't be a coincidence,\" he cried, at last springing from his chair\nand pacing wildly up and down the room; \"it is impossible that it should\nbe a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of\nDrebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they\nare inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot\nhave been false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the\nworse. Ah, I have it! I have it!\" With a perfect shriek of delight he\nrushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk,\nand presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate creature's tongue\nseemed hardly to have been moistened in it before it gave a convulsive\nshiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if it had been\nstruck by lightning.\n\nSherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his\nforehead. \"I should have more faith,\" he said; \"I ought to know by\nthis time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of\ndeductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other\ninterpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the most deadly\npoison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to have known that\nbefore ever I saw the box at all.\"\n\nThis last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could\nhardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog,\nhowever, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me\nthat the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began\nto have a dim, vague perception of the truth.\n\n\"All this seems strange to you,\" continued Holmes, \"because you failed\nat the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single\nreal clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize\nupon that, and everything which has occurred since then has served to\nconfirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence\nof it. Hence things which have perplexed you and made the case more\nobscure, have served to enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions.\nIt is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The most\ncommonplace crime is often the most mysterious because it presents no\nnew or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This murder\nwould have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of\nthe victim been simply found lying in the roadway without any of\nthose _outré_ and sensational accompaniments which have rendered\nit remarkable. These strange details, far from making the case more\ndifficult, have really had the effect of making it less so.\"\n\nMr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable\nimpatience, could contain himself no longer. \"Look here, Mr. Sherlock\nHolmes,\" he said, \"we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart\nman, and that you have your own methods of working. We want something\nmore than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking\nthe man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young\nCharpentier could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestrade\nwent after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too.\nYou have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know more\nthan we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right to\nask you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the\nman who did it?\"\n\n\"I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,\" remarked Lestrade.\n\"We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more\nthan once since I have been in the room that you had all the evidence\nwhich you require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer.\"\n\n\"Any delay in arresting the assassin,\" I observed, \"might give him time\nto perpetrate some fresh atrocity.\"\n\nThus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He\ncontinued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest\nand his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.\n\n\"There will be no more murders,\" he said at last, stopping abruptly and\nfacing us. \"You can put that consideration out of the question. You have\nasked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of\nhis name is a small thing, however, compared with the power of laying\nour hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes\nof managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a thing which\nneeds delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate man to deal\nwith, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by another who\nis as clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea that anyone\ncan have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but if he had the\nslightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in an instant\namong the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning\nto hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these\nmen to be more than a match for the official force, and that is why I\nhave not asked your assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all\nthe blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present\nI am ready to promise that the instant that I can communicate with you\nwithout endangering my own combinations, I shall do so.\"\n\nGregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance,\nor by the depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former had\nflushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the other's beady eyes\nglistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither of them had time to\nspeak, however, before there was a tap at the door, and the spokesman\nof the street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and\nunsavoury person.\n\n\"Please, sir,\" he said, touching his forelock, \"I have the cab\ndownstairs.\"\n\n\"Good boy,\" said Holmes, blandly. \"Why don't you introduce this pattern\nat Scotland Yard?\" he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from\na drawer. \"See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an\ninstant.\"\n\n\"The old pattern is good enough,\" remarked Lestrade, \"if we can only\nfind the man to put them on.\"\n\n\"Very good, very good,\" said Holmes, smiling. \"The cabman may as well\nhelp me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins.\"\n\nI was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about\nto set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about it.\nThere was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out and\nbegan to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the\nroom.\n\n\"Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman,\" he said, kneeling over\nhis task, and never turning his head.\n\nThe fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put\ndown his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the\njangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" he cried, with flashing eyes, \"let me introduce you to Mr.\nJefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson.\"\n\nThe whole thing occurred in a moment--so quickly that I had no time\nto realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes'\ntriumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman's\ndazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering handcuffs, which had\nappeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a second or two we might\nhave been a group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate roar of fury,\nthe prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes's grasp, and hurled\nhimself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; but\nbefore he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon\nhim like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, and then\ncommenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he, that\nthe four of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared to have the\nconvulsive strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands\nwere terribly mangled by his passage through the glass, but loss of\nblood had no effect in diminishing his resistance. It was not until\nLestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside his neckcloth and\nhalf-strangling him that we made him realize that his struggles were of\nno avail; and even then we felt no security until we had pinioned his\nfeet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and\npanting.\n\n\"We have his cab,\" said Sherlock Holmes. \"It will serve to take him to\nScotland Yard. And now, gentlemen,\" he continued, with a pleasant smile,\n\"we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to\nput any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I\nwill refuse to answer them.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nPART II. _The Country of the Saints._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.\n\n\nIN the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies\nan arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a\nbarrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to\nNebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado\nupon the south, is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature\nalways in one mood throughout this grim district. It comprises\nsnow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are\nswift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged cañons; and there are\nenormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are\ngrey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common\ncharacteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.\n\nThere are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees\nor of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other\nhunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight\nof those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon their\nprairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily\nthrough the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark\nravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. These\nare the sole dwellers in the wilderness.\n\nIn the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from\nthe northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach\nstretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of\nalkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On\nthe extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks,\nwith their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch of\ncountry there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life.\nThere is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull,\ngrey earth--above all, there is absolute silence. Listen as one may,\nthere is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing but\nsilence--complete and heart-subduing silence.\n\nIt has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad\nplain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one\nsees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is\nlost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down\nby the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are scattered\nwhite objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull\ndeposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some\nlarge and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The former have\nbelonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one\nmay trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of those\nwho had fallen by the wayside.\n\nLooking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,\neighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance\nwas such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region.\nAn observer would have found it difficult to say whether he was nearer\nto forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard, and the brown\nparchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his\nlong, brown hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with white; his\neyes were sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre; while\nthe hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that of a\nskeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and yet\nhis tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggested a wiry\nand vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his clothes,\nwhich hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it\nwas that gave him that senile and decrepit appearance. The man was\ndying--dying from hunger and from thirst.\n\nHe had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little\nelevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great\nsalt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage\nmountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might\nindicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape there\nwas no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with wild\nquestioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had come to\nan end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. \"Why\nnot here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence,\" he muttered,\nas he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.\n\nBefore sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle,\nand also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had carried\nslung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for\nhis strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the ground with some\nlittle violence. Instantly there broke from the grey parcel a little\nmoaning cry, and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with very\nbright brown eyes, and two little speckled, dimpled fists.\n\n\"You've hurt me!\" said a childish voice reproachfully.\n\n\"Have I though,\" the man answered penitently, \"I didn't go for to do\nit.\" As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty\nlittle girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart\npink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother's care. The\nchild was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she\nhad suffered less than her companion.\n\n\"How is it now?\" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the\ntowsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.\n\n\"Kiss it and make it well,\" she said, with perfect gravity, shoving\nthe injured part up to him. \"That's what mother used to do. Where's\nmother?\"\n\n\"Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long.\"\n\n\"Gone, eh!\" said the little girl. \"Funny, she didn't say good-bye; she\n'most always did if she was just goin' over to Auntie's for tea, and now\nshe's been away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it? Ain't there\nno water, nor nothing to eat?\"\n\n\"No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient awhile,\nand then you'll be all right. Put your head up agin me like that, and\nthen you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your lips is like\nleather, but I guess I'd best let you know how the cards lie. What's\nthat you've got?\"\n\n\"Pretty things! fine things!\" cried the little girl enthusiastically,\nholding up two glittering fragments of mica. \"When we goes back to home\nI'll give them to brother Bob.\"\n\n\"You'll see prettier things than them soon,\" said the man confidently.\n\"You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though--you remember when\nwe left the river?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.\"\n\n\"Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But there\nwas somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it didn't\nturn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you\nand--and----\"\n\n\"And you couldn't wash yourself,\" interrupted his companion gravely,\nstaring up at his grimy visage.\n\n\"No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then Indian\nPete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie,\nyour mother.\"\n\n\"Then mother's a deader too,\" cried the little girl dropping her face in\nher pinafore and sobbing bitterly.\n\n\"Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some\nchance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and\nwe tramped it together. It don't seem as though we've improved matters.\nThere's an almighty small chance for us now!\"\n\n\"Do you mean that we are going to die too?\" asked the child, checking\nher sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.\n\n\"I guess that's about the size of it.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you say so before?\" she said, laughing gleefully. \"You gave\nme such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be with\nmother again.\"\n\n\"Yes, you will, dearie.\"\n\n\"And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she\nmeets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot\nof buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was\nfond of. How long will it be first?\"\n\n\"I don't know--not very long.\" The man's eyes were fixed upon the\nnorthern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared\nthree little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly did\nthey approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large brown\nbirds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and then\nsettled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were buzzards, the\nvultures of the west, whose coming is the forerunner of death.\n\n\"Cocks and hens,\" cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their\nill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. \"Say, did\nGod make this country?\"\n\n\"In course He did,\" said her companion, rather startled by this\nunexpected question.\n\n\"He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri,\" the\nlittle girl continued. \"I guess somebody else made the country in these\nparts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the\ntrees.\"\n\n\"What would ye think of offering up prayer?\" the man asked diffidently.\n\n\"It ain't night yet,\" she answered.\n\n\"It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you\nbet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the\nwaggon when we was on the Plains.\"\n\n\"Why don't you say some yourself?\" the child asked, with wondering eyes.\n\n\"I disremember them,\" he answered. \"I hain't said none since I was half\nthe height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say them out,\nand I'll stand by and come in on the choruses.\"\n\n\"Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too,\" she said, laying the shawl\nout for that purpose. \"You've got to put your hands up like this. It\nmakes you feel kind o' good.\"\n\nIt was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to see\nit. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little\nprattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her chubby face,\nand his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to the cloudless\nheaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being with whom they were\nface to face, while the two voices--the one thin and clear, the other\ndeep and harsh--united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The\nprayer finished, they resumed their seat in the shadow of the boulder\nuntil the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad breast of her\nprotector. He watched over her slumber for some time, but Nature proved\nto be too strong for him. For three days and three nights he had allowed\nhimself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids drooped over the\ntired eyes, and the head sunk lower and lower upon the breast, until the\nman's grizzled beard was mixed with the gold tresses of his companion,\nand both slept the same deep and dreamless slumber.\n\nHad the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight\nwould have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali\nplain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and\nhardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but gradually\ngrowing higher and broader until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud.\nThis cloud continued to increase in size until it became evident that it\ncould only be raised by a great multitude of moving creatures. In more\nfertile spots the observer would have come to the conclusion that one\nof those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was\napproaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid wilds. As\nthe whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the two\ncastaways were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the\nfigures of armed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the\napparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its journey for\nthe West. But what a caravan! When the head of it had reached the base\nof the mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right\nacross the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons\nand carts, men on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who\nstaggered along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the\nwaggons or peeped out from under the white coverings. This was evidently\nno ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had\nbeen compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new\ncountry. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and\nrumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of wheels\nand the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to\nrouse the two tired wayfarers above them.\n\nAt the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced\nmen, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching\nthe base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council among\nthemselves.\n\n\"The wells are to the right, my brothers,\" said one, a hard-lipped,\nclean-shaven man with grizzly hair.\n\n\"To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio Grande,\"\nsaid another.\n\n\"Fear not for water,\" cried a third. \"He who could draw it from the\nrocks will not now abandon His own chosen people.\"\n\n\"Amen! Amen!\" responded the whole party.\n\nThey were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and\nkeenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag\nabove them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,\nshowing up hard and bright against the grey rocks behind. At the sight\nthere was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while\nfresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word\n'Redskins' was on every lip.\n\n\"There can't be any number of Injuns here,\" said the elderly man who\nappeared to be in command. \"We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no\nother tribes until we cross the great mountains.\"\n\n\"Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson,\" asked one of the band.\n\n\"And I,\" \"and I,\" cried a dozen voices.\n\n\"Leave your horses below and we will await you here,\" the Elder\nanswered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their\nhorses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the\nobject which had excited their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and\nnoiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of practised scouts.\nThe watchers from the plain below could see them flit from rock to rock\nuntil their figures stood out against the skyline. The young man who had\nfirst given the alarm was leading them. Suddenly his followers saw him\nthrow up his hands, as though overcome with astonishment, and on joining\nhim they were affected in the same way by the sight which met their\neyes.\n\nOn the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a\nsingle giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man,\nlong-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid\nface and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him\nlay a little child, with her round white arms encircling his brown\nsinewy neck, and her golden haired head resting upon the breast of his\nvelveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the regular line of\nsnow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played over her infantile\nfeatures. Her plump little white legs terminating in white socks and\nneat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the long\nshrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above this\nstrange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of\nthe new comers uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped\nsullenly away.\n\nThe cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about \nthem in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon\nthe plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and\nwhich was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His\nface assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his\nboney hand over his eyes. \"This is what they call delirium, I guess,\"\nhe muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of\nhis coat, and said nothing but looked all round her with the wondering\nquestioning gaze of childhood.\n\nThe rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that\ntheir appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl,\nand hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt\ncompanion, and assisted him towards the waggons.\n\n\"My name is John Ferrier,\" the wanderer explained; \"me and that little\nun are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o'\nthirst and hunger away down in the south.\"\n\n\"Is she your child?\" asked someone.\n\n\"I guess she is now,\" the other cried, defiantly; \"she's mine 'cause I\nsaved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from this\nday on. Who are you, though?\" he continued, glancing with curiosity at\nhis stalwart, sunburned rescuers; \"there seems to be a powerful lot of\nye.\"\n\n\"Nigh upon ten thousand,\" said one of the young men; \"we are the\npersecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona.\"\n\n\"I never heard tell on him,\" said the wanderer. \"He appears to have\nchosen a fair crowd of ye.\"\n\n\"Do not jest at that which is sacred,\" said the other sternly. \"We are\nof those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters\non plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith\nat Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we\nhad founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent\nman and from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert.\"\n\nThe name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. \"I\nsee,\" he said, \"you are the Mormons.\"\n\n\"We are the Mormons,\" answered his companions with one voice.\n\n\"And where are you going?\"\n\n\"We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our\nProphet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with\nyou.\"\n\nThey had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded\nby crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced meek-looking women, strong\nlaughing children, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries\nof astonishment and of commiseration which arose from them when they\nperceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution of the\nother. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed by\na great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a waggon, which was\nconspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and smartness of\nits appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the others were\nfurnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the driver there\nsat a man who could not have been more than thirty years of age, but\nwhose massive head and resolute expression marked him as a leader. He\nwas reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd approached he laid\nit aside, and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he\nturned to the two castaways.\n\n\"If we take you with us,\" he said, in solemn words, \"it can only be as\nbelievers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better\nfar that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you\nshould prove to be that little speck of decay which in time corrupts the\nwhole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?\"\n\n\"Guess I'll come with you on any terms,\" said Ferrier, with such\nemphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader\nalone retained his stern, impressive expression.\n\n\"Take him, Brother Stangerson,\" he said, \"give him food and drink,\nand the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy\ncreed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!\"\n\n\"On, on to Zion!\" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down\nthe long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a\ndull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking\nof wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan\nwas winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs\nhad been committed, led them to his waggon, where a meal was already\nawaiting them.\n\n\"You shall remain here,\" he said. \"In a few days you will have recovered\nfrom your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you\nare of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with\nthe voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. THE FLOWER OF UTAH.\n\n\nTHIS is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured\nby the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the\nshores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains\nthey had struggled on with a constancy almost unparalleled in history.\nThe savage man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and\ndisease--every impediment which Nature could place in the way, had all\nbeen overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long journey and the\naccumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among them.\nThere was not one who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer\nwhen they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath\nthem, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was the\npromised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for\nevermore.\n\nYoung speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as a\nresolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the future\ncity was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted in\nproportion to the standing of each individual. The tradesman was put\nto his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the town streets and\nsquares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country there was draining\nand hedging, planting and clearing, until the next summer saw the whole\ncountry golden with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange\nsettlement. Above all, the great temple which they had erected in the\ncentre of the city grew ever taller and larger. From the first blush of\ndawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammer\nand the rasp of the saw was never absent from the monument which the\nimmigrants erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.\n\nThe two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared his\nfortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons\nto the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne\nalong pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat which\nshe shared with the Mormon's three wives and with his son, a headstrong\nforward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity of childhood,\nfrom the shock caused by her mother's death, she soon became a pet\nwith the women, and reconciled herself to this new life in her moving\ncanvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having recovered from his\nprivations, distinguished himself as a useful guide and an indefatigable\nhunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his new companions, that\nwhen they reached the end of their wanderings, it was unanimously agreed\nthat he should be provided with as large and as fertile a tract of land\nas any of the settlers, with the exception of Young himself, and of\nStangerson, Kemball, Johnston, and Drebber, who were the four principal\nElders.\n\nOn the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial\nlog-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that it\ngrew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind,\nkeen in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron constitution\nenabled him to work morning and evening at improving and tilling his\nlands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that belonged to\nhim prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better off than his\nneighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and in twelve\nthere were not half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City who could\ncompare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant Wahsatch\nMountains there was no name better known than that of John Ferrier.\n\nThere was one way and only one in which he offended the susceptibilities\nof his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce him\nto set up a female establishment after the manner of his companions. He\nnever gave reasons for this persistent refusal, but contented himself by\nresolutely and inflexibly adhering to his determination. There were some\nwho accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others who\nput it down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur expense. Others,\nagain, spoke of some early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who\nhad pined away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason,\nFerrier remained strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformed\nto the religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an\northodox and straight-walking man.\n\nLucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted\nfather in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the\nbalsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother to\nthe young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and stronger,\nher cheek more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon\nthe high road which ran by Ferrier's farm felt long-forgotten thoughts\nrevive in their mind as they watched her lithe girlish figure tripping\nthrough the wheatfields, or met her mounted upon her father's mustang,\nand managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child of the West.\nSo the bud blossomed into a flower, and the year which saw her father\nthe richest of the farmers left her as fair a specimen of American\ngirlhood as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.\n\nIt was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had\ndeveloped into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious\nchange is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of\nall does the maiden herself know it until the tone of a voice or the\ntouch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her, and she learns,\nwith a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a larger nature has\nawoken within her. There are few who cannot recall that day and remember\nthe one little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the\ncase of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself, apart\nfrom its future influence on her destiny and that of many besides.\n\nIt was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as\nthe bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and\nin the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty high\nroads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to the\nwest, for the gold fever had broken out in California, and the Overland\nRoute lay through the City of the Elect. There, too, were droves of\nsheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture lands, and trains\nof tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary of their interminable\njourney. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her way with the\nskill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair\nface flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating out\nbehind her. She had a commission from her father in the City, and was\ndashing in as she had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness\nof youth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. The\ntravel-stained adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even\nthe unemotional Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their\naccustomed stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced\nmaiden.\n\nShe had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road\nblocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking\nherdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass this\nobstacle by pushing her horse into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcely\nhad she got fairly into it, however, before the beasts closed in behind\nher, and she found herself completely imbedded in the moving stream of\nfierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with\ncattle, she was not alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of\nevery opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her way\nthrough the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures,\neither by accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank of\nthe mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon\nits hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way that\nwould have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation was full\nof peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it against the horns\nagain, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all that the girl could\ndo to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death\nunder the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals. Unaccustomed to\nsudden emergencies, her head began to swim, and her grip upon the bridle\nto relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust and by the steam from the\nstruggling creatures, she might have abandoned her efforts in despair,\nbut for a kindly voice at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At\nthe same moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by\nthe curb, and forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the\noutskirts.\n\n\"You're not hurt, I hope, miss,\" said her preserver, respectfully.\n\nShe looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. \"I'm awful\nfrightened,\" she said, naively; \"whoever would have thought that Poncho\nwould have been so scared by a lot of cows?\"\n\n\"Thank God you kept your seat,\" the other said earnestly. He was a tall,\nsavage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse, and\nclad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his\nshoulders. \"I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier,\" he remarked,\n\"I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask him if he\nremembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the same Ferrier, my\nfather and he were pretty thick.\"\n\n\"Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?\" she asked, demurely.\n\nThe young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes\nsparkled with pleasure. \"I'll do so,\" he said, \"we've been in the\nmountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting\ncondition. He must take us as he finds us.\"\n\n\"He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I,\" she answered,\n\"he's awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have never\ngot over it.\"\n\n\"Neither would I,\" said her companion.\n\n\"You! Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you, anyhow.\nYou ain't even a friend of ours.\"\n\nThe young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that Lucy\nFerrier laughed aloud.\n\n\"There, I didn't mean that,\" she said; \"of course, you are a friend now.\nYou must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won't trust\nme with his business any more. Good-bye!\"\n\n\"Good-bye,\" he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over\nher little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with her\nriding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling cloud of\ndust.\n\nYoung Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and taciturn.\nHe and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting for silver,\nand were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of raising capital\nenough to work some lodes which they had discovered. He had been as keen\nas any of them upon the business until this sudden incident had drawn\nhis thoughts into another channel. The sight of the fair young girl,\nas frank and wholesome as the Sierra breezes, had stirred his volcanic,\nuntamed heart to its very depths. When she had vanished from his sight,\nhe realized that a crisis had come in his life, and that neither silver\nspeculations nor any other questions could ever be of such importance to\nhim as this new and all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in\nhis heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the\nwild, fierce passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He\nhad been accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in\nhis heart that he would not fail in this if human effort and human\nperseverance could render him successful.\n\nHe called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until\nhis face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the\nvalley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning\nthe news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this\nJefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested\nLucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and\ncould narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost\nin those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper, a\nsilver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to be\nhad, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became a\nfavourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. On\nsuch occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her bright,\nhappy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young heart was no longer\nher own. Her honest father may not have observed these symptoms,\nbut they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man who had won her\naffections.\n\nIt was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled\nup at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. He\nthrew the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.\n\n\"I am off, Lucy,\" he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing\ntenderly down into her face; \"I won't ask you to come with me now, but\nwill you be ready to come when I am here again?\"\n\n\"And when will that be?\" she asked, blushing and laughing.\n\n\"A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then, my\ndarling. There's no one who can stand between us.\"\n\n\"And how about father?\" she asked.\n\n\"He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all\nright. I have no fear on that head.\"\n\n\"Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's\nno more to be said,\" she whispered, with her cheek against his broad\nbreast.\n\n\"Thank God!\" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. \"It is\nsettled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They are\nwaiting for me at the cañon. Good-bye, my own darling--good-bye. In two\nmonths you shall see me.\"\n\nHe tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his\nhorse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though\nafraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at\nwhat he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until\nhe vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the\nhappiest girl in all Utah.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. JOHN FERRIER TALKS WITH THE PROPHET.\n\n\nTHREE weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had\ndeparted from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within him\nwhen he thought of the young man's return, and of the impending loss of\nhis adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled him to\nthe arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had always\ndetermined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing would ever\ninduce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a marriage he\nregarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a disgrace. Whatever\nhe might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that one point he was\ninflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject, however, for to\nexpress an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter in those days in\nthe Land of the Saints.\n\nYes, a dangerous matter--so dangerous that even the most saintly dared\nonly whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest something\nwhich fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring down a\nswift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had now turned\npersecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the most\nterrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the German\nVehm-gericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able to put\na more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a cloud over\nthe State of Utah.\n\nIts invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made\nthis organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and\nomnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out\nagainst the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone or\nwhat had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at home,\nbut no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at the\nhands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was followed\nby annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be of this\nterrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that men\nwent about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of the\nwilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed them.\n\nAt first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the\nrecalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished afterwards\nto pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a wider range. The\nsupply of adult women was running short, and polygamy without a female\npopulation on which to draw was a barren doctrine indeed. Strange\nrumours began to be bandied about--rumours of murdered immigrants and\nrifled camps in regions where Indians had never been seen. Fresh women\nappeared in the harems of the Elders--women who pined and wept, and\nbore upon their faces the traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated\nwanderers upon the mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked,\nstealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These\ntales and rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and\nre-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.\nTo this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the Danite\nBand, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.\n\nFuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible\nresults served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it\ninspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless\nsociety. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and\nviolence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.\nThe very friend to whom you communicated your misgivings as to the\nProphet and his mission, might be one of those who would come forth at\nnight with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation. Hence every\nman feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which were\nnearest his heart.\n\nOne fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his wheatfields,\nwhen he heard the click of the latch, and, looking through the window,\nsaw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming up the pathway. His\nheart leapt to his mouth, for this was none other than the great Brigham\nYoung himself. Full of trepidation--for he knew that such a visit boded\nhim little good--Ferrier ran to the door to greet the Mormon chief. The\nlatter, however, received his salutations coldly, and followed him with\na stern face into the sitting-room.\n\n\"Brother Ferrier,\" he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer keenly\nfrom under his light-coloured eyelashes, \"the true believers have been\ngood friends to you. We picked you up when you were starving in the\ndesert, we shared our food with you, led you safe to the Chosen Valley,\ngave you a goodly share of land, and allowed you to wax rich under our\nprotection. Is not this so?\"\n\n\"It is so,\" answered John Ferrier.\n\n\"In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that you\nshould embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its usages.\nThis you promised to do, and this, if common report says truly, you have\nneglected.\"\n\n\"And how have I neglected it?\" asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands in\nexpostulation. \"Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not attended\nat the Temple? Have I not----?\"\n\n\"Where are your wives?\" asked Young, looking round him. \"Call them in,\nthat I may greet them.\"\n\n\"It is true that I have not married,\" Ferrier answered. \"But women\nwere few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not a\nlonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my wants.\"\n\n\"It is of that daughter that I would speak to you,\" said the leader\nof the Mormons. \"She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has found\nfavour in the eyes of many who are high in the land.\"\n\nJohn Ferrier groaned internally.\n\n\"There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve--stories that\nshe is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle tongues.\nWhat is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted Joseph Smith?\n'Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the elect; for if\nshe wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.' This being so, it is\nimpossible that you, who profess the holy creed, should suffer your\ndaughter to violate it.\"\n\nJohn Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his\nriding-whip.\n\n\"Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested--so it has been\ndecided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we would\nnot have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of all\nchoice. We Elders have many heifers, but our children must also\nbe provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either of\nthem would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her choose\nbetween them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith. What say\nyou to that?\"\n\nFerrier remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.\n\n\"You will give us time,\" he said at last. \"My daughter is very\nyoung--she is scarce of an age to marry.\"\n\n\"She shall have a month to choose,\" said Young, rising from his seat.\n\"At the end of that time she shall give her answer.\"\n\nHe was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face and\nflashing eyes. \"It were better for you, John Ferrier,\" he thundered,\n\"that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon the Sierra\nBlanco, than that you should put your weak wills against the orders of\nthe Holy Four!\"\n\nWith a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and\nFerrier heard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.\n\nHe was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how he\nshould broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid upon\nhis, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance at her\npale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had passed.\n\n\"I could not help it,\" she said, in answer to his look. \"His voice rang\nthrough the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?\"\n\n\"Don't you scare yourself,\" he answered, drawing her to him, and passing\nhis broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair. \"We'll fix it\nup somehow or another. You don't find your fancy kind o' lessening for\nthis chap, do you?\"\n\nA sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.\n\n\"No; of course not. I shouldn't care to hear you say you did. He's a\nlikely lad, and he's a Christian, which is more than these folk here, in\nspite o' all their praying and preaching. There's a party starting for\nNevada to-morrow, and I'll manage to send him a message letting him know\nthe hole we are in. If I know anything o' that young man, he'll be back\nhere with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs.\"\n\nLucy laughed through her tears at her father's description.\n\n\"When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you that\nI am frightened, dear. One hears--one hears such dreadful stories about\nthose who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always happens to\nthem.\"\n\n\"But we haven't opposed him yet,\" her father answered. \"It will be time\nto look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before us; at\nthe end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah.\"\n\n\"Leave Utah!\"\n\n\"That's about the size of it.\"\n\n\"But the farm?\"\n\n\"We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To tell\nthe truth, Lucy, it isn't the first time I have thought of doing it. I\ndon't care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do to their\ndarned prophet. I'm a free-born American, and it's all new to me. Guess\nI'm too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this farm, he might\nchance to run up against a charge of buckshot travelling in the opposite\ndirection.\"\n\n\"But they won't let us leave,\" his daughter objected.\n\n\"Wait till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that. In the meantime,\ndon't you fret yourself, my dearie, and don't get your eyes swelled up,\nelse he'll be walking into me when he sees you. There's nothing to be\nafeared about, and there's no danger at all.\"\n\nJohn Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident tone,\nbut she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to the\nfastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned and\nloaded the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of his bedroom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. A FLIGHT FOR LIFE.\n\n\nON the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet,\nJohn Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his\nacquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted him\nwith his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man of the\nimminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it was that he\nshould return. Having done thus he felt easier in his mind, and returned\nhome with a lighter heart.\n\nAs he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to\neach of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on entering\nto find two young men in possession of his sitting-room. One, with a\nlong pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair, with his feet\ncocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked youth with coarse\nbloated features, was standing in front of the window with his hands in\nhis pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as\nhe entered, and the one in the rocking-chair commenced the conversation.\n\n\"Maybe you don't know us,\" he said. \"This here is the son of Elder\nDrebber, and I'm Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert\nwhen the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true\nfold.\"\n\n\"As He will all the nations in His own good time,\" said the other in a\nnasal voice; \"He grindeth slowly but exceeding small.\"\n\nJohn Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.\n\n\"We have come,\" continued Stangerson, \"at the advice of our fathers to\nsolicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to\nyou and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has\nseven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,\" cried the other; \"the question is not\nhow many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now\ngiven over his mills to me, and I am the richer man.\"\n\n\"But my prospects are better,\" said the other, warmly. \"When the\nLord removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather\nfactory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church.\"\n\n\"It will be for the maiden to decide,\" rejoined young Drebber, smirking\nat his own reflection in the glass. \"We will leave it all to her\ndecision.\"\n\nDuring this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway,\nhardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.\n\n\"Look here,\" he said at last, striding up to them, \"when my daughter\nsummons you, you can come, but until then I don't want to see your faces\nagain.\"\n\nThe two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this\ncompetition between them for the maiden's hand was the highest of\nhonours both to her and her father.\n\n\"There are two ways out of the room,\" cried Ferrier; \"there is the door,\nand there is the window. Which do you care to use?\"\n\nHis brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening,\nthat his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The\nold farmer followed them to the door.\n\n\"Let me know when you have settled which it is to be,\" he said,\nsardonically.\n\n\"You shall smart for this!\" Stangerson cried, white with rage. \"You have\ndefied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to the end\nof your days.\"\n\n\"The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you,\" cried young Drebber; \"He\nwill arise and smite you!\"\n\n\"Then I'll start the smiting,\" exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would\nhave rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm and\nrestrained him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of horses'\nhoofs told him that they were beyond his reach.\n\n\"The young canting rascals!\" he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from\nhis forehead; \"I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl, than the\nwife of either of them.\"\n\n\"And so should I, father,\" she answered, with spirit; \"but Jefferson\nwill soon be here.\"\n\n\"Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for we\ndo not know what their next move may be.\"\n\nIt was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and\nhelp should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted\ndaughter. In the whole history of the settlement there had never been\nsuch a case of rank disobedience to the authority of the Elders. If\nminor errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this\narch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would be of no\navail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been\nspirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church. He\nwas a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors which\nhung over him. Any known danger he could face with a firm lip, but\nthis suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his daughter,\nhowever, and affected to make light of the whole matter, though she,\nwith the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at ease.\n\nHe expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from\nYoung as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in an\nunlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to his surprise,\na small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of his bed just over\nhis chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling letters:--\n\n\"Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then----\"\n\nThe dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How\nthis warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his\nservants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been\nsecured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter, but\nthe incident struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days were\nevidently the balance of the month which Young had promised. What\nstrength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such\nmysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struck\nhim to the heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.\n\nStill more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their\nbreakfast when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the\ncentre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently,\nthe number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and he did not\nenlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and\nward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27 had\nbeen painted upon the outside of his door.\n\nThus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his\nunseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some\nconspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of the\nmonth of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon the walls,\nsometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small placards\nstuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance John\nFerrier could not discover whence these daily warnings proceeded. A\nhorror which was almost superstitious came upon him at the sight of\nthem. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had the troubled look\nof some hunted creature. He had but one hope in life now, and that was\nfor the arrival of the young hunter from Nevada.\n\nTwenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no news\nof the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still there\ncame no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the road, or a\ndriver shouted at his team, the old farmer hurried to the gate thinking\nthat help had arrived at last. At last, when he saw five give way to\nfour and that again to three, he lost heart, and abandoned all hope of\nescape. Single-handed, and with his limited knowledge of the mountains\nwhich surrounded the settlement, he knew that he was powerless. The\nmore-frequented roads were strictly watched and guarded, and none could\npass along them without an order from the Council. Turn which way he\nwould, there appeared to be no avoiding the blow which hung over him.\nYet the old man never wavered in his resolution to part with life itself\nbefore he consented to what he regarded as his daughter's dishonour.\n\nHe was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles, and\nsearching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown the\nfigure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be the last\nof the allotted time. What was to happen then? All manner of vague and\nterrible fancies filled his imagination. And his daughter--what was to\nbecome of her after he was gone? Was there no escape from the invisible\nnetwork which was drawn all round them. He sank his head upon the table\nand sobbed at the thought of his own impotence.\n\nWhat was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching sound--low,\nbut very distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from the door of\nthe house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened intently. There\nwas a pause for a few moments, and then the low insidious sound was\nrepeated. Someone was evidently tapping very gently upon one of the\npanels of the door. Was it some midnight assassin who had come to carry\nout the murderous orders of the secret tribunal? Or was it some agent\nwho was marking up that the last day of grace had arrived. John Ferrier\nfelt that instant death would be better than the suspense which shook\nhis nerves and chilled his heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt and\nthrew the door open.\n\nOutside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars were\ntwinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before the\nfarmer's eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there nor on\nthe road was any human being to be seen. With a sigh of relief, Ferrier\nlooked to right and to left, until happening to glance straight down at\nhis own feet he saw to his astonishment a man lying flat upon his face\nupon the ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.\n\nSo unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall with\nhis hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out. His first\nthought was that the prostrate figure was that of some wounded or dying\nman, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along the ground and into the\nhall with the rapidity and noiselessness of a serpent. Once within the\nhouse the man sprang to his feet, closed the door, and revealed to the\nastonished farmer the fierce face and resolute expression of Jefferson\nHope.\n\n\"Good God!\" gasped John Ferrier. \"How you scared me! Whatever made you\ncome in like that.\"\n\n\"Give me food,\" the other said, hoarsely. \"I have had no time for bite\nor sup for eight-and-forty hours.\" He flung himself upon the cold\nmeat and bread which were still lying upon the table from his host's\nsupper, and devoured it voraciously. \"Does Lucy bear up well?\" he asked,\nwhen he had satisfied his hunger.\n\n\"Yes. She does not know the danger,\" her father answered.\n\n\"That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I crawled\nmy way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they're not quite sharp\nenough to catch a Washoe hunter.\"\n\nJohn Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had\na devoted ally. He seized the young man's leathery hand and wrung it\ncordially. \"You're a man to be proud of,\" he said. \"There are not many\nwho would come to share our danger and our troubles.\"\n\n\"You've hit it there, pard,\" the young hunter answered. \"I have a\nrespect for you, but if you were alone in this business I'd think twice\nbefore I put my head into such a hornet's nest. It's Lucy that brings me\nhere, and before harm comes on her I guess there will be one less o' the\nHope family in Utah.\"\n\n\"What are we to do?\"\n\n\"To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are lost.\nI have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How much money\nhave you?\"\n\n\"Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes.\"\n\n\"That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for Carson\nCity through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as well that\nthe servants do not sleep in the house.\"\n\nWhile Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching\njourney, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find into\na small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he knew by\nexperience that the mountain wells were few and far between. He had\nhardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned with his\ndaughter all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting between the\nlovers was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious, and there was\nmuch to be done.\n\n\"We must make our start at once,\" said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a low\nbut resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the peril,\nbut has steeled his heart to meet it. \"The front and back entrances are\nwatched, but with caution we may get away through the side window and\nacross the fields. Once on the road we are only two miles from the\nRavine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we should be half-way\nthrough the mountains.\"\n\n\"What if we are stopped,\" asked Ferrier.\n\nHope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his\ntunic. \"If they are too many for us we shall take two or three of them\nwith us,\" he said with a sinister smile.\n\nThe lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the\ndarkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his own,\nand which he was now about to abandon for ever. He had long nerved\nhimself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of the honour and\nhappiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his ruined fortunes.\nAll looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees and the broad\nsilent stretch of grain-land, that it was difficult to realize that\nthe spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the white face and set\nexpression of the young hunter showed that in his approach to the house\nhe had seen enough to satisfy him upon that head.\n\nFerrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the scanty\nprovisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing a few\nof her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly and\ncarefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured the\nnight, and then one by one passed through into the little garden. With\nbated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and gained\nthe shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came to the gap\nwhich opened into the cornfields. They had just reached this point when\nthe young man seized his two companions and dragged them down into the\nshadow, where they lay silent and trembling.\n\nIt was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the\nears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before the\nmelancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards\nof them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small\ndistance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the\ngap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal cry\nagain, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.\n\n\"To-morrow at midnight,\" said the first who appeared to be in authority.\n\"When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times.\"\n\n\"It is well,\" returned the other. \"Shall I tell Brother Drebber?\"\n\n\"Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!\"\n\n\"Seven to five!\" repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away\nin different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been some\nform of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps had died\naway in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his\ncompanions through the gap, led the way across the fields at the top\nof his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when her strength\nappeared to fail her.\n\n\"Hurry on! hurry on!\" he gasped from time to time. \"We are through the\nline of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!\"\n\nOnce on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they\nmeet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid\nrecognition. Before reaching the town the hunter branched away into a\nrugged and narrow footpath which led to the mountains. Two dark jagged\npeaks loomed above them through the darkness, and the defile which led\nbetween them was the Eagle Cañon in which the horses were awaiting them.\nWith unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way among the great\nboulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse, until he came to\nthe retired corner, screened with rocks, where the faithful animals had\nbeen picketed. The girl was placed upon the mule, and old Ferrier upon\none of the horses, with his money-bag, while Jefferson Hope led the\nother along the precipitous and dangerous path.\n\nIt was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face\nNature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up a\nthousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long basaltic\ncolumns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some petrified monster.\nOn the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and debris made all advance\nimpossible. Between the two ran the irregular track, so narrow in places\nthat they had to travel in Indian file, and so rough that only practised\nriders could have traversed it at all. Yet in spite of all dangers and\ndifficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light within them,\nfor every step increased the distance between them and the terrible\ndespotism from which they were flying.\n\nThey soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the\njurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and most\ndesolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry, and\npointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track, showing out dark\nand plain against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel. He saw them\nas soon as they perceived him, and his military challenge of \"Who goes\nthere?\" rang through the silent ravine.\n\n\"Travellers for Nevada,\" said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the\nrifle which hung by his saddle.\n\nThey could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down at\nthem as if dissatisfied at their reply.\n\n\"By whose permission?\" he asked.\n\n\"The Holy Four,\" answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught him\nthat that was the highest authority to which he could refer.\n\n\"Nine from seven,\" cried the sentinel.\n\n\"Seven from five,\" returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the\ncountersign which he had heard in the garden.\n\n\"Pass, and the Lord go with you,\" said the voice from above. Beyond his\npost the path broadened out, and the horses were able to break into a\ntrot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher leaning upon\nhis gun, and knew that they had passed the outlying post of the chosen\npeople, and that freedom lay before them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. THE AVENGING ANGELS.\n\n\nALL night their course lay through intricate defiles and over irregular\nand rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way, but Hope's\nintimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain the track\nonce more. When morning broke, a scene of marvellous though savage\nbeauty lay before them. In every direction the great snow-capped peaks\nhemmed them in, peeping over each other's shoulders to the far horizon.\nSo steep were the rocky banks on either side of them, that the larch\nand the pine seemed to be suspended over their heads, and to need only a\ngust of wind to come hurtling down upon them. Nor was the fear entirely\nan illusion, for the barren valley was thickly strewn with trees and\nboulders which had fallen in a similar manner. Even as they passed,\na great rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which woke\nthe echoes in the silent gorges, and startled the weary horses into a\ngallop.\n\nAs the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the great\nmountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival, until\nthey were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle cheered the\nhearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy. At a wild\ntorrent which swept out of a ravine they called a halt and watered their\nhorses, while they partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father\nwould fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was inexorable. \"They\nwill be upon our track by this time,\" he said. \"Everything depends upon\nour speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest for the remainder of our\nlives.\"\n\nDuring the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles, and\nby evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles from\ntheir enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling crag,\nwhere the rocks offered some protection from the chill wind, and there\nhuddled together for warmth, they enjoyed a few hours' sleep. Before\ndaybreak, however, they were up and on their way once more. They had\nseen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope began to think that\nthey were fairly out of the reach of the terrible organization whose\nenmity they had incurred. He little knew how far that iron grasp could\nreach, or how soon it was to close upon them and crush them.\n\nAbout the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store\nof provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little uneasiness,\nhowever, for there was game to be had among the mountains, and he had\nfrequently before had to depend upon his rifle for the needs of life.\nChoosing a sheltered nook, he piled together a few dried branches and\nmade a blazing fire, at which his companions might warm themselves, for\nthey were now nearly five thousand feet above the sea level, and the air\nwas bitter and keen. Having tethered the horses, and bade Lucy adieu,\nhe threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of whatever\nchance might throw in his way. Looking back he saw the old man and the\nyoung girl crouching over the blazing fire, while the three animals\nstood motionless in the back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them\nfrom his view.\n\nHe walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another without\nsuccess, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees, and other\nindications, he judged that there were numerous bears in the vicinity.\nAt last, after two or three hours' fruitless search, he was thinking of\nturning back in despair, when casting his eyes upwards he saw a sight\nwhich sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart. On the edge of a\njutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet above him, there stood a\ncreature somewhat resembling a sheep in appearance, but armed with a\npair of gigantic horns. The big-horn--for so it is called--was acting,\nprobably, as a guardian over a flock which were invisible to the hunter;\nbut fortunately it was heading in the opposite direction, and had not\nperceived him. Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and\ntook a long and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang\ninto the air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and\nthen came crashing down into the valley beneath.\n\nThe creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented himself\nwith cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this trophy\nover his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the evening was\nalready drawing in. He had hardly started, however, before he realized\nthe difficulty which faced him. In his eagerness he had wandered far\npast the ravines which were known to him, and it was no easy matter\nto pick out the path which he had taken. The valley in which he found\nhimself divided and sub-divided into many gorges, which were so like\neach other that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.\nHe followed one for a mile or more until he came to a mountain torrent\nwhich he was sure that he had never seen before. Convinced that he had\ntaken the wrong turn, he tried another, but with the same result. Night\nwas coming on rapidly, and it was almost dark before he at last found\nhimself in a defile which was familiar to him. Even then it was no easy\nmatter to keep to the right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and\nthe high cliffs on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed\ndown with his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along,\nkeeping up his heart by the reflection that every step brought him\nnearer to Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure them food\nfor the remainder of their journey.\n\nHe had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left\nthem. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of the cliffs\nwhich bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him anxiously,\nfor he had been absent nearly five hours. In the gladness of his heart\nhe put his hands to his mouth and made the glen re-echo to a loud halloo\nas a signal that he was coming. He paused and listened for an answer.\nNone came save his own cry, which clattered up the dreary silent\nravines, and was borne back to his ears in countless repetitions. Again\nhe shouted, even louder than before, and again no whisper came back from\nthe friends whom he had left such a short time ago. A vague, nameless\ndread came over him, and he hurried onwards frantically, dropping the\nprecious food in his agitation.\n\nWhen he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where the\nfire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there,\nbut it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The same\ndead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed to\nconvictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the\nremains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only\ntoo clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during\nhis absence--a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no\ntraces behind it.\n\nBewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin\nround, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He\nwas essentially a man of action, however, and speedily recovered from\nhis temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece of wood from the\nsmouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and proceeded with its help\nto examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped down by the feet\nof horses, showing that a large party of mounted men had overtaken\nthe fugitives, and the direction of their tracks proved that they had\nafterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of\nhis companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded himself\nthat they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object which made\nevery nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one side of\nthe camp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil, which had assuredly\nnot been there before. There was no mistaking it for anything but a\nnewly-dug grave. As the young hunter approached it, he perceived that a\nstick had been planted on it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft\nfork of it. The inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:\n\n                        JOHN FERRIER,\n                 FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY, \n                    Died August 4th, 1860.\n\nThe sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was gone,\nthen, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked wildly round\nto see if there was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy\nhad been carried back by their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original\ndestiny, by becoming one of the harem of the Elder's son. As the young\nfellow realized the certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to\nprevent it, he wished that he, too, was lying with the old farmer in his\nlast silent resting-place.\n\nAgain, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which springs\nfrom despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could at least\ndevote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance,\nJefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained vindictiveness, which\nhe may have learned from the Indians amongst whom he had lived. As he\nstood by the desolate fire, he felt that the only one thing which could\nassuage his grief would be thorough and complete retribution, brought\nby his own hand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring energy\nshould, he determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim, white\nface, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the food, and having\nstirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last him for a\nfew days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as he was, he\nset himself to walk back through the mountains upon the track of the\navenging angels.\n\nFor five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which he\nhad already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down among\nthe rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before daybreak he was\nalways well on his way. On the sixth day, he reached the Eagle Cañon,\nfrom which they had commenced their ill-fated flight. Thence he could\nlook down upon the home of the saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned\nupon his rifle and shook his gaunt hand fiercely at the silent\nwidespread city beneath him. As he looked at it, he observed that\nthere were flags in some of the principal streets, and other signs of\nfestivity. He was still speculating as to what this might mean when he\nheard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and saw a mounted man riding towards\nhim. As he approached, he recognized him as a Mormon named Cowper, to\nwhom he had rendered services at different times. He therefore accosted\nhim when he got up to him, with the object of finding out what Lucy\nFerrier's fate had been.\n\n\"I am Jefferson Hope,\" he said. \"You remember me.\"\n\nThe Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment--indeed, it was\ndifficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with ghastly\nwhite face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of former\ndays. Having, however, at last, satisfied himself as to his identity,\nthe man's surprise changed to consternation.\n\n\"You are mad to come here,\" he cried. \"It is as much as my own life is\nworth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you from\nthe Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away.\"\n\n\"I don't fear them, or their warrant,\" Hope said, earnestly. \"You must\nknow something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by everything you\nhold dear to answer a few questions. We have always been friends. For\nGod's sake, don't refuse to answer me.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" the Mormon asked uneasily. \"Be quick. The very rocks have\nears and the trees eyes.\"\n\n\"What has become of Lucy Ferrier?\"\n\n\"She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up, you\nhave no life left in you.\"\n\n\"Don't mind me,\" said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips, and\nhad sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning. \"Married,\nyou say?\"\n\n\"Married yesterday--that's what those flags are for on the Endowment\nHouse. There was some words between young Drebber and young Stangerson\nas to which was to have her. They'd both been in the party that followed\nthem, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed to give him the\nbest claim; but when they argued it out in council, Drebber's party was\nthe stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to him. No one won't have\nher very long though, for I saw death in her face yesterday. She is more\nlike a ghost than a woman. Are you off, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am off,\" said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat. His\nface might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was its\nexpression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his shoulder,\nstrode off down the gorge and so away into the heart of the mountains to\nthe haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there was none so fierce\nand so dangerous as himself.\n\nThe prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it was\nthe terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful marriage\ninto which she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her head again,\nbut pined away and died within a month. Her sottish husband, who had\nmarried her principally for the sake of John Ferrier's property, did not\naffect any great grief at his bereavement; but his other wives mourned\nover her, and sat up with her the night before the burial, as is the\nMormon custom. They were grouped round the bier in the early hours of\nthe morning, when, to their inexpressible fear and astonishment,\nthe door was flung open, and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in\ntattered garments strode into the room. Without a glance or a word to\nthe cowering women, he walked up to the white silent figure which had\nonce contained the pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he\npressed his lips reverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching\nup her hand, he took the wedding-ring from her finger. \"She shall not be\nburied in that,\" he cried with a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could\nbe raised sprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief\nwas the episode, that the watchers might have found it hard to believe\nit themselves or persuade other people of it, had it not been for the\nundeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as having been\na bride had disappeared.\n\nFor some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading\na strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for\nvengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the weird\nfigure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which haunted\nthe lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through Stangerson's\nwindow and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot of him. On\nanother occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great boulder\ncrashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by throwing\nhimself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long in\ndiscovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led\nrepeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or\nkilling their enemy, but always without success. Then they adopted the\nprecaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of having\ntheir houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax these\nmeasures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their opponent, and\nthey hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.\n\nFar from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter's mind\nwas of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of revenge\nhad taken such complete possession of it that there was no room for\nany other emotion. He was, however, above all things practical. He soon\nrealized that even his iron constitution could not stand the incessant\nstrain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and want of wholesome food\nwere wearing him out. If he died like a dog among the mountains, what\nwas to become of his revenge then? And yet such a death was sure to\novertake him if he persisted. He felt that that was to play his enemy's\ngame, so he reluctantly returned to the old Nevada mines, there to\nrecruit his health and to amass money enough to allow him to pursue his\nobject without privation.\n\nHis intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a\ncombination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the mines\nfor nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his memory of\nhis wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on that\nmemorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier's grave. Disguised,\nand under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake City, careless\nwhat became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he knew to\nbe justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There had been a\nschism among the Chosen People a few months before, some of the younger\nmembers of the Church having rebelled against the authority of the\nElders, and the result had been the secession of a certain number of the\nmalcontents, who had left Utah and become Gentiles. Among these had been\nDrebber and Stangerson; and no one knew whither they had gone. Rumour\nreported that Drebber had managed to convert a large part of his\nproperty into money, and that he had departed a wealthy man, while his\ncompanion, Stangerson, was comparatively poor. There was no clue at all,\nhowever, as to their whereabouts.\n\nMany a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of\nrevenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never\nfaltered for a moment. With the small competence he possessed, eked out\nby such employment as he could pick up, he travelled from town to town\nthrough the United States in quest of his enemies. Year passed into\nyear, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered on, a human\nbloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object upon which he\nhad devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded. It was\nbut a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told him that\nCleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit of. He\nreturned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance all\narranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his window,\nhad recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read murder in\nhis eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace, accompanied by\nStangerson, who had become his private secretary, and represented to him\nthat they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and hatred of\nan old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was taken into custody, and\nnot being able to find sureties, was detained for some weeks. When at\nlast he was liberated, it was only to find that Drebber's house was\ndeserted, and that he and his secretary had departed for Europe.\n\nAgain the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred\nurged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and\nfor some time he had to return to work, saving every dollar for his\napproaching journey. At last, having collected enough to keep life in\nhim, he departed for Europe, and tracked his enemies from city to\ncity, working his way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking the\nfugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had departed for Paris;\nand when he followed them there he learned that they had just set off\nfor Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days late, for\nthey had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded in running\nthem to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do better than quote\nthe old hunter's own account, as duly recorded in Dr. Watson's Journal,\nto which we are already under such obligations.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN WATSON, M.D.\n\n\nOUR prisoner's furious resistance did not apparently indicate any\nferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself\npowerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes that\nhe had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. \"I guess you're going to take\nme to the police-station,\" he remarked to Sherlock Holmes. \"My cab's at\nthe door. If you'll loose my legs I'll walk down to it. I'm not so light\nto lift as I used to be.\"\n\nGregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this\nproposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner at\nhis word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his ancles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself that\nthey were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself, as I eyed\nhim, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man; and his dark\nsunburned face bore an expression of determination and energy which was\nas formidable as his personal strength.\n\n\"If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you\nare the man for it,\" he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my\nfellow-lodger. \"The way you kept on my trail was a caution.\"\n\n\"You had better come with me,\" said Holmes to the two detectives.\n\n\"I can drive you,\" said Lestrade.\n\n\"Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have\ntaken an interest in the case and may as well stick to us.\"\n\nI assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made no\nattempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been his,\nand we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the horse, and\nbrought us in a very short time to our destination. We were ushered into\na small chamber where a police Inspector noted down our prisoner's name\nand the names of the men with whose murder he had been charged. The\nofficial was a white-faced unemotional man, who went through his\nduties in a dull mechanical way. \"The prisoner will be put before the\nmagistrates in the course of the week,\" he said; \"in the mean time, Mr.\nJefferson Hope, have you anything that you wish to say? I must warn you\nthat your words will be taken down, and may be used against you.\"\n\n\"I've got a good deal to say,\" our prisoner said slowly. \"I want to tell\nyou gentlemen all about it.\"\n\n\"Hadn't you better reserve that for your trial?\" asked the Inspector.\n\n\"I may never be tried,\" he answered. \"You needn't look startled. It\nisn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?\" He turned his fierce\ndark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.\n\n\"Yes; I am,\" I answered.\n\n\"Then put your hand here,\" he said, with a smile, motioning with his\nmanacled wrists towards his chest.\n\nI did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing and\ncommotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to\nthrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful\nengine was at work. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull\nhumming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same source.\n\n\"Why,\" I cried, \"you have an aortic aneurism!\"\n\n\"That's what they call it,\" he said, placidly. \"I went to a Doctor last\nweek about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before many days\npassed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from over-exposure\nand under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've done my work now,\nand I don't care how soon I go, but I should like to leave some account\nof the business behind me. I don't want to be remembered as a common\ncut-throat.\"\n\nThe Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the\nadvisability of allowing him to tell his story.\n\n\"Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?\" the former\nasked, \n\n\"Most certainly there is,\" I answered.\n\n\"In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to\ntake his statement,\" said the Inspector. \"You are at liberty, sir, to\ngive your account, which I again warn you will be taken down.\"\n\n\"I'll sit down, with your leave,\" the prisoner said, suiting the action\nto the word. \"This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and the\ntussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I'm on the brink\nof the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I say is the\nabsolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no consequence to me.\"\n\nWith these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began\nthe following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical\nmanner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace enough.\nI can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I have had\naccess to Lestrade's note-book, in which the prisoner's words were taken\ndown exactly as they were uttered.\n\n\"It don't much matter to you why I hated these men,\" he said; \"it's\nenough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings--a father\nand a daughter--and that they had, therefore, forfeited their own\nlives. After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime, it was\nimpossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any court. I\nknew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should be judge,\njury, and executioner all rolled into one. You'd have done the same, if\nyou have any manhood in you, if you had been in my place.\n\n\"That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago. She\nwas forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart over\nit. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed that his\ndying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his last thoughts\nshould be of the crime for which he was punished. I have carried\nit about with me, and have followed him and his accomplice over two\ncontinents until I caught them. They thought to tire me out, but they\ncould not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is likely enough, I die knowing\nthat my work in this world is done, and well done. They have perished,\nand by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope for, or to desire.\n\n\"They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me to\nfollow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I found\nthat I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving and riding\nare as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a cabowner's office,\nand soon got employment. I was to bring a certain sum a week to the\nowner, and whatever was over that I might keep for myself. There was\nseldom much over, but I managed to scrape along somehow. The hardest job\nwas to learn my way about, for I reckon that of all the mazes that ever\nwere contrived, this city is the most confusing. I had a map beside me\nthough, and when once I had spotted the principal hotels and stations, I\ngot on pretty well.\n\n\"It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were living;\nbut I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across them. They\nwere at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other side of the\nriver. When once I found them out I knew that I had them at my mercy. I\nhad grown my beard, and there was no chance of their recognizing me.\nI would dog them and follow them until I saw my opportunity. I was\ndetermined that they should not escape me again.\n\n\"They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about\nLondon, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my\ncab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then they\ncould not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or late\nat night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get behind hand\nwith my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long as I could lay\nmy hand upon the men I wanted.\n\n\"They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there was\nsome chance of their being followed, for they would never go out alone,\nand never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind them every\nday, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was drunk half\nthe time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I watched them\nlate and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but I was not\ndiscouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost come. My\nonly fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a little too soon\nand leave my work undone.\n\n\"At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as the\nstreet was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive up to\ntheir door. Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a time\nDrebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up my horse\nand kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for I feared\nthat they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston Station they\ngot out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed them on to the\nplatform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train, and the guard answer\nthat one had just gone and there would not be another for some hours.\nStangerson seemed to be put out at that, but Drebber was rather pleased\nthan otherwise. I got so close to them in the bustle that I could hear\nevery word that passed between them. Drebber said that he had a little\nbusiness of his own to do, and that if the other would wait for him he\nwould soon rejoin him. His companion remonstrated with him, and reminded\nhim that they had resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the\nmatter was a delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch\nwhat Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out swearing, and\nreminded him that he was nothing more than his paid servant, and that he\nmust not presume to dictate to him. On that the Secretary gave it up\nas a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he missed the last\ntrain he should rejoin him at Halliday's Private Hotel; to which Drebber\nanswered that he would be back on the platform before eleven, and made\nhis way out of the station.\n\n\"The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my\nenemies within my power. Together they could protect each other,\nbut singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue\nprecipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction in\nvengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that strikes\nhim, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans arranged by\nwhich I should have the opportunity of making the man who had wronged me\nunderstand that his old sin had found him out. It chanced that some days\nbefore a gentleman who had been engaged in looking over some houses in\nthe Brixton Road had dropped the key of one of them in my carriage. It\nwas claimed that same evening, and returned; but in the interval I had\ntaken a moulding of it, and had a duplicate constructed. By means of\nthis I had access to at least one spot in this great city where I could\nrely upon being free from interruption. How to get Drebber to that house\nwas the difficult problem which I had now to solve.\n\n\"He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops, staying\nfor nearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out he\nstaggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was a\nhansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so close\nthat the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the whole way.\nWe rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of streets, until,\nto my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the Terrace in which he\nhad boarded. I could not imagine what his intention was in returning\nthere; but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards or so from\nthe house. He entered it, and his hansom drove away. Give me a glass of\nwater, if you please. My mouth gets dry with the talking.\"\n\nI handed him the glass, and he drank it down.\n\n\"That's better,\" he said. \"Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour, or\nmore, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling inside the\nhouse. Next moment the door was flung open and two men appeared, one of\nwhom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap whom I had never seen\nbefore. This fellow had Drebber by the collar, and when they came to\nthe head of the steps he gave him a shove and a kick which sent him half\nacross the road. 'You hound,' he cried, shaking his stick at him; 'I'll\nteach you to insult an honest girl!' He was so hot that I think he would\nhave thrashed Drebber with his cudgel, only that the cur staggered away\ndown the road as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran as far as the\ncorner, and then, seeing my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. 'Drive me\nto Halliday's Private Hotel,' said he.\n\n\"When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy that\nI feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I drove\nalong slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I might\ntake him right out into the country, and there in some deserted lane\nhave my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this, when he\nsolved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him again, and\nhe ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in, leaving word\nthat I should wait for him. There he remained until closing time, and\nwhen he came out he was so far gone that I knew the game was in my own\nhands.\n\n\"Don't imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would only\nhave been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring myself\nto do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for his life\nif he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets which I\nhave filled in America during my wandering life, I was once janitor and\nsweeper out of the laboratory at York College. One day the professor was\nlecturing on poisions, and he showed his students some alkaloid,\nas he called it, which he had extracted from some South American arrow\npoison, and which was so powerful that the least grain meant instant\ndeath. I spotted the bottle in which this preparation was kept, and when\nthey were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was a fairly\ngood dispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and\neach pill I put in a box with a similar pill made without the poison.\nI determined at the time that when I had my chance, my gentlemen should\neach have a draw out of one of these boxes, while I ate the pill that\nremained. It would be quite as deadly, and a good deal less noisy than\nfiring across a handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes\nabout with me, and the time had now come when I was to use them.\n\n\"It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard\nand raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad within--so\nglad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you\ngentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for it during twenty\nlong years, and then suddenly found it within your reach, you would\nunderstand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at it to steady my\nnerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples throbbing with\nexcitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier and sweet Lucy\nlooking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me, just as plain as I\nsee you all in this room. All the way they were ahead of me, one on each\nside of the horse until I pulled up at the house in the Brixton Road.\n\n\"There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the\ndripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber\nall huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm, 'It's\ntime to get out,' I said.\n\n\"'All right, cabby,' said he.\n\n\"I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned,\nfor he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden.\nI had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a little\ntop-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it, and led him into the\nfront room. I give you my word that all the way, the father and the\ndaughter were walking in front of us.\n\n\"'It's infernally dark,' said he, stamping about.\n\n\"'We'll soon have a light,' I said, striking a match and putting it to\na wax candle which I had brought with me. 'Now, Enoch Drebber,' I\ncontinued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, 'who am\nI?'\n\n\"He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I\nsaw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features, which\nshowed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face, and I\nsaw the perspiration break out upon his brow, while his teeth chattered\nin his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the door and laughed\nloud and long. I had always known that vengeance would be sweet, but I\nhad never hoped for the contentment of soul which now possessed me.\n\n\"'You dog!' I said; 'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St.\nPetersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your wanderings\nhave come to an end, for either you or I shall never see to-morrow's sun\nrise.' He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and I could see on his\nface that he thought I was mad. So I was for the time. The pulses in my\ntemples beat like sledge-hammers, and I believe I would have had a fit\nof some sort if the blood had not gushed from my nose and relieved me.\n\n\"'What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried, locking the door, and\nshaking the key in his face. 'Punishment has been slow in coming, but it\nhas overtaken you at last.' I saw his coward lips tremble as I spoke. He\nwould have begged for his life, but he knew well that it was useless.\n\n\"'Would you murder me?' he stammered.\n\n\"'There is no murder,' I answered. 'Who talks of murdering a mad dog?\nWhat mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from her\nslaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and shameless\nharem.'\n\n\"'It was not I who killed her father,' he cried.\n\n\"'But it was you who broke her innocent heart,' I shrieked, thrusting\nthe box before him. 'Let the high God judge between us. Choose and\neat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what you\nleave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we are ruled\nby chance.'\n\n\"He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my\nknife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I swallowed\nthe other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a minute or\nmore, waiting to see which was to live and which was to die. Shall I\never forget the look which came over his face when the first warning\npangs told him that the poison was in his system? I laughed as I saw\nit, and held Lucy's marriage ring in front of his eyes. It was but for\na moment, for the action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm of pain\ncontorted his features; he threw his hands out in front of him,\nstaggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily upon the floor. I\nturned him over with my foot, and placed my hand upon his heart. There\nwas no movement. He was dead!\n\n\"The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice of\nit. I don't know what it was that put it into my head to write upon the\nwall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of setting the police\nupon a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and cheerful. I remembered\na German being found in New York with RACHE written up above him, and it\nwas argued at the time in the newspapers that the secret societies must\nhave done it. I guessed that what puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle\nthe Londoners, so I dipped my finger in my own blood and printed it on\na convenient place on the wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found\nthat there was nobody about, and that the night was still very wild. I\nhad driven some distance when I put my hand into the pocket in which\nI usually kept Lucy's ring, and found that it was not there. I was\nthunderstruck at this, for it was the only memento that I had of her.\nThinking that I might have dropped it when I stooped over Drebber's\nbody, I drove back, and leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly\nup to the house--for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose\nthe ring. When I arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a\npolice-officer who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his\nsuspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.\n\n\"That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was\nto do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier's debt. I knew\nthat he was staying at Halliday's Private Hotel, and I hung about all\nday, but he never came out. I fancy that he suspected something when\nDrebber failed to put in an appearance. He was cunning, was Stangerson,\nand always on his guard. If he thought he could keep me off by staying\nindoors he was very much mistaken. I soon found out which was the window\nof his bedroom, and early next morning I took advantage of some ladders\nwhich were lying in the lane behind the hotel, and so made my way into\nhis room in the grey of the dawn. I woke him up and told him that the\nhour had come when he was to answer for the life he had taken so long\nbefore. I described Drebber's death to him, and I gave him the same\nchoice of the poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of\nsafety which that offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my\nthroat. In self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been\nthe same in any case, for Providence would never have allowed his guilty\nhand to pick out anything but the poison.\n\n\"I have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am about done up.\nI went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I\ncould save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the\nyard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called\nJefferson Hope, and said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at 221B,\nBaker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm, and the next thing I\nknew, this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and as neatly\nsnackled as ever I saw in my life. That's the whole of my story,\ngentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold that I am\njust as much an officer of justice as you are.\"\n\nSo thrilling had the man's narrative been, and his manner was so\nimpressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional\ndetectives, _blasé_ as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to\nbe keenly interested in the man's story. When he finished we sat for\nsome minutes in a stillness which was only broken by the scratching\nof Lestrade's pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his shorthand\naccount.\n\n\"There is only one point on which I should like a little more\ninformation,\" Sherlock Holmes said at last. \"Who was your accomplice who\ncame for the ring which I advertised?\"\n\nThe prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. \"I can tell my own secrets,\"\nhe said, \"but I don't get other people into trouble. I saw your\nadvertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be the\nring which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think you'll\nown he did it smartly.\"\n\n\"Not a doubt of that,\" said Holmes heartily.\n\n\"Now, gentlemen,\" the Inspector remarked gravely, \"the forms of the law\nmust be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought before\nthe magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until then I will\nbe responsible for him.\" He rang the bell as he spoke, and Jefferson\nHope was led off by a couple of warders, while my friend and I made our\nway out of the Station and took a cab back to Baker Street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. THE CONCLUSION.\n\n\nWE had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the\nThursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our\ntestimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson\nHope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict justice would\nbe meted out to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism\nburst, and he was found in the morning stretched upon the floor of the\ncell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had been able\nin his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on work well\ndone.\n\n\"Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death,\" Holmes remarked, as\nwe chatted it over next evening. \"Where will their grand advertisement\nbe now?\"\n\n\"I don't see that they had very much to do with his capture,\" I\nanswered.\n\n\"What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence,\" returned my\ncompanion, bitterly. \"The question is, what can you make people believe\nthat you have done. Never mind,\" he continued, more brightly, after a\npause. \"I would not have missed the investigation for anything. There\nhas been no better case within my recollection. Simple as it was, there\nwere several most instructive points about it.\"\n\n\"Simple!\" I ejaculated.\n\n\"Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise,\" said Sherlock\nHolmes, smiling at my surprise. \"The proof of its intrinsic simplicity\nis, that without any help save a few very ordinary deductions I was able\nto lay my hand upon the criminal within three days.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" said I.\n\n\"I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is\nusually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this\nsort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a very\nuseful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not practise\nit much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful to reason\nforwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are fifty who\ncan reason synthetically for one who can reason analytically.\"\n\n\"I confess,\" said I, \"that I do not quite follow you.\"\n\n\"I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it clearer.\nMost people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you\nwhat the result would be. They can put those events together in their\nminds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are\nfew people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to\nevolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led\nup to that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning\nbackwards, or analytically.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" said I.\n\n\"Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to\nfind everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you the\ndifferent steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I approached\nthe house, as you know, on foot, and with my mind entirely free from all\nimpressions. I naturally began by examining the roadway, and there, as I\nhave already explained to you, I saw clearly the marks of a cab, which,\nI ascertained by inquiry, must have been there during the night. I\nsatisfied myself that it was a cab and not a private carriage by the\nnarrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary London growler is considerably\nless wide than a gentleman's brougham.\n\n\"This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the garden\npath, which happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly suitable\nfor taking impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a mere\ntrampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes every mark upon its\nsurface had a meaning. There is no branch of detective science which\nis so important and so much neglected as the art of tracing footsteps.\nHappily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and much practice\nhas made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of the\nconstables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had first passed\nthrough the garden. It was easy to tell that they had been before the\nothers, because in places their marks had been entirely obliterated by\nthe others coming upon the top of them. In this way my second link was\nformed, which told me that the nocturnal visitors were two in number,\none remarkable for his height (as I calculated from the length of his\nstride), and the other fashionably dressed, to judge from the small and\nelegant impression left by his boots.\n\n\"On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My well-booted\nman lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the murder, if murder\nthere was. There was no wound upon the dead man's person, but the\nagitated expression upon his face assured me that he had foreseen his\nfate before it came upon him. Men who die from heart disease, or any\nsudden natural cause, never by any chance exhibit agitation upon their\nfeatures. Having sniffed the dead man's lips I detected a slightly sour\nsmell, and I came to the conclusion that he had had poison forced upon\nhim. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him from the hatred\nand fear expressed upon his face. By the method of exclusion, I had\narrived at this result, for no other hypothesis would meet the facts.\nDo not imagine that it was a very unheard of idea. The forcible\nadministration of poison is by no means a new thing in criminal annals.\nThe cases of Dolsky in Odessa, and of Leturier in Montpellier, will\noccur at once to any toxicologist.\n\n\"And now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had not\nbeen the object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it politics,\nthen, or was it a woman? That was the question which confronted me.\nI was inclined from the first to the latter supposition. Political\nassassins are only too glad to do their work and to fly. This murder\nhad, on the contrary, been done most deliberately, and the perpetrator\nhad left his tracks all over the room, showing that he had been there\nall the time. It must have been a private wrong, and not a political\none, which called for such a methodical revenge. When the inscription\nwas discovered upon the wall I was more inclined than ever to my\nopinion. The thing was too evidently a blind. When the ring was found,\nhowever, it settled the question. Clearly the murderer had used it to\nremind his victim of some dead or absent woman. It was at this point\nthat I asked Gregson whether he had enquired in his telegram to\nCleveland as to any particular point in Mr. Drebber's former career. He\nanswered, you remember, in the negative.\n\n\"I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which\nconfirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer's height, and furnished me\nwith the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the length\nof his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since there were no\nsigns of a struggle, that the blood which covered the floor had burst\nfrom the murderer's nose in his excitement. I could perceive that the\ntrack of blood coincided with the track of his feet. It is seldom that\nany man, unless he is very full-blooded, breaks out in this way through\nemotion, so I hazarded the opinion that the criminal was probably a\nrobust and ruddy-faced man. Events proved that I had judged correctly.\n\n\"Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected. I\ntelegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my enquiry\nto the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch Drebber. The\nanswer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had already applied for\nthe protection of the law against an old rival in love, named Jefferson\nHope, and that this same Hope was at present in Europe. I knew now that\nI held the clue to the mystery in my hand, and all that remained was to\nsecure the murderer.\n\n\"I had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked\ninto the house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had driven\nthe cab. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had wandered\non in a way which would have been impossible had there been anyone in\ncharge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he were inside\nthe house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane man would carry\nout a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it were, of a third\nperson, who was sure to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man wished\nto dog another through London, what better means could he adopt than\nto turn cabdriver. All these considerations led me to the irresistible\nconclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be found among the jarveys of the\nMetropolis.\n\n\"If he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased to\nbe. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden change would be\nlikely to draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for a time at\nleast, continue to perform his duties. There was no reason to suppose\nthat he was going under an assumed name. Why should he change his name\nin a country where no one knew his original one? I therefore organized\nmy Street Arab detective corps, and sent them systematically to every\ncab proprietor in London until they ferreted out the man that I wanted.\nHow well they succeeded, and how quickly I took advantage of it, are\nstill fresh in your recollection. The murder of Stangerson was an\nincident which was entirely unexpected, but which could hardly in\nany case have been prevented. Through it, as you know, I came into\npossession of the pills, the existence of which I had already surmised.\nYou see the whole thing is a chain of logical sequences without a break\nor flaw.\"\n\n\"It is wonderful!\" I cried. \"Your merits should be publicly recognized.\nYou should publish an account of the case. If you won't, I will for\nyou.\"\n\n\"You may do what you like, Doctor,\" he answered. \"See here!\" he\ncontinued, handing a paper over to me, \"look at this!\"\n\nIt was the _Echo_ for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed was\ndevoted to the case in question.\n\n\"The public,\" it said, \"have lost a sensational treat through the sudden\ndeath of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr. Enoch\nDrebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case will\nprobably be never known now, though we are informed upon good authority\nthat the crime was the result of an old standing and romantic feud, in\nwhich love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that both the victims\nbelonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day Saints, and Hope, the\ndeceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. If the case has had\nno other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most striking manner\nthe efficiency of our detective police force, and will serve as a lesson\nto all foreigners that they will do wisely to settle their feuds at\nhome, and not to carry them on to British soil. It is an open secret\nthat the credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known\nScotland Yard officials, Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was\napprehended, it appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes,\nwho has himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in the detective\nline, and who, with such instructors, may hope in time to attain to some\ndegree of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort\nwill be presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of their\nservices.\"\n\n\"Didn't I tell you so when we started?\" cried Sherlock Holmes with a\nlaugh. \"That's the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a\ntestimonial!\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" I answered, \"I have all the facts in my journal, and the\npublic shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself contented\nby the consciousness of success, like the Roman miser--\n\n            \"'Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo\n       Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in arca.'\""