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                          A STUDY IN SCARLET

                                Part 1

     BEING A REPRINT FROM THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN  H.   WATSON,  M.
     D., LATE OF THE ARMY MEDICAL DEPARTMENT



                               Chapter 1

                          MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES

     In  the year 1878 I  took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
     University  of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the
     course prescribed for surgeons in  the Army.   Having  completed
     my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth
     Northumberland  Fusiliers as assistant  surgeon.   The  regiment
     was stationed in India at the time,  and before I could join it,
     the second Afghan  war had broken out.  On landing  at Bombay, I
     learned that my  corps had advanced through the passes, and  was
     already deep in the enemy's country.  I followed, however,  with
     many other officers  who were  in the same situation  as myself,
     and succeeded  in reaching  Candahar in safety, where I found my
     regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties.

     The campaign  brought honours and promotion to  many, but for me
     it had nothing but  misfortune and disaster.  I was removed from
     my  brigade and  attached to the Berkshires, with  whom I served
     at  the  fatal battle of Maiwand.   There I  was  struck on  the
     shoulder  by a  Jezail  bullet,  which shattered  the  bone  and
     grazed  the  subclavian  artery.  I should have  fallen into the
     hands of  the murderous  Ghazis had it not been for the devotion
     and courage shown by Murray, my  orderly, who  threw me across a
     pack-horse, and  succeeded in bringing me safely to  the British
     lines.

     Worn with pain,  and weak from  the prolonged  hardships which I
     had  undergone, I  was removed,  with  a great train of  wounded
     sufferers, to  the base hospital  at Peshawar.  Here I  rallied,
     and had already improved so far as  to be able to walk about the
     wards, and even to  bask a little upon the  veranda,  when I was
     struck   down  by  enteric  fever,  that  curse  of  our  Indian
     possessions.  For months  my life was despaired of,  and when at
     last I  came to myself and  became convalescent, I  was  so weak
     and emaciated  that a medical board determined  that  not  a day
     should   be  lost  in  sending  me  back  to   England.   I  was
     despatched, accordingly, in the  troopship Orontes, and landed a
     month later on Portsmouth jetty,  with  my  health irretrievably
     ruined, but with permission  from a paternal government to spend
     the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

     I  had  neither  kith  nor  kin in England, and was therefore as
     free  as air  -- or as free as an income of eleven shillings and
     sixpence a day will permit a man to be.  Under such
     circumstances  I naturally  gravitated  to  London,  that  great
     cesspool  into which all  the loungers  and idlers of the Empire
     are  irresistibly drained.  There I stayed  for  some  time at a
     private hotel in  the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless
     existence, and  spending such money as I had,  considerably more
     freely than I ought.  So  alarming did the state of  my finances
     become,  that I  soon  realized  that I must  either  leave  the
     metropolis  and rusticate somewhere in  the country, or  that  I
     must  make   a  complete  alteration  in  my  style  of  living.
     Choosing  the latter alternative,  I began by making up  my mind
     to  leave the  hotel,  and  take up  my  quarters  in  some less
     pretentious and less expensive domicile.

     On  the very  day  that  I had  come  to this  conclusion, I was
     standing at the  Criterion Bar,  when  someone tapped me on  the
     shoulder,  and turning round I  recognized  young  Stamford, who
     had been a  dresser under me at Bart's.  The sight of a friendly
     face  in  the  great  wilderness of London is  a  pleasant thing
     indeed  to a lonely man.  In old days  Stamford had never been a
     particular crony of mine, but now I  hailed him with enthusiasm,
     and he,  in  his turn, appeared to be  delighted to see me.   In
     the exuberance of my  joy,  I asked  him to lunch with me at the
     Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.

     "Whatever  have you been  doing with yourself, Watson?" he asked
     in undisguised  wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London
     streets.   "You  are  as thin  as a lath and as brown as a nut."

     I  gave him a  short  sketch  of my adventures,  and  had hardly
     concluded  it  by  the  time  that  we  reached our destination.

     "Poor  devil!" he  said, commiseratingly, after  he had listened
     to my misfortunes.  "What are you up to now?"

     "Looking for  lodgings,"  I  answered.   "Trying  to  solve  the
     problem as  to  whether it is  possible to get comfortable rooms
     at a reasonable price."

     "That's  a  strange thing," remarked my companion;  "you are the
     second  man  to-day  that  has  used  that  expression  to  me."

     "And who was the first?" I asked.

     "A fellow who  is  working  at the chemical laboratory up at the
     hospital.   He was  bemoaning  himself  this morning because  he
     could not get someone to go halves with him in  some nice  rooms
     which he had found,  and  which were too  much for  his  purse."

     "By Jove!"  I cried; "if he  really  wants someone to share  the
     rooms and  the expense, I am the  very  man for  him.   I should
     prefer having a partner to being alone."

     Young  Stamford  looked   rather  strangely   at   me  over  his
     wineglass.  "You don't  know  Sherlock  Holmes  yet,"  he  said;
     "perhaps you would  not care for him  as a constant  companion."

     "Why, what is there against him?"

     "Oh,  I didn't say there  was  anything  against  him.  He  is a
     little queer in his ideas -- an  enthusiast in some branches  of
     science.  As  far  as  I know  he  is  a decent fellow  enough."

     "A medical student, I suppose?" said I.

     "No -- I have no idea  what he intends to go  in for.  I believe
     he is  well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but,
     as far as I know,  he has never taken out any systematic medical
     classes.  His studies are  very  desultory and eccentric, but he
     has  amassed  a  lot  of  out-of-the-way  knowledge  which would
     astonish his professors."

     "Did you  never  ask  him what  he was going in  for?" I  asked.

     "No; he is not a  man that  it is easy  to  draw  out, though he
     can  be  communicative  enough  when  the   fancy  seizes  him."

     "I should  like  to meet him," I  said.   "If I am to lodge with
     anyone, I should  prefer  a man of studious and quiet habits.  I
     am not strong enough  yet  to stand much noise or excitement.  I
     had  enough of  both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder
     of my natural  existence.   How  could  I  meet  this  friend of
     yours?"

     "He  is  sure to  be at the laboratory," returned my  companion.
     "He  either avoids the place  for weeks, or else  he works there
     from  morning  till  night.   If you like, we  will drive  round
     together after luncheon."

     "Certainly,"  I  answered,  and  the  conversation drifted  away
     into other channels.

     As we  made  our way to the  hospital after leaving the Holborn,
     Stamford  gave me  a few  more particulars about  the  gentleman
     whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.

     "You mustn't blame me  if you  don't get on with him,"  he said;
     "I know nothing  more of  him  than  I have learned from meeting
     him  occasionally   in  the   laboratory.   You  proposed   this
     arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible."

     "If  we  don't  get on  it will  be  easy to  part  company,"  I
     answered.  "It seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking  hard at
     my companion, "that you have some reason for  washing your hands
     of the  matter.  Is this  fellow's temper so formidable, or what
     is it?  Don't be mealymouthed about it."

     "It is  not  easy  to  express  the inexpressible," he  answered
     with a laugh.  "Holmes is a little too scientific for my  tastes
     --  it approaches  to cold-bloodedness.   I  could  imagine  his
     giving  a  friend  a  little  pinch   of  the  latest  vegetable
     alkaloid, not  out  of malevolence, you understand,  but  simply
     out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate  idea of
     the  effects.  To  do him justice, I think that he would take it
     himself  with the  same readiness.  He appears to have a passion
     for definite and exact knowledge."

     "Very right too."

     "Yes,  but  it  may  be  pushed  to  excess.   When it comes  to
     beating the subjects in  the  dissecting-rooms with a stick,  it
     is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape."

     "Beating the subjects!"

     "Yes, to  verify how far bruises may  be  produced after  death.
     I saw him at it with my own eyes."

     "And yet you say he is not a medical student?"

     "No.  Heaven  knows what  the  objects  of his studies are.  But
     here we are, and you  must form your own impressions about him."
     As he spoke,  we turned  down a narrow lane and passed through a
     small  side-door,  which   opened  into  a  wing  of  the  great
     hospital.   It  was familiar  ground  to  me,  and  I  needed no
     guiding as we ascended  the bleak  stone staircase  and made our
     way down the long  corridor  with its vista of whitewashed  wall
     and  dun-coloured  doors.  Near the farther  end  a  low  arched
     passage  branched  away   from  it  and  led   to  the  chemical
     laboratory.

     This  was a  lofty  chamber, lined  and  littered with countless
     bottles.    Broad,   low  tables  were  scattered  about,  which
     bristled  with  retorts, test-tubes,  and  little Bunsen  lamps,
     with their blue flickering flames.  There was  only  one student
     in the  room, who was  bending over a distant table  absorbed in
     his work.   At  the sound  of  our  steps he  glanced  round and
     sprang to his  feet  with a cry  of pleasure.   "I've  found it!
     I've found  it," he shouted to my companion, running  towards us
     with  a  test-tube in his hand.  "I have  found a re-agent which
     is precipitated by  haemoglobin, and by nothing  else."  Had  he
     discovered a gold  mine,  greater delight  could  not have shone
     upon his features.

     "Dr.  Watson, Mr.  Sherlock Holmes," said  Stamford, introducing
     us.

     "How are  you?"  he  said  cordially,  gripping  my hand with  a
     strength for  which I should hardly have given him credit.  "You
     have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

     "How  on  earth did you  know  that?"  I asked  in astonishment.

     "Never  mind," said he,  chuckling  to  himself.   "The question
     now is about haemoglobin.  No doubt you see the  significance of
     this discovery of mine?"

     "It is  interesting,  chemically,  no  doubt," I answered,  "but
     practically --"

     "Why,  man, it is the most practical medico-legal  discovery for
     years.  Don't  you see that it  gives  us an infallible test for
     blood  stains?   Come over  here  now!"  He  seized  me  by  the
     coat-sleeve  in his  eagerness, and drew me over to the table at
     which  he had been working.  "Let  us have some fresh blood," he
     said, digging a long  bodkin into  his  finger, and drawing  off
     the resulting drop  of blood in a chemical pipette.  "Now, I add
     this small quantity of blood to a litre  of water.  You perceive
     that the  resulting  mixture  has  the appearance of pure water.
     The proportion of blood  cannot be more  than one in  a million.
     I have no  doubt, however, that  we shall be able to  obtain the
     characteristic  reaction."  As  he  spoke,  he  threw  into  the
     vessel a few  white  crystals,  and then  added some drops of  a
     transparent fluid.  In an instant  the  contents  assumed a dull
     mahogany  colour,  and  a  brownish dust was precipitated to the
     bottom of the glass jar.

     "Ha!   ha!"  he  cried,  clapping  his  hands,  and  looking  as
     delighted  as  a child with a new toy.  "What  do you  think  of
     that?"

     "It seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.

     "Beautiful!  beautiful!  The old  guaiacum test  was very clumsy
     and uncertain.  So is  the  microscopic  examination  for  blood
     corpuscles.  The latter is  valueless  if  the stains are  a few
     hours  old.  Now, this appears to  act as well whether the blood
     is  old or new.  Had this test been invented, there are hundreds
     of  men now  walking the earth who  would long ago have paid the
     penalty of their crimes."

     "Indeed!" I murmured.

     "Criminal  cases  are continually hinging  upon that one  point.
     A man is  suspected of a crime  months perhaps after it has been
     committed.   His  linen or  clothes are  examined  and  brownish
     stains discovered upon  them.   Are they blood  stains,  or  mud
     stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they?  That
     is  a question  which  has  puzzled  many an  expert,  and  why?
     Because there  was no reliable test.  Now  we have the  Sherlock
     Holmes's test,  and there  will no  longer be  any  difficulty."

     His  eyes  fairly glittered  as  he spoke, and  he put his  hand
     over  his  heart  and  bowed as  if  to  some  applauding  crowd
     conjured up by his imagination.

     "You   are  to  be  congratulated,"   I  remarked,  considerably
     surprised at his enthusiasm.

     "There was the  case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year.  He
     would certainly have been hung had this test  been in existence.
     Then  there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and
     Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans.  I could name
     a  score  of  cases  in which  it  would  have  been  decisive."

     "You seem  to be  a walking calendar  of  crime," said  Stamford
     with a  laugh.  "You might  start a paper on those lines.   Call
     it the 'Police News of the Past.'"

     "Very  interesting  reading  it might be  made,  too,"  remarked
     Sherlock Holmes,  sticking  a  small piece  of plaster  over the
     prick  on his finger.  "I  have  to  be  careful," he continued,
     turning to me  with  a smile, "for I dabble with  poisons a good
     deal." He held out his  hand as he spoke, and I noticed that  it
     was  all mottled  over  with  similar  pieces  of  plaster,  and
     discoloured with strong acids.

     "We  came  here on business," said Stamford, sitting down  on  a
     high  three-legged  stool,  and  pushing  another   one   in  my
     direction  with  his  foot.   "My  friend  here  wants  to  take
     diggings; and as  you were complaining that you could get no one
     to go halves  with you, I  thought that I had  better  bring you
     together."

     Sherlock  Holmes  seemed delighted at  the idea  of sharing  his
     rooms with me.   "I  have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he
     said, "which would suit  us  down to the ground.  You don't mind
     the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"

     "I always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.

     "That's good  enough.   I generally  have  chemicals  about, and
     occasionally   do   experiments.    Would   that   annoy   you?"

     "By no means."

     "Let  me see -- what are  my other shortcomings?  I  get  in the
     dumps  at times, and  don't open my mouth for days  on end.  You
     must not think I am sulky  when  I  do that.  Just let me alone,
     and  I'll soon  be right.  What  have you to  confess now?  It's
     just  as well for two fellows to  know the worst  of one another
     before they begin to live together."

     I  laughed at this cross-examination.   "I  keep  a bull pup," I
     said, "and I object to rows because my nerves  are shaken, and I
     get up at  all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am  extremely lazy.
     I have another set of vices when  I'm  well, but  those are  the
     principal ones at present."

     "Do  you include violin  playing  in  your category of rows?" he
     asked, anxiously.

     "It depends on  the player," I answered.   "A well-played violin
     is a treat for the gods -- a badly played one --"

     "Oh,  that's  all  right," he cried, with  a  merry  laugh.   "I
     think we  may consider the thing as  settled -- that  is, if the
     rooms are agreeable to you."

     "When shall we see them?"

     "Call for  me here  at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and
     settle everything," he answered.

     "All right -- noon exactly,"  said I, shaking his hand.  We left
     him working among his chemicals, and we walked  together towards
     my hotel.

     "By the  way,"  I  asked  suddenly,  stopping  and  turning upon
     Stamford,  "how the deuce  did  he know  that  I  had  come from
     Afghanistan?"

     My companion  smiled  an  enigmatical smile.   "That's just  his
     little peculiarity," he said.  "A  good many people  have wanted
     to know how he finds things out."

     "Oh!   a mystery  is it?" I cried,  rubbing  my hands.  "This is
     very  piquant.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  bringing  us
     together.  'The  proper study  of  mankind is  man,' you  know."

     "You  must  study  him,  then,"  Stamford  said, as  he  bade me
     good-bye.   "You'll  find him  a knotty  problem,  though.  I'll
     wager he learns more about you  than you about him.   Good-bye."

     "Good-bye,"   I  answered,  and   strolled  on  to   my   hotel,
     considerably interested in my new acquaintance.



                                Chapter 2

                         THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION

     We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the  rooms  at
     No.  221B, Baker Street, of which he had  spoken at our meeting.
     They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and  a single
     large  airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished,  and illuminated
     by  two broad  windows.   So  desirable in every  way  were  the
     apartments, and  so  moderate did  the  terms  seem when divided
     between us, that  the  bargain  was concluded upon the spot, and
     we at once entered into possession.  That very evening  I  moved
     my  things  round from the hotel, and on the  following  morning
     Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
     portmanteaus.  For a  day  or  two we  were  busily  employed in
     unpacking  and  laying  out our property  to the best advantage.
     That done, we gradually began to  settle down and to accommodate
     ourselves to our new surroundings.

     Holmes was certainly  not  a difficult man to live with.  He was
     quiet  in his  ways,  and his habits were  regular.  It was rare
     for him  to be up after ten  at  night,  and  he  had invariably
     breakfasted   and  gone  out  before  I  rose  in  the  morning.
     Sometimes  he  spent  his  day  at   the  chemical   laboratory,
     sometimes  in the  dissecting-rooms,  and occasionally  in  long
     walks,  which appeared to take him into the lowest  portions  of
     the city.  Nothing  could exceed his energy when the working fit
     was  upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and
     for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in  the sitting-room,
     hardly  uttering  a word or  moving  a muscle  from  morning  to
     night.   On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant
     expression  in  his eyes, that  I might  have  suspected  him of
     being  addicted  to  the use  of  some  narcotic,  had  not  the
     temperance  and cleanliness of his  whole life forbidden  such a
     notion.

     As the weeks  went by, my  interest in him and my  curiosity  as
     to his  aims in life gradually deepened and increased.  His very
     person and appearance were such  as  to  strike the attention of
     the  most casual  observer.   In  height he was rather  over six
     feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be  considerably
     taller.   His  eyes were sharp and piercing,  save during  those
     intervals of torpor to  which  I  have  alluded;  and his  thin,
     hawk-like  nose gave  his whole  expression  an air of alertness
     and decision.  His  chin, too, had the prominence and squareness
     which mark the man of  determination.  His hands were invariably
     blotted  with  ink  and  stained  with  chemicals,  yet  he  was
     possessed  of extraordinary delicacy of  touch, as  I frequently
     had occasion  to observe  when I watched  him  manipulating  his
     fragile philosophical instruments.

     The  reader may set  me  down  as a  hopeless  busybody, when  I
     confess how  much  this  man stimulated  my curiosity,  and  how
     often  I endeavoured  to break  through the  reticence  which he
     showed  on  all  that  concerned  himself.   Before  pronouncing
     judgment, however, be it remembered how objectless was my  life,
     and how little  there was to  engage my  attention.   My  health
     forbade   me   from   venturing  out   unless  the  weather  was
     exceptionally genial, and  I had no friends who would call  upon
     me and break the monotony  of  my daily  existence.  Under these
     circumstances, I eagerly  hailed the little  mystery which  hung
     around my  companion,  and spent much of my time in endeavouring
     to unravel it.

     He was  not studying medicine.   He had  himself, in reply to  a
     question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point.  Neither
     did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which  might
     fit him  for a degree in science or any  other recognized portal
     which would give  him an entrance into the  learned  world.  Yet
     his   zeal  for  certain  studies  was  remarkable,  and  within
     eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample  and
     minute that  his observations have fairly astounded  me.  Surely
     no  man  would work so hard or attain  such  precise information
     unless he  had some definite end in view.  Desultory readers are
     seldom  remarkable for the  exactness of their learning.  No man
     burdens his mind  with  small matters  unless he  has some  very
     good reason for doing so.

     His  ignorance   was  as  remarkable  as   his   knowledge.   Of
     contemporary  literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to
     know  next to  nothing.   Upon  my  quoting  Thomas Carlyle,  he
     inquired in the naivest  way who  he might be  and  what he  had
     done.  My  surprise  reached a climax,  however,  when  I  found
     incidentally  that he was ignorant of the  Copernican Theory and
     of the  composition  of  the  Solar System.  That any  civilized
     human being in this nineteenth century should not be aware  that
     the earth travelled round  the sun appeared to me to be  such an
     extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.

     "You  appear  to  be  astonished,"  he  said,   smiling   at  my
     expression of surprise.  "Now that I  do know  it I shall  do my
     best to forget it."

     "To forget it!"

     "You  see,"  he  explained,  "I  consider  that  a  man's  brain
     originally is like a little empty attic, and you have  to  stock
     it with such  furniture as you choose.  A fool takes in  all the
     lumber  of  every  sort  that  he  comes  across,  so  that  the
     knowledge  which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or  at
     best is jumbled up with a lot  of other things, so that he has a
     difficulty  in laying  his  hands  upon  it.   Now  the  skilful
     workman  is  very careful  indeed as to  what he takes into  his
     brain-attic.  He will have  nothing but the tools which may help
     him in doing  his work, but of these he has a large  assortment,
     and  all  in the most perfect  order.  It is a mistake to  think
     that that little room has elastic  walls and can distend  to any
     extent.  Depend upon it  there  comes  a  time  when  for  every
     addition  of  knowledge  you  forget  something  that  you  knew
     before.  It is of  the  highest  importance,  therefore, not  to
     have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."

     "But the Solar System!" I protested.

     "What the  deuce is it  to me?" he interrupted impatiently: "you
     say that  we  go round the sun.  If we went  round the  moon  it
     would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my  work."

     I was on the point of asking  him  what that work might be,  but
     something in his manner showed me that the question  would be an
     unwelcome  one.   I  pondered  over   our   short  conversation,
     however, and endeavoured  to  draw  my  deductions from  it.  He
     said that he  would acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon
     his object.  Therefore all the knowledge  which he possessed was
     such  as would  be useful to  him.  I enumerated in  my own mind
     all  the various  points upon which he had shown  me that he was
     exceptionally  well informed.   I even took a  pencil and jotted
     them down.   I could not help smiling at the document when I had
     completed it.  It ran in this way:

     Sherlock Holmes -- his limits

     1. Knowledge of Literature. -- Nil.
     2.     "     "  Philosophy. -- Nil.
     3.     "     "  Astronomy. -- Nil.
     4.     "     "  Politics. -- Feeble.
     5.     "     "  Botany. -- Variable.
     Well  up  in  belladonna,  opium, and  poisons generally.  Knows
     nothing of practical gardening.
     6.  Knowledge of Geology.  -- Practical, butlimited.  Tells at a
     glance  different soils from each other.  After  walks has shown
     me  splashes upon his  trousers, and told me by their colour and
     consistence  in  what  part  of London  he  had  received  them.
     7. Knowledge of Chemistry. -- Profound.
     8.    "    "    Anatomy.    --   Accurate,   but   unsystematic.
     9.     "     "  Sensational Literature. -- Immense.
     He appears to know every detail of  every horror perpetrated  in
     the century.
     10. Plays the violin well.
     11.   Is  an expert  singlestick  player, boxer,  and swordsman.
     12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.



     When I had got  so far in my list I threw  it into the  fire  in
     despair.  "If I can only find  what the fellow  is driving at by
     reconciling  all   these  accomplishments,  and   discovering  a
     calling which needs  them all," I said to myself, "I may as well
     give up the attempt at once."

     I see that I have  alluded above to  his powers upon the violin.
     These were  very remarkable, but as  eccentric as  all his other
     accomplishments.   That  he could  play  pieces,  and  difficult
     pieces,  I knew  well, because at  my request he  has played  me
     some  of Mendelssohn's  Lieder, and other favourites.  When left
     to  himself,  however, he  would  seldom  produce  any  music or
     attempt any recognized air.  Leaning  back in his armchair of an
     evening, he would close his  eyes and  scrape  carelessly at the
     fiddle  which  was thrown across his knee.  Sometimes the chords
     were sonorous and melancholy.   Occasionally they were fantastic
     and  cheerful.   Clearly  they   reflected  the  thoughts  which
     possessed  him, but whether the  music aided those  thoughts, or
     whether the  playing was simply the  result of  a whim or fancy,
     was more than I could  determine.  I might have rebelled against
     these  exasperating  solos  had it  not  been  that  he  usually
     terminated them by  playing in quick  succession a whole  series
     of  my  favourite  airs as a  slight compensation for  the trial
     upon my patience.

     During the first week  or so we  had no callers, and I had begun
     to think that  my companion  was  as  friendless  a man as I was
     myself.   Presently,  however,   I   found  that  he   had  many
     acquaintances,  and those  in  the  most  different  classes  of
     society.  There  was  one  little sallow,  rat-faced,  dark-eyed
     fellow,  who was introduced to me as Mr.  Lestrade, and who came
     three  or four times in a single week.  One morning a young girl
     called,  fashionably dressed, and stayed  for  half  an hour  or
     more.  The same afternoon  brought a gray-headed, seedy visitor,
     looking like  a Jew  peddler, who  appeared  to  me  to be  much
     excited, and who was closely  followed  by  a  slipshod  elderly
     woman.   On another occasion  an old white-haired gentleman  had
     an  interview  with  my companion;  and  on  another,  a railway
     porter in his velveteen uniform.  When any  of these nondescript
     individuals put in  an appearance, Sherlock  Holmes used  to beg
     for  the use  of the sitting-room,  and  I  would retire  to  my
     bedroom.  He always apologized  to  me for  putting  me  to this
     inconvenience.   "I  have  to  use  this  room  as  a  place  of
     business," he said, "and these people  are my clients." Again  I
     had an  opportunity  of  asking him a point-blank question,  and
     again  my  delicacy prevented  me from forcing  another  man  to
     confide  in me.   I imagined at the time that he had some strong
     reason  for not alluding to it, but he  soon dispelled the  idea
     by coming round to the subject of his own accord.

     It  was upon  the  4th  of  March, as  I  have  good  reason  to
     remember,  that I rose  somewhat earlier than  usual,  and found
     that Sherlock Holmes had  not  yet  finished his breakfast.  The
     landlady  had  become  so accustomed  to my late habits that  my
     place  had not  been  laid  nor  my  coffee prepared.   With the
     unreasonable  petulance of mankind  I rang the  bell and gave  a
     curt  intimation that I  was ready.  Then I picked up a magazine
     from  the  table  and attempted to while away the time  with it,
     while my companion munched silently at  his  toast.   One of the
     articles  had  a  pencil mark  at  the heading, and  I naturally
     began to run my eye through it.

     Its somewhat ambitious  title was "The  Book  of Life,"  and  it
     attempted to show  how much  an observant  man might learn by an
     accurate and systematic  examination  of  all that  came in  his
     way.  It struck me as  being  a remarkable mixture of shrewdness
     and of absurdity.  The reasoning was close and intense,  but the
     deductions appeared  to me to  be  far  fetched and exaggerated.
     The writer  claimed by  a  momentary  expression, a twitch of  a
     muscle  or  a  glance  of an  eye,  to  fathom  a  man's  inmost
     thoughts.  Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the
     case  of  one   trained   to  observation  and   analysis.   His
     conclusions  were  as  infallible as  so  many  propositions  of
     Euclid.   So  startling  would  his   results   appear  to   the
     uninitiated that until  they learned the processes  by  which he
     had  arrived  at   them  they  might  well  consider  him  as  a
     necromancer.

     "From a  drop of  water,"  said  the  writer,  "a logician could
     infer the  possibility  of  an  Atlantic  or a  Niagara  without
     having  seen or heard  of one  or  the other.  So  all life is a
     great  chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown
     a  single  link  of  it.  Like  all  other  arts, the Science of
     Deduction  and  Analysis is  one which can  only be  acquired by
     long and patient study,  nor is  life long  enough to  allow any
     mortal to attain the  highest possible perfection in it.  Before
     turning to those  moral and  mental aspects  of the matter which
     present  the  greatest  difficulties, let the inquirer begin  by
     mastering more  elementary  problems.  Let  him,  on  meeting  a
     fellow-mortal,  learn at  a glance to distinguish the history of
     the  man,  and  the trade  or profession  to  which  he belongs.
     Puerile as such  an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties
     of observation, and teaches  one  where to look and what to look
     for.   By  a man's  finger-nails,  by  his coat-sleeve,  by  his
     boots,  by  his  trouser-knees,  by  the  callosities   of   his
     forefinger  and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt-cuffs  --
     by  each  of these  things a man's calling is  plainly revealed.
     That all united should fail to enlighten the  competent inquirer
     in any case is almost inconceivable."

     "What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping  the  magazine  down
     on  the  table;  "I  never  read  such  rubbish  in   my  life."

     "What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     "Why, this article," I said,  pointing at  it  with  my eggspoon
     as I sat  down to my  breakfast.   "I see that you have  read it
     since  you have  marked it.   I  don't deny  that  it is smartly
     written.  It irritates me, though.  It  is evidently  the theory
     of some  armchair  lounger  who evolves all  these  neat  little
     paradoxes  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own  study.  It  is  not
     practical.   I  should  like  to  see  him  clapped  down  in  a
     third-class carriage on the Underground, and  asked to give  the
     trades of all his  fellow-travellers.  I would lay a thousand to
     one against him."

     "You  would lose your  money,"  Holmes remarked calmly.  "As for
     the article, I wrote it myself."

     "You!"

     "Yes; I  have  a  turn  both for observation  and for deduction.
     The theories which  I have expressed there,  and which appear to
     you to  be so chimerical,  are really  extremely practical -- so
     practical that  I  depend upon them  for my  bread  and cheese."

     "And how?" I asked involuntarily.

     "Well, I have a trade  of my own.  I suppose I  am the  only one
     in  the  world.   I'm  a   consulting  detective,  if   you  can
     understand  what  that is.   Here  in  London  we  have lots  of
     government  detectives  and  lots  of private ones.  When  these
     fellows are at fault, they  come to me, and I manage to put them
     on the right scent.  They lay all the evidence before  me, and I
     am generally  able, by  the help of  my knowledge of the history
     of  crime, to set  them  straight.   There is  a  strong  family
     resemblance  about  misdeeds, and if you have all the details of
     a  thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if  you can't unravel
     the thousand and  first.   Lestrade is a  well-known  detective.
     He got  himself  into a  fog  recently  over a forgery case, and
     that was what brought him here."

     "And these other people?"

     "They  are  mostly  sent on  by private inquiry agencies.   They
     are all  people who are  in  trouble about  something and want a
     little enlightening.   I listen to  their story, they  listen to
     my comments, and then I pocket my fee."

     "But do you  mean to say,"  I said,  "that without leaving  your
     room you can unravel some knot which  other men can make nothing
     of,  although they  have  seen  every  detail  for  themselves?"

     "Quite  so.   I have a kind  of  intuition  that  way.   Now and
     again a case turns up which  is a little  more  complex.  Then I
     have to  bustle about and see things with my own  eyes.  You see
     I have a lot of  special knowledge which I apply to the problem,
     and  which  facilitates  matters wonderfully.   Those  rules  of
     deduction  laid down in that  article which  aroused your  scorn
     are  invaluable to me in practical work.  Observation with me is
     second  nature.   You appeared to be surprised when I told  you,
     on  our first  meeting,  that you  had  come  from Afghanistan."

     "You were told, no doubt."

     "Nothing of the sort.   I knew  you came from Afghanistan.  From
     long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through  my mind
     that  I  arrived  at  the conclusion without being  conscious of
     intermediate steps.  There were such  steps, however.  The train
     of reasoning  ran, 'Here  is a gentleman  of a medical type, but
     with the  air of a  military man.  Clearly an army doctor, then.
     He  has  just come from the tropics, for  his face  is dark, and
     that is not the  natural  tint of his skin, for his  wrists  are
     fair.   He has undergone hardship and sickness,  as  his haggard
     face says clearly.  His left arm has been injured.  He holds  it
     in a stiff and unnatural  manner.  Where in the tropics could an
     English  army  doctor have seen  much hardship and  got his  arm
     wounded?  Clearly in Afghanistan.'  The  whole  train of thought
     did not  occupy  a second.   I then remarked that you  came from
     Afghanistan, and you were astonished."

     "It is simple enough as  you explain it," I said, smiling.  "You
     remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin.  I had no  idea that  such
     individuals did exist outside of stories."

     Sherlock  Holmes  rose and  lit  his pipe.  "No  doubt you think
     that  you  are complimenting  me in comparing  me  to Dupin," he
     observed.   "Now,  in  my opinion,  Dupin  was a  very  inferior
     fellow.  That  trick of  his  of  breaking  in  on  his friends'
     thoughts  with  an apropos  remark  after a quarter of an hour's
     silence is  really  very  showy and  superficial.   He  had some
     analytical  genius, no  doubt; but  he  was  by no means such  a
     phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."

     "Have you read  Gaboriau's works?" I asked.   "Does  Lecoq  come
     up to your idea of a detective?"

     Sherlock Holmes sniffed  sardonically.   "Lecoq  was a miserable
     bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had  only one thing to
     recommend him,  and that was  his  energy.   That  book  made me
     positively ill.   The  question  was  how to identify an unknown
     prisoner.  I could  have  done  it  in twenty-four hours.  Lecoq
     took six  months  or  so.   It might  be  made  a  textbook  for
     detectives to teach them what to avoid."

     I felt  rather indignant at  having  two characters  whom  I had
     admired  treated in  this  cavalier style.  I walked over to the
     window  and  stood  looking  out into  the  busy  street.  "This
     fellow may  be very  clever,"  I  said  to myself,  "but  he  is
     certainly very conceited."

     "There are no crimes and  no criminals in  these days," he said,
     querulously.   "What  is   the  use  of  having  brains  in  our
     profession?  I know  well that I have it in  me to make my  name
     famous.  No man  lives or has  ever lived  who has  brought  the
     same amount of study  and of natural talent  to the detection of
     crime which I have done.  And what is the result?   There  is no
     crime  to detect,  or, at  most, some  bungling  villainy with a
     motive so transparent that  even a  Scotland Yard  official  can
     see through it."

     I  was still annoyed at his bumptious  style of conversation.  I
     thought it best to change the topic.

     "I  wonder what  that fellow is looking for?"  I asked, pointing
     to a  stalwart,  plainly  dressed  individual  who  was  walking
     slowly  down the other side of  the street, looking anxiously at
     the numbers.  He  had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was
     evidently the bearer of a message.

     "You  mean  the  retired sergeant  of  Marines,"  said  Sherlock
     Holmes.

     "Brag  and bounce!"  thought  I to  myself.   "He knows  that  I
     cannot verify his guess."

     The  thought  had  hardly  passed through  my  mind when the man
     whom we  were watching  caught sight of  the number on our door,
     and ran rapidly across  the  roadway.  We  heard a loud knock, a
     deep  voice  below,  and  heavy  steps  ascending   the   stair.

     "For Mr.   Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and
     handing my friend the letter.

     Here was an  opportunity of taking  the conceit  out of him.  He
     little thought of this when  he made that random  shot.   "May I
     ask, my lad," I said, in  the  blandest  voice, "what your trade
     may be?"

     "Commissionaire, sir,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "Uniform  away  for
     repairs."

     "And you  were?" I  asked,  with a slightly malicious  glance at
     my companion.

     "A  sergeant,  sir,  Royal  Marine  Light   Infantry,  sir.   No
     answer?  Right, sir."

     He clicked  his heels together,  raised his hand in  salute, and
     was gone.



                                 Chapter 3

                        THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY

     I confess that I was  considerably  startled by this fresh proof
     of the practical nature of my companion's  theories.  My respect
     for his powers of  analysis increased  wondrously.  There  still
     remained some  lurking  suspicion in  my mind, however, that the
     whole  thing was a prearranged episode, intended  to  dazzle me,
     though  what earthly  object he could have in  taking me in  was
     past my comprehension.   When I looked  at him, he  had finished
     reading  the  note,  and  his  eyes  had   assumed  the  vacant,
     lack-lustre  expression   which   showed   mental   abstraction.

     "How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.

     "Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.

     "Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."

     "I have  no time  for  trifles,"  he answered,  brusquely;  then
     with a smile, "Excuse my rudeness.  You broke  the thread of  my
     thoughts; but perhaps it  is as well.  So you actually  were not
     able  to  see  that  that  man  was   a  sergeant  of  Marines?"

     "No, indeed."

     "It was easier to  know it than to  explain why I  know  it.  If
     you were asked to  prove  that two and two made four, you  might
     find some  difficulty, and yet  you are  quite sure of the fact.
     Even across  the street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed
     on the back of the fellow's hand.  That smacked of the sea.   He
     had a military carriage, however,  and regulation side whiskers.
     There  we  have the marine.  He  was a man  with  some amount of
     self-importance and a certain air of  command.   You  must  have
     observed  the way in which he held  his head and swung his cane.
     A steady, respectable, middle-aged  man, too, on the face of him
     --  all facts  which  led me  to believe  that  he  had  been  a
     sergeant."

     "Wonderful!" I ejaculated.

     "Commonplace,"  said   Holmes,   though   I  thought   from  his
     expression  that he  was  pleased  at  my evident  surprise  and
     admiration.  "I said just now that there were  no criminals.  It
     appears  that I am wrong  -- look at this!" He threw me over the
     note which the commissionaire had brought.

     "Why," I cried, as I cast my  eye over it, "this  is  terrible!"

     "It does seem  to be a  little out of the  common," he remarked,
     calmly.  "Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"

     This is the letter which I read to him, -

     "MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:

     "There  has  been  a  bad  business  during  the  night   at  3,
     Lauriston Gardens, off  the Brixton  Road.   Our man on the beat
     saw a light  there about two in  the  morning, and  as the house
     was an empty one,  suspected that something was amiss.  He found
     the  door  open,  and in  the  front  room,  which  is  bare  of
     furniture,  discovered  the body of  a gentleman,  well dressed,
     and having cards in his  pocket  bearing  the  name of 'Enoch J.
     Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.  S.  A.' There had been no robbery,
     nor is  there any evidence as  to  how  the man  met his  death.
     There  are marks of blood in  the  room,  but  there is no wound
     upon  his person.  We are at a loss as to  how  he came into the
     empty house; indeed, the whole  affair is a puzzler.  If you can
     come round to the  house any time before  twelve, you  will find
     me there.   I  have left  everything in statu  quo until  I hear
     from you.  If you are  unable to  come,  I shall give you fuller
     details,  and  would  esteem  it a  great kindness  if you would
     favour me with your opinions."

                                   Yours faithfully,

                                  "TOBIAS GREGSON."

     "Gregson  is the  smartest  of the Scotland Yarders," my  friend
     remarked; "he  and Lestrade are the pick of  a  bad lot.They are
     both  quick and  energetic,  but  conventional -  shockingly so.
     They  have  their knives into  one  another,  too.  They are  as
     jealous as a pair of professional beauties.   There will be some
     fun over  this  case  if  they are both  put  upon  the  scent."

     I  was  amazed at the calm way in which he rippled  on.  "Surely
     there  is  not a moment to  be lost,"  I  cried; "shall I go and
     order you a cab?"

     "I'm  not  sure  about  whether  I  shall  go.   I am  the  most
     incurably lazy  devil  that ever stood in shoe  leather  -- that
     is, when the fit is on me, for  I can be spry enough at  times."

     "Why, it is just such a chance  as you  have been  longing for."

     "My  dear  fellow, what  does  it  matter  to  me?  Supposing  I
     unravel  the  whole  matter,  you  may  be  sure  that  Gregson,
     Lestrade, and Co.  will pocket all the credit.   That  comes  of
     being an unofficial personage."

     "But he begs you to help him."

     "Yes.  He knows  that I  am his superior, and acknowledges it to
     me; but he would cut his tongue out before  he would  own it  to
     any third person.  However, we may as well go and have  a  look.
     I shall work it out  on  my own  hook.  I  may have  a  laugh at
     them, if I have nothing else.  Come on!"

     He  hustled  on  his overcoat,  and bustled about  in a way that
     showed that an energetic fit had superseded  the  apathetic one.

     "Get your hat," he said.

     "You wish me to come?"

     "Yes, if you  have nothing  better  to do."  A  minute later  we
     were both in a hansom, driving  furiously for  the Brixton Road.

     It  was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a  dun-coloured  veil  hung
     over  the  housetops,   looking   like  the  reflection  of  the
     mud-coloured streets beneath.   My companion was in the  best of
     spirits,  and  prattled  away  about  Cremona  fiddles  and  the
     difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati.  As  for myself,
     I was silent, for the dull weather and  the  melancholy business
     upon which we were engaged depressed my spirits.

     "You don't  seem to give much thought to the  matter in hand," I
     said  at  last,  interrupting  Holmes's  musical   disquisition.

     "No  data  yet," he  answered.   "It  is  a  capital  mistake to
     theorize  before  you have all  the  evidence.   It  biases  the
     judgment."

     "You will have  your data soon," I  remarked,  pointing with  my
     finger; "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the  house,  if I
     am not very much mistaken."

     "So  it  is.   Stop,  driver, stop!"  We  were  still  a hundred
     yards or so from it, but he insisted  upon our alighting, and we
     finished our journey upon foot.

     Number  3,  Lauriston  Gardens wore an ill-omened  and  minatory
     look.  It was one of  four which stood back some little way from
     the  street,  two  being occupied  and  two  empty.   The latter
     looked out  with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which
     were blank and  dreary, save that here and there a "To Let" card
     had developed  like a  cataract upon the bleared panes.  A small
     garden  sprinkled  over  with  a scattered  eruption  of  sickly
     plants separated each  of these houses from the street, and  was
     traversed  by  a  narrow   pathway,  yellowish  in  colour,  and
     consisting apparently  of a  mixture of clay and of gravel.  The
     whole place  was  very  sloppy from  the rain  which  had fallen
     through the  night.   The  garden  was bounded by  a  three-foot
     brick wall with  a  fringe  of  wood  rails  upon  the  top, and
     against  this wall  was  leaning  a stalwart  police  constable,
     surrounded  by a  small knot of loafers, who craned  their necks
     and strained  their  eyes  in the  vain  hope  of catching  some
     glimpse of the proceedings within.

     I had imagined that  Sherlock Holmes would at  once have hurried
     into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery.  Nothing
     appeared  to  be further  from  his  intention.  With an  air of
     nonchalance  which,  under  the circumstances,  seemed to  me to
     border upon affectation, he  lounged up and  down  the pavement,
     and gazed vacantly  at the ground, the sky, the opposite  houses
     and the line  of  railings.   Having  finished  his scrutiny, he
     proceeded  slowly  down the path, or rather  down the  fringe of
     grass which  flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the
     ground.  Twice he stopped, and once I saw him  smile, and  heard
     him  utter  an  exclamation of  satisfaction.  There  were  many
     marks of footsteps upon the  wet  clayey  soil;  but  since  the
     police had  been coming and going over it, I was  unable to  see
     how my companion could hope to  learn anything from it.  Still I
     had  had such extraordinary evidence of  the  quickness  of  his
     perceptive  faculties, that I had  no doubt that he could see  a
     great deal which was hidden from me.

     At the door  of  the house  we were met by a tall,  white-faced,
     flaxen-haired man, with  a  notebook  in his  hand,  who  rushed
     forward  and wrung  my  companion's  hand with effusion.  "It is
     indeed  kind of you  to come,"  he said, "I  have had everything
     left untouched."

     "Except  that!"  my friend answered,  pointing at  the  pathway.
     "If a herd  of buffaloes had passed along,  there could not be a
     greater  mess.   No doubt,  however,  you  had  drawn  your  own
     conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this."

     "I  have  had so  much to do inside  the  house," the  detective
     said  evasively.  "My colleague, Mr.  Lestrade, is here.   I had
     relied upon him to look after this."

     Holmes  glanced  at  me and  raised  his  eyebrows sardonically.
     "With two  such men as  yourself  and Lestrade upon the  ground,
     there will not be much for a third party to find out,"  he said.

     Gregson rubbed his hands in a  self-satisfied  way.  "I think we
     have  done  all that can be done,"  he  answered; "it's a  queer
     case,  though,  and  I  knew  your  taste   for  such   things."

     "You  did  not  come  here  in a  cab?" asked  Sherlock  Holmes.

     "No, sir."

     "Nor Lestrade?"

     "No, sir."

     "Then let us go and look at the room."  With which
     inconsequent remark  he strode on into  the  house  followed  by
     Gregson, whose features expressed his astonishment.

     A short  passage,  bare-planked and dusty,  led  to the  kitchen
     and offices.  Two doors opened out of it  to the left and to the
     right.  One of these had obviously been  closed for many  weeks.
     The other belonged to  the dining-room, which was the  apartment
     in which the  mysterious affair had occurred.  Holmes walked in,
     and I  followed him with that  subdued feeling at my heart which
     the presence of death inspires.

     It  was a large  square room,  looking  all the larger  from the
     absence of  all  furniture.  A vulgar  flaring paper adorned the
     walls, but it was  blotched in places  with mildew, and here and
     there great strips  had become detached and hung down,  exposing
     the yellow  plaster  beneath.   Opposite the  door  was a  showy
     fireplace,  surmounted  by  a  mantelpiece  of  imitation  white
     marble.  On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red  wax
     candle.  The  solitary window  was so  dirty that  the light was
     hazy and uncertain, giving  a  dull  gray  tinge to  everything,
     which was intensified  by the  thick layer of  dust which coated
     the whole apartment.

     All   these  details  I  observed  afterwards.   At  present  my
     attention was centred upon the single,  grim,  motionless figure
     which  lay  stretched  upon the boards,  with  vacant, sightless
     eyes staring up at  the  discoloured ceiling.   It was that of a
     man about  forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized,
     broad-shouldered,  with  crisp curling  black hair, and a short,
     stubbly beard.  He  was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat
     and  waistcoat,  with  light-coloured  trousers,  and immaculate
     collar and cuffs.   A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed
     upon  the floor  beside  him.   His hands  were clenched and his
     arms thrown abroad, while his lower  limbs  were interlocked, as
     though  his  death struggle  had  been a  grievous  one.  On his
     rigid  face there  stood  an  expression of  horror,  and, as it
     seemed to me, of hatred,  such as I have never  seen upon  human
     features.   This  malignant  and terrible  contortion,  combined
     with  the low  forehead, blunt nose,  and prognathous jaw,  gave
     the dead  man  a  singularly  simious  and  ape-like appearance,
     which was increased by his writhing, unnatural posture.  I  have
     seen death  in many forms,  but never has it appeared to me in a
     more  fearsome aspect than in that dark,  grimy apartment, which
     looked  out  upon one  of the main  arteries of suburban London.

     Lestrade,  lean  and  ferret-like  as ever, was standing  by the
     doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.

     "This case  will make  a  stir,  sir," he  remarked.   "It beats
     anything I have seen, and I am no chicken."

     "There is no clue?" said Gregson.

     "None at all," chimed in Lestrade.

     Sherlock  Holmes  approached  the   body,  and,  kneeling  down,
     examined it  intently.  "You are sure  that there is no  wound?"
     he  asked,  pointing to  numerous gouts  and  splashes  of blood
     which lay all round.

     "Positive!" cried both detectives.

     "Then, of course,  this  blood belongs to a second individual --
     presumably  the murderer,  if murder  has  been  committed.   It
     reminds  me of  the circumstances attendant on the death of  Van
     Jansen, in Utrecht, in  the year '34.  Do you remember the case,
     Gregson?"

     "No, sir."

     "Read  it up --  you really should.  There  is nothing new under
     the sun.  It has all been done before."

     As  he spoke, his  nimble  fingers  were flying here, there, and
     everywhere,  feeling,  pressing, unbuttoning,  examining,  while
     his eyes wore the  same far-away expression which I have already
     remarked upon.  So swiftly  was the  examination  made, that one
     would  hardly have  guessed  the  minuteness with  which it  was
     conducted.  Finally, he sniffed  the dead man's lips,  and  then
     glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

     "He has not been moved at all?" he asked.

     "No more than was necessary for the purpose of our
     examination."

     "You  can  take  him to  the mortuary now," he  said.  "There is
     nothing more to be learned."

     Gregson had  a stretcher  and four  men  at hand.  At  his  call
     they entered the room,  and the stranger was  lifted and carried
     out.  As they raised him, a ring  tinkled down and rolled across
     the  floor.   Lestrade grabbed  it  up  and stared  at  it  with
     mystified eyes.

     "There's  been  a  woman  here,"  he  cried.   "It's  a  woman's
     wedding ring."

     He held  it out,  as  he spoke, upon  the  palm of his hand.  We
     all gathered round him  and  gazed  at  it.  There could  be  no
     doubt that that circlet of  plain  gold  had  once  adorned  the
     finger of a bride.

     "This complicates matters,"  said Gregson.   "Heaven knows, they
     were complicated enough before."

     "You're  sure  it  doesn't  simplify  them?"   observed  Holmes.
     "There's nothing to be learned by  staring at it.   What did you
     find in his pockets?"

     "We have it  all here," said Gregson,  pointing  to  a litter of
     objects upon  one of  the bottom steps  of the stairs.  "A  gold
     watch, No.  97163,  by Barraud, of London.   Gold  Albert chain,
     very  heavy  and solid.  Gold  ring,  with masonic device.  Gold
     pin -- bull-dog's  head,  with rubies  as eyes.  Russian leather
     cardcase,  with  cards   of  Enoch  J.   Drebber  of  Cleveland,
     corresponding with the E.  J.  D.  upon the linen.  No purse,but
     loose money  to  the  extent  of seven pounds thirteen.   Pocket
     edition  of  Boccaccio's   'Decameron,'   with  name  of  Joseph
     Stangerson upon  the flyleaf.  Two  letters  -- one addressed to
     E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson."

     "At what address?"

     "American Exchange, Strand -- to  be left till called for.  They
     are both  from  the Guion Steamship Company,  and  refer to  the
     sailing  of  their boats from Liverpool.  It  is clear that this
     unfortunate man was about to return to New York."

     "Have  you  made  any  inquiries  as  to  this man  Stangerson?"

     "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson.  "I have had
     advertisements  sent  to all the newspapers, and one  of  my men
     has gone  to  the American Exchange,  but he  has  not  returned
     yet."

     "Have you sent to Cleveland?"

     "We telegraphed this morning."

     "How did you word your inquiries?"

     "We simply detailed  the circumstances,  and said that we should
     be glad of any information which could help us."

     "You did not ask for particulars  on  any point  which  appeared
     to you to be crucial?"

     "I asked about Stangerson."

     "Nothing else?  Is  there  no circumstance  on which  this whole
     case  appears  to   hinge?   Will  you  not   telegraph  again?"

     "I have said all  I have  to say," said Gregson, in an  offended
     voice.

     Sherlock  Holmes chuckled to  himself, and appeared to  be about
     to make some  remark, when  Lestrade, who had been  in the front
     room  while  we were holding  this  conversation  in  the  hall,
     reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his  hands  in a pompous  and
     self-satisfied manner.

     "Mr.  Gregson," he said, "I have just made a  discovery  of  the
     highest importance,  and one which would  have  been  overlooked
     had I not made a careful examination of the walls."

     The  little  man's  eyes  sparkled  as  he  spoke,  and  he  was
     evidently in a state of  suppressed exultation  at having scored
     a point against his colleague.

     "Come  here,"  he  said,  bustling  back   into  the  room,  the
     atmosphere  of which  felt  clearer since  the  removal  of  its
     ghastly inmate.  "Now, stand there!"

     He struck a match  on his boot and held it  up against the wall.

     "Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

     I have remarked that  the paper had  fallen  away  in parts.  In
     this  particular  corner of the room  a large  piece  had peeled
     off, leaving a yellow square of  coarse plastering.  Across this
     bare space  there  was  scrawled in  blood-red letters  a single
     word-

     RACHE

     "What  do you think of that?"  cried the detective, with the air
     of a showman exhibiting his show.   "This was overlooked because
     it was in the darkest corner  of the room, and no one thought of
     looking there.  The murderer has  written it with his or her own
     blood.  See  this  smear where it  has  trickled down the  wall!
     That  disposes of the idea  of suicide  anyhow.   Why  was  that
     corner chosen  to write  it  on?  I  will  tell you.   See  that
     candle on  the  mantelpiece.  It was lit  at the time, and if it
     was lit  this  corner  would  be  the  brightest  instead of the
     darkest portion of the wall."

     "And what  does it  mean  now  that  you  have found  it?" asked
     Gregson in a depreciatory voice.

     "Mean?   Why, it  means  that the writer  was  going to put  the
     female name Rachel,  but was disturbed before he or she had time
     to  finish.   You  mark my  words,  when this  case comes  to be
     cleared  up,  you will  find  that  a  woman  named  Rachel  has
     something to do with it.  It's all  very well for you to  laugh,
     Mr.  Sherlock Holmes.  You may be very smart and clever, but the
     old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

     "I really beg your pardon!" said my  companion, who had  ruffled
     the  little  man's  temper  by  bursting  into an  explosion  of
     laughter.  "You certainly have the credit  of being the first of
     us  to  find this out and, as  you  say, it bears every mark  of
     having been written by the  other  participant in  last  night's
     mystery.   I have  not  had time to examine this  room yet,  but
     with your permission I shall do so now."

     As  he  spoke, he whipped a  tape  measure  and  a  large  round
     magnifying glass from his pocket.   With these two implements he
     trotted  noiselessly  about   the  room,   sometimes   stopping,
     occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat  upon  his  face.  So
     engrossed was he  with his occupation that  he appeared to  have
     forgotten our presence, for  he chattered away to  himself under
     his  breath  the whole  time,  keeping  up  a  running  fire  of
     exclamations, groans, whistles, and  little cries suggestive  of
     encouragement and of hope.   As I watched him I was irresistibly
     reminded of a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound, as  it dashes
     backward  and   forward  through  the  covert,  whining  in  its
     eagerness, until  it comes across  the  lost scent.  For  twenty
     minutes or more he continued his researches,  measuring with the
     most exact care the distance between marks  which were  entirely
     invisible  to  me, and  occasionally applying his  tape  to  the
     walls in an  equally  incomprehensible manner.  In one  place he
     gathered up very carefully a little  pile of gray dust  from the
     floor, and packed  it away in an envelope.   Finally he examined
     with his glass the word upon the  wall,  going over every letter
     of  it  with the  most minute exactness.  This done, he appeared
     to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and  his  glass in his
     pocket.

     "They  say  that  genius  is an  infinite  capacity  for  taking
     pains," he  remarked with a smile.  "It's a very bad definition,
     but it does apply to detective work."

     Gregson  and  Lestrade  had  watched  the  manoeuvres  of  their
     amateur   companion   with   considerable  curiosity   and  some
     contempt.  They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I
     had  begun to realize, that  Sherlock Holmes's smallest  actions
     were all  directed  towards  some  definite and  practical  end.

     "What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.

     "It would  be robbing you  of the credit of the case  if I  were
     to presume to help you,"  remarked my friend.  "You are doing so
     well  now that  it would  be a  pity  for  anyone to interfere."
     There was a  world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke.  "If you
     will let me know  how your investigations go," he  continued, "I
     shall be happy  to give you  any help I can.  In  the meantime I
     should like to speak  to the constable  who found the body.  Can
     you give me his name and address?"

     Lestrade  glanced at  his notebook.  "John Rance," he said.  "He
     is  off  duty now.   You will  find him  at  46,  Audley  Court,
     Kennington Park Gate."

     Holmes took a note of the address.

     "Come along, Doctor," he  said: "we shall go  and  look him  up.
     I'll  tell you  one  thing which may help you  in  the case," he
     continued, turning  to  the two  detectives.   "There  has  been
     murder done, and  the murderer was a man.   He was more than six
     feet  high,  was in  the  prime of life, had small feet  for his
     height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a
     Trichinopoly  cigar.   He  came  here   with  his  victim  in  a
     four-wheeled  cab, which was  drawn by  a horse  with three  old
     shoes and one new one on  his off fore-leg.   In all probability
     the murderer  had a florid  face, and  the finger-nails  of  his
     right  hand  were  remarkably  long.   These   are  only  a  few
     indications, but they may assist you."

     Lestrade and Gregson glanced at  each  other with an incredulous
     smile.

     "If this man was murdered, how was it done?"  asked the  former.

     "Poison,"  said Sherlock Holmes  curtly,  and  strode off.  "One
     other thing, Lestrade," he  added,  turning  round at the  door:
     "'Rache,' is  the German for 'revenge'; so don't  lose your time
     looking for Miss Rachel."

     With  which  Parthian  shot  he  walked  away,  leaving the  two
     rivals open mouthed behind him.

                               Chapter 4

                       WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL

     It  was  one  o'clock when we  left No.   3,  Lauriston Gardens.
     Sherlock Holmes  led me to  the nearest telegraph office, whence
     he dispatched  a  long  telegram.   He  then hailed  a cab,  and
     ordered  the driver  to  take us  to  the  address given  us  by
     Lestrade.

     "There is nothing  like  first-hand  evidence," he remarked; "as
     a  matter of fact,  my mind is entirely  made  up upon the case,
     but still we may  as well  learn all  that  is to  be  learned."

     "You amaze me, Holmes," said  I.   "Surely you are not  as  sure
     as you pretend to be of all  those  particulars which you gave."

     "There's no  room for a mistake," he answered.   "The very first
     thing which I observed  on arriving  there  was  that a cab  had
     made two  ruts  with its  wheels close to the  curb.  Now, up to
     last  night,  we  have  had  no rain  for a week,  so that those
     wheels which left  such a deep  impression  must have been there
     during the  night.  There were  the marks of the  horse's hoofs,
     too, the outline of one of which was far  more clearly  cut than
     that  of  the  other  three, showing that that was  a  new shoe.
     Since the  cab was there after the rain began, and was not there
     at  any  time  during the  morning --  I have Gregson's word for
     that  -- it follows that  it  must  have been  there  during the
     night, and therefore,  that it brought those two individuals  to
     the house."

     "That seems simple enough,"  said I; "but  how  about the  other
     man's height?"

     "Why,  the  height of a  man, in nine  cases out of ten,  can be
     told from the length  of his stride.  It is a simple calculation
     enough,  though  there is no use my boring you with figures.   I
     had this  fellow's stride both on the  clay outside  and  on the
     dust  within.   Then  I  had  a way of checking  my calculation.
     When a man writes on  a  wall, his instinct leads  him to  write
     above the  level of  his own  eyes.   Now that writing was  just
     over  six  feet   from  the  ground.    It  was  child's  play."

     "And his age?" I asked.

     "Well,  if a  man can  stride four  and a half  feet without the
     smallest effort, he  can't  be  quite in the  sere  and  yellow.
     That  was the  breadth of a  puddle on the  garden walk which he
     had  evidently  walked  across.  Patent-leather  boots had  gone
     round, and Square-toes had  hopped over.   There is  no  mystery
     about  it at all.  I am simply applying to  ordinary life a  few
     of  those  precepts   of   observation  and  deduction  which  I
     advocated in that article.  Is there anything else  that puzzles
     you?"

     "The   finger-nails   and   the   Trichinopoly,"  I   suggested.

     "The  writing  on the wall  was  done  with  a man's  forefinger
     dipped  in  blood.  My  glass  allowed  me to  observe that  the
     plaster was  slightly  scratched  in doing  it,  which would not
     have  been the  case  if the  man's  nail had  been  trimmed.  I
     gathered  up  some scattered ash from the floor.  It was dark in
     colour and flaky -- such an ash is only made by  a Trichinopoly.
     I have made a  special study  of cigar ashes --  in fact, I have
     written a monograph  upon  the subject.  I flatter myself that I
     can distinguish at  a glance  the ash of any known  brand either
     of  cigar  or  of tobacco.  It is just  in such details that the
     skilled detective differs from the Gregson  and  Lestrade type."

     "And the florid face?" I asked.

     "Ah,  that was a more  daring shot, though I have no doubt  that
     I  was right.  You must not ask  me that at the present state of
     the affair."

     I  passed  my hand over  my  brow.  "My head is in a  whirl,"  I
     remarked;  "the  more one thinks of it  the  more mysterious  it
     grows.   How came these two men -- if there were two men -- into
     an empty house?  What has become of the  cabman who  drove them?
     How  could one man compel another to take poison?  Where did the
     blood  come  from?  What was the object of  the murderer,  since
     robbery had  no part  in it?  How  came  the woman's ring there?
     Above  all, why should the second man write  up the German  word
     RACHE before  decamping?   I  confess  that  I  cannot  see  any
     possible way of reconciling all these facts."

     My companion smiled approvingly.

     "You  sum  up the difficulties  of  the situation succinctly and
     well," he said.  "There is much that is still obscure,  though I
     have  quite  made  up my mind  on  the  main facts.   As to poor
     Lestrade's discovery, it was simply  a blind intended to put the
     police upon  a  wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and  secret
     societies.   It  was not done  by  a  German.   The  A,  if  you
     noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion.   Now, a
     real German invariably  prints in  the  Latin character, so that
     we may safely say that  this was  not  written by one, but by  a
     clumsy imitator who overdid his part.   It was simply a ruse  to
     divert inquiry into a wrong  channel.  I'm not going to tell you
     much  more  of  the  case,  Doctor.  You know a conjurer gets no
     credit when once he has explained his  trick; and if  I show you
     too  much of  my  method  of  working,  you  will  come  to  the
     conclusion that  I  am  a very ordinary  individual after  all."

     "I  shall  never  do  that,"  I   answered;  "you  have  brought
     detection as near an exact  science as  it ever will be  brought
     in this world."

     My companion flushed up with  pleasure  at  my  words,  and  the
     earnest way  in  which  I uttered them.  I had already  observed
     that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his  art as
     any girl could be of her beauty.

     "I'll tell you  one  other  thing,"  he said.   "Patent-leathers
     and Square-toes came in the  same cab, and they walked  down the
     pathway together as friendly as possible --  arm-in-arm, in  all
     probability.  When they got inside, they  walked up and down the
     room   --  or   rather,  Patent-leathers   stood   still   while
     Square-toes walked up and down.   I  could read all  that in the
     dust; and  I could read that as he walked he  grew more and more
     excited.  That is shown  by the increased length of his strides.
     He was talking all the while, and working  himself up, no doubt,
     into a  fury.  Then  the tragedy occurred.   I've told you all I
     know myself  now, for  the  rest is mere surmise and conjecture.
     We have  a good working basis,  however, on which to  start.  We
     must  hurry  up, for I  want  to go to  Halle's concert  to hear
     Norman Neruda this afternoon."

     This   conversation   had  occurred  while  our  cab   had  been
     threading its  way  through a long  succession of  dingy streets
     and  dreary byways.  In  the dingiest and dreariest  of them our
     driver  suddenly  came to  a stand.   "That's  Audley  Court  in
     there,"  he  said, pointing  to  a  narrow slit in  the line  of
     dead-coloured brick.  "You'll find me here  when you come back."

     Audley  Court  was  not  an  attractive  locality.   The  narrow
     passage led us into a  quadrangle paved with flags and lined  by
     sordid  dwellings.  We  picked  our  way among  groups  of dirty
     children, and through lines of discoloured linen, until we  came
     to Number 46, the door of which was  decorated with a small slip
     of brass on which the name Rance was engraved.   On  inquiry  we
     found  that the constable was in  bed,  and we were shown into a
     little front parlour to await his coming.

     He  appeared  presently,  looking a  little  irritable at  being
     disturbed  in his slumbers.  "I made  my report at the  office,"
     he said.

     Holmes took  a  half-sovereign from his pocket and  played  with
     it  pensively.  "We  thought that we  should like to hear it all
     from your own lips," he said.

     "I  shall be  most  happy  to tell  you  anything  I  can,"  the
     constable  answered,  with his eyes upon the little golden disc.

     "Just let  us  hear it  all  in  your own way  as  it occurred."

     Rance  sat  down on  the horsehair sofa, and knitted his  brows,
     as though  determined not  to  omit anything  in his  narrative.

     "I'll  tell  it ye from the beginning,"  he said.   "My time  is
     from ten at night to six in the morning.  At  eleven there was a
     fight at the White Hart;  but bar that all was quiet  enough  on
     the  beat.  At one o'clock it  began  to  rain, and I  met Harry
     Murcher -- him who  has the Holland  Grove beat -- and we  stood
     together   at  the   corner  of   Henrietta   Street  a-talkin'.
     Presently -- maybe  about two or a little after --  I thought  I
     would take  a  look  round and  see  that all was right down the
     Brixton Road.  It was  precious  dirty and lonely.  Not  a  soul
     did I meet all the way  down, though  a cab or two went past me.
     I was  a-strollin' down, thinkin' between ourselves how uncommon
     handy a  four of gin hot would be,  when suddenly the glint of a
     light caught my eye in  the  window of that same  house.  Now, I
     knew that them  two houses in  Lauriston  Gardens was  empty  on
     account of him  that  owns them  who won't have the  drains seed
     to, though the very last  tenant what lived in  one of them died
     o' typhoid  fever.  I was  knocked all  in a heap, therefore, at
     seeing a light in  the window, and I suspected  as something was
     wrong.  When I got to the door --"

     "You  stopped,  and  then walked back to  the  garden  gate," my
     companion interrupted.  "What did you do that for?"

     Rance gave a  violent jump,  and  stared at Sherlock Holmes with
     the utmost amazement upon his features.

     "Why,  that's  true, sir," he said; "though how you come to know
     it, Heaven only knows.   Ye see  when  I got up to the  door, it
     was so still  and so lonesome, that I thought  I'd  be  none the
     worse for someone  with me.  I ain't afeared of anything on this
     side  o'  the  grave; but I  thought that maybe it  was him that
     died o' the typhoid inspecting the  drains what killed him.  The
     thought gave me  a  kind o' turn,  and I walked back to the gate
     to see if I could  see  Murcher's  lantern, but there  wasn't no
     sign of him nor of anyone else."

     "There was no one in the street?"

     "Not a livin'  soul, sir,  nor as much as a dog.   Then I pulled
     myself together and went back and pushed the door open.  All was
     quiet  inside,  so I  went into  the  room  where the light  was
     a-burnin'.   There was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece --
     a red wax one -- and by its light I saw --"

     "Yes,  I  know  all  that you  saw.  You  walked round the  room
     several times,  and  you knelt down by  the body, and  then  you
     walked  through  and  tried  the  kitchen  door,  and  then  --"

     John  Rance  sprang to  his  feet  with  a  frightened  face and
     suspicion in his eyes.  "Where was you hid to see all  that?" he
     cried.  "It seems to  me  that  you  knows a deal  more than you
     should."

     Holmes laughed  and  threw  his card  across the  table  to  the
     constable.  "Don't  go arresting me for  the  murder,"  he said.
     "I am  one of the hounds and  not the  wolf; Mr.  Gregson or Mr.
     Lestrade will answer  for that.  Go on, though.  What did you do
     next?"

     Rance  resumed  his seat, without, however, losing his mystified
     expression.  "I went  back to the gate and  sounded my  whistle.
     That brought Murcher and two more to the spot."

     "Was the street empty then?"

     "Well,  it was,  as far as  anybody  that  could be of  any good
     goes."

     "What do you mean?"

     The  constable's features broadened  into  a  grin.   "I've seen
     many  a  drunk chap in  my time," he said,  "but never anyone so
     cryin'  drunk as that cove.  He was at the gate when I came out,
     a-leanin'  up ag'in the railings, and a-singin' at  the pitch o'
     his  lungs about  Columbine's New-fangled  Banner, or  some such
     stuff.  He couldn't stand, far less help."

     "What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     John  Rance  appeared   to   be  somewhat   irritated  at   this
     digression.   "He was an  uncommon drunk sort  o' man," he said.
     "He'd  ha'  found hisself  in the station  if  we hadn't been so
     took up."

     "His  face  -- his dress  --  didn't  you  notice  them?" Holmes
     broke in impatiently.

     "I should think  I  did  notice them,  seeing that I had to prop
     him up -- me  and  Murcher between us.  He was a long chap, with
     a red face, the lower part muffled round --"

     "That  will   do,"   cried  Holmes.   "What  became   of   him?"

     "We'd  enough to do without  lookin'  after  him," the policeman
     said,  in an aggrieved voice.  "I'll wager he found his way home
     all right."

     "How was he dressed?"

     "A brown overcoat."

     "Had he a whip in his hand?"

     "A whip -- no."

     "He  must have left  it  behind," muttered  my companion.   "You
     didn't happen to see or hear a cab after that?"

     "No."

     "There's   a  half-sovereign  for   you,"  my  companion   said,
     standing up and taking  his hat.  "I am afraid, Rance,  that you
     will never rise in the force.  That head of yours  should be for
     use  as well as ornament.  You might have gained your sergeant's
     stripes last night.  The man whom you held in your hands is  the
     man  who  holds the  clue  of  this  mystery,  and whom  we  are
     seeking.  There is  no use of arguing about it now;  I tell  you
     that it is so.  Come along, Doctor."

     We  started off  for  the cab together,  leaving  our  informant
     incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

     "The blundering fool!"  Holmes said, bitterly,  as we drove back
     to  our  lodgings.   "Just  to  think  of  his  having  such  an
     incomparable bit  of good luck, and not taking advantage of it."

     "I  am  rather  in  the  dark  still.   It  is   true  that  the
     description of this man  tallies with  your  idea of the  second
     party  in this  mystery.  But  why  should  he come back to  the
     house  after  leaving it?  That is  not the  way of  criminals."

     "The ring, man, the  ring: that  was what he  came back for.  If
     we have no other way of catching  him,  we  can always bait  our
     line with the ring.   I  shall have him, Doctor --  I'll lay you
     two  to one that I have him.   I must thank you  for it  all.  I
     might not have gone but for  you, and  so have missed the finest
     study  I  ever  came  across:  a  study  in  scarlet,  eh?   Why
     shouldn't we  use  a  little  art jargon.   There's  the scarlet
     thread of murder running through the colourless skein  of  life,
     and our duty is to unravel  it, and isolate it, and expose every
     inch  of it.   And now for lunch, and  then for  Norman  Neruda.
     Her attack  and  her  bowing are  splendid.  What's  that little
     thing of Chopin's she plays so magnificently:
     Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."

     Leaning back in the  cab, this amateur  bloodhound carolled away
     like a lark  while I  meditated  upon the many-sidedness of  the
     human mind.



                                 Chapter 5

                     OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR

     Our  morning's exertions  had been too much for  my weak health,
     and I  was tired out in the afternoon.  After Holmes's departure
     for  the  concert,  I lay down upon the sofa  and endeavoured to
     get a couple of  hours' sleep.   It was  a  useless attempt.  My
     mind  had been  too much  excited by all that  had occurred, and
     the strangest fancies and surmises  crowded into it.  Every time
     that  I  closed  my  eyes  I   saw  before  me  the   distorted,
     baboon-like countenance of  the  murdered man.  So  sinister was
     the impression which  that  face  had produced  upon  me that  I
     found  it difficult to  feel anything but gratitude  for him who
     had removed its  owner  from the world.   If ever human features
     bespoke  vice  of the most malignant type,  they were  certainly
     those  of Enoch J.  Drebber,  of Cleveland.   Still I recognized
     that justice must be done, and that the  depravity of the victim
     was no condonement in the eyes of the law.

     The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more  extraordinary  did  my
     companion's hypothesis, that the  man had been poisoned, appear.
     I remembered how he had sniffed his  lips, and had no doubt that
     he had  detected something which  had  given rise to  the  idea.
     Then,  again,  if not poison, what had caused this  man's death,
     since there  was neither wound nor marks of strangulation?  But,
     on the other hand, whose  blood  was  that which  lay so thickly
     upon the floor?  There were no signs of a struggle, nor had  the
     victim  any  weapon   with  which  he   might  have  wounded  an
     antagonist.  As long  as all  these questions were  unsolved,  I
     felt  that sleep  would be no easy  matter, either for Holmes or
     myself.  His  quiet, self-confident  manner convinced me that he
     had already  formed  a  theory  which explained  all  the facts,
     though  what  it  was  I  could not for  an  instant conjecture.

     He was very late in returning -- so late  that I  knew  that the
     concert could  not have detained  him all  the time.  Dinner was
     on the table before he appeared.

     "It was  magnificent,"  he said, as he took  his seat.  "Do  you
     remember what  Darwin  says  about music?   He  claims  that the
     power of producing and appreciating it  existed among  the human
     race long before  the  power  of speech was arrived at.  Perhaps
     that is why we are so subtly influenced  by it.  There are vague
     memories in our  souls of those  misty centuries  when the world
     was in its childhood."

     "That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.

     "One's ideas  must  be  as  broad  as  Nature  if  they  are  to
     interpret  Nature,"  he  answered.   "What's the matter?  You're
     not looking quite yourself.  This Brixton  Road affair has upset
     you."

     "To  tell the  truth, it has," I  said.   "I  ought  to be  more
     case-hardened  after  my  Afghan  experiences.   I  saw  my  own
     comrades hacked to pieces  at  Maiwand without losing my nerve."

     "I  can  understand.   There  is  a  mystery  about  this  which
     stimulates the imagination; where there is no imagination  there
     is no horror.  Have you seen the evening paper?"

     "No."

     "It gives  a fairly  good account  of  the affair.   It does not
     mention  the fact that  when  the man  was  raised  up a woman's
     wedding ring fell  upon the  floor.  It is just as well  it does
     not."

     "Why?"

     "Look  at this advertisement," he answered.  "I  had one sent to
     every  paper   this  morning  immediately  after  the   affair."

     He threw the paper across to  me  and  I  glanced  at the  place
     indicated.   It  was  the  first  announcement  in  the  "Found"
     column.  "In Brixton Road,  this morning," it ran, "a plain gold
     wedding  ring, found  in  the roadway  between  the  White  Hart
     Tavern and  Holland  Grove.   Apply  Dr.   Watson,  221B,  Baker
     Street, between eight and nine this evening."

     "Excuse  my using your name," he said.  "If  I used my own, some
     of these  dunderheads  would recognize it, and want to meddle in
     the affair."

     "That  is  all  right,"  I  answered.    "But  supposing  anyone
     applies, I have no ring."

     "Oh,  yes, you have,"  said he,  handing  me one.  "This will do
     very well.  It is almost a facsimile."

     "And  who do  you expect will answer this  advertisement?" "Why,
     the man in the brown coat -- our florid friend  with  the square
     toes.  If he does not come himself, he will send an
     accomplice."

     "Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

     "Not at  all.   If  my view  of the  case is correct, and I have
     every reason to believe that it  is, this man would  rather risk
     anything than  lose the ring.  According to my notion he dropped
     it  while  stooping over Drebber's body, and  did not miss it at
     the time.   After  leaving the  house he discovered his loss and
     hurried back, but  found the police already in possession, owing
     to  his own folly  in  leaving the candle  burning.  He  had  to
     pretend to  be drunk in  order to  allay  the  suspicions  which
     might have  been aroused by his appearance at the gate.  Now put
     yourself in that man's place.   On thinking the  matter over, it
     must have occurred to him  that it was possible that he had lost
     the ring in  the road after leaving the house.  What would he do
     then?  He would eagerly  look  out for the evening papers in the
     hope  of  seeing it  among  the  articles  found.  His  eye,  of
     course,  would light  upon this.   He  would be  overjoyed.  Why
     should he fear a trap?   There  would  be no reason  in his eyes
     why  the  finding of  the  ring  should  be  connected with  the
     murder.  He would  come.   He  will  come.   You shall  see  him
     within an hour."

     "And then?" I asked.

     "Oh, you  can leave me to  deal with  him  then.   Have  you any
     arms?"

     "I  have  my  old  service  revolver  and  a   few  cartridges."

     "You had better  clean it  and  load it.  He will be a desperate
     man; and  though I shall  take him unawares, it is as well to be
     ready for anything."

     I went to my bedroom and  followed his advice.   When I returned
     with the  pistol, the table  had  been cleared, and  Holmes  was
     engaged  in  his  favourite  occupation  of  scraping  upon  his
     violin.

     "The  plot thickens," he  said,  as I entered; "I  have just had
     an answer to my American telegram.  My view of  the case is  the
     correct one."

     "And that is --?" I asked eagerly.

     "My fiddle  would be  the  better for new strings," he remarked.
     "Put your  pistol  in your pocket.  When the fellow comes, speak
     to  him  in an  ordinary  way.   Leave the  rest  to me.   Don't
     frighten him by looking at him too hard."

     "It  is  eight  o'clock now,"  I  said,  glancing  at my  watch.

     "Yes.  He  will probably be  here  in  a  few minutes.  Open the
     door slightly.  That  will do.  Now  put the key  on the inside.
     Thank  you!  This  is a queer old book  I  picked up at  a stall
     yesterday --  De  Jure inter Gentes --  published  in  Latin  at
     Liege in the  Lowlands,  in 1642.  Charles's head was still firm
     on  his  shoulders  when  this  little brown-backed  volume  was
     struck off."

     "Who is the printer?"

     "Philippe de Croy, whoever he  may  have been.  On the  flyleaf,
     in  very  faded ink, is written 'Ex  libris Guliolmi  Whyte.'  I
     wonder who William Whyte was.  Some pragmatical
     seventeenth-century lawyer, I suppose.  His writing has  a legal
     twist about it.  Here comes our man, I think."

     As he  spoke there  was  a  sharp ring at  the  bell.   Sherlock
     Holmes  rose  softly and moved his chair in the direction of the
     door.   We heard the servant pass along the hall,  and the sharp
     click of the latch as she opened it.

     "Does Dr.   Watson  live  here?"  asked a clear but rather harsh
     voice.  We could  not  hear the servant's  reply,  but  the door
     closed, and someone began to ascend the  stairs.   The  footfall
     was an uncertain and shuffling one.   A look of  surprise passed
     over the face of my companion  as he  listened to it.   It  came
     slowly along  the passage, and  there  was  a  feeble tap at the
     door.

     "Come in," I cried.

     At  my  summons,   instead  of  the  man  of  violence  whom  we
     expected,  a  very  old  and wrinkled  woman  hobbled  into  the
     apartment.  She  appeared to be dazzled by  the  sudden blaze of
     light,  and after dropping a curtsey,  she stood blinking at  us
     with  her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket  with nervous,
     shaky fingers.  I  glanced at  my  companion,  and his  face had
     assumed such  a disconsolate  expression that it was all I could
     do to keep my countenance.

     The  old crone  drew out an evening  paper,  and  pointed at our
     advertisement.   "It's this  as has brought me, good gentlemen,"
     she said, dropping another curtsey;  "a gold wedding ring in the
     Brixton Road.  It belongs to my girl  Sally, as was married only
     this time  twelvemonth,  which her husband  is steward  aboard a
     Union  boat, and what he'd say  if  he comes 'ome and  found her
     without  her  ring  is more than  I can  think,  he being  short
     enough at  the best o'  times, but more  especially when  he has
     the drink.  If it please you, she  went to the circus last night
     along with --"

     "Is that her ring?" I asked.

     "The  Lord be thanked!"  cried the old woman; "Sally will  be  a
     glad woman this night.  That's the ring."

     "And  what  may  your  address  be?"  I inquired,  taking  up  a
     pencil.

     "13,  Duncan  Street, Houndsditch.   A  weary  way  from  here."

     "The   Brixton  Road   does  not  lie  between  any  circus  and
     Houndsditch," said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

     The old  woman  faced round and  looked  keenly at  him from her
     little   red-rimmed  eyes.   "The  gentleman  asked  me  for  my
     address," she  said.   "Sally  lives in lodgings  at 3, Mayfield
     Place, Peckham."

     "And your name is --?"

     "My name is Sawyer  -- hers is  Dennis, which Tom Dennis married
     her -- and a  smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and
     no steward  in the  company more thought of;  but when on shore,
     what with the women and what with liquor shops --"

     "Here  is your ring, Mrs.  Sawyer," I  interrupted, in obedience
     to  a sign  from  my  companion;  "it  clearly  belongs  to your
     daughter,  and I am  glad  to be  able  to  restore  it  to  the
     rightful owner."

     With many mumbled blessings and  protestations  of gratitude the
     old crone  packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled  off  down
     the stairs.  Sherlock Holmes sprang  to his feet the moment that
     she was gone and  rushed into  his room.   He returned in a  few
     seconds  enveloped  in an ulster  and  a  cravat.   "I'll follow
     her," he said, hurriedly;  "she must be an accomplice,  and will
     lead me  to  him.   Wait up for me."  The  hall  door had hardly
     slammed  behind  our  visitor before  Holmes had  descended  the
     stair.   Looking  through  the window I  could see  her  walking
     feebly along  the other side, while her pursuer dogged  her some
     little   distance   behind.    "Either   his  whole  theory   is
     incorrect," I thought to myself, "or else he will  be led now to
     the heart of the mystery." There was no  need for  him to ask me
     to wait  up for him, for I felt  that sleep was impossible until
     I heard the result of his adventure.

     It  was close upon  nine when he set  out.   I had  no  idea how
     long he might be, but I  sat stolidly  puffing  at my  pipe  and
     skipping over the  pages of  Henri  Murger's Vie de Boheme.  Ten
     o'clock  passed,  and  I  heard the footsteps of the maid as she
     pattered off to  bed.  Eleven, and the more stately tread of the
     landlady passed  my door,  bound  for the same  destination.  It
     was close  upon twelve before  I  heard the sharp  sound of  his
     latchkey.  The  instant he entered I saw by his face that he had
     not  been  successful.   Amusement  and  chagrin  seemed  to  be
     struggling for the  mastery,  until the former suddenly  carried
     the day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.

     "I wouldn't have  the Scotland Yarders  know  it for the world,"
     he cried,  dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much
     that they would never  have  let me hear the  end  of it.  I can
     afford to  laugh, because I  know that I will  be even with them
     in the long run."

     "What is it then?" I asked.

     "Oh,  I  don't  mind  telling  a  story  against  myself.   That
     creature had gone  a little way  when she began to limp and show
     every sign  of being  footsore.  Presently she came to  a  halt,
     and  hailed a  four-wheeler which  was passing.  I managed to be
     close to  her so  as to hear  the address,  but I  need not have
     been so anxious,  for she sang it out loud enough to be heard at
     the  other  side of the  street, 'Drive to  13,  Duncan  Street,
     Houndsditch,'  she  cried.   This  begins  to  look  genuine,  I
     thought,  and  having seen her safely  inside,  I perched myself
     behind.   That's an art  which  every  detective  should  be  an
     expert at.  Well, away we rattled, and never  drew rein until we
     reached the street in question.  I hopped off before we came  to
     the door,  and  strolled down the  street  in  an easy, lounging
     way.  I saw the cab pull up.  The driver  jumped down, and I saw
     him  open  the  door  and  stand expectantly.  Nothing came  out
     though.   When I reached him,  he was  groping about frantically
     in  the  empty  cab,  and  giving  vent to  the  finest assorted
     collection of  oaths that ever I listened to.  There was no sign
     or  trace  of his  passenger, and I  fear  it will be  some time
     before  he gets his fare.   On inquiring at  Number  13 we found
     that  the house  belonged to  a  respectable  paperhanger, named
     Keswick, and that no one  of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis
     had ever been heard of there."

     "You  don't  mean  to say," I cried,  in amazement,  "that  that
     tottering,  feeble old woman was  able  to  get  out of the  cab
     while it was in motion, without either  you or the driver seeing
     her?"

     "Old  woman  be  damned!" said  Sherlock  Holmes,  sharply.  "We
     were  the  old women to be so  taken  in.   It  must have been a
     young man, and an active one, too, besides being an
     incomparable actor.  The get-up was inimitable.  He saw  that he
     was followed,  no  doubt, and used this  means  of giving me the
     slip.  It shows that the man we  are after is not as lonely as I
     imagined  he  was,  but  has  friends  who  are  ready  to  risk
     something for  him.  Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up.  Take
     my advice and turn in."

     I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his
     injunction.  I left Holmes seated in  front  of the  smouldering
     fire, and long into the watches  of  the  night I heard the  low
     melancholy wailings of his violin, and knew  that  he was  still
     pondering over the  strange problem which he had set himself  to
     unravel.



                                 Chapter 6

                      TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO

     The  papers next  day  were  full of  the "Brixton Mystery,"  as
     they  termed it.  Each had  a  long account of  the affair,  and
     some  had  leaders  upon   it   in  addition.   There  was  some
     information in them which was new to me.  I  still retain  in my
     scrapbook  numerous  clippings  and extracts  bearing  upon  the
     case.  Here is a condensation of a few of them:

     The Daily  Telegraph  remarked  that  in  the history  of  crime
     there  had  seldom  been  a  tragedy  which  presented  stranger
     features.  The German name  of  the  victim, the  absence of all
     other  motive, and the  sinister inscription  on the  wall,  all
     pointed  to   its  perpetration   by  political   refugees   and
     revolutionists.  The Socialists had  many  branches in  America,
     and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their  unwritten laws,
     and been  tracked  down by  them.  After alluding airily to  the
     Vehmgericht,   aqua   tofana,  Carbonari,  the  Marchioness   de
     Brinvilliers, the  Darwinian theory, the principles  of Malthus,
     and the Ratcliff  Highway  murders,  the  article  concluded  by
     admonishing the  government  and advocating a closer watch  over
     foreigners in England.

     The Standard  commented  upon the fact that lawless  outrages of
     the sort usually occurred under  a Liberal administration.  They
     arose  from the unsettling  of the minds of  the masses, and the
     consequent  weakening of  all  authority.   The deceased  was an
     American gentleman who had been  residing for some weeks in  the
     metropolis.   He had  stayed  at  the boarding-house  of  Madame
     Charpentier,   in   Torquay   Terrace,   Camberwell.    He   was
     accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr.  Joseph
     Stangerson.   The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday,
     the  4th inst., and  departed to Euston Station with the  avowed
     intention  of  catching  the  Liverpool  express.    They   were
     afterwards seen together  upon the  platform.   Nothing  more is
     known  of  them  until  Mr.   Drebber's body  was, as  recorded,
     discovered in an  empty  house in  the Brixton Road, many  miles
     from Euston.  How he  came there,  or how he met  his  fate, are
     questions  which  are  still  involved in mystery.   Nothing  is
     known  of the  whereabouts  of Stangerson.  We are glad to learn
     that Mr.  Lestrade and Mr.   Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both
     engaged upon the  case, and it  is confidently  anticipated that
     these well-known officers  will speedily  throw light  upon  the
     matter.

     The  Daily  News observed  that  there was no doubt  as  to  the
     crime  being  a  political  one.  The despotism  and  hatred  of
     Liberalism  which animated the Continental  governments  had had
     the effect of  driving  to our shores a number of men  who might
     have  made  excellent citizens  were  they  not  soured  by  the
     recollection of all  that they  had undergone.   Among these men
     there was a  stringent code of honour, any infringement of which
     was punished by death.  Every effort should be made  to find the
     secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some  particulars of the
     habits of the  deceased.   A  great  step  had  been  gained  by
     thediscovery  of  the  address  of  the house  at  which  he had
     boarded -  a result which was entirely due  to the acuteness and
     energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

     Sherlock Holmes  and  I  read  these  notices  over together  at
     breakfast,  and   they  appeared  to   afford  him  considerable
     amusement.

     "I  told  you  that,  whatever  happened,  Lestrade and  Gregson
     would be sure to score."

     "That depends on how it turns out."

     "Oh, bless you,  it doesn't matter in  the least.  If the man is
     caught,  it  will  be  on  account  of  their exertions;  if  he
     escapes,  it will be in spite of their  exertions.  It's heads I
     win and tails  you  lose.  Whatever  they  do,  they  will  have
     followers.   'Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.'"

     "What  on earth is  this?" I cried, for  at  this  moment  there
     came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the  stairs,
     accompanied by  audible expressions of disgust upon the  part of
     our landlady.

     "It's  the  Baker  Street  division   of  the  detective  police
     force," said my companion gravely; and as  he spoke there rushed
     into  the room  half a  dozen  of  the dirtiest  and most ragged
     street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.

     "'Tention!"  cried  Holmes,  in a sharp  tone, and the six dirty
     little scoundrels stood  in a  line  like so  many  disreputable
     statuettes.  "In  future you  shall  send up  Wiggins  alone  to
     report, and the  rest  of you must wait in the street.  Have you
     found it, Wiggins?"

     "No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.

     "I hardly expected you would.  You  must  keep  on until you do.
     Here  are  your  wages." He  handed  each  of  them a  shilling.

     "Now, off  you  go, and  come  back with  a  better  report next
     time."

     He waved  his hand, and they  scampered  away downstairs like so
     many rats,  and  we heard their shrill voices next moment in the
     street.

     "There's  more  work  to  be got  out  of  one  of  those little
     beggars than  out  of  a dozen of the  force,"  Holmes remarked.

     "The  mere  sight  of an  official-looking  person  seals  men's
     lips.   These  youngsters,  however,  go  everywhere   and  hear
     everything.  They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want is
     organization."

     "Is  it on  this  Brixton case that you  are employing  them?" I
     asked.

     "Yes; there  is  a point  which  I  wish  to  ascertain.  It  is
     merely a matter of time.  Hullo!  we are going to hear some news
     now with  a  vengeance!   Here  is Gregson coming  down the road
     with  beatitude  written  upon every feature of his face.  Bound
     for   us,  I   know.   Yes,  he  is  stopping.   There  he  is!"

     There  was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few  seconds the
     fair-haired  detective  came up the  stairs, three  steps  at  a
     time, and burst into our sitting-room.

     "My dear  fellow,"  he  cried,  wringing  Holmes's  unresponsive
     hand,  "congratulate me!   I have made the whole thing as  clear
     as day."

     A  shade  of  anxiety  seemed  to  me  to cross  my  companion's
     expressive face.

     "Do  you  mean  that you  are on  the right  track?"  he  asked.

     "The  right  track!  Why,  sir, we  have  the man under lock and
     key."

     "And his name is?"

     "Arthur  Charpentier,  sub-lieutenant  in  Her Majesty's  navy,"
     cried Gregson pompously rubbing his fat hands and  inflating his
     chest.

     Sherlock  Holmes  gave  a  sigh  of relief and  relaxed  into  a
     smile.

     "Take a  seat, and  try one of  these cigars," he said.  "We are
     anxious  to know how  you managed it.  Will you have some whisky
     and water?"

     "I  don't  mind  if   I  do,"  the  detective  answered.    "The
     tremendous exertions  which I have  gone through during the last
     day or  two have worn me out.  Not  so much bodily exertion, you
     understand, as  the  strain upon the mind.   You will appreciate
     that,  Mr.   Sherlock  Holmes, for we  are both  brain-workers."

     "You  do me  too  much honour,"  said  Holmes, gravely.  "Let us
     hear  how  you   arrived   at  this  most   gratifying  result."

     The  detective  seated  himself  in  the  armchair,  and  puffed
     complacently at  his cigar.  Then suddenly he slapped  his thigh
     in a paroxysm of amusement.

     "The fun of  it  is," he  cried, "that that fool  Lestrade,  who
     thinks  himself  so  smart, has  gone off upon  the wrong  track
     altogether.  He is  after the  secretary Stangerson, who had  no
     more to  do  with  the crime than the  babe  unborn.  I have  no
     doubt that he has caught him by this time."

     The  idea tickled  Gregson so  much that  he  laughed  until  he
     choked.

     "And how did you get your clue?"

     "Ah, I'll tell  you all about it.  Of course,  Dr.  Watson, this
     is strictly between ourselves.   The  first  difficulty which we
     had  to  contend   with  was  the  finding  of  this  American's
     antecedents.   Some  people  would   have   waited  until  their
     advertisements were answered, or until parties came forward  and
     volunteered information.  That  is not Tobias Gregson's  way  of
     going to work.   You  remember the  hat  beside  the  dead man?"

     "Yes,"   said  Holmes;   "by  John  Underwood   and  Sons,  129,
     Camberwell Road."

     Gregson looked quite crestfallen.

     "I  had  no idea  that  you  noticed that," he said.   "Have you
     been there?"

     "No."

     "Ha!"  cried  Gregson,  in  a relieved  voice; "you should never
     neglect a chance, however small it may seem."

     "To  a   great  mind,   nothing  is  little,"  remarked  Holmes,
     sententiously.

     "Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if  he had  sold a hat
     of  that size  and  description.  He looked  over his books, and
     came  on it at once.   He had  sent the hat to  a  Mr.  Drebber,
     residing  at   Charpentier's  Boarding   Establishment,  Torquay
     Terrace.  Thus I got at his address."

     "Smart -- very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.

     "I  next   called  upon  Madame   Charpentier,"   continued  the
     detective.   "I  found  her  very   pale  and  distressed.   Her
     daughter was in the  room, too -- an  uncommonly fine  girl  she
     is, too;  she  was  looking  red  about  the eyes  and her  lips
     trembled as I spoke  to  her.  That didn't escape  my notice.  I
     began  to  smell a rat.   You  know  the feeling, Mr.   Sherlock
     Holmes, when you  come upon the right scent -- a kind  of thrill
     in  your nerves.  'Have  you  heard  of the  mysterious death of
     your late boarder Mr.  Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.

     "The mother  nodded.   She  didn't  seem able to get out a word.
     The  daughter burst  into  tears.   I felt  more  than ever that
     these people knew something of the matter.

     "'At what  o'clock did Mr.   Drebber leave your  house  for  the
     train?' I asked.

     "'At eight  o'clock,' she said, gulping  in  her  throat to keep
     down  her agitation.  'His secretary, Mr.  Stangerson, said that
     there were two trains -- one  at 9:15 and one at 11.  He was  to
     catch the first.'

     "'And was that the last which you saw of him?'

     "A terrible change  came over the woman's  face  as  I asked the
     question.  Her features  turned perfectly  livid.   It  was some
     seconds before she could get out the  single  word 'Yes'  -- and
     when it did come it was in a husky, unnatural tone.

     "There  was  silence for a moment, and  then the daughter  spoke
     in a calm, clear voice.

     "'No  good  can  ever come  of  falsehood,  mother,'  she  said.

     'Let  us be frank with this  gentleman.  We did see Mr.  Drebber
     again.'

     "'God forgive you!'  cried Madame Charpentier,  throwing  up her
     hands  and sinking back in her  chair.  'You  have murdered your
     brother.'

     "'Arthur  would  rather  that  we spoke  the  truth,'  the  girl
     answered firmly.

     "'You had best tell me all about it now,' I said.

     'Half-confidences  are worse  than  none.   Besides, you do  not
     know how much we know of it.'

     "'On  your  head  be it,  Alice!' cried  her mother;  and  then,
     turning to  me, 'I will tell you all, sir.  Do  not imagine that
     my  agitation on  behalf of my son arises from any fear lest  he
     should have had a hand in  this terrible affair.   He is utterly
     innocent of it.  My dread is, however, that in  your eyes and in
     the  eyes of  others he  may  appear  to be  compromised.  That,
     however,   is  surely  impossible.   His  high   character,  his
     profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'

     "'Your best way  is to  make  a  clean  breast  of the facts,' I
     answered.  'Depend upon it, if  your son is innocent  he will be
     none the worse.'

     "'Perhaps,  Alice, you had better  leave us together,' she said,
     and her  daughter  withdrew.  'Now, sir,' she continued,  'I had
     no  intention  of  telling  you all  this,  but  since  my  poor
     daughter has disclosed it  I  have  no alternative.  Having once
     decided  to  speak, I will  tell  you  all without  omitting any
     particular.'

     "'It is your wisest course,' said I.

     "'Mr.  Drebber has been with  us nearly three weeks.  He and his
     secretary,  Mr.   Stangerson,   had   been   travelling  on  the
     Continent.   I noticed a Copenhagen  label  upon each  of  their
     trunks,  showing that  that  had been their last stopping place.
     Stangerson was  a  quiet,  reserved man, but his employer,  I am
     sorry to say, was far otherwise.  He  was coarse  in his  habits
     and brutish in  his  ways.   The  very night  of his arrival  he
     became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed,  after twelve
     o'clock in the  day he could hardly  ever be said  to  be sober.
     His  manners  towards  the maid-servants were  disgustingly free
     and  familiar.   Worst  of  all, he  speedily assumed  the  same
     attitude towards my daughter, Alice,  and spoke to her more than
     once  in  a  way  which, fortunately,  she  is too  innocent  to
     understand.  On one occasion  he actually seized her in his arms
     and embraced  her -- an outrage  which caused his own  secretary
     to reproach him for his unmanly conduct.'

     "'But why did  you  stand all  this?' I asked.  'I suppose  that
     you can get rid of your boarders when you wish.'

     "Mrs.  Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question.  'Would  to
     God  that I had given him notice on the very day that he  came,'
     she said.  'But it was a  sore temptation.   They were paying  a
     pound a  day  each  --  fourteen pounds a week,  and this is the
     slack season.  I am a widow, and my boy  in the Navy has cost me
     much.  I grudged to lose the money.  I acted for the best.  This
     last was too much,  however, and  I gave him notice  to leave on
     account of it.  That was the reason of his going.'

     "'Well?'

     "'My  heart grew light when I saw him  drive away.  My son is on
     leave  just now, but  I did not  tell him anything  of all this,
     for his  temper is violent, and he is  passionately  fond of his
     sister.  When I closed the door behind them  a load seemed to be
     lifted from my  mind.   Alas, in  less than an hour  there was a
     ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr.   Drebber had returned.
     He  was  much excited, and evidently the  worse for  drink.   He
     forced his  way into  the  room, where  I was  sitting  with  my
     daughter, and made some incoherent  remark  about having  missed
     his train.  He then turned to Alice,  and  before my  very face,
     proposed to  her that  she  should fly with  him.   "You are  of
     age," he said, "and there is no law to  stop you.  I have  money
     enough  and to spare.   Never  mind the  old girl here, but come
     along  with  me  now straight  away.   You  shall  live  like  a
     princess."  Poor Alice was so frightened that  she  shrunk  away
     from  him,  but  he caught her by the  wrist and  endeavoured to
     draw her towards  the door.  I screamed,  and  at that moment my
     son Arthur came  into the room.   What happened  then I  do  not
     know.  I heard oaths and the confused  sounds  of a  scuffle.  I
     was too  terrified to raise my head.   When I did look  up I saw
     Arthur standing  in the  doorway  laughing, with a stick in  his
     hand.  "I don't think  that fine fellow will trouble  us again,"
     he  said.  "I  will just go after him and see what  he does with
     himself." With  those words  he  took his  hat and  started  off
     down the  street.   The next morning we  heard of Mr.  Drebber's
     mysterious death.'

     "This  statement came  from  Mrs.   Charpentier's lips with many
     gasps and pauses.   At  times  she  spoke  so low  that I  could
     hardly catch the words.  I made shorthand notes of  all that she
     said,  however, so  that there should  be  no  possibility of  a
     mistake."

     "It's  quite  exciting,"  said Sherlock  Holmes,  with  a  yawn.

     "What happened next?"

     "When Mrs.   Charpentier  paused," the detective  continued,  "I
     saw that the whole case hung upon  one point.  Fixing  her  with
     my eye  in a  way which  I always found effective with women,  I
     asked her at what hour her son returned.

     "'I do not know,' she answered.

     "'Not know?'

     "'No; he has a latchkey, and he let himself in.'

     "'After you went to bed?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'When did you go to bed?'

     "'About eleven.'

     "'So your son was gone at least two hours?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'Possibly four or five?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'What was he doing during that time?'

     "'I  do not  know,'  she  answered,  turning  white to  her very
     lips.

     "Of course  after  that there was  nothing  more to be done.   I
     found out  where Lieutenant  Charpentier was, took two  officers
     with me, and arrested him.   When  I touched him on the shoulder
     and warned him to come quietly with us, he  answered us  as bold
     as  brass, 'I suppose you  are arresting me for being  concerned
     in the death of  that scoundrel Drebber,'  he said.  We had said
     nothing to him  about it,  so that his alluding to it had a most
     suspicious aspect."

     "Very," said Holmes.

     "He  still carried  the  heavy  stick which the mother described
     him  as having with him  when  he  followed Drebber.  It  was  a
     stout oak cudgel."

     "What is your theory, then?"

     "Well,  my theory is that he followed  Drebber  as  far  as  the
     Brixton Road.  When there,  a fresh  altercation  arose  between
     them, in the course of  which Drebber received a blow  from  the
     stick, in  the pit  of  the  stomach  perhaps, which  killed him
     without leaving any mark.   The night was so wet that no one was
     about, so  Charpentier dragged the body  of his victim  into the
     empty  house.  As to the  candle, and the blood, and the writing
     on the wall,  and  the ring, they may all  be so  many tricks to
     throw the police on to the wrong scent."

     "Well  done!" said Holmes  in an  encouraging  voice.   "Really,
     Gregson, you are getting along.  We shall  make something of you
     yet."

     "I  flatter  myself  that I have managed  it rather neatly," the
     detective  answered,  proudly.   "The  young  man volunteered  a
     statement,  in which he  said that after following  Drebber some
     time, the latter perceived him,  and took  a cab in order to get
     away from  him.  On his  way home  he  met an old  shipmate, and
     took a long walk with  him.   On  being  asked  where  this  old
     shipmate  lived,  he  was unable to give any satisfactory reply.
     I think the whole  case  fits  together  uncommonly well.   What
     amuses me  is to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon the
     wrong scent.  I am  afraid  he won't  make much of  it.  Why, by
     Jove, here's the very man himself!"

     It was indeed  Lestrade, who  had  ascended the stairs while  we
     were talking,  and who now entered the room.  The assurance  and
     jauntiness which generally  marked his demeanour and dress were,
     however, wanting.   His face  was disturbed and  troubled, while
     his clothes were disarranged  and untidy.  He had evidently come
     with the intention of  consulting with  Sherlock Holmes, for  on
     perceiving his colleague he appeared  to be embarrassed and  put
     out.   He  stood in  the centre of the room, fumbling  nervously
     with  his  hat  and  uncertain  what  to do.  "This  is  a  most
     extraordinary case," he said at last -- "a most
     incomprehensible affair."

     "Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson,
     triumphantly.  "I  thought you  would  come  to that conclusion.
     Have you managed to find the secretary, Mr.  Joseph Stangerson?"

     "The  secretary,  Mr.    Joseph   Stangerson,"   said  Lestrade,
     gravely,  "was  murdered at Halliday's  Private Hotel  about six
     o'clock this morning."



                                Chapter 7

                           LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

     The   intelligence  with   which  Lestrade  greeted  us  was  so
     momentous  and  so unexpected  that  we  were  all  three fairly
     dumfounded.  Gregson  sprang  out  of  his chair and  upset  the
     remainder  of  his  whisky and water.  I  stared in  silence  at
     Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows  drawn
     down over his eyes.

     "Stangerson   too!"   he   muttered.    "The   plot   thickens."

     "It was  quite thick enough before,"  grumbled Lestrade,  taking
     a chair.   "I seem  to  have  dropped into a sort of  council of
     war."

     "Are  you  -- are  you sure  of  this  piece  of  intelligence?"
     stammered Gregson.

     "I  have  just come from his room,"  said  Lestrade.  "I was the
     first to discover what had occurred."

     "We have been hearing Gregson's  view  of  the  matter,"  Holmes
     observed.  "Would  you  mind letting us know what  you have seen
     and done?"

     "I have no objection,"  Lestrade answered,  seating himself.  "I
     freely  confess that I  was of  the opinion that Stangerson  was
     concerned  in the death of Drebber.  This fresh  development has
     shown me that I  was completely mistaken.  Full of the one idea,
     I set  myself to  find  out what  had become  of  the secretary.
     They  had been  seen  together at Euston Station about half-past
     eight  on the evening of the 3rd.  At two in the morning Drebber
     had  been  found  in  the  Brixton  Road.   The  question  which
     confronted me was to  find out  how Stangerson had been employed
     between  8:30 and  the time of the crime, and what had become of
     him   afterwards.   I  telegraphed   to   Liverpool,   giving  a
     description  of the man, and warning  them to keep a watch  upon
     the American  boats.  I then  set  to work calling  upon all the
     hotels and lodging-houses in  the vicinity of Euston.  You  see,
     I   argued  that  if  Drebber  and  his   companion  had  become
     separated, the natural course for the latter would be to  put up
     somewhere in the vicinity for the  night, and then to hang about
     the station again next morning."

     "They  would   be  likely   to   agree  on   some  meeting-place
     beforehand," remarked Holmes.

     "So  it  proved.   I spent the  whole  of  yesterday  evening in
     making  inquiries entirely without avail.  This morning  I began
     very early, and at eight  o'clock I  reached  Halliday's Private
     Hotel, in Little George Street.  On  my inquiry as to whether  a
     Mr.  Stangerson was  living there, they at once  answered  me in
     the affirmative.

     "'No doubt you  are the gentleman  whom  he was expecting,' they
     said.   'He  has  been  waiting for a gentleman  for two  days.'

     "'Where is he now?' I asked.

     "'He  is upstairs in  bed.  He  wished  to be  called at  nine.'

     "'I will go up and see him at once,' I said.

     "It  seemed  to  me  that my sudden appearance  might shake  his
     nerves  and  lead  him  to say something  unguarded.  The  boots
     volunteered  to show me  the room: it was  on  the second floor,
     and  there was  a small corridor  leading  up to  it.  The boots
     pointed  out the  door to me,  and was  about  to go  downstairs
     again  when I saw something that made me feel  sickish, in spite
     of my  twenty  years'  experience.  From  under  the  door there
     curled a little  red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across
     the passage  and formed  a little pool along the skirting at the
     other side.  I  gave a cry, which  brought the boots  back.   He
     nearly fainted when he  saw it.   The  door  was  locked on  the
     inside, but we put our shoulders to it, and knocked  it in.  The
     window of the  room was open, and beside the window, all huddled
     up, lay the body  of  a man  in  his  nightdress.  He was  quite
     dead, and had been  for some time, for his limbs were rigid  and
     cold.   When we  turned  him over,  the  boots recognized him at
     once as being the same gentleman who had  engaged the room under
     the  name of Joseph Stangerson.  The cause  of death was  a deep
     stab in  the  left side, which  must have  penetrated the heart.
     And now comes  the strangest part  of the affair.   What  do you
     suppose was above the murdered man?"

     I felt  a creeping of the flesh, and  a  presentiment of  coming
     horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

     "The  word  RACHE,  written  in  letters  of  blood,"  he  said.

     "That  was it," said  Lestrade,  in  an awestruck voice;  and we
     were all silent for a while.

     There  was  something  so  methodical  and  so  incomprehensible
     about the  deeds of  this  unknown assassin, that it imparted  a
     fresh  ghastliness to his  crimes.  My nerves, which were steady
     enough  on the  field of battle,  tingled  as  I  thought of it.

     "The  man  was  seen," continued Lestrade.  "A milk boy, passing
     on his way  to the  dairy, happened to walk  down the lane which
     leads from the mews at the back  of the hotel.   He noticed that
     a ladder, which usually lay  there,  was  raised against one  of
     the  windows of the second  floor, which  was wide open.   After
     passing, he  looked back and saw a  man  descend the ladder.  He
     came down so quietly and openly that the  boy imagined him to be
     some carpenter or joiner  at  work in  the  hotel.   He  took no
     particular notice of him,  beyond thinking  in his own mind that
     it  was  early for him to be at work.  He has an impression that
     the man was  tall, had  a reddish  face,  and  was dressed in  a
     long,  brownish  coat.  He must  have  stayed in  the  room some
     little time  after the murder, for we found  blood-stained water
     in the basin, where  he had washed his  hands, and marks  on the
     sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife."

     I glanced  at Holmes on hearing the  description of the murderer
     which tallied  so  exactly with his own.  There was, however, no
     trace of exultation or satisfaction upon his face.

     "Did  you  find nothing in the room which  could furnish  a clue
     to the murderer?" he asked.

     "Nothing.   Stangerson  had Drebber's  purse in his  pocket, but
     it seems that this was usual, as he did  all the  paying.  There
     was  eighty-odd pounds  in  it,  but  nothing  had  been  taken.
     Whatever  the motives of these  extraordinary crimes, robbery is
     certainly not one  of  them.  There were  no papers or memoranda
     in  the murdered  man's  pocket, except a single telegram, dated
     from  Cleveland about a month ago, and containing the words, 'J.
     H.  is in  Europe.' There was no name appended to this message."

     "And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.

     "Nothing  of  any  importance.  The man's novel,  with  which he
     had read himself  to sleep, was lying upon the bed, and his pipe
     was on a chair beside  him.   There was  a glass of water on the
     table,  and  on  the  window-sill  a  small  chip  ointment  box
     containing a couple of pills."

     Sherlock Holmes  sprang from his chair  with  an  exclamation of
     delight.

     "The  last link,"  he cried, exultantly.  "My case is complete."

     The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

     "I have now in  my hands," my companion said, confidently,  "all
     the  threads which have  formed  such a tangle.   There are,  of
     course, details to be filled in, but I am as  certain of all the
     main facts, from the  time that Drebber parted  from  Stangerson
     at the station, up to the discovery of the  body  of the latter,
     as if  I had seen  them with  my own  eyes.  I  will give you  a
     proof of  my  knowledge.   Could  you lay  your hand upon  those
     pills?"

     "I have them," said Lestrade, producing  a  small white box;  "I
     took them  and the  purse and the  telegram,  intending  to have
     them put  in a place of safety  at the police  station.   It was
     the  merest chance  my taking these pills, for I am bound to say
     that I do not attach any importance to them."

     "Give  them here," said Holmes.  "Now, Doctor," turning  to  me,
     "are those ordinary pills?"

     They certainly were  not.  They  were of a  pearly  gray colour,
     small, round, and almost transparent  against  the light.  "From
     their  lightness and transparency,  I should  imagine  that they
     are soluble in water," I remarked.

     "Precisely so,"  answered  Holmes.  "Now would  you  mind  going
     down and fetching that poor little devil  of a terrier which has
     been bad so  long, and which the landlady wanted you to  put out
     of its pain yesterday?"

     I went downstairs and  carried the dog upstairs in my arms.  Its
     laboured breathing and glazing  eye  showed that it was  not far
     from its end.  Indeed, its snow-white muzzle  proclaimed that it
     had already  exceeded  the usual  term of  canine  existence.  I
     placed it upon a cushion on the rug.

     "I will  now cut one  of these pills  in two," said Holmes,  and
     drawing his penknife  he suited  the action to the  word.   "One
     half we return  into  the  box for  future  purposes.  The other
     half I  will  place in this wineglass, in which is a teaspoonful
     of water.  You perceive  that our friend, the  doctor, is right,
     and that it readily dissolves."

     "This may be  very interesting,"  said Lestrade, in the  injured
     tone  of one who suspects that he is being laughed at; "I cannot
     see, however, what it  has to do with  the  death of Mr.  Joseph
     Stangerson."

     "Patience,  my friend, patience!  You will find in time  that it
     has everything to do with it.   I shall now add a little milk to
     make the mixture palatable, and on presenting  it  to the dog we
     find that he laps it up readily enough."

     As he spoke he turned  the  contents  of  the wineglass  into  a
     saucer  and placed  it  in  front of  the terrier,  who speedily
     licked it dry.  Sherlock Holmes's  earnest demeanour had  so far
     convinced us  that we  all sat in silence,  watching  the animal
     intently,  and  expecting  some  startling  effect.   None  such
     appeared,  however.  The dog continued to lie stretched upon the
     cushion, breathing in  a  laboured way,  but apparently  neither
     the better nor the worse for its draught.

     Holmes  had taken out  his watch, and  as minute followed minute
     without  result,  an  expression  of  the  utmost  chagrin   and
     disappointment appeared upon  his features.   He gnawed his lip,
     drummed his  fingers  upon  the  table,  and showed  every other
     symptom  of acute impatience.  So great was  his emotion that  I
     felt  sincerely sorry  for him, while  the two detectives smiled
     derisively, by no  means displeased  at this check which  he had
     met.

     "It can't be a coincidence," he  cried, at last  springing  from
     his  chair and  pacing  wildly up  and  down  the  room;  "it is
     impossible  that it  should  be  a mere  coincidence.  The  very
     pills which  I  suspected in the  case  of Drebber  are actually
     found after  the death of  Stangerson.  And yet they  are inert.
     What  can  it mean?  Surely my  whole  chain of reasoning cannot
     have been false.  It is impossible!  And yet this  wretched  dog
     is none the  worse.  Ah, I  have it!  I have it!" With a perfect
     shriek  of delight he  rushed to  the box, cut the other pill in
     two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented  it to the terrier.
     The unfortunate  creature's  tongue seemed  hardly to  have been
     moistened  in it  before it gave a convulsive  shiver  in  every
     limb, and lay as rigid and  lifeless as if it had been struck by
     lightning.

     Sherlock  Holmes drew a long breath, and  wiped the perspiration
     from  his forehead.  "I  should have  more faith,"  he  said; "I
     ought  to know  by this  time that  when  a  fact  appears to be
     opposed  to a long train of deductions,  it invariably proves to
     be  capable of bearing some  other interpretation.   Of the  two
     pills in that box, one was of the most  deadly  poison,  and the
     other was entirely harmless.  I ought  to have known that before
     ever I saw the box at all."

     This  last  statement appeared to  me to be  so startling that I
     could  hardly believe that  he was in  his sober senses.   There
     was  the  dead  dog, however, to  prove  that his conjecture had
     been correct.  It  seemed to  me  that the mists in my own  mind
     were gradually clearing away, and I began to have  a dim,  vague
     perception of the truth.

     "All this  seems  strange  to  you,"  continued Holmes, "because
     you  failed  at  the  beginning  of  the  inquiry  to  grasp the
     importance of  the  single real clue which was presented to you.
     I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everything  which
     has  occurred since  then has  served  to  confirm  my  original
     supposition, and,  indeed,  was  the  logical  sequence  of  it.
     Hence things  which have perplexed  you and  made the case  more
     obscure  have  served  to  enlighten  me and  to  strengthen  my
     conclusions.   It  is  a mistake  to  confound  strangeness with
     mystery.   The  most   commonplace  crime  is  often   the  most
     mysterious,  because it presents no new or special features from
     which  deductions may be drawn.   This murder  would  have  been
     infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of  the victim
     been  simply found  lying  in the roadway  without any of  those
     outre  and sensational  accompaniments  which have  rendered  it
     remarkable.   These  strange  details, far  from making the case
     more difficult, have  really had the  effect  of making it  less
     so."

     Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with
     considerable   impatience,  could  contain  himself  no  longer.
     "Look here, Mr.  Sherlock Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to
     acknowledge that you are a smart  man, and that  you  have  your
     own methods  of  working.   We want  something  more  than  mere
     theory and  preaching now, though.  It is a  case of taking  the
     man.   I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong.  Young
     Charpentier could not have been  engaged  in this second affair.
     Lestrade went after  his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he
     was wrong  too.   You  have thrown  out  hints here,  and  hints
     there, and seem to know more than we do, but  the time has  come
     when we feel that we have a right to ask you straight  how  much
     you do know of the business.  Can you  name the man who did it?"

     "I  cannot help  feeling that Gregson  is right, sir,"  remarked
     Lestrade.  "We have both tried, and we  have both  failed.   You
     have remarked more than once since I have been  in the room that
     you had all the evidence which you require.  Surely you will not
     withhold it any longer."

     "Any delay in arresting the  assassin," I observed,  "might give
     him time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity."

     Thus pressed by us all,  Holmes showed  signs  of  irresolution.
     He continued to walk up and down the room with  his head sunk on
     his chest  and his brows drawn down, as was his habit  when lost
     in thought.

     "There will be  no  more  murders,"  he  said at last,  stopping
     abruptly and facing us.  "You can put  that consideration out of
     the question.   You  have asked me  if I  know the name  of  the
     assassin.  I  do.  The  mere knowing of  his  name  is  a  small
     thing,  however, compared with  the  power of laying  our  hands
     upon him.  This I expect very shortly to do.  I  have good hopes
     of managing  it through  my own arrangements;  but it is a thing
     which  needs  delicate  handling,  for  we  have  a  shrewd  and
     desperate man to  deal with,  who  is  supported, as I have  had
     occasion to prove,  by another who is  as clever as himself.  As
     long as this man  has no  idea that anyone can have a clue there
     is  some chance  of securing  him; but if  he had the  slightest
     suspicion, he  would  change his name,  and vanish in an instant
     among the four million inhabitants of  this great city.  Without
     meaning to  hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that
     I consider these men to be  more  than a match for  the official
     force,  and that is why  I have not asked your assistance.  If I
     fail,  I shall,  of  course, incur  all  the blame  due  to this
     omission; but that I am prepared for.   At present I am ready to
     promise  that  the  instant  that  I can  communicate  with  you
     without  endangering  my  own  combinations,  I  shall  do  so."

     Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be  far  from  satisfied by  this
     assurance,  or  by  the depreciating  allusion to  the detective
     police.   The  former had flushed  up to the roots of his flaxen
     hair, while the other's  beady eyes glistened with curiosity and
     resentment.   Neither of them had time to speak, however, before
     there  was a  tap at the door, and the spokesman  of  the street
     Arabs,   young   Wiggins,   introduced  his  insignificant   and
     unsavoury person.

     "Please, sir," he said,  touching  his forelock, "I have the cab
     downstairs."

     "Good  boy," said Holmes,  blandly.   "Why  don't you  introduce
     this pattern at Scotland Yard?"  he continued, taking  a pair of
     steel handcuffs from  a drawer.  "See how beautifully the spring
     works.  They fasten in an instant."

     "The old  pattern  is good  enough," remarked  Lestrade,  "if we
     can only find the man to put them on."

     "Very  good, very good," said Holmes, smiling.  "The cabman  may
     as well  help  me with  my boxes.   Just  ask  him to  step  up,
     Wiggins."

     I was  surprised to find  my  companion  speaking  as though  he
     were  about to  set  out on  a  journey, since he  had  not said
     anything to me about  it.  There was a  small portmanteau in the
     room,  and this he pulled out and began to strap.  He was busily
     engaged at it when the cabman entered the room.

     "Just  give  me  a help  with  this  buckle, cabman,"  he  said,
     kneeling over his task, and never turning his head.

     The fellow came  forward with a  somewhat  sullen, defiant  air,
     and put  down his hands  to assist.  At that instant there was a
     sharp click,  the  jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang
     to his feet again.

     "Gentlemen,"  he cried,  with  flashing eyes,  "let me introduce
     you to Mr.  Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of
     Joseph Stangerson."

     The whole  thing occurred in  a  moment -- so quickly that I had
     no time  to realize  it.   I have  a vivid recollection of  that
     instant, of Holmes's triumphant expression and  the ring  of his
     voice, of the  cabman's dazed, savage face, as  he glared at the
     glittering  handcuffs, which  had appeared as  if  by magic upon
     his wrists.  For a  second or two we might  have been a group of
     statues.  Then with  an inarticulate roar  of fury, the prisoner
     wrenched himself free  from  Holmes's grasp, and hurled  himself
     through  the window.  Woodwork and  glass  gave way  before him;
     but before he  got quite through,  Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes
     sprang  upon him like  so many staghounds.  He was dragged  back
     into  the  room, and then  commenced a  terrific  conflict.   So
     powerful and so fierce  was he that the four  of  us were shaken
     off  again  and  again.   He appeared  to  have  the  convulsive
     strength of a man in an epileptic fit.   His face and hands were
     terribly mangled  by his passage through the glass, but  loss of
     blood had no effect  in diminishing  his resistance.  It was not
     until   Lestrade  succeeded  in  getting  his  hand  inside  his
     neckcloth  and half-strangling him that we made him realize that
     his struggles  were of  no  avail;  and even  then  we  felt  no
     security  until we had  pinioned his feet as well as his  hands.
     That   done,  we  rose  to  our  feet  breathless  and  panting.

     "We  have his  cab,"  said Sherlock Holmes.   "It will  serve to
     take him to  Scotland  Yard.  And now, gentlemen," he continued,
     with a pleasant smile, "we  have reached  the end  of our little
     mystery.  You are very  welcome to  put any questions  that  you
     like  to me now,  and  there is no danger that  I will refuse to
     answer them."

                                   Part 2

                          THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS

                                  Chapter 1

                          ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN

     In  the  central  portion  of the great North American Continent
     there lies an  arid and repulsive  desert, which for many a long
     year served as  a barrier  against the advance of  civilization.
     From the Sierra  Nevada  to  Nebraska, and from  the Yellowstone
     River in the north to the  Colorado upon the south, is a  region
     of desolation  and  silence.  Nor is Nature always  in one  mood
     throughout  this grim  district.   It comprises  snow-capped and
     lofty  mountains,  and  dark  and  gloomy  valleys.   There  are
     swift-flowing  rivers  which dash  through  jagged  canons;  and
     there are enormous plains,  which in winter are white with snow,
     and  in  summer are gray with the  saline alkali dust.  They all
     preserve,  however,  the common characteristics  of  barrenness,
     inhospitality, and misery.

     There  are no inhabitants  of this  land of despair.  A  band of
     Pawnees or of  Blackfeet may  occasionally traverse it  in order
     to reach other hunting-grounds,  but  the hardiest of the braves
     are  glad  to  lose sight of  those awesome plains, and  to find
     themselves once more  upon their  prairies.  The  coyote  skulks
     among the  scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and
     the clumsy  grizzly bear  lumbers through the dark ravines,  and
     picks  up such sustenance as  it  can amongst  the rocks.  These
     are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

     In the  whole world there can be no more dreary view  than  that
     from  the northern slope  of the Sierra  Blanco.  As far  as the
     eye  can reach stretches the great flat  plain-land,  all dusted
     over  with patches of  alkali, and intersected  by clumps of the
     dwarfish chaparral bushes.  On  the extreme verge of the horizon
     lie a long  chain of mountain peaks,  with their rugged  summits
     flecked with snow.  In  this great stretch  of country  there is
     no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life.  There is
     no bird  in the steel-blue  heaven, no  movement upon  the dull,
     gray earth --  above all,  there is absolute silence.  Listen as
     one  may, there  is no shadow of  a  sound  in  all  that mighty
     wilderness; nothing but silence  -- complete and  heart-subduing
     silence.

     It has been said  there  is  nothing  appertaining  to life upon
     the  broad plain.   That is hardly true.  Looking  down from the
     Sierra Blanco,  one sees a pathway traced out across the desert,
     which winds  away and  is lost  in  the extreme distance.  It is
     rutted  with  wheels  and  trodden  down  by  the feet  of  many
     adventurers.  Here and  there there are scattered  white objects
     which  glisten  in  the  sun, and  stand  out against  the  dull
     deposit  of alkali.   Approach,  and  examine  them!   They  are
     bones: some large and coarse,  others smaller and more delicate.
     The former have  belonged to oxen,  and the latter to  men.  For
     fifteen hundred miles one may  trace  this ghastly caravan route
     by  these  scattered  remains of  those who  had fallen  by  the
     wayside.

     Looking  down on this very scene,  there  stood upon the  fourth
     of May, eighteen  hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller.
     His appearance was such that he  might have been the very genius
     or  demon  of the  region.   An observer  would  have  found  it
     difficult to  say whether  he  was nearer to  forty or to sixty.
     His  face  was lean  and haggard, and  the  brown parchment-like
     skin was drawn  tightly  over the  projecting  bones;  his long,
     brown hair and  beard were  all flecked  and dashed with  white;
     his eyes  were sunken in his head, and burned with  an unnatural
     lustre; while  the hand which grasped his rifle was hardly  more
     fleshy than  that of  a  skeleton.  As  he stood, he leaned upon
     his weapon for support, and yet his tall figure  and the massive
     framework  of   his   bones  suggested  a  wiry   and   vigorous
     constitution.  His  gaunt  face, however, and his clothes, which
     hung so baggily over  his shrivelled limbs,  proclaimed  what it
     was that gave him that senile  and decrepit appearance.  The man
     was dying -- dying from hunger and from thirst.

     He had toiled painfully  down  the ravine, and on to this little
     elevation, in  the vain hope of seeing some signs of water.  Now
     the great salt plain  stretched before his eyes, and the distant
     belt of savage  mountains, without  a sign anywhere  of plant or
     tree, which  might  indicate the  presence of moisture.   In all
     that broad  landscape there was  no  gleam  of hope.  North, and
     east, and west he looked  with wild, questioning eyes,  and then
     he  realized that his  wanderings had come to an  end, and  that
     there,  on that barren  crag, he  was  about  to  die.  "Why not
     here, as  well  as  in  a feather  bed, twenty  years hence?" he
     muttered, as  he seated  himself in  the shelter of  a  boulder.

     Before  sitting  down,  he  had  deposited upon the  ground  his
     useless rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a gray  shawl,
     which  he  had  carried  slung  over  his  right  shoulder.   It
     appeared  to be somewhat too  heavy  for his  strength,  for  in
     lowering  it, it  came  down  on  the  ground  with some  little
     violence.  Instantly  there  broke from the gray parcel a little
     moaning cry, and from  it there protruded a small, scared  face,
     with very  bright brown  eyes, and  two little  speckled dimpled
     fists.

     "You've  hurt   me!"  said  a  childish   voice,  reproachfully.

     "Have  I, though?"  the  man  answered penitently; "I  didn't go
     for to  do it." As  he spoke he  unwrapped the  gray  shawl  and
     extricated a  pretty little girl of  about five  years  of  age,
     whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock  with  its  little linen
     apron,  all  bespoke  a mother's  care.  The child was pale  and
     wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she had  suffered
     less than her companion.

     "How  is  it  now?" he  answered  anxiously,  for  she was still
     rubbing the  tousy golden curls which covered the  back  of  her
     head.

     "Kiss it  and  make  it  well," she said, with  perfect gravity,
     showing the  injured  part up  to him.  "That's what mother used
     to do.  Where's mother?"

     "Mother's  gone.   I  guess   you'll  see   her   before  long."

     "Gone,  eh!"  said the  little  girl.   "Funny,  she didn't  say
     good-bye; she 'most  always did if  she was just  goin' over  to
     auntie's  for  tea,  and now  she's been away three days.   Say,
     it's  awful dry, ain't it?  Ain't there no water  nor nothing to
     eat?"

     "No, there  ain't  nothing,  dearie.   You'll  just need  to  be
     patient  awhile, and then you'll be all right.  Put your head up
     ag'in  me like  that,  and then you'll  feel  bullier.  It ain't
     easy  to  talk when  your lips is like leather, but  I guess I'd
     best let you know how the cards lie.   What's  that you've got?"

     "Pretty things! fine things!" cried the little girl
     enthusiastically,  holding  up two glittering fragments of mica.
     "When we  goes back  to home  I'll give them  to  brother  Bob."

     "You'll see  prettier  things  than  them soon,"  said  the  man
     confidently.  "You  just  wait a  bit.  I was  going to tell you
     though -- you remember when we left the river?"

     "Oh, yes."

     "Well,  we reckoned  we'd strike  another river soon, d'ye  see.
     But there was somethin'  wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin',
     and it  didn't turn  up.  Water  ran out.  Just except a  little
     drop for the likes of you, and -- and --"

     "And  you  couldn't  wash  yourself,"  interrupted his companion
     gravely, staring up at his grimy visage.

     "No,  nor drink.  And  Mr.   Bender, he  was the fust to go, and
     then Indian  Pete,  and  then Mrs.   McGregor, and  then  Johnny
     Hones, and then, dearie, your mother."

     "Then mother's a  deader too," cried  the little girl,  dropping
     her face in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

     "Yes,  they all went except you  and  me.  Then  I thought there
     was  some chance  of water  in this  direction, so I heaved  you
     over my shoulder and we tramped it together.  It  don't seem  as
     though  we've  improved  matters.   There's  an  almighty  small
     chance for us now!"

     "Do you mean  that we are going  to die too?"  asked  the child,
     checking  her  sobs,   and   raising   her  tear-stained   face.

     "I guess that's about the size of it."

     "Why didn't  you say so  before?" she said, laughing  gleefully.
     "You gave  me such a fright.  Why, of course, now as  long as we
     die we'll be with mother again."

     "Yes, you will, dearie."

     "And you too.  I'll tell her how  awful good  you've been.  I'll
     bet  she meets  us  at the door  of heaven with a big pitcher of
     water, and a lot of  buckwheat  cakes,  hot, and toasted on both
     sides,  like  Bob  and  me was  fond of.   How long will  it  be
     first?"

     "I  don't know --  not  very  long." The  man's eyes were  fixed
     upon the northern  horizon.  In the  blue  vault  of the  heaven
     there had appeared three little  specks  which increased in size
     every  moment,  so  rapidly  did  they approach.   They speedily
     resolved themselves  into three large brown birds, which circled
     over the  heads of the two wanderers, and then settled upon some
     rocks which overlooked  them.  They were buzzards, the  vultures
     of  the  West,  whose  coming   is  the   forerunner  of  death.

     "Cocks and hens,"  cried the little girl gleefully, pointing  at
     their ill-omened  forms, and  clapping her  hands  to  make them
     rise.  "Say, did God make this country?"

     "Of  course  He  did,"  said her companion,  rather startled  by
     this unexpected question.

     "He  made  the  country  down  in  Illinois,  and  He  made  the
     Missouri,"  the little girl continued.   "I guess  somebody else
     made the country  in these parts.  It's not nearly so well done.
     They forgot the water and the trees."

     "What  would  ye think of  offering  up  prayer?" the man  asked
     diffidently.

     "It ain't night yet," she answered.

     "It don't matter.  It ain't  quite regular,  but  He won't  mind
     that,  you bet.  You  say over them  ones  that  you used to say
     every   night  in  the  wagon  when  we  was   on  the  plains."

     "Why  don't  you  say  some  yourself?"  the  child  asked, with
     wondering eyes.

     "I disremember  them," he answered.  "I hain't  said  none since
     I  was half the height o' that gun.   I  guess  it's  never  too
     late.  You say them out, and I'll stand by and come  in  on  the
     choruses."

     "Then  you'll need to kneel down,  and me too," she said, laying
     the  shawl out for that purpose.  "You've got  to put your hands
     up like this.  It makes you feel kind of good."

     It  was  a strange  sight,  had  there  been  anything  but  the
     buzzards to see it.  Side by side on the  narrow shawl knelt the
     two wanderers,  the  little prattling  child and  the  reckless,
     hardened adventurer.  Her  chubby face  and his haggard, angular
     visage  were both turned up to the cloudless heaven in heartfelt
     entreaty to  that dread Being with  whom they were face to face,
     while the two voices --  the one thin and clear, the other  deep
     and harsh -- united in  the entreaty for  mercy and forgiveness.
     The prayer finished, they  resumed their seat  in  the shadow of
     the boulder  until  the child  fell  asleep,  nestling  upon the
     broad breast of her  protector.  He watched over her slumber for
     some time,  but Nature  proved  to  be too strong for  him.  For
     three days  and three nights he had allowed himself neither rest
     nor repose.   Slowly the eyelids drooped  over the  tired  eyes,
     and  the  head sunk  lower  and lower upon the breast, until the
     man's  grizzled beard  was  mixed with the  gold tresses  of his
     companion, and both slept the same  deep and  dreamless slumber.

     Had   the  wanderer  remained  awake  for  another  half-hour  a
     strange sight would have met  his eyes.  Far away on the extreme
     verge of  the alkali plain there rose up a little spray of dust,
     very  slight  at first, and hardly  to be distinguished from the
     mists of the  distance, but gradually growing higher and broader
     until  it  formed  a  solid,  well-defined  cloud.   This  cloud
     continued to increase in size  until it  became evident  that it
     could only  be  raised by a great multitude of moving creatures.
     In  more  fertile  spots  the observer  would have  come to  the
     conclusion that one of those  great herds  of bisons which graze
     upon the  prairie land was  approaching him.  This was obviously
     impossible in  these arid  wilds.  As  the  whirl  of  dust drew
     nearer  to the solitary bluff  upon which the two castaways were
     reposing,  the canvas-covered tilts of wagons and the figures of
     armed  horsemen  began  to show up  through  the  haze, and  the
     apparition  revealed  itself as being a  great caravan upon  its
     journey for the West.  But what a caravan!  When the head of  it
     had reached  the  base  of the mountains,  the rear was not  yet
     visible  on  the  horizon.   Right  across  the  enormous  plain
     stretched  the  straggling  array,  wagons  and  carts,  men  on
     horseback, and  men on foot.   Innumerable women  who  staggered
     along under burdens,  and children who toddled beside the wagons
     or  peeped  out  from  under  the  white  coverings.   This  was
     evidently no ordinary  party  of  immigrants,  but  rather  some
     nomad people who had been compelled from stress of
     circumstances to seek  themselves a  new  country.   There  rose
     through the clear air  a  confused clattering and  rumbling from
     this  great  mass of humanity,  with the creaking  of wheels and
     the neighing of  horses.  Loud  as it was, it was not sufficient
     to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.

     At the head  of the column there rode a  score or more of grave,
     iron-faced men,  clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with
     rifles.  On reaching the  base  of  the  bluff  they halted, and
     held a short council among themselves.

     "The  wells  are  to  the  right,  my  brothers,"  said  one,  a
     hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

     "To the right  of  the Sierra  Blanco  --  so we shall reach the
     Rio Grande," said another.

     "Fear not  for water,"  cried a  third.  "He who  could draw  it
     from  the rocks will  not  now abandon  His  own chosen people."

     "Amen! amen!" responded the whole party.

     They  were  about to  resume  their  journey  when  one  of  the
     youngest and keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation  and pointed up
     at the rugged crag  above them.  From its summit there fluttered
     a little wisp  of pink, showing up  hard and bright  against the
     gray rocks behind.  At the sight there was a  general reining up
     of horses and  unslinging  of  guns, while fresh  horsemen  came
     galloping up  to reinforce  the vanguard.   The  word "Redskins"
     was on every lip.

     "There can't be any number  of  Injuns  here,"  said the elderly
     man  who  appeared  to  be  in  command.   "We have  passed  the
     Pawnees, and there are no other tribes until we cross the  great
     mountains."

     "Shall I go  forward and see, Brother  Stangerson?" asked one of
     the band.

     "And I," "And I," cried a dozen voices.

     "Leave your  horses  below  and we  will  await  you here,"  the
     elder answered.  In a moment the  young fellows  had dismounted,
     fastened their horses, and were ascending  the precipitous slope
     which led up  to the object  which had  excited their curiosity.
     They advanced  rapidly  and noiselessly, with the confidence and
     dexterity  of  practised scouts.   The  watchers from  the plain
     below could see them flit from rock to rock until their  figures
     stood out  against the sky-line.  The young  man who  had  first
     given  the  alarm was leading them.  Suddenly his  followers saw
     him throw up  his hands,  as though overcome  with astonishment,
     and on joining him they were  affected in  the  same  way by the
     sight which met their eyes.

     On  the  little plateau  which  crowned  the  barren hill  there
     stood a single  giant boulder,  and against  this  boulder there
     lay  a  tall  man,  long-bearded  and hard-featured, but  of  an
     excessive  thinness.   His  placid face  and  regular  breathing
     showed that he was  fast asleep.   Beside him lay a child,  with
     her round white  arms encircling  his brown sinewy neck, and her
     golden-haired head resting  upon  the breast  of  his  velveteen
     tunic.   Her  rosy lips were parted, showing the regular line of
     snow-white  teeth within,  and  a  playful smile played over her
     infantile features.  Her plump little white legs, terminating in
     white  socks  and neat shoes with  shining  buckles,  offered  a
     strange   contrast  to  the  long  shrivelled   members  of  her
     companion.   On  the ledge of  rock  above  this  strange couple
     there  stood three solemn buzzards, who,  at the  sight  of  the
     newcomers,  uttered  raucous  screams  of   disappointment   and
     flapped sullenly away.

     The  cries of the foul birds  awoke the two sleepers, who stared
     about them  in bewilderment.  The man staggered to his  feet and
     looked  down upon  the plain  which  had been  so  desolate when
     sleep had  overtaken him,  and  which was now traversed by  this
     enormous body  of  men  and  of  beasts.  His  face  assumed  an
     expression of incredulity as he  gazed, and he  passed  his bony
     hand  over  his  eyes.  "This  is  what  they call  delirium,  I
     guess," he muttered.  The  child stood beside him, holding on to
     the skirt  of his coat, and said  nothing, but looked all  round
     her  with   the  wondering,   questioning  gaze  of   childhood.

     The  rescuing  party  were speedily able  to  convince  the  two
     castaways  that their appearance was no  delusion.  One of  them
     seized the little girl and hoisted her  upon his shoulder, while
     two others  supported  her  gaunt companion,  and  assisted  him
     towards the wagons.

     "My  name is  John Ferrier," the  wanderer  explained;  "me  and
     that  little un are  all that's left o' twenty-one people.   The
     rest is all dead o'  thirst and hunger  away down in the south."

     "Is she your child?" asked someone.

     "I guess she  is now," the  other cried, defiantly; "she's  mine
     'cause  I saved her.  No man will take her from  me.  She's Lucy
     Ferrier from this day on.   Who are you,  though?" he continued,
     glancing  with curiosity  at his  stalwart,  sunburned rescuers;
     "there seems to be a powerful lot of ye."

     "Nigh  unto ten thousand,"  said one  of the young  men; "we are
     the  persecuted  children  of  God  -- the  chosen  of the Angel
     Moroni."

     "I never  heard tell  on him," said the  wanderer.  "He  appears
     to have chosen a fair crowd of ye."

     "Do  not  jest  at  that  which  is  sacred,"  said  the  other,
     sternly.   "We  are  of  those   who  believe  in  those  sacred
     writings, drawn  in  Egyptian letters on plates of beaten  gold,
     which  were  handed unto  the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra.   We
     have come from Nauvoo, in the state  of  Illinois, where  we had
     founded our  temple.  We have  come to  seek a refuge  from  the
     violent  man and  from the godless, even though  it be the heart
     of the desert."

     The  name  of  Nauvoo  evidently recalled recollections  to John
     Ferrier.  "I see," he said; "you are the Mormons."

     "We are  the Mormons," answered his  companions with one  voice.

     "And where are you going?"

     "We  do not  know.   The hand of God  is  leading  us under  the
     person  of our Prophet.  You must come before him.  He shall say
     what is to be done with you."

     They had reached the base  of the  hill by  this  time, and were
     surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims -- pale-faced,
     meek-looking  women; strong,  laughing  children;  and  anxious,
     earnest-eyed men.   Many were the cries of  astonishment  and of
     commiseration which  arose  from them  when  they  perceived the
     youth  of one of the strangers and the destitution of the other.
     Their escort did not halt,  however, but  pushed on, followed by
     a great crowd of Mormons, until  they reached a wagon, which was
     conspicuous  for  its  great  size  and for  the  gaudiness  and
     smartness  of its  appearance.   Six  horses  were yoked  to it,
     whereas  the  others were furnished with  two, or, at most, four
     apiece.  Beside the  driver there sat a man  who  could not have
     been  more than thirty years of  age, but whose massive head and
     resolute expression  marked him as  a  leader.  He was reading a
     brown-backed  volume, but  as the  crowd  approached  he laid it
     aside,  and listened attentively  to  an account of the episode.
     Then he turned to the two castaways.

     "If we  take you  with us,"  he said,  in solemn words,  "it can
     only be as believers in our own creed.   We shall have no wolves
     in our fold.  Better  far that your bones should bleach  in this
     wilderness  than that  you should prove to  be that little speck
     of decay  which in time corrupts the whole fruit.  Will you come
     with us on these terms?"

     "Guess  I'll  come  with you on any terms,"  said Ferrier,  with
     such emphasis that the  grave Elders could not restrain a smile.
     The  leader alone retained  his  stern,  impressive  expression.

     "Take  him,  Brother Stangerson,"  he  said, "give him food  and
     drink,  and the child likewise.   Let it  be  your task also  to
     teach  him  our  holy  creed.   We  have  delayed  long  enough.
     Forward!  On, on to Zion!"

     "On, on to Zion!" cried the  crowd of  Mormons,  and  the  words
     rippled  down  the long caravan,  passing  from  mouth  to mouth
     until  they  died away in a  dull murmur in  the  far  distance.
     With a cracking  of  whips  and a  creaking of wheels the  great
     wagons got into  motion, and  soon the whole caravan was winding
     along  once more.  The Elder  to whose care  the  two waifs  had
     been committed led them to his wagon, where  a meal was  already
     awaiting them.

     "You shall  remain here,"  he said.  "In  a  few  days  you will
     have recovered  from  your  fatigues.  In the meantime, remember
     that now and  forever you are of our  religion.   Brigham  Young
     has  said it, and he has spoken with the  voice of Joseph Smith,
     which is the voice of God."



                               Chapter 2

                          THE FLOWER OF UTAH

     This is not the place to  commemorate  the trials and privations
     endured  by the  immigrant Mormons before  they  came  to  their
     final haven.  From the shores of the Mississippi to  the western
     slopes  of the Rocky  Mountains  they had  struggled  on  with a
     constancy  almost  unparalleled in history.  The savage man, and
     the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and  disease -- every
     impediment  which Nature could place in the way -- had  all been
     overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity.  Yet  the long  journey  and
     the accumulated terrors  had shaken the  hearts of the  stoutest
     among them.   There  was not one who did not sink upon his knees
     in  heartfelt prayer  when  they  saw  the broad valley  of Utah
     bathed in the sunlight  beneath  them, and learned from the lips
     of their leader that this was the promised land, and that  these
     virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.

     Young speedily proved himself to  be  a skilful administrator as
     well as a  resolute chief.  Maps were drawn and charts prepared,
     in which the  future city  was  sketched out.   All around farms
     were apportioned  and allotted in proportion to the  standing of
     each  individual.   The tradesman  was  put to his trade and the
     artisan to his  calling.  In the town streets and squares sprang
     up  as if  by  magic.   In  the  country there was  draining and
     hedging, planting and clearing,  until the next  summer saw  the
     whole  country golden with the wheat crop.  Everything prospered
     in  the strange settlement.  Above all, the  great temple  which
     they  had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and
     larger.   From the first  blush of dawn until the closing of the
     twilight,  the clatter of  the hammer  and  the rasp of the  saw
     were  never  absent  from  the  monument  which  the  immigrants
     erected  to Him  who  had led  them safe  through many  dangers.

     The two  castaways, John Ferrier and  the  little girl,  who had
     shared  his fortunes  and  had  been  adopted  as his  daughter,
     accompanied  the  Mormons to the end of their  great pilgrimage.
     Little Lucy Ferrier  was  borne along pleasantly enough in Elder
     Stangerson's  wagon,  a  retreat  which  she   shared  with  the
     Mormon's  three wives  and with  his son, a  headstrong, forward
     boy  of   twelve.    Having  rallied,  with  the  elasticity  of
     childhood, from  the  shock  caused by  her  mother's death, she
     soon became a  pet  with the women,  and  reconciled herself  to
     this  new  life  in  her  moving  canvas-covered  home.   In the
     meantime   Ferrier   having  recovered   from  his   privations,
     distinguished  himself  as  a useful guide and  an indefatigable
     hunter.   So   rapidly  did  he  gain  the  esteem  of  his  new
     companions, that when  they reached the end of their wanderings,
     it was  unanimously  agreed that  he should  be provided with as
     large and  as  fertile a tract  of land as any of the  settlers,
     with  the   exception  of  Young  himself,  and  of  Stangerson,
     Kemball, Johnston,  and  Drebber,  who  were  the four principal
     Elders.

     On  the  farm  thus  acquired  John  Ferrier  built   himself  a
     substantial log-house,  which  received  so  many  additions  in
     succeeding years  that it grew into a roomy villa.  He was a man
     of a  practical turn  of mind, keen  in his dealings and skilful
     with  his hands.   His  iron constitution  enabled  him to  work
     morning  and evening at improving and tilling his  lands.  Hence
     it  came  about  that  his farm  and  all  that belonged  to him
     prospered exceedingly.  In three  years he was  better off  than
     his neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine  he was  rich,
     and in  twelve  there  were not half a dozen men in the whole of
     Salt Lake  City  who could compare  with  him.   From the  great
     inland  sea to the distant Wasatch Mountains there  was  no name
     better known than that of John Ferrier.

     There  was  one  way and only  one  in  which  he  offended  the
     susceptibilities   of   his  co-religionists.   No  argument  or
     persuasion could ever induce him to set up a female
     establishment after the  manner  of  his  companions.  He  never
     gave reasons for  this persistent refusal, but contented himself
     by  resolutely and  inflexibly  adhering to  his  determination.
     There  were some who accused him of lukewarmness  in his adopted
     religion,  and  others who put it  down  to greed of wealth  and
     reluctance  to  incur  expense.  Others,  again,  spoke of  some
     early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl  who had pined away
     on  the shores  of the  Atlantic.   Whatever the reason, Ferrier
     remained  strictly  celibate.    In  every  other   respect   he
     conformed  to the religion of the  young  settlement, and gained
     the  name   of  being  an  orthodox  and  straight-walking  man.

     Lucy  Ferrier grew up within  the  log-house,  and assisted  her
     adopted  father in  all his  undertakings.  The  keen air of the
     mountains  and the  balsamic odour of  the pine  trees  took the
     place of nurse and  mother to the young girl.  As year succeeded
     to  year she grew taller and stronger, her cheek more  ruddy and
     her  step  more elastic.  Many  a  wayfarer  upon the high  road
     which ran by Ferrier's farm felt long-forgotten thoughts  revive
     in  his mind  as he  watched her lithe, girlish  figure tripping
     through the wheatfields, or  met  her mounted  upon her father's
     mustang, and  managing it with all  the ease and grace of a true
     child of the West.  So the bud blossomed  into a flower, and the
     year which saw her  father the  richest of the  farmers left her
     as  fair a  specimen of American  girlhood as could  be found in
     the whole Pacific slope.

     It  was  not the father, however, who first discovered that  the
     child  had  developed into  the woman.   It  seldom  is  in such
     cases.  That mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual  to
     be  measured  by  dates.   Least of all does the maiden  herself
     know it until the tone of  a voice or the touch  of a hand  sets
     her heart thrilling  within her, and she learns,  with a mixture
     of  pride  and  of  fear, that a new  and  a  larger nature  has
     awakened within her.  There  are few who cannot recall that  day
     and remember the one little incident which  heralded the dawn of
     a new  life.   In  the  case of Lucy  Ferrier  the occasion  was
     serious enough  in itself, apart  from  its  future influence on
     her destiny and that of many besides.

     It was a warm June morning, and the  Latter Day  Saints  were as
     busy  as the bees whose hive  they have chosen for their emblem.
     In the fields and  in  the  streets  rose the same hum of  human
     industry.  Down the dusty  high roads  defiled  long  streams of
     heavily  laden mules,  all  heading to  the  west, for  the gold
     fever had broken out in California, and the  overland  route lay
     through the city  of the Elect.   There,  too,  were  droves  of
     sheep and  bullocks coming in from the  outlying  pasture lands,
     and trains of  tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary of
     their   interminable   journey.    Through   all   this   motley
     assemblage, threading her way with  the skill of an accomplished
     rider, there galloped Lucy  Ferrier, her fair  face flushed with
     the  exercise  and  her  long chestnut hair  floating out behind
     her.  She had a commission from her father in  the city, and was
     dashing  in as she had  done many  a  time before,  with all the
     fearlessness of youth, thinking only  of her task and how it was
     to be performed.  The travel-stained adventurers gazed after her
     in astonishment,  and even the unemotional  Indians,  journeying
     in with  their peltries,  relaxed their accustomed  stoicism  as
     they  marvelled  at   the  beauty  of  the   pale-faced  maiden.

     She  had reached  the outskirts of the city  when she  found the
     road blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven  by a half-dozen
     wild-looking  herdsmen from  the  plains.  In her impatience she
     endeavoured to  pass this obstacle  by  pushing  her  horse into
     what appeared to  be  a gap.  Scarcely had she  got  fairly into
     it, however, before the  beasts  closed  in behind her, and  she
     found  herself completely  embedded  in  the  moving  stream  of
     fierce-eyed,  long-horned bullocks.  Accustomed as  she  was  to
     deal  with cattle,  she was  not alarmed  at her  situation, but
     took advantage of every  opportunity  to  urge  her horse on, in
     the hopes of pushing her way through the cavalcade.
     Unfortunately  the horns  of  one of  the creatures,  either  by
     accident or design, came in  violent  contact with the  flank of
     the  mustang,  and  excited it  to  madness.   In  an instant it
     reared up upon  its hind legs with  a snort of rage, and pranced
     and tossed in a way  that would  have unseated any but a skilful
     rider.  The situation was  full  of peril.  Every plunge  of the
     excited  horse brought it against the horns again, and goaded it
     to fresh madness.  It was all  that the  girl could do  to  keep
     herself in  the saddle, yet  a slip would mean  a terrible death
     under   the  hoofs  of  the  unwieldy  and   terrified  animals.
     Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her  head began to swim, and
     her grip  upon the bridle to  relax.  Choked by the rising cloud
     of  dust  and by the  steam from the struggling  creatures,  she
     might have  abandoned  her efforts in  despair, but for a kindly
     voice at  her  elbow  which assured her of assistance.   At  the
     same moment  a sinewy brown hand caught the  frightened horse by
     the curb, and forcing a way  through the drove, soon brought her
     to the outskirts.

     "You're  not  hurt,   I   hope,  miss,"  said   her   preserver,
     respectfully.

     She looked  up at his  dark, fierce face,  and  laughed saucily.
     "I'm awful frightened," she said,  naively; "whoever would  have
     thought  that  Poncho would  have been  so  scared  by a lot  of
     cows?"

     "Thank God, you kept your seat," the other said,  earnestly.  He
     was a tall, savage-looking young  fellow, mounted  on a powerful
     roan horse, and clad  in  the rough dress of a  hunter,  with  a
     long  rifle  slung over his  shoulders.  "I guess  you  are  the
     daughter  of John Ferrier,"  he remarked; "I saw  you  ride down
     from his house.  When you see  him,  ask him if he remembers the
     Jefferson Hopes  of St.  Louis.  If  he's the  same Ferrier,  my
     father and he were pretty thick."

     "Hadn't  you  better  come   and  ask   yourself?"  she   asked,
     demurely.

     The  young  fellow  seemed pleased  at  the  suggestion, and his
     dark  eyes  sparkled  with pleasure.   "I'll  do so,"  he  said;
     "we've been in the mountains for two months,  and  are not  over
     and above in visiting condition.   He must take us  as he  finds
     us."

     "He has  a  good  deal to  thank  you  for, and so  have I," she
     answered;  "he's awful fond of me.  If those cows  had jumped on
     me he'd have never got over it."

     "Neither would I," said her companion.

     "You!  Well, I  don't  see that it  would  make  much matter  to
     you, anyhow.  You ain't even a friend of ours."

     The young hunter's  dark face  grew so  gloomy  over this remark
     that Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.

     "There,  I didn't mean that,"  she said; "of  course, you  are a
     friend now.  You must come  and see us.  Now I must  push along,
     or father won't trust me with his business any more.  Good-bye!"

     "Good-bye,"  he  answered,  raising  his   broad  sombrero,  and
     bending over  her little  hand.  She wheeled her  mustang round,
     gave  it a cut with her riding-whip,  and  darted  away down the
     broad road in a rolling cloud of dust.

     Young Jefferson  Hope rode on  with his companions,  gloomy  and
     taciturn.   He  and  they had been  among  the Nevada  Mountains
     prospecting for silver, and were returning  to Salt Lake City in
     the hope of  raising capital  enough to  work  some lodes  which
     they had discovered.  He  had  been as keen  as any of them upon
     the business  until  this sudden incident had drawn his thoughts
     into another channel.   The  sight  of  the fair young  girl, as
     frank  and wholesome as  the  Sierra  breezes, had  stirred  his
     volcanic,  untamed heart  to  its  very  depths.   When she  had
     vanished from his sight, he realized that a crisis  had  come in
     his life,  and  that neither  silver speculations  nor any other
     questions could ever  be of such importance to him  as  this new
     and  all-absorbing one.  The love  which  had sprung up  in  his
     heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy,  but rather
     the wild,  fierce passion of a man of strong will  and imperious
     temper.   He  had been  accustomed  to  succeed  in  all that he
     undertook.   He  swore in his heart that  he would not  fail  in
     this if human  effort  and human  perseverance could  render him
     successful.

     He  called on  John Ferrier  that night, and many  times  again,
     until his  face  was  a familiar one  at  the farmhouse.   John,
     cooped  up  in  the valley, and absorbed in  his  work, had  had
     little chance  of learning the news  of the outside world during
     the  last  twelve  years.  All this  Jefferson Hope was able  to
     tell him,  and  in a style which interested Lucy as well as  her
     father.  He had been a pioneer in California, and could  narrate
     many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost  in those
     wild, halcyon days.  He had been  a scout too, and  a trapper, a
     silver explorer,  and a  ranchman.  Wherever stirring adventures
     were to  be had, Jefferson Hope  had  been  there  in search  of
     them.   He  soon  became a  favourite with  the  old farmer, who
     spoke eloquently of  his  virtues.   On such occasions, Lucy was
     silent,  but  her blushing  cheek  and  her  bright, happy  eyes
     showed only too clearly that  her  young heart was no longer her
     own.   Her honest  father may  not have observed these symptoms,
     but they  were  assuredly  not thrown  away upon the man who had
     won her affections.

     One summer evening he came  galloping  down the road and  pulled
     up at the  gate.  She  was at the doorway, and came down to meet
     him.   He  threw the bridle over the  fence and  strode  up  the
     pathway.

     "I  am off,  Lucy," he said, taking her  two  hands in  his, and
     gazing tenderly down into  her face:  "I  won't ask you  to come
     with  me now, but  will  you be ready  to  come  when  I am here
     again?"

     "And  when will that  be?" she  asked,  blushing  and  laughing.

     "A couple of months at the outside.   I  will come and claim you
     then, my  darling.  There's no  one who  can  stand between us."

     "And how about father?" she asked.

     "He has given his  consent, provided  we get these mines working
     all right.  I have no fear on that head."

     "Oh,  well;  of course,  if you and father have arranged it all,
     there's no  more  to  be  said," she  whispered,  with her cheek
     against his broad breast.

     "Thank  God!" he  said,  hoarsely,  stooping  and  kissing  her.

     "It is  settled,  then.  The longer I  stay, the harder it  will
     be  to go.  They are waiting for me at  the canon.  Good-bye, my
     own darling  --  good-bye.   In  two months  you shall  see me."

     He tore  himself from  her  as he spoke, and,  flinging  himself
     upon his  horse,  galloped  furiously  away,  never even looking
     round, as though  afraid that his  resolution might  fail him if
     he took one  glance  at what he  was leaving.  She  stood at the
     gate,  gazing after  him until he vanished from her sight.  Then
     she walked back  into the house, the happiest girl in  all Utah.



                                  Chapter 3

                       JOHN FERRIER TALKS WITH THE PROPHET

     Three  weeks  had passed since  Jefferson Hope and his  comrades
     had departed  from  Salt Lake City.   John  Ferrier's  heart was
     sore  within him  when he thought of the young man's return, and
     of  the impending loss of his adopted child.  Yet her bright and
     happy  face  reconciled  him  to the  arrangement more than  any
     argument  could have done.  He had always determined, deep  down
     in his resolute heart, that  nothing  would  ever induce him  to
     allow  his daughter to wed a Mormon.  Such marriage  he regarded
     as no marriage at all, but as a shame and  a disgrace.  Whatever
     he might  think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that  one point he
     was inflexible.   He  had  to  seal  his mouth  on the  subject,
     however, for  to express an unorthodox opinion  was  a dangerous
     matter in those days in the Land of the Saints.

     Yes, a  dangerous matter  --  so dangerous  that  even  the most
     saintly dared  only whisper  their religious opinions with bated
     breath,  lest  something  which fell  from their  lips might  be
     misconstrued, and bring  down  a  swift  retribution upon  them.
     The victims of persecution had  now turned persecutors on  their
     own account,  and persecutors of  the most terrible description.
     Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the German Vehmgericht,  nor
     the  secret  societies of Italy,  were ever able to put  a  more
     formidable  machinery  in motion  than that  which cast  a cloud
     over the state of Utah.

     Its  invisibility, and  the  mystery which was  attached to  it,
     made this  organization  doubly  terrible.   It  appeared to  be
     omniscient and omnipotent, and yet was  neither seen  nor heard.
     The man who  held out against the Church vanished away, and none
     knew whither he had  gone or what  had befallen him.   His  wife
     and  his children  awaited  him  at  home,  but  no father  ever
     returned  to tell  them how  he had fared  at  the hands  of his
     secret judges.   A rash  word  or  a hasty act  was followed  by
     annihilation, and yet none knew  what  the  nature might  be  of
     this terrible power which was suspended  over them.   No  wonder
     that men went about in  fear and trembling, and that even in the
     heart of the wilderness they dared  not whisper the doubts which
     oppressed them.

     At first  this vague and terrible power was exercised  only upon
     the recalcitrants who, having embraced  the Mormon faith, wished
     afterwards to pervert or to abandon it.   Soon, however, it took
     a wider range.   The  supply  of adult women was running  short,
     and polygamy without a female population on which to draw  was a
     barren doctrine  indeed.   Strange rumours began  to  be bandied
     about  --  rumours  of murdered immigrants  and rifled camps  in
     regions   where  Indians  had  never  been  seen.   Fresh  women
     appeared  in  the  harems of the  Elders  -- women who pined and
     wept, and bore upon their faces the traces of an
     unextinguishable horror.  Belated wanderers  upon  the mountains
     spoke of gangs of  armed  men, masked, stealthy,  and noiseless,
     who flitted by them  in the darkness.  These tales  and  rumours
     took substance and shape, and were corroborated and
     recorroborated, until they resolved  themselves  into a definite
     name.  To  this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name
     of  the Danite  Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister  and
     an ill-omened one.

     Fuller  knowledge  of  the   organization  which  produced  such
     terrible results served  to  increase rather than to lessen  the
     horror  which  it inspired in the  minds of men.  None  knew who
     belonged  to   this  ruthless   society.   The  names   of   the
     participators in the deeds of blood and  violence done under the
     name of  religion were kept profoundly secret.  The  very friend
     to  whom you communicated your misgivings  as to the Prophet and
     his mission  might be one of those who would come forth at night
     with  fire  and  sword to  exact  a terrible reparation.   Hence
     every  man  feared  his neighbour, and none spoke of  the things
     which were nearest his heart.

     One fine  morning  John  Ferrier  was  about to  set out to  his
     wheatfields, when  he heard the click of the latch, and, looking
     through the window, saw  a  stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man
     coming  up the pathway.  His heart leapt to his mouth,  for this
     was none other  than  the  great Brigham Young himself.  Full of
     trepidation -- for he knew that such  a visit  boded him  little
     good -- Ferrier ran to the door to greet the Mormon chief.   The
     latter, however, received his salutations  coldly, and  followed
     him with a stern face into the sitting-room.

     "Brother  Ferrier,"  he said,  taking  a  seat,  and eyeing  the
     farmer keenly  from under  his  light-coloured  eyelashes,  "the
     true believers have  been good friends to you.  We picked you up
     when you were  starving in the desert, we shared  our  food with
     you, led you  safe to the Chosen Valley, gave you a goodly share
     of land, and  allowed you to wax rich under our  protection.  Is
     not this so?"

     "It is so," answered John Ferrier.

     "In return for  all this we asked but one  condition: that  was,
     that  you should  embrace the  true  faith, and conform in every
     way to  its  usages.   This you  promised  to  do,  and this, if
     common report says truly, you have neglected."

     "And how have  I neglected it?" asked Ferrier,  throwing out his
     hands in  expostulation.  "Have I not given to  the common fund?
     Have I not attended at the Temple?  Have I not --?"

     "Where  are  your  wives?"  asked  Young,  looking   round  him.

     "Call them in, that I may greet them."

     "It  is  true  that  I  have  not  married,"  Ferrier  answered.

     "But  women were few, and there  were many who had better claims
     than I.  I was not a  lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to
     my wants."

     "It  is  of that daughter  that I would speak to you,"  said the
     leader of  the  Mormons.   "She has grown  to be the  flower  of
     Utah, and  has found favour in the eyes of many who  are high in
     the land."

     John Ferrier groaned internally.

     "There  are stories  of  her  which  I would fain  disbelieve  -
     stories that  she  is sealed to  some Gentile.  This must be the
     gossip  of  idle tongues.  What is  the  thirteenth rule in  the
     code  of the sainted  Joseph Smith?   'Let every  maiden  of the
     true faith marry one  of the  elect; for  if she wed a  Gentile,
     she commits  a  grievous sin.' This being  so, it  is impossible
     that  you, who  profess  the  holy  creed,  should  suffer  your
     daughter to violate it."

     John Ferrier  made  no answer, but  he played nervously with his
     riding-whip.

     "Upon this one  point your whole faith shall  be tested -- so it
     has  been decided in the  Sacred Council of  Four.  The girl  is
     young,  and we would not have  her wed gray hairs, neither would
     we deprive  her  of all  choice.  We  Elders have many  heifers,
     Heber C.  Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred
     wives under this endearing epithet.] but our children  must also
     be provided.  Stangerson  has a son, and  Drebber has a son, and
     either  of them would gladly welcome your daughter to his house.
     Let her choose between  them.  They  are  young and rich, and of
     the true faith.  What say you to that?"

     Ferrier remained  silent  for some  little time  with his  brows
     knitted.

     "You  will  give  us time," he said  at last.   "My daughter  is
     very young -- she is scarce of an age to marry."

     "She shall  have  a  month to  choose," said  Young, rising from
     his seat.  "At the end  of that time she shall give her answer."

     He was passing through  the door, when he  turned  with  flushed
     face   and  flashing  eyes.   "It  were  better  for  you,  John
     Ferrier," he  thundered,  "that  you  and  she  were  now  lying
     blanched  skeletons upon the Sierra Blanco, than that you should
     put your weak  wills  against  the  orders of  the  Holy  Four!"

     With  a threatening  gesture of  his  hand,  he turned  from the
     door,  and Ferrier  heard his heavy  steps scrunching  along the
     shingly path.

     He was still sitting with his elbow  upon his  knee, considering
     how he should  broach  the matter  to his  daughter, when a soft
     hand was laid upon  his, and  looking  up, he  saw  her standing
     beside  him.  One glance at her pale, frightened face showed him
     that she had heard what had passed.

     "I  could  not  help  it," she  said,  in  answer  to his  look.

     "His voice rang  through  the house.  Oh, father,  father,  what
     shall we do?"

     "Don't you  scare yourself,"  he  answered,  drawing her to him,
     and  passing his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut
     hair.  "We'll  fix it  up  somehow  or  another.  You don't find
     your   fancy  kind  o'  lessening  for  this   chap,   do  you?"

     A  sob  and  a  squeeze  of  his  hand  were  her  only  answer.

     "No; of course  not.  I shouldn't care  to hear you say you did.
     He's a  likely lad, and he's a  Christian,  which is  more  than
     these folks  here,  in spite o' all their praying and preaching.
     There's a party starting for Nevada  to-morrow,  and I'll manage
     to send  him a message letting him know the hole  we are in.  If
     I  know  anything o' that  young man, he'll be back with a speed
     that would whip electro-telegraphs."

     Lucy  laughed through  her tears at  her  father's  description.

     "When he comes,  he will advise us for  the best.  But it is for
     you that I am frightened, dear.   One  hears  -- one hears  such
     dreadful stories about those who oppose  the Prophet;  something
     terrible always happens to them."

     "But we  haven't  opposed him yet,"  her father  answered.   "It
     will be  time to look out for  squalls  when we  do.   We have a
     clear  month before us; at the end  of that, I guess we had best
     shin out of Utah."

     "Leave Utah!"

     "That's about the size of it."

     "But the farm?"

     "We  will raise  as much as we  can in  money, and let  the rest
     go.  To tell the truth,  Lucy, it  isn't  the first time  I have
     thought of doing it.  I don't care about  knuckling under to any
     man, as these folk do to their darned Prophet.   I'm a free-born
     American, and it's  all new to me.  Guess I'm too  old to learn.
     If he  comes browsing about this farm, he might chance to run up
     against  a  charge  of   buckshot  travelling  in  the  opposite
     direction."

     "But   they  won't   let  us   leave,"  his  daughter  objected.

     "Wait  till  Jefferson  comes, and  we'll soon manage that.   In
     the  meantime, don't you fret yourself, my dearie, and don't get
     your  eyes swelled up,  else  he'll  be walking into me when  he
     sees you.   There's nothing  to be afeared about, and there's no
     danger at all."

     John   Ferrier  uttered  these  consoling   remarks  in  a  very
     confident tone, but  she  could  not help observing that he paid
     unusual care to the fastening of the doors that night,  and that
     he carefully cleaned  and  loaded the  rusty old  shot-gun which
     hung upon the wall of his bedroom.


                                 Chapter 4

                              A FLIGHT FOR LIFE

     On  the morning which followed  his interview  with  the  Mormon
     Prophet,  John  Ferrier went in to  Salt  Lake City, and  having
     found his acquaintance, who was bound for  the Nevada Mountains,
     he entrusted him  with his message to Jefferson  Hope.  In it he
     told  the  young  man  of  the  imminent danger which threatened
     them,  and how necessary it was that  he  should return.  Having
     done thus he felt easier in  his mind, and returned  home with a
     lighter heart.

     As  he approached  his  farm, he  was  surprised  to see a horse
     hitched to  each of the posts of the gate.  Still more surprised
     was he on the entering  to find two young  men  in possession of
     his sitting-room.  One, with a long pale face, was leaning  back
     in the  rocking-chair, with his feet  cocked up upon the  stove.
     The other,  a bull-necked youth  with coarse,  bloated features,
     was  standing  in front of  the  window with  his  hands  in his
     pockets  whistling  a  popular hymn.  Both  of  them  nodded  to
     Ferrier  as  he  entered,  and  the  one  in  the  rocking-chair
     commenced the conversation.

     "Maybe you  don't know us,"  he said.  "This here is  the son of
     Elder  Drebber,  and  I'm Joseph Stangerson, who travelled  with
     you  in  the desert  when  the Lord  stretched  out His hand and
     gathered you into the true fold."

     "As  He will all the  nations  in His own good  time,"  said the
     other  in  a  nasal  voice;  "He grindeth  slowly but  exceeding
     small."

     John Ferrier bowed  coldly.  He  had  guessed  who  his visitors
     were.

     "We have come," continued  Stangerson,  "at  the  advice  of our
     fathers to solicit the hand  of  your  daughter for whichever of
     us may seem  good to  you and  to her.  As I have but four wives
     and Brother Drebber  here has  seven, it appears  to me  that my
     claim is the stronger one."

     "Nay, nay, Brother  Stangerson," cried the other; "the  question
     is not how many wives  we  have, but how many we  can  keep.  My
     father has now given over his mills  to  me, and I am the richer
     man."

     "But   my  prospects  are  better,"  said  the  other,   warmly.

     "When  the  Lord  removes  my  father, I shall have  his tanning
     yard and  his leather factory.   Then  I  am your elder,  and am
     higher in the Church."

     "It will be for  the  maiden to decide," rejoined young Drebber,
     smirking at his own reflection in the glass.   "We will leave it
     all to her decision."

     During  this  dialogue  John  Ferrier  had stood  fuming in  the
     doorway, hardly able  to keep his  riding-whip from the backs of
     his two visitors.

     "Look  here," he  said at last, striding  up to  them,  "when my
     daughter  summons you, you can come, but until then I don't want
     to see your faces again."

     The two  young  Mormons  stared at him  in amazement.  In  their
     eyes  this  competition between them for  the  maiden's hand was
     the highest of honours both to her and her father.

     "There are two  ways out of the room,"  cried Ferrier; "there is
     the door,  and there  is the window.  Which do you care to use?"

     His  brown  face  looked so  savage,  and  his  gaunt  hands  so
     threatening, that his visitors sprang to their feet  and  beat a
     hurried  retreat.   The old  farmer followed them  to the  door.

     "Let me  know  when  you  have  settled which  it is to be,"  he
     said, sardonically.

     "You  shall  smart for this!" Stangerson cried, white with rage.
     "You have defied the Prophet and the Council of Four.  You shall
     rue it to the end of your days."

     "The  hand  of  the Lord shall  be heavy upon you," cried  young
     Drebber; "He will arise and smite you!"

     "Then  I'll start  the smiting," exclaimed  Ferrier,  furiously,
     and would  have rushed upstairs for his gun had not  Lucy seized
     him by the arm and restrained him.  Before he  could escape from
     her, the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  told him  that they  were
     beyond his reach.

     "The   young  canting   rascals!"   he   exclaimed,  wiping  the
     perspiration from his forehead; "I would sooner see you in  your
     grave, my girl, than the wife of either of them."

     "And so  should  I,  father,"  she answered,  with spirit;  "but
     Jefferson will soon be here."

     "Yes.   It  will not  be long  before he comes.  The sooner  the
     better,  for we do  not  know  what  their  next  move  may be."

     It was,  indeed,  high  time  that  someone  capable  of  giving
     advice and  help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer
     and  his  adopted  daughter.    In  the  whole  history  of  the
     settlement there had never been such a case of rank
     disobedience to  the authority  of the Elders.  If  minor errors
     were  punished so  sternly, what would be the fate of this  arch
     rebel?   Ferrier knew that his wealth  and position  would be of
     no  avail to him.   Others as well known and as  rich as himself
     had  been spirited away before  now, and  their goods given over
     to  the Church.  He  was  a  brave  man, but he trembled at  the
     vague,  shadowy terrors which hung  over  him.  Any known danger
     he could face with a firm lip, but this  suspense was unnerving.
     He concealed his fears  from his daughter, however, and affected
     to make light of the  whole matter,  though she,  with the  keen
     eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at ease.

     He  expected that he would receive some message  or remonstrance
     from Young as to his conduct, and  he was not  mistaken,  though
     it came in an  unlooked-for manner.  Upon rising next morning he
     found, to his  surprise, a  small square of  paper  pinned on to
     the coverlet of his bed just over  his chest.  On itwas printed,
     in bold, straggling letters: -

     "Twenty-nine  days are given  you  for amendment,  and then  --"

     The dash  was more fear-inspiring than  any  threat  could  have
     been.  How this warning  came into his room puzzled John Ferrier
     sorely, for his  servants slept  in an outhouse, and  the  doors
     and windows had all been secured.  He crumpled the  paper up and
     said nothing  to his daughter, but the incident struck  a  chill
     into  his  heart.   The  twenty-nine  days  were  evidently  the
     balance of the month which Young  had  promised.   What strength
     or  courage  could  avail  against  an  enemy  armed  with  such
     mysterious powers?   The hand which fastened that pin might have
     struck him to the  heart, and he  could never have known who had
     slain him.

     Still  more shaken was  he next morning.  They  had sat  down to
     their  breakfast,  when  Lucy with  a  cry  of surprise  pointed
     upwards.   In the  centre of the ceiling was  scrawled,  with  a
     burned  stick apparently, the number 28.  To his daughter it was
     unintelligible,  and  he did not enlighten  her.   That night he
     sat up  with his gun and kept watch  and  ward.   He  saw and he
     heard  nothing,  and yet  in the  morning  a great  27  had been
     painted upon the outside of his door.

     Thus day followed  day;  and  as sure as morning  came  he found
     that  his unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked
     up in some  conspicuous  position how many days were still  left
     to him out of  the month of grace.  Sometimes the fatal  numbers
     appeared upon the walls, sometimes upon the floors,
     occasionally they were  on small placards stuck upon  the garden
     gate  or  the railings.  With all  his  vigilance  John  Ferrier
     could  not discover whence  these  daily warnings  proceeded.  A
     horror  which  was  almost superstitious  came upon  him  at the
     sight of them.   He became haggard  and restless, and  his  eyes
     had  the troubled look of some hunted creature.  He  had but one
     hope  in  life now, and that was  for the  arrival of the  young
     hunter from Nevada.

     Twenty had changed to  fifteen, and  fifteen to ten,  but  there
     was no news  of the absentee.  One by  one  the numbers dwindled
     down, and still there came no sign  of him.  Whenever a horseman
     clattered  down  the  road, or a driver shouted at his team, the
     old farmer hurried to the gate, thinking  that help had  arrived
     at last.  At last, when  he saw five give  way to four and  that
     again  to  three,  he  lost heart,  and abandoned  all  hope  of
     escape.  Singlehanded,  and  with  his  limited knowledge of the
     mountains which surrounded the settlement,  he knew  that he was
     powerless.  The more  frequented roads were strictly watched and
     guarded, and none could  pass along  them without an  order from
     the  Council.  Turn which way he would, there appeared to be  no
     avoiding the  blow which hung over  him.  Yet the old man  never
     wavered in  his  resolution to part  with life itself before  he
     consented  to what  he  regarded  as his  daughter's  dishonour.

     He was  sitting alone  one evening  pondering  deeply  over  his
     troubles, and searching vainly  for some way out of them.   That
     morning had shown  the figure  2 upon the wall of his house, and
     the  next day would  be the last of the allotted time.  What was
     to  happen  then?   All  manner of vague  and  terrible  fancies
     filled his imagination.  And  his daughter -- what was to become
     of  her  after  he  was  gone?   Was  there no escape  from  the
     invisible network which  was drawn  all round them?  He sank his
     head  upon the  table  and  sobbed  at  the  thought  of his own
     impotence.

     What  was that?  In  the  silence he  heard  a gentle scratching
     sound --  low, but very distinct in  the quiet of the night.  It
     came from the door of the house.  Ferrier crept  into  the  hall
     and  listened  intently.  There  was a pause for a  few moments,
     and  then  the  low, insidious sound was repeated.  Someone  was
     evidently  tapping  very  gently upon  one of the  panels of the
     door.  Was it some midnight assassin who  had  come to carry out
     the  murderous orders of the  secret  tribunal?  Or  was it some
     agent who  was  marking  up  that  the  last  day  of grace  had
     arrived?  John Ferrier felt that instant death  would  be better
     than  the suspense which shook his nerves and chilled his heart.
     Springing  forward, he drew  the  bolt and threw  the door open.

     Outside all  was  calm and  quiet.  The night  was fine, and the
     stars  were  twinkling  brightly  overhead.   The  little  front
     garden lay before the farmer's  eyes bounded  by  the fence  and
     gate, but  neither there  nor on the road was any human being to
     be  seen.  With a sigh of relief, Ferrier looked to right and to
     left, until, happening to glance straight  down at his own feet,
     he saw to his astonishment a  man lying flat  upon his face upon
     the ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.

     So  unnerved  was he at the sight that  he leaned up against the
     wall with his hand  to his  throat  to stifle his inclination to
     call  out.  His first thought was  that the prostrate figure was
     that of some wounded or  dying man, but as he  watched it he saw
     it writhe along the ground and into the  hall with the  rapidity
     and noiselessness  of a serpent.  Once within the house  the man
     sprang  to  his  feet, closed  the  door,  and revealed  to  the
     astonished  farmer  the fierce face  and resolute expression  of
     Jefferson Hope.

     "Good God!" gasped John  Ferrier.  "How you scared me!  Whatever
     made you come in like that?"

     "Give me food," the other said, hoarsely.  "I have had  no  time
     for bite  or sup  for eight-and-forty  hours."  He flung himself
     upon  the cold meat and  bread which were still  lying upon  the
     table  from  his  host's supper,  and  devoured  it voraciously.
     "Does Lucy bear up well?" he  asked,  when he  had satisfied his
     hunger.

     "Yes.  She does  not  know  the  danger," her  father  answered.

     "That  is  well.  The  house  is watched on every side.  That is
     why I crawled my way  up to it.  They may  be  darned sharp, but
     they're  not  quite sharp  enough  to  catch a  Washoe  hunter."

     John  Ferrier felt a different man now  that he realized that he
     had a devoted  ally.   He  seized the  young man's leathery hand
     and  wrung it  cordially.  "You're a  man  to  be  proud of," he
     said.

     "There are not many who  would come to share our danger and  our
     troubles."

     "You've hit it  there,  pard,"  the  young hunter  answered.  "I
     have a respect for  you, but  if you were alone in this business
     I'd think twice before I put my head into such a  hornet's nest.
     It's Lucy  that brings me here, and before  harm  comes on her I
     guess  there  will  be one less  o' the Hope  family  in  Utah."

     "What are we to do?"

     "To-morrow  is your last day, and  unless you act  to-night  you
     are lost.   I  have a mule and two horses waiting in  the  Eagle
     Ravine.  How much money have you?"

     "Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes."

     "That will do.   I  have as much more to  add  to it.   We  must
     push for Carson  City through the  mountains.  You had best wake
     Lucy.   It  is as  well that the  servants do  not sleep in  the
     house."

     While  Ferrier  was  absent,  preparing  his  daughter  for  the
     approaching journey,  Jefferson  Hope packed  all  the  eatables
     that he could find into  a small parcel, and  filled a stoneware
     jar with water, for  he knew by  experience  that  the  mountain
     wells  were few  and far between.  He had hardly  completed  his
     arrangements  before the  farmer  returned with his daughter all
     dressed and ready for a  start.  The greeting between the lovers
     was warm, but brief,  for  minutes were precious,  and there was
     much to be done.

     "We  must  make  our  start   at  once,"  said  Jefferson  Hope,
     speaking in a low but resolute voice, like one who realizes  the
     greatness of the  peril, but  has steeled his heart  to meet it.
     "The  front  and back entrances are watched, but with caution we
     may get  away  through the  side window and  across the  fields.
     Once on the road  we are only  two  miles from the  Ravine where
     the horses  are  waiting.   By  daybreak  we  should  be halfway
     through the mountains."

     "What if we are stopped?" asked Ferrier.

     Hope slapped the revolver butt which  protruded from  the  front
     of  his tunic.  "If they are too many  for us, we shall take two
     or three  of them with  us,"  he said  with  a  sinister  smile.

     The  lights inside  the house had  all  been  extinguished,  and
     from the darkened  window Ferrier  peered over the fields  which
     had  been his  own,  and  which  he  was  now  about  to abandon
     forever.  He had long nerved himself  to the sacrifice, however,
     and the  thought of the  honour and  happiness of  his  daughter
     outweighed any  regret at  his ruined  fortunes.  All  looked so
     peaceful  and  happy,  the rustling  trees and the  broad silent
     stretch of grainland, that it was difficult to  realize that the
     spirit of murder lurked through it all.   Yet the white face and
     set  expression of the young hunter showed that in  his approach
     to the house  he had seen enough to  satisfy him upon that head.

     Ferrier carried the  bag of gold and notes,  Jefferson  Hope had
     the scanty provisions and water, while  Lucy had  a small bundle
     containing a few of her more  valued  possessions.  Opening  the
     window very  slowly  and  carefully,  they waited  until  a dark
     cloud had  somewhat  obscured the  night,  and then  one  by one
     passed through into  the little  garden.  With  bated breath and
     crouching  figures  they  stumbled  across  it,  and  gained the
     shelter of the hedge, which  they skirted until they came to the
     gap which  opened  into  the  cornfield.  They had  just reached
     this  point  when the young man  seized  his  two companions and
     dragged them down into  the shadow, where they  lay  silent  and
     trembling.

     It was  as well that  his prairie training had  given  Jefferson
     Hope  the ears  of  a  lynx.   He  and  his  friends  had hardly
     crouched  down before the melancholy  hooting  of a mountain owl
     was  heard within a few  yards of them,  which  was  immediately
     answered by  another  hoot  at  a  small distance.  At  the same
     moment  a vague, shadowy figure emerged  from  the gap for which
     they  had been making,  and uttered  the  plaintive  signal  cry
     again, on which a  second  man  appeared out of  the  obscurity.

     "To-morrow  at midnight," said the first, who appeared to  be in
     authority.   "When  the   whippoorwill   calls   three   times."

     "It  is  well,"  returned  the  other.   "Shall I  tell  Brother
     Drebber?"

     "Pass  it  on  to  him, and  from  him to  the others.   Nine to
     seven!"

     "Seven  to  five!" repeated  the  other;  and  the  two  figures
     flitted away in  different  directions.   Their concluding words
     had evidently  been some form  of  sign  and  countersign.   The
     instant that  their footsteps  had  died away  in the  distance,
     Jefferson Hope  sprang to his  feet, and helping  his companions
     through the  gap, led the way across the  fields  at the  top of
     his  speed,  supporting  and  half-carrying  the girl  when  her
     strength appeared to fail her.

     "Hurry  on!  hurry  on!" he gasped from time  to time.  "We  are
     through the  line  of sentinels.   Everything  depends on speed.
     Hurry on!"

     Once  on  the  high  road, they made  rapid progress.  Only once
     did  they meet anyone,  and  then they  managed to  slip into  a
     field, and  so avoid  recognition.  Before reaching the town the
     hunter  branched  away into  a  rugged and narrow footpath which
     led to the mountains.  Two dark, jagged peaks loomed above  them
     through the darkness, and the defile which  led between them was
     the  Eagle Canon in which  the horses were awaiting  them.  With
     unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way among  the great
     boulders and  along  the bed of a dried-up watercourse, until he
     came  to the  retired  corner  screened  with  rocks,  where the
     faithful  animals had  been picketed.  The girl  was placed upon
     the  mule,  and old Ferrier  upon  one  of the horses,  with his
     money-bag,  while  Jefferson  Hope  led  the  other  along   the
     precipitous and dangerous path.

     It was a bewildering  route for anyone  who  was not  accustomed
     to  face Nature in her wildest moods.   On the  one side a great
     crag towered  up a  thousand  feet or more,  black,  stern,  and
     menacing, with long basaltic columns  upon  its  rugged  surface
     like the  ribs  of some petrified monster.  On the other hand  a
     wild chaos of boulders and debris made all  advance  impossible.
     Between  the two ran  the irregular tracks, so narrow  in places
     that they had to travel  in Indian file, and so rough  that only
     practised riders  could have traversed it at all.  Yet, in spite
     of  all dangers and  difficulties,  the hearts of the  fugitives
     were  light  within them, for every step  increased the distance
     between them and the terrible  despotism  from which  they  were
     flying.

     They soon had  a proof,  however,  that  they were still  within
     the  jurisdiction  of the  Saints.   They  had reached the  very
     wildest  and  most desolate portion of the  pass  when the  girl
     gave a  startled cry,  and  pointed  upwards.   On a  rock which
     overlooked the track,  showing out  dark and plain  against  the
     sky, there stood a  solitary sentinel.  He  saw  them as soon as
     they  perceived  him, and  his  military  challenge of "Who goes
     there?" rang through the silent ravine.

     "Travellers  for Nevada,"  said  Jefferson  Hope, with  his hand
     upon the rifle which hung by his saddle.

     They  could  see  the  lonely  watcher  fingering  his gun,  and
     peering  down  at  them  as  if  dissatisfied  at  their  reply.

     "By whose permission?" he asked.

     "The Holy Four," answered Ferrier.   His  Mormon experiences had
     taught him that  that was  the  highest  authority  to which  he
     could refer.

     "Nine to seven," cried the sentinel.

     "Seven to five,"  returned Jefferson  Hope promptly, remembering
     the countersign which he had heard in the garden.

     "Pass, and the Lord  go with you," said  the voice  from  above.
     Beyond his  post the path  broadened out, and  the  horses  were
     able to break  into a trot.   Looking back,  they could  see the
     solitary  watcher  leaning  upon his gun, and knew that they had
     passed the outlying post of the chosen  people, and that freedom
     lay before them.


                                Chapter 5

                           THE AVENGING ANGELS

     All night  their  course lay  through intricate defiles and over
     irregular  and  rock-strewn paths.   More  than once  they  lost
     their  way, but  Hope's  intimate  knowledge  of  the  mountains
     enabled  them  to  regain the track  once  more.   When  morning
     broke,  a  scene of marvellous  though savage beauty lay  before
     them.  In  every  direction the great  snow-capped peaks  hemmed
     them  in,  peeping  over  each  other's  shoulders  to  the  far
     horizon.   So steep were  the rocky banks on either side of them
     that the larch and the  pine seemed to  be  suspended over their
     heads, and to  need only a gust  of  wind  to come hurtling down
     upon them.   Nor was  the  fear entirely  an  illusion,  for the
     barren  valley was  thickly strewn with trees and boulders which
     had fallen  in a similar  manner.  Even as they  passed, a great
     rock came  thundering down  with a hoarse  rattle which woke the
     echoes in the silent gorges, and  startled the weary horses into
     a gallop.

     As the sun  rose  slowly above the eastern horizon, the  caps of
     the great mountains lit up one after the other, like  lamps at a
     festival,   until  they  were   all  ruddy  and  glowing.    The
     magnificent spectacle cheered the hearts of the  three fugitives
     and  gave  them fresh energy.  At a wild torrent which swept out
     of a ravine they called a halt  and watered their horses,  while
     they partook  of  a hasty breakfast.  Lucy and  her father would
     fain  have rested  longer,  but Jefferson  Hope  was inexorable.
     "They   will  be  upon  our  track  by   this  time,"  he  said.
     "Everything  depends upon our speed.  Once  safe in  Carson,  we
     may rest for the remainder of our lives."

     During  the whole  of that  day they  struggled  on through  the
     defiles,  and by evening  they  calculated that  they were  more
     than thirty miles  from their enemies.  At night-time they chose
     the  base  of a  beetling crag, where  the  rocks  offered  some
     protection from the chill  wind, and there, huddled together for
     warmth,  they  enjoyed  a few  hours'  sleep.   Before daybreak,
     however,  they were  up and on their  way once  more.   They had
     seen no  signs of  any  pursuers, and  Jefferson  Hope  began to
     think that they  were  fairly out of  the reach of  the terrible
     organization whose enmity  they  had  incurred.  He  little knew
     how far  that  iron grasp  could  reach,  or  how soon it was to
     close upon them and crush them.

     About  the  middle  of  the  second  day of their  flight  their
     scanty  store of provisions  began  to  run out.  This  gave the
     hunter little uneasiness, however, for there was  game to be had
     among the  mountains, and he had frequently before had to depend
     upon  his  rifle for  the needs of  life.  Choosing a  sheltered
     nook, he piled  together a few dried branches and made a blazing
     fire,  at  which his  companions might warm themselves, for they
     were now nearly five thousand feet above  the sea level, and the
     air was bitter  and  keen.   Having tethered the horses, and bid
     Lucy adieu, he threw  his gun  over his shoulder, and set out in
     search  of  whatever  chance  might  throw in his  way.  Looking
     back,  he saw the old man and  the young girl crouching over the
     blazing fire, while the three  animals  stood  motionless in the
     background.  Then the intervening rocks hid them  from his view.

     He  walked for  a  couple  of miles  through  one  ravine  after
     another  without success, though, from the  marks upon the  bark
     of the trees, and other indications, he judged that  there  were
     numerous bears in  the vicinity.  At  last, after two  or  three
     hours' fruitless  search,  he  was thinking of turning  back  in
     despair,  when  casting  his eyes  upwards he saw a  sight which
     sent a  thrill of pleasure through his heart.   On the edge of a
     jutting  pinnacle, three or four hundred feet  above him,  there
     stood a creature somewhat resembling a  sheep in appearance, but
     armed with  a pair of gigantic horns.  The big-horn -- for so it
     is called --  was acting, probably, as  a guardian over  a flock
     which  were invisible  to  the  hunter; but  fortunately it  was
     heading in  the  opposite direction,  and had not perceived him.
     Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and  took  a
     long  and steady aim  before drawing  the  trigger.  The  animal
     sprang  into the air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the
     precipice, and then came  crashing down into the valley beneath.

     The  creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter  contented
     himself with cutting  away one  haunch  and part  of  the flank.
     With this  trophy over his shoulder, he hastened  to retrace his
     steps, for the  evening was  already drawing in.  He  had hardly
     started, however, before he realized the difficulty  which faced
     him.   In his eagerness he had  wandered  far  past the  ravines
     which were known to him, and  it was  no easy matter to pick out
     the  path  which he  had  taken.  The valley  in which  he found
     himself divided and sub-divided into many gorges,  which were so
     like  each other  that it was impossible to distinguish one from
     the other.  He followed one  for a mile or more until he came to
     a mountain torrent  which he  was sure  that he  had  never seen
     before.  Convinced that he  had taken  the  wrong turn, he tried
     another,  but  with  the  same  result.   Night  was  coming  on
     rapidly, and it was almost  dark before he at last found himself
     in a defile which  was  familiar to  him.   Even  then it was no
     easy matter  to  keep  to the right track, for the moon  had not
     yet  risen,  and  the  high  cliffs  on  either  side  made  the
     obscurity more profound.   Weighed  down  with his  burden,  and
     weary  from his  exertions, he  stumbled along,  keeping  up his
     heart  by the  reflection that every step brought him  nearer to
     Lucy, and  that he carried with him enough to  ensure  them food
     for the remainder of their journey.

     He had now come to the  mouth of the  very  defile in  which  he
     had  left them.   Even in  the  darkness he  could recognize the
     outline  of  the  cliffs  which  bounded  it.   They  must,   he
     reflected,  be  awaiting him anxiously, for  he  had been absent
     nearly  five hours.  In  the  gladness of his heart  he  put his
     hands to his mouth and made the glen  reecho to a loud halloo as
     a signal that  he was  coming.   He paused  and listened for  an
     answer.  None came save his  own  cry,  which  clattered up  the
     dreary,  silent  ravines,  and  was borne  back  to  his ears in
     countless  repetitions.  Again  he  shouted,  even  louder  than
     before, and again no whisper came  back from the friends whom he
     had left  such a short time  ago.  A vague, nameless dread  came
     over him,  and  he  hurried  onward  frantically,  dropping  the
     precious food in his agitation.

     When he turned the  corner,  he  came full in  sight of the spot
     where the fire had been lit.  There was still a  glowing pile of
     wood  ashes there,  but it had evidently  not been  tended since
     his departure.  The same dead silence still  reigned  all round.
     With  his  fears  all  changed  to  convictions, he  hurried on.
     There was no living  creature  near  the  remains  of  the fire:
     animals,  man,  maiden,  all were gone.  It was  only too  clear
     that some sudden and terrible  disaster had occurred  during his
     absence  -- a disaster which had embraced  them all, and yet had
     left no traces behind it.

     Bewildered and  stunned by  this  blow,  Jefferson Hope felt his
     head spin round,  and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself
     from falling.   He was essentially a man of action, however, and
     speedily  recovered  from his  temporary  impotence.  Seizing  a
     half-consumed piece of wood from  the  smouldering fire, he blew
     it into a flame,  and proceeded  with  its  help  to examine the
     little  camp.  The ground was all  stamped  down  by the feet of
     horses, showing that a large  party of mounted men had overtaken
     the fugitives, and  the  direction  of their  tracks proved that
     they  had  afterwards  turned back to Salt Lake City.   Had they
     carried back  both of his companions with them?  Jefferson  Hope
     had almost persuaded  himself that they must  have done so, when
     his eye fell upon an object which made  every nerve of  his body
     tingle within him.   A little way on one side of the camp  was a
     low-lying  heap of  reddish  soil, which had assuredly  not been
     there before.  There  was  no  mistaking it  for anything but  a
     newly  dug  grave.   As  the  young  hunter  approached  it,  he
     perceived  that a  stick had been planted on it, with a sheet of
     paper stuck in  the cleft fork of it.  The inscription  upon the
     paper was brief, but to the point:

                          JOHN FERRIER,
                          FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY.
                          Died August 4th, 1860.

     The sturdy old  man, whom he had left so  short a  time  before,
     was  gone, then, and this  was  all his epitaph.  Jefferson Hope
     looked  wildly round  to see if  there  was a second  grave, but
     there was  no sign of one.  Lucy had been carried back by  their
     terrible pursuers  to fulfil her original  destiny, by  becoming
     one  of  the  harem of an  Elder's  son.   As  the young  fellow
     realized the  certainty of her fate,  and his  own powerlessness
     to prevent it, he  wished that he, too, was lying  with  the old
     farmer in his last silent resting-place.

     Again, however, his active spirit  shook off the  lethargy which
     springs from  despair.  If there was  nothing  else left to him,
     he could at least devote his life to revenge.  With  indomitable
     patience  and perseverance,  Jefferson  Hope  possessed  also  a
     power of  sustained  vindictiveness, which he  may  have learned
     from the Indians amongst whom he had lived.  As  he stood by the
     desolate  fire,  he  felt that the only  one  thing  which could
     assuage his grief  would be  thorough  and complete retribution,
     brought by his own hand upon  his enemies.  His strong  will and
     untiring energy  should, he determined,  be  devoted to that one
     end.  With  a grim, white face,  he retraced his steps  to where
     he had  dropped  the food, and having stirred up the smouldering
     fire,  he cooked enough  to last him for  a few days.   This  he
     made up into  a bundle, and, tired  as he was, he set himself to
     walk back through  the mountains upon the track  of the Avenging
     Angels.

     For five days he toiled footsore and  weary through the  defiles
     which he had already  traversed on horseback.  At night he flung
     himself  down among  the  rocks, and  snatched  a  few  hours of
     sleep;  but before daybreak he  was always well on  his way.  On
     the sixth day, he reached  the Eagle Canon, from  which they had
     commenced  their  ill-fated flight.  Thence  he  could look down
     upon  the  home of  the  Saints.  Worn and exhausted,  he leaned
     upon his rifle  and shook his gaunt hand fiercely  at the silent
     widespread  city beneath him.   As he looked at it, he  observed
     that  there  were flags  in some of the  principal  streets, and
     other  signs of festivity.  He was still  speculating as to what
     this might mean when  he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and
     saw a mounted  man riding  towards  him.  As he  approached,  he
     recognized  him  as  a  Mormon  named Cowper,  to  whom  he  had
     rendered services  at  different times.   He therefore  accosted
     him when he got  up to him, with the object of finding  out what
     Lucy Ferrier's fate had been.

     "I am Jefferson Hope," he said.  "You remember me."

     The  Mormon  looked  at  him  with  undisguised  astonishment  -
     indeed, it was  difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt
     wanderer,  with ghastly white  face and fierce,  wild eyes,  the
     spruce young hunter of former  days.  Having,  however,  at last
     satisfied  himself  as  to  his  identity,  the  man's  surprise
     changed to consternation.

     "You are mad  to come  here,"  he  cried.  "It  is as much as my
     own life  is worth  to  be  seen  talking with you.   There is a
     warrant  against  you  from  the  Holy  Four  for  assisting the
     Ferriers away."

     "I don't fear them,  or  their  warrant," Hope said,  earnestly.
     "You must know something of this matter, Cowper.  I conjure  you
     by  everything you hold dear to answer a few questions.  We have
     always  been friends.  For God's  sake, don't  refuse to  answer
     me."

     "What is  it?"  the Mormon  asked,  uneasily.   "Be quick.   The
     very rocks have ears and the trees eyes."

     "What has become of Lucy Ferrier?"

     "She was married  yesterday to  young Drebber.   Hold  up,  man,
     hold up; you have no life left in you."

     "Don't mind me," said  Hope  faintly.  He was white to the  very
     lips, and had  sunk down  on the stone against which he had been
     leaning.  "Married, you say?"

     "Married  yesterday  -- that's what those  flags are  for on the
     Endowment House.  There was  some  words  between young  Drebber
     and young Stangerson as to which was to  have her.   They'd both
     been in the party  that followed them, and  Stangerson  had shot
     her  father, which seemed to give him  the best claim; but  when
     they  argued  it  out   in  council,  Drebber's  party  was  the
     stronger, so  the Prophet gave her  over  to him.  No  one won't
     have  her  very  long  though,  for  I  saw death  in  her  face
     yesterday.  She is more  like  a ghost  than a woman.   Are  you
     off, then?"

     "Yes,  I am off,"  said Jefferson  Hope, who  had risen from his
     seat.   His  face  might have been chiselled  out of  marble, so
     hard and set was its expression, while its  eyes  glowed  with a
     baleful light.

     "Where are you going?"

     "Never  mind,"  he answered; and,  slinging his weapon  over his
     shoulder,  strode off down  the gorge and so away into the heart
     of the mountains to the haunts of the wild beasts.  Amongst them
     all  there  was  none  so  fierce and so dangerous  as  himself.

     The  prediction  of  the Mormon  was  only too  well  fulfilled.
     Whether it was the  terrible death of her father or the  effects
     of the hateful marriage  into  which she had  been forced,  poor
     Lucy never  held up  her  head  again, but pined  away and  died
     within  a  month.   Her sottish husband,  who  had  married  her
     principally for  the sake  of John  Ferrier's property, did  not
     affect any  great  grief at his bereavement; but his other wives
     mourned  over  her, and  sat  up with her  the night before  the
     burial, as is the Mormon custom.   They  were grouped  round the
     bier  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  when,  to  their
     inexpressible fear  and astonishment, the  door  was flung open,
     and  a savage-looking,  weather-beaten man in tattered  garments
     strode  into the room.   Without  a glance  or  a  word  to  the
     cowering women, he walked up to  the white  silent figure  which
     had  once  contained  the pure soul  of Lucy Ferrier.   Stooping
     over her, he pressed  his lips  reverently to her cold forehead,
     and then, snatching up her hand, he took the wedding  ring  from
     her finger.  "She shall not  be buried in that," he cried with a
     fierce snarl, and before  an alarm  could  be raised sprang down
     the  stairs  and  was  gone.   So strange  and so  brief was the
     episode that  the  watchers might have found it  hard to believe
     it  themselves or persuade other people of it,  had  it not been
     for the  undeniable fact  that the circlet of gold which  marked
     her as having been a bride had disappeared.

     For  some months  Jefferson Hope lingered  among  the mountains,
     leading  a  strange, wild  life, and nursing  in his  heart  the
     fierce desire for vengeance  which possessed  him.   Tales  were
     told in the city  of  the weird figure  which  was seen prowling
     about  the  suburbs,  and  which  haunted  the  lonely  mountain
     gorges.  Once a bullet whistled through  Stangerson's window and
     flattened itself upon the wall within a foot of him.  On another
     occasion,  as  Drebber  passed  under a  cliff a  great  boulder
     crashed  down on him,  and he  only escaped  a terrible death by
     throwing himself upon his face.  The two young Mormons were  not
     long  in discovering  the reason  of these attempts  upon  their
     lives, and led repeated  expeditions into  the mountains  in the
     hope of capturing  or killing their enemy,  but  always  without
     success.  Then  they adopted the precaution of  never  going out
     alone or after  nightfall, and  of  having their houses guarded.
     After  a time  they were  able  to  relax  these  measures,  for
     nothing was  either heard or seen of  their  opponent, and  they
     hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.

     Far  from  doing so, it  had,  if anything,  augmented it.   The
     hunter's  mind  was  of  a  hard,  unyielding  nature,  and  the
     predominant idea of revenge had  taken  such complete possession
     of it that  there was no  room for  any other emotion.  He  was,
     however,  above all  things, practical.  He  soon  realized that
     even his iron constitution could  not stand the incessant strain
     which he  was putting upon it.  Exposure and  want of  wholesome
     food were  wearing him  out.   If he died like a  dog among  the
     mountains,  what was  to  become of his revenge  then?   And yet
     such  a death was sure to overtake him if he persisted.  He felt
     that that  was to  play  his  enemy's  game, so  he  reluctantly
     returned to the old  Nevada mines,  there  to recruit his health
     and  to  amass  money  enough to allow him to pursue  his object
     without privation.

     His intention had been  to  be absent a  year at the most, but a
     combination  of unforeseen circumstances  prevented  his leaving
     the mines  for nearly five.  At the end  of that  time, however,
     his memory of his wrongs and his craving for  revenge were quite
     as keen  as on that  memorable  night when he had  stood by John
     Ferrier's grave.   Disguised,  and  under  an  assumed  name, he
     returned to Salt Lake  City,  careless what  became  of  his own
     life, as long as he obtained what  he knew to be justice.  There
     he found evil  tidings awaiting  him.  There  had been  a schism
     among  the  Chosen People  a  few  months  before,  some  of the
     younger  members  of  the  Church  having rebelled  against  the
     authority of the Elders, and the  result  had been the secession
     of a  certain number of  the malcontents, who  had left Utah and
     become Gentiles.   Among these had  been Drebber and Stangerson;
     and no one  knew whither  they had  gone.   Rumour reported that
     Drebber had managed to  convert a large  part  of  his  property
     into money,  and  that  he had departed a wealthy man, while his
     companion,  Stangerson, was  comparatively  poor.   There was no
     clue at all, however, as to their whereabouts.

     Many  a  man,  however  vindictive,  would  have  abandoned  all
     thought of  revenge  in  the  face  of  such  a difficulty,  but
     Jefferson  Hope never  faltered for  a moment.   With  the small
     competence  he  possessed,  eked  out by such employment  as  he
     could pick  up, he  travelled from  town  to  town  through  the
     United States  in quest of his enemies.  Year passed into  year,
     his black  hair  turned grizzled,  but still  he  wandered on, a
     human bloodhound, with his  mind wholly set  upon the one object
     to which he had devoted his life.  At last his perseverance  was
     rewarded.  It  was but a glance of a face in  a window, but that
     one glance  told him  that Cleveland in  Ohio  possessed the men
     whom  he  was  in pursuit  of.   He  returned to  his  miserable
     lodgings with his  plan of vengeance all arranged.   It chanced,
     however,  that Drebber, looking  from his window, had recognized
     the vagrant in the street, and had read  murder in his eyes.  He
     hurried   before  a   justice  of  the   peace  accompanied   by
     Stangerson,  who   had  become   his   private   secretary,  and
     represented to him that they were in danger of  their lives from
     the  jealousy  and  hatred  of  an  old  rival.    That  evening
     Jefferson Hope  was taken into custody,  and  not being  able to
     find  sureties, was  detained for  some weeks.  When at last  he
     was  liberated  it  was  only  to find that Drebber's house  was
     deserted,  and  that  he  and his  secretary  had  departed  for
     Europe.

     Again the avenger had been foiled,  and  again his  concentrated
     hatred urged  him to continue  the pursuit.  Funds were wanting,
     however, and for some time he  had  to return  to  work,  saving
     every  dollar for  his  approaching  journey.  At  last,  having
     collected enough  to keep  life in him,  he departed for Europe,
     and  tracked his enemies from city to  city,  working his way in
     any menial capacity, but  never overtaking the fugitives.   When
     he reached St.   Petersburg, they  had  departed for Paris;  and
     when  he followed them there, he  learned that they had just set
     off  for Copenhagen.  At the Danish capital he  was again  a few
     days late,  for they  had journeyed  on  to London,  where he at
     last succeeded in running  them to earth.   As to what  occurred
     there,  we  cannot do better  than  quote  the old hunter's  own
     account, as duly recorded  in Dr.  Watson's Journal, to which we
     are already under such obligations.



                                  Chapter 6

                    A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF
                             JOHN WATSON, M. D.

     Our prisoner's  furious resistance  did  not apparently indicate
     any  ferocity  in  his  disposition towards  ourselves,  for  on
     finding himself powerless, he smiled  in an affable  manner, and
     expressed his  hopes  that he  had  not hurt  any  of us  in the
     scuffle.  "I guess you're going to take me to the
     police-station,"  he remarked to Sherlock Holmes.  "My cab's  at
     the door.   If you'll  loose my legs I'll  walk down to it.  I'm
     not so light to lift as I used to be."

     Gregson  and  Lestrade exchanged glances,  as  if  they  thought
     this proposition rather  a bold one; but Holmes at once took the
     prisoner  at his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound
     round his ankles.  He rose and stretched his legs, as though  to
     assure himself that they were  free once more.  I remember  that
     I  thought to myself,  as I eyed him, that  I had seldom seen  a
     more powerfully built  man; and his dark, sunburned face bore an
     expression of determination and  energy which was as  formidable
     as his personal strength.

     "If there's a vacant place for a chief of the  police,  I reckon
     you are  the man  for  it,"  he  said, gazing  with  undisguised
     admiration  at my  fellow-lodger.  "The way you kept on my trail
     was a caution."

     "You  had  better   come  with  me,"  said  Holmes  to  the  two
     detectives.

     "I can drive you," said Lestrade.

     "Good!  and  Gregson can  come inside with me.  You too, Doctor.
     You  have taken an interest  in  the case, and may as well stick
     to us."

     I   assented  gladly,  and   we  all  descended  together.   Our
     prisoner made no  attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the
     cab which had been his, and we followed him.   Lestrade  mounted
     the box, whipped up the horse, and  brought  us in a  very short
     time to our  destination.  We were ushered into a small chamber,
     where a  police inspector noted down our prisoner's name and the
     names of the  men  with whose murder  he had been charged.   The
     official was  a white-faced,  unemotional  man, who went through
     his duties in  a dull,  mechanical  way.  "The prisoner  will be
     put before the magistrates  in the course of the week," he said;
     "in the meantime, Mr.   Jefferson Hope,  have you anything  that
     you wish to say?  I must warn you that your  words will be taken
     down, and may be used against you."

     "I've got  a good  deal to say,"  our  prisoner said slowly.  "I
     want to tell you gentlemen all about it."

     "Hadn't  you better reserve  that  for your  trial?"  asked  the
     inspector.

     "I  may  never  be  tried,"  he  answered.   "You  needn't  look
     startled.   It  isn't  suicide  I  am thinking of.   Are  you  a
     doctor?"  He  turned his fierce dark eyes  upon  me as  he asked
     this last question.

     "Yes, I am," I answered.

     "Then  put your  hand here," he said, with  a  smile,  motioning
     with his manacled wrists towards his chest.

     I did  so; and  became  at  once  conscious of  an extraordinary
     throbbing  and  commotion which was going  on inside.  The walls
     of  his  chest seemed to  thrill and quiver as  a frail building
     would do inside when some powerful engine was at  work.   In the
     silence of the room  I  could  hear  a dull  humming and buzzing
     noise which proceeded from the same source.

     "Why," I cried, "you have an aortic aneurism!"

     "That's what they call  it,"  he said, placidly.   "I went  to a
     doctor  last week about it,  and he told me that  it is bound to
     burst before  many days  passed.  It has been getting worse  for
     years.  I got it from overexposure  and under-feeding among  the
     Salt Lake  Mountains.   I've  done my work now, and I don't care
     how soon I go, but I should like to  leave some account  of  the
     business behind me.  I don't want  to be  remembered as a common
     cut-throat."

     The  inspector and the  two  detectives had a hurried discussion
     as  to  the  advisability of  allowing  him to tell  his  story.

     "Do you consider, Doctor, that  there is immediate  danger?" the
     former asked.

     "Most certainly there is," I answered.

     "In  that case  it is clearly  our  duty, in  the  interests  of
     justice, to take his statement," said the  inspector.   "You are
     at liberty, sir, to  give your account, which  I  again warn you
     will be taken down."

     "I'll  sit down, with  your leave," the  prisoner said,  suiting
     the action to  the word.  "This aneurism of mine makes me easily
     tired, and the tussle  we had half an  hour  ago has  not mended
     matters.   I'm on the brink of the grave, and I am not likely to
     lie  to  you.  Every  word  I say is the absolute truth, and how
     you use it is a matter of no consequence to me."

     With these  words,  Jefferson Hope leaned back in his  chair and
     began  the following remarkable statement.  He  spoke  in a calm
     and methodical manner,  as though  the events  which he narrated
     were commonplace enough.  I can vouch  for the  accuracy of  the
     subjoined  account,  for   I  have  had  access   to  Lestrade's
     notebook, in which  the prisoner's words were taken down exactly
     as they were uttered.

     "It don't much  matter to you why I  hated  these men," he said;
     "it's enough that they were  guilty of  the  death of  two human
     beings  --   a  father  and  daughter  --  and  that  they  had,
     therefore, forfeited their own lives.   After the lapse  of time
     that  has passed since their crime, it was impossible  for me to
     secure a conviction against them in any court.   I knew of their
     guilt  though, and I  determined  that I should be judge,  jury,
     and executioner all  rolled into one.  You'd have done the same,
     if  you  have any manhood in you,  if  you had been in my place.

     "That girl that I spoke  of was to have  married me twenty years
     ago.  She was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and  broke
     her  heart over it.  I  took  the marriage  ring from  her  dead
     finger,  and I vowed that his  dying eyes should rest upon  that
     very  ring,  and that his last  thoughts should be of the  crime
     for which he  was punished.  I have  carried it about  with  me,
     and have  followed him and  his accomplice  over  two continents
     until I caught  them.  They  thought to  tire  me out,  but they
     could not  do it.  If I die  to-morrow,  as is likely enough,  I
     die  knowing that my work in this  world is done, and well done.
     They  have perished,  and by my hand.  There is nothing left for
     me to hope for, or to desire.

     "They were  rich and I was poor, so that it  was no  easy matter
     for  me  to  follow them.   When I got to  London my pocket  was
     about empty, and I found that  I must turn my hand  to something
     for  my living.   Driving  and riding  are  as natural to me  as
     walking, so I applied  at  a  cab-owner's  office, and soon  got
     employment.  I was to bring a certain  sum a  week to the owner,
     and whatever was over that  I might keep  for myself.  There was
     seldom much over, but I  managed to  scrape  along somehow.  The
     hardest job was to learn my way about,  for I reckon that of all
     the  mazes  that  ever  were contrived,  this  city is  the most
     confusing.  I had a map beside  me, though, and when  once I had
     spotted  the principal  hotels  and stations,  I  got on  pretty
     well.

     "It  was some  time before I  found out  where my  two gentlemen
     were living;  but  I  inquired  and inquired  until  at  last  I
     dropped  across  them.   They  were   at   a  boarding-house  at
     Camberwell, over  on the other  side of  the river.  When once I
     found  them out, I  knew that I had  them  at  my mercy.  I  had
     grown my  beard, and there  was no  chance of their  recognizing
     me.   I  would  dog  them  and  follow  them  until  I  saw   my
     opportunity.  I was  determined that they  should not escape  me
     again.

     "They  were  very near  doing it for all  that.   Go where  they
     would  about London,  I was always at their heels.   Sometimes I
     followed  them on my cab, and  sometimes on foot, but the former
     was the best, for then  they could not get away from me.  It was
     only early  in the morning  or late at night  that  I could earn
     anything,  so that I  began to get behindhand with  my employer.
     I did not  mind  that, however,  as long as  I could lay my hand
     upon the men I wanted.

     "They were very  cunning,  though.   They must have thought that
     there was some chance of  their  being followed, for  they would
     never  go  out  alone,  and  never after nightfall.  During  two
     weeks I  drove behind  them every  day, and never once  saw them
     separate.   Drebber  himself  was  drunk   half  the  time,  but
     Stangerson  was  not to be caught napping.  I  watched them late
     and early, but never  saw the ghost of a  chance;  but I was not
     discouraged, for  something  told me  that  the hour had  almost
     come.  My only fear  was that this thing in my chest might burst
     a little too soon and leave my work undone.

     "At  last,  one  evening  I  was driving  up  and  down  Torquay
     Terrace, as  the street was called in which they boarded, when I
     saw a cab  drive up to their door.  Presently  some luggage  was
     brought  out and  after a time  Drebber  and Stangerson followed
     it, and drove off.  I whipped  up my horse and kept within sight
     of them, feeling very  ill at  ease, for I feared that they were
     going to shift their  quarters.  At Euston Station they got out,
     and I  left a boy to hold my horse and  followed them  on to the
     platform.   I heard  them  ask for the Liverpool train,  and the
     guard answer  that one had  just gone,  and  there would  not be
     another  for  some  hours.  Stangerson  seemed to be  put out at
     that,  but Drebber was rather pleased than otherwise.  I got  so
     close to them  in the bustle that I  could hear every  word that
     passed  between  them.   Drebber  said  that  he  had  a  little
     business  of his own to do, and that if the other would wait for
     him he would soon  rejoin him.   His companion remonstrated with
     him, and  reminded him that they had resolved to stick together.
     Drebber answered  that the matter was  a delicate  one, and that
     he  must go alone.  I could not catch  what Stangerson  said  to
     that, but the  other burst out  swearing, and reminded  him that
     he  was nothing more than his paid servant, and that he must not
     presume to dictate to him.  On that the secretary gave it  up as
     a bad  job, and simply bargained with him that if  he missed the
     last train he should  rejoin him at Halliday's Private Hotel; to
     which  Drebber answered that he would be  back  on  the platform
     before eleven, and made his way out of the station.

     "The  moment for which  I had waited so  long had at last  come.
     I had my  enemies within my power.  Together they could  protect
     each other,  but singly they were  at my mercy.   I did not act,
     however,  with  undue  precipitation.   My  plans  were  already
     formed.   There  is no  satisfaction  in  vengeance  unless  the
     offender has time to  realize who it is  that  strikes  him, and
     why retribution has come upon him.   I had my  plans arranged by
     which I  should  have the opportunity of  making the man who had
     wronged me understand  that  his old sin had found him  out.  It
     chanced that  some days before a gentleman who had  been engaged
     in  looking over some houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the
     key of one  of them in my  carriage.   It was  claimed that same
     evening,  and returned;  but  in  the  interval  I  had taken  a
     moulding of it,  and  had a duplicate  constructed.  By means of
     this I had access to at least one spot in this great city  where
     I  could  rely  upon being free  from interruption.  How  to get
     Drebber to that house was  the difficult problem which I had now
     to solve.

     "He  walked down  the  road  and  went into  one  or  two liquor
     shops,  staying  for nearly half an  hour  in  the last of them.
     When he came out, he  staggered  in his walk, and was  evidently
     pretty well on.  There was a hansom  just in front of me, and he
     hailed it.   I followed it so close  that the  nose of my  horse
     was within  a yard of  his  driver  the  whole way.  We  rattled
     across Waterloo Bridge and  through miles of streets, until,  to
     my  astonishment,  we found  ourselves  back in  the  terrace in
     which he had boarded.  I  could  not  imagine what his intention
     was in  returning  there;  but I  went on and pulled up my cab a
     hundred  yards  or so from  the house.  He entered it,  and  his
     hansom drove away.   Give  me a glass of water,  if  you please.
     My mouth gets dry with the talking."

     I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

     "That's  better," he said.  "Well, I waited for  a quarter of an
     hour,  or more, when  suddenly there  came  a  noise like people
     struggling inside  the  house.   Next moment  the door was flung
     open  and  two men appeared,  one of  whom was  Drebber, and the
     other  was a  young chap  whom  I  had never seen  before.  This
     fellow  had Drebber  by  the collar,  and when  they came to the
     head of the steps he gave him a  shove and a kick which sent him
     half across the road.  'You hound!' he cried, shaking his  stick
     at him; 'I'll  teach you to insult  an  honest girl!' He was  so
     hot that  I  think he  would  have  thrashed  Drebber  with  his
     cudgel, only that  the cur staggered away down the road as  fast
     as his legs  would  carry him.  He ran as far as the corner, and
     then  seeing  my  cab, he hailed me and jumped in.  'Drive me to
     Halliday's Private Hotel,' said he.

     "When I had him fairly  inside my cab,  my  heart jumped so with
     joy that I feared  lest at this last moment my aneurism might go
     wrong.   I drove along  slowly, weighing in my  own mind what it
     was best to  do.  I might take him right  out into  the country,
     and  there  in  some  deserted lane have my last  interview with
     him.   I  had almost  decided  upon  this, when  he  solved  the
     problem  for me.  The craze for drink had seized him  again, and
     he  ordered  me to pull up  outside  a  gin palace.  He went in,
     leaving  word that  I  should wait for  him.  There  he remained
     until closing time, and  when  he came out  he  was so far  gone
     that I knew the game was in my own hands.

     "Don't imagine that I intended to kill him  in  cold  blood.  It
     would only  have  been rigid  justice  if  I had done so, but  I
     could not bring myself to do it.  I  had long determined that he
     should have a show for his life if  he chose  to take  advantage
     of it.  Among the  many billets which  I  have filled in America
     during my wandering life, I was once janitor and sweeper-out  of
     the  laboratory  at  York  College.  One day the  professor  was
     lecturing on poisons, and he  showed his students some alkaloid,
     as  he  called  it,  which  he had  extracted  from  some  South
     American arrow poison, and which was  so powerful that the least
     grain meant instant death.   I spotted the bottle in  which this
     preparation  was kept,  and when  they were all gone,  I  helped
     myself to a little of it.  I was a  fairly good dispenser,  so I
     worked this alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and each pill  I
     put in  a box with a  similar  pill made  without the poison.  I
     determined at  the time  that  when I had my chance my gentlemen
     should each have a draw out of one of  these boxes, while  I ate
     the pill that remained.  It would be quite  as deadly and a good
     deal  less noisy than  firing across a handkerchief.   From that
     day I had  always my pill boxes about with  me, and the time had
     now come when I was to use them.

     "It was  nearer  one  than  twelve, and  a  wild,  bleak  night,
     blowing  hard  and  raining  in  torrents.   Dismal  as  it  was
     outside, I was glad within -- so glad  that I could have shouted
     out from  pure exultation.  If  any of you  gentlemen  have ever
     pined for a thing, and  longed for it during twenty  long years,
     and  then  suddenly  found  it  within  your  reach,  you  would
     understand my  feelings.   I lit a cigar, and  puffed  at it  to
     steady  my nerves, but my  hands were trembling  and  my temples
     throbbing with excitement.   As I  drove,  I could see old  John
     Ferrier and  sweet Lucy looking  at me out  of the  darkness and
     smiling at me, just  as plain as  I see you  all  in this  room.
     All the way  they  were ahead  of  me, one on each  side of  the
     horse  until I  pulled up  at  the  house  in the  Brixton Road.

     "There was not  a  soul  to be  seen, nor a sound to  be  heard,
     except  the  dripping  of the rain.  When I  looked  in  at  the
     window,  I  found  Drebber  all  huddled  together in  a drunken
     sleep.   I shook him by the arm, 'It's time to get out,' I said.

     "'All right, cabby,' said he.

     "I suppose he thought we  had  come  to  the hotel that  he  had
     mentioned,  for he got out without another word, and followed me
     down the  garden.  I had to walk beside him to keep  him steady,
     for  he was still a little top-heavy.  When we came to the door,
     I  opened  it and led him into the front  room.   I give you  my
     word that all the way, the father and the daughter were  walking
     in front of us.

     "'It's infernally dark,' said he, stamping about.

     "'We'll  soon  have  a  light,'  I  said, striking a  match  and
     putting it to a wax candle which I had brought  with me.   'Now,
     Enoch  Drebber,' I  continued, turning to him,  and holding  the
     light to my own face, 'who am I?'

     "He  gazed at me  with bleared, drunken  eyes for a  moment, and
     then I  saw a horror spring up  in them, and  convulse his whole
     features, which showed me  that  he knew  me.  He staggered back
     with  a  livid face, and I saw  the  perspiration break out upon
     his brow, while his  teeth chattered  in his head.  At the sight
     I leaned my back against the  door and laughed loud and long.  I
     had always known that  vengeance would be sweet, but I had never
     hoped  for the  contentment  of  soul  which now  possessed  me.

     "'You  dog!' I  said;  'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to
     St.  Petersburg, and you have  always  escaped me.  Now, at last
     your wanderings have come to an  end,  for either you or I shall
     never see to-morrow's sun  rise.' He shrunk  still farther  away
     as I spoke, and I could see  on  his face  that he thought I was
     mad.  So  I was  for the time.   The pulses in my  temples  beat
     like sledge-hammers,  and I believe I would have  had  a  fit of
     some sort if the  blood had not gushed from my nose and relieved
     me.

     "'What  do you think of  Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried, locking the
     door,  and  shaking the  key in his face.   'Punishment has been
     slow in coming, but  it has  overtaken you at last.'  I  saw his
     coward lips tremble as  I spoke.  He would  have begged for  his
     life, but he knew well that it was useless.

     "'Would you murder me?' he stammered.

     "'There is no murder,'  I answered.  'Who  talks  of murdering a
     mad dog?   What mercy had  you upon  my  poor  darling, when you
     dragged her from her slaughtered  father, and bore  her  away to
     your accursed and shameless harem?'

     "'It was not I who killed her father,' he cried.

     "'But  it  was you  who broke her  innocent heart,' I  shrieked,
     thrusting the box before  him.   'Let the high God judge between
     us.   Choose and  eat.   There is death in one  and life in  the
     other.  I shall take  what you leave.   Let us see if  there  is
     justice  upon  the  earth,  or  if  we  are  ruled  by  chance.'

     "He cowered away  with wild cries and  prayers for mercy,  but I
     drew  my knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me.
     Then I  swallowed  the other, and we stood facing one another in
     silence for a minute or more,  waiting to see  which was to live
     and which was to die.  Shall  I ever forget the look  which came
     over  his face when the first  warning  pangs told him that  the
     poison was in  his system?   I laughed  as  I  saw  it, and held
     Lucy's  marriage ring in front of his eyes.   It  was but for  a
     moment, for  the  action of the  alkaloid is  rapid.  A spasm of
     pain contorted his features; he  threw his hands out in front of
     him, staggered,  and then, with a hoarse  cry, fell heavily upon
     the floor.   I turned him  over with my foot, and placed my hand
     upon  his  heart.   There   was  no  movement.   He   was  dead!

     "The blood had been  streaming from my nose, but I had taken  no
     notice  of  it.  I don't  know what it was that  put it into  my
     head to  write upon  the  wall  with  it.  Perhaps it  was  some
     mischievous idea  of setting the  police upon a wrong track, for
     I felt light-hearted  and  cheerful.  I remember  a German being
     found  in New York  with RACHE written up above him,  and it was
     argued at the time  in the newspapers  that the secret societies
     must have  done it.  I guessed that what puzzled the New Yorkers
     would  puzzle the  Londoners, so  I dipped  my finger in my  own
     blood  and printed it on a convenient place on the wall.  Then I
     walked  down to my  cab and  found  that there was nobody about,
     and that  the  night  was still  very  wild.  I had driven  some
     distance, when  I put my hand into the pocket in which I usually
     kept Lucy's  ring,  and  found  that  it  was  not there.  I was
     thunderstruck at  this, for  it was the only  memento that I had
     of  her.  Thinking  that I might have dropped it  when I stooped
     over Drebber's body,  I drove back, and leaving my cab in a side
     street,  I  went boldly up to the  house --  for I was ready  to
     dare anything rather than lose the  ring.  When I arrived there,
     I walked right into the arms  of a police-officer who was coming
     out, and  only managed to disarm his suspicions by pretending to
     be hopelessly drunk.

     "That was how Enoch Drebber came  to  his end.  All I  had to do
     then  was  to  do  as  much for Stangerson, and so  pay off John
     Ferrier's  debt.   I  knew that  he  was  staying at  Halliday's
     Private Hotel,  and I hung about all day, but he never came out.
     I fancy that he suspected something when  Drebber  failed to put
     in an appearance.  He  was  cunning,  was Stangerson, and always
     on his guard.  If  he thought he  could  keep  me off by staying
     indoors he was very much mistaken.   I soon  found out which was
     the window  of  his  bedroom,  and early  next  morning  I  took
     advantage of  some ladders  which were lying  in the lane behind
     the hotel, and  so made  my way into his room in the gray of the
     dawn.  I woke him up and told him  that the hour  had  come when
     he was  to answer for the  life he had  taken so long before.  I
     described  Drebber's  death  to  him,  and I gave  him the  same
     choice  of  the  poisoned  pills.  Instead of  grasping  at  the
     chance of safety which  that offered him, he sprang from his bed
     and flew at my throat.   In self-defence  I  stabbed him  to the
     heart.  It would have been the same  in any case, for Providence
     would never  have allowed his  guilty hand to pick  out anything
     but the poison.

     "I  have  little more to say,  and it's as well, for I am  about
     done  up.   I went  on cabbing it for a  day or so, intending to
     keep  at it until  I  could save  enough  to  take  me  back  to
     America.  I was  standing in the  yard  when a ragged  youngster
     asked if  there  was a cabby there  called Jefferson  Hope,  and
     said that  his cab was wanted  by  a  gentleman at  221B,  Baker
     Street.  I went round  suspecting no harm, and the next  thing I
     knew, this young man here  had the bracelets  on my  wrists, and
     as neatly shackled as  ever I saw in my  life.  That's the whole
     of my story, gentlemen.  You may consider  me to  be a murderer;
     but I hold that I am just as  much an officer of  justice as you
     are."

     So thrilling had the  man's  narrative been  and his manner  was
     so  impressive that we had  sat silent and  absorbed.  Even  the
     professional detectives, blase  as they  were in every detail of
     crime,  appeared to be  keenly interested  in the  man's  story.
     When he  finished, we sat for some minutes in a stillness  which
     was only broken  by  the scratching  of  Lestrade's pencil as he
     gave  the  finishing   touches   to   his   shorthand   account.

     "There is only one  point on which  I should like a  little more
     information,"  Sherlock  Holmes said  at last.   "Who  was  your
     accomplice  who  came  for   the   ring  which   I  advertised?"

     The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely.  "I  can tell my  own
     secrets," he said,  "but I don't get other  people into trouble.
     I saw your advertisement,  and I thought it might be a plant, or
     it might be the  ring  which I wanted.  My friend volunteered to
     go and see.  I think you'll own he did it smartly."

     "Not a doubt of that," said Holmes, heartily.

     "Now, gentlemen," the inspector  remarked  gravely,  "the  forms
     of the  law must be  complied  with.   On Thursday the  prisoner
     will  be brought before  the  magistrates, and  your  attendance
     will be  required.  Until  then I will be responsible  for him."
     He rang the bell  as he spoke, and Jefferson Hope was led off by
     a couple of warders, while  my friend and I made our way  out of
     the station and took a cab back to Baker Street.



                                Chapter 7

                             THE CONCLUSION

     We  had  all been warned to appear  before the  magistrates upon
     the Thursday; but when the  Thursday  came there was no occasion
     for  our  testimony.   A higher Judge  had taken the  matter  in
     hand,  and Jefferson Hope had been  summoned  before a  tribunal
     where  strict justice would  be  meted out to him.  On  the very
     night after his capture the aneurism burst, and  he was found in
     the morning stretched upon the floor of the cell,  with a placid
     smile upon his  face, as though he had  been  able in  his dying
     moments to look back upon a useful life, and on work well  done.

     "Gregson and  Lestrade  will  be  wild about  his death," Holmes
     remarked,  as  we  chatted  it  over next evening.   "Where will
     their grand advertisement be now?"

     "I  don't see  that they had very much  to do with his capture,"
     I answered.

     "What you  do  in this world is a  matter  of  no  consequence,"
     returned  my  companion,  bitterly.  "The question  is, what can
     you make people  believe  that you have done?   Never  mind," he
     continued, more  brightly, after a  pause.  "I  would  not  have
     missed  the  investigation  for  anything.  There  has  been  no
     better  case within  my recollection.   Simple as it was,  there
     were several most instructive points about it."

     "Simple!" I ejaculated.

     "Well, really, it can  hardly be  described  as otherwise," said
     Sherlock Holmes,  smiling at  my  surprise.   "The proof  of its
     intrinsic simplicity is, that without  any  help save a few very
     ordinary deductions I was able  to lay my hand upon the criminal
     within three days."

     "That is true," said I.

     "I have  already  explained to  you  that  what  is  out  of the
     common is usually a  guide rather than a hindrance.   In solving
     a problem  of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason
     backward.  That  is a  very useful  accomplishment,  and  a very
     easy one, but  people do not practise it much.  In the  everyday
     affairs  of life it is more useful to reason forward, and so the
     other comes to be  neglected.  There are  fifty  who can  reason
     synthetically for one who can reason analytically."

     "I  confess,"  said  I,  "that  I  do  not  quite  follow  you."

     "I hardly expected  that you  would.   Let me see if I can  make
     it clearer.  Most people,  if you describe a train of events  to
     them,  will  tell you what the  result  would be.  They  can put
     those events together in their minds, and  argue from them  that
     something will  come  to  pass.  There are  few people, however,
     who,  if you told them  a  result, would be  able to evolve from
     their own inner consciousness what the steps were  which  led up
     to  that  result.  This  power  is what  I  mean when I talk  of
     reasoning backward, or analytically."

     "I understand," said I.

     "Now this  was  a case  in  which  you were given the result and
     had to find everything else for yourself.  Now let me  endeavour
     to  show you the different steps  in my  reasoning.  To begin at
     the  beginning.  I approached the  house,  as you know, on foot,
     and  with  my  mind  entirely  free  from  all  impressions.   I
     naturally began by examining the roadway, and  there, as I  have
     already explained to you,  I saw  clearly the  marks  of  a cab,
     which,  I ascertained by  inquiry,  must have been there  during
     the night.  I satisfied  myself that  it  was a cab  and  not  a
     private  carriage  by the  narrow  gauge  of  the  wheels.   The
     ordinary  London  growler  is  considerably  less  wide  than  a
     gentleman's brougham.

     "This was the  first  point gained.  I then  walked slowly  down
     the garden  path, which happened to  be composed of a clay soil,
     peculiarly  suitable  for  taking  impressions.    No  doubt  it
     appeared to you to be  a mere trampled  line of slush, but to my
     trained eyes every mark  upon its surface had a  meaning.  There
     is no branch of detective science which is so important  and  so
     much  neglected  as  the art of tracing  footsteps.  Happily,  I
     have always  laid  great  stress upon it,  and much practice has
     made  it  second nature to me.  I saw the heavy footmarks of the
     constables, but  I  saw also  the  track of  the two men who had
     first  passed through the garden.  It was easy to tell that they
     had been  before the others, because  in places their marks  had
     been entirely obliterated by the  others coming upon the top  of
     them.  In this way my  second  link  was  formed, which told  me
     that the nocturnal  visitors were two in number,  one remarkable
     for his height (as I calculated from  the length of his stride),
     and the other fashionably dressed, to  judge from  the small and
     elegant impression left by his boots.

     "On  entering the house this  last inference was  confirmed.  My
     well-booted man lay  before me.  The  tall  one,  then, had done
     the  murder, if murder there was.   There was no wound upon  the
     dead  man's  person,  but the  agitated expression upon his face
     assured me that  he had foreseen  his fate before  it came  upon
     him.  Men  who  die from heart disease, or  any  sudden  natural
     cause,  never  by   any  chance  exhibit  agitation  upon  their
     features.   Having  sniffed the  dead  man's lips, I detected  a
     slightly sour smell,  and I  came to the conclusion that  he had
     had poison  forced upon him.  Again, I  argued that it had  been
     forced upon him  from the  hatred  and fear expressed  upon  his
     face.   By  the  method  of  exclusion,  I had arrived  at  this
     result,  for no other hypothesis would meet  the  facts.  Do not
     imagine that  it  was a  very  unheard-of  idea.   The  forcible
     administration of  poison is by no means a new thing in criminal
     annals.  The  cases  of  Dolsky  in Odessa,  and  of Leturier in
     Montpellier,   will  occur  at   once   to   any   toxicologist.

     "And now came the  great question as to the reason why.  Robbery
     had  not been the  object of the  murder, for nothing was taken.
     Was it  politics,  then,  or  was  it  a woman?   That  was  the
     question which confronted me.   I was inclined from the first to
     the latter supposition.  Political assassins are  only  too glad
     to  do their work and to fly.  This murder had, on the contrary,
     been done most  deliberately, and  the perpetrator had left  his
     tracks all over  the  room, showing that he  had been  there all
     the  time.  It  must  have  been  a  private  wrong, and  not  a
     political one,  which  called for  such  a  methodical  revenge.
     When the inscription was discovered upon  the wall,  I was  more
     inclined than ever to my opinion.   The  thing was too evidently
     a  blind.  When  the ring was  found, however,  it  settled  the
     question.  Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim
     of some  dead  or absent woman.   It was at  this  point that  I
     asked  Gregson  whether  he had  inquired  in  his  telegram  to
     Cleveland  as  to any particular point in Mr.  Drebber's  former
     career.    He  answered,   you  remember,   in   the   negative.

     "I  then  proceeded to make a  careful examination  of the room,
     which confirmed me in my opinion as  to  the  murderer's height,
     and  furnished  me  with   the  additional  details  as  to  the
     Trichinopoly cigar and the length of his  nails.  I had  already
     come  to  the  conclusion,  since  there  were  no  signs  of  a
     struggle, that the blood  which covered the floor had burst from
     the murderer's nose  in  his excitement.  I  could perceive that
     the track of blood coincided with the track of his feet.   It is
     seldom that any man, unless he is very  full-blooded, breaks out
     in this way through emotion, so I  hazarded the opinion that the
     criminal  was probably a  robust and  ruddy-faced  man.   Events
     proved that I had judged correctly.

     "Having left  the  house,  I proceeded  to  do what  Gregson had
     neglected.   I  telegraphed  to   the  head  of  the  police  at
     Cleveland, limiting my  inquiry  to the circumstances  connected
     with  the marriage of Enoch Drebber.  The answer was conclusive.
     It  told me that Drebber had already applied for  the protection
     of the law against an old rival in  love,  named Jefferson Hope,
     and that this same Hope was at present in  Europe.   I knew  now
     that I held the  clue to the mystery in my  hand, and  all  that
     remained was to secure the murderer.

     "I  had already  determined in my own mind that the  man who had
     walked into the house with Drebber was none other  than  the man
     who had driven the  cab.  The  marks  in the road showed me that
     the  horse  had wandered  on  in  a  way  which would  have been
     impossible had  there been anyone in charge of it.  Where, then,
     could the driver be, unless  he were inside  the house?   Again,
     it  is absurd to  suppose that  any sane man would carry  out  a
     deliberate crime under  the very eyes, as  it  were, of a  third
     person,  who was sure to  betray him.  Lastly, supposing one man
     wished to  dog another  through London, what better  means could
     he adopt than  to turn cabdriver?  All these considerations  led
     me  to the irresistible conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be
     found among the jarveys of the Metropolis.

     "If he  had  been one,  there  was no reason to believe that  he
     had ceased to be.  On the contrary,  from his point of view, any
     sudden change would be likely to draw attention  to himself.  He
     would probably,  for a time  at least,  continue to perform  his
     duties.  There was no reason to suppose that  he was going under
     an assumed  name.  Why  should  he change his name  in a country
     where  no one knew his original  one?   I therefore organized my
     street Arab detective  corps,  and  sent them  systematically to
     every cab proprietor in London  until they ferreted out the  man
     that I wanted.  How well they  succeeded, and how quickly I took
     advantage  of it,  are  still  fresh in your  recollection.  The
     murder  of  Stangerson   was  an  incident  which  was  entirely
     unexpected,  but which  could  hardly  in  any  case  have  been
     prevented.  Through it,  as you know, I came  into possession of
     the pills, the existence of  which I had already surmised.   You
     see, the whole thing is a  chain of logical  sequences without a
     break or flaw."

     "It  is  wonderful!" I cried.  "Your  merits should be  publicly
     recognized.  You should publish  an account of the case.  If you
     won't, I will for you."

     "You may  do  what you like,  Doctor," he answered.  "See here!"
     he continued,  handing  a  paper  over  to me,  "look  at this!"

     It was  the  Echo for the  day, and  the paragraph  to  which he
     pointed was devoted to the case in question.

     "The public,"  it said,  "have lost  a sensational treat through
     the sudden  death of  the man Hope,  who  was suspected  of  the
     murder of Mr.  Enoch Drebber and of Mr.  Joseph Stangerson.  The
     details of the case will probably be never  known now, though we
     are informed upon good authority  that the  crime was the result
     of  an  old-standing  and  romantic  feud,  in  which  love  and
     Mormonism  bore  a  part.   It  seems  that  both   the  victims
     belonged, in their younger days, to the  Latter Day Saints,  and
     Hope, the  deceased prisoner,  hails  also  from Salt Lake City.
     If the case has  had no  other effect,  it, at least, brings out
     in  the most  striking  manner  the efficiency of  our detective
     police  force, and will serve as a lesson to all foreigners that
     they will do wisely  to  settle their feuds  at home, and not to
     carry them on  to British  soil.  It is an open secret  that the
     credit of this smart  capture belongs entirely to the well-known
     Scotland Yard officials, Messrs.  Lestrade and Gregson.  The man
     was apprehended, it appears,  in  the  rooms  of  a  certain Mr.
     Sherlock Holmes,  who has  himself,  as an amateur,  shown  some
     talent in the  detective  line and who,  with  such instructors,
     may hope  in  time  to attain to some degree of their skill.  It
     is  expected that a testimonial of some sort  will be  presented
     to   the  two   officers  as  a  fitting  recognition  of  their
     services."

     "Didn't I tell you so  when we  started?" cried  Sherlock Holmes
     with a laugh.   "That's the result of all our  Study in Scarlet:
     to get them a testimonial!"

     "Never mind," I answered; "I  have all  the facts in my journal,
     and the public shall know them.  In the meantime  you  must make
     yourself  contented  by  the consciousness of  success,like  the
     Roman miser -

     "Populus  me  sibilat, at mihi plaudo Ipse domi  simul ac nummos
     contemplar in arca."