الفصل الفصل 1 · THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE

It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was

interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of

the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable

circumstances. The public has already learned those particulars

of the crime which came out in the police investigation, but a

good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for

the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not

necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end of

nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links

which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was

of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me

compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the

greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.

Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I

think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,

amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let

me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those

glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and

actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame me

if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have

considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred by a

positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn

upon the third of last month.

It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes

had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his

disappearance I never failed to read with care the various

problems which came before the public. And I even attempted, more

than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his methods

in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was

none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald

Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a

verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown,

I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss which the

community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There

were points about this strange business which would, I was sure,

have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police

would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by

the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal

agent in Europe. All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned over

the case in my mind and found no explanation which appeared to me

to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I will

recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the

conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of

Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian

colonies. Adair’s mother had returned from Australia to undergo

the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her

daughter Hilda were living together at 427, Park Lane. The youth

moved in the best society—had, so far as was known, no enemies

and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith

Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by

mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it

had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest, the

man’s life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his

habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon

this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most strange

and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty

on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing continually, but never for

such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin,

the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that,

after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of

whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the

afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him—Mr.

Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran—showed that the game

was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards.

Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was

a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect

him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he

was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in

evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually

won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some

weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for

his recent history as it came out at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at

ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a

relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front

room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She

had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window.

No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of

the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say

good-night, she attempted to enter her son’s room. The door was

locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries

and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The

unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head

had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but

no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table

lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in

silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying

amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with

the names of some club friends opposite to them, from which it

was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to make

out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the

case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given

why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside.

There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and

had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least

twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay

beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of

having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow

strip of grass which separated the house from the road.

Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had

fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No one could

have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a

man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable

shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again,

Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab stand

within a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot. And

yet there was the dead man and there the revolver bullet, which

had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted

a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the

circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further

complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said,

young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had

been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.

All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit

upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that

line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be

the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made

little progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and

found myself about six o’clock at the Oxford Street end of Park

Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a

particular window, directed me to the house which I had come to

see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly

suspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out

some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen

to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his

observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in

some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed

man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books

which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I

observed the title of one of them, _The Origin of Tree Worship_,

and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile,

who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure

volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was

evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated

were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a

snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved

back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the

problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from

the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than

five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to

get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,

since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help the

most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced

my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes

when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To

my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book

collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of

white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,

wedged under his right arm.

“You’re surprised to see me, sir,” said he, in a strange,

croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

“Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go

into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to

myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell

him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm

meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my

books.”

“You make too much of a trifle,” said I. “May I ask how you knew

who I was?”

“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of

yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church

Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect

yourself, sir. Here’s _British Birds_, and _Catullus_, and _The

Holy War_—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you

could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy,

does it not, sir?”

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned

again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study

table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter

amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the

first and the last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled

before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone

and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was

bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a

thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

I gripped him by the arms.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you

are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of

that awful abyss?”

“Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are really fit

to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my

unnecessarily dramatic reappearance.”

“I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my

eyes. Good heavens! to think that you—you of all men—should be

standing in my study.” Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and

felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. “Well, you’re not a spirit

anyhow,” said I. “My dear chap, I’m overjoyed to see you. Sit

down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm.”

He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant

manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book

merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white

hair and old books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and

keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his

aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a

healthy one.

“I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he. “It is no joke

when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several

hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these

explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard

and dangerous night’s work in front of us. Perhaps it would be

better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that

work is finished.”

“I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now.”

“You’ll come with me to-night?”

“When you like and where you like.”

“This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a

mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that

chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the

very simple reason that I never was in it.”

“You never were in it?”

“No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely

genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my

career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late

Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to

safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I

exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his

courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards

received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I

walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I

reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed

at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own

game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We

tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some

knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of

wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I

slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked

madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.

But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he

went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way.

Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”

I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes

delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.

“But the tracks!” I cried. “I saw, with my own eyes, that two

went down the path and none returned.”

“It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had

disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky

chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not

the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three

others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased

by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men.

One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all

the world was convinced that I was dead they would take

liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and

sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for

me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So

rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all

out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the

Reichenbach Fall.

“I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your

picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great

interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer.

That was not literally true. A few small footholds presented

themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff

is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and

it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path

without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed

my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of

three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have

suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I

should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson.

The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I

give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty’s voice screaming

at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More

than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot

slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was

gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge

several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could

lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched,

when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were

investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the

circumstances of my death.

“At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally

erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left

alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my

adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there

were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from

above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the

chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a

moment later, looking up, I saw a man’s head against the

darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which

I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning

of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A

confederate—and even that one glance had told me how dangerous a

man that confederate was—had kept guard while the Professor had

attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness

of his friend’s death and of my escape. He had waited, and then

making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured

to succeed where his comrade had failed.

“I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that

grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the

precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I

don’t think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred

times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think

of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my

hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by

the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path.

I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the

darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the

certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.

“I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe you many

apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it

should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you

would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end

had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times

during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to

you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me

should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my

secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when

you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show

of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention

to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable

results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to

obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London

did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty

gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most

vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in

Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and

spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the

remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am

sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news

of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca,

and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum

the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office.

Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the

coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at

Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my

satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now

left in London, I was about to return when my movements were

hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,

which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed

to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over

at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw

Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had

preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been.

So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o’clock to-day I found

myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing

that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair

which he has so often adorned.”

Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that

April evening—a narrative which would have been utterly

incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of

the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had

never thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my

own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner

rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to sorrow,

my dear Watson,” said he; “and I have a piece of work for us both

to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion,

will in itself justify a man’s life on this planet.” In vain I

begged him to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before

morning,” he answered. “We have three years of the past to

discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start

upon the notable adventure of the empty house.”

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself

seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the

thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and

silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere

features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his

thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to

hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well

assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the

adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which

occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good

for the object of our quest.

I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes

stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed

that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right

and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the

utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was

certainly a singular one. Holmes’s knowledge of the byways of

London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly

and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,

the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at last

into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us

into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he

turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden

gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back

door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an

empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare

planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the

paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes’s cold, thin fingers closed

round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly

saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly

to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty

room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the

centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp

near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only

just discern each other’s figures within. My companion put his

hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.

“Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through the

dim window.

“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our

own old quarters.”

“But why are we here?”

“Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque

pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little

nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show

yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms—the starting-point

of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three

years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise

you.”

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my

eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The

blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The

shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in

hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There

was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the

shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned

half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black

silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a

perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out

my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me.

He was quivering with silent laughter.

“Well?” said he.

“Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”

“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite

variety,” said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and

pride which the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is

rather like me, is it not?”

“I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”

“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of

Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust

in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker

Street this afternoon.”

“But why?”

“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for

wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was

really elsewhere.”

“And you thought the rooms were watched?”

“I _knew_ that they were watched.”

“By whom?”

“By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader

lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew,

and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they

believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them

continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my

window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a

garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the

jew’s-harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for

the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom

friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff,

the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the

man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who is

quite unaware that we are after _him_.”

My friend’s plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this

convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the

trackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and

we were the hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness

and watched the hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front

of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could tell that he

was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the

stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and boisterous night and the

wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people were

moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats and

cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same

figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared to

be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house

some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion’s

attention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of

impatience, and continued to stare into the street. More than

once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his

fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming

uneasy, and that his plans were not working out altogether as he

had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the street

gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in

uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him,

when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again

experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched

Holmes’s arm, and pointed upward.

“The shadow has moved!” I cried.

It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was

turned towards us.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his

temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his

own.

“Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler,

Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that

some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We

have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some

change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an

hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never

be seen. Ah!” He drew in his breath with a shrill, excited

intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole

attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street was absolutely

deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the doorway,

but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save only

that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure

outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that

thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.

An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of

the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers

which clutched me were quivering. Never had I known my friend

more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched lonely and

motionless before us.

But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had

already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not

from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very

house in which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An

instant later steps crept down the passage—steps which were meant

to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty

house. Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did the same,

my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through

the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than

the blackness of the open door. He stood for an instant, and then

he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was

within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced

myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea

of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the

window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a

foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of the

street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his

face. The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His

two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working

convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting

nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An

opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening

dress shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face

was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his

hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it

down upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the

pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied

himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if

a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon

the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength

upon some lever, with the result that there came a long,

whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click.

He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his

hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He

opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the

breech-lock. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the

barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long

moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered

along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he

cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw that amazing target,

the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of

his foresight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then

his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud

whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant

Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman’s back, and hurled

him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with

convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck

him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped

again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my

comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter

of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform,

with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front

entrance and into the room.

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It’s good to see you

back in London, sir.”

“I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected

murders in one year won’t do, Lestrade. But you handled the

Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that’s to say, you

handled it fairly well.”

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a

stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers

had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the

window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced

two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I

was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.

It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was

turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the

jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great

capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his

cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the

fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow,

without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals. He took no heed

of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes’s face with an

expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended.

“You fiend!” he kept on muttering. “You clever, clever fiend!”

“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar.

“‘Journeys end in lovers’ meetings,’ as the old play says. I

don’t think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you

favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the

Reichenbach Fall.”

The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance.

“You cunning, cunning fiend!” was all that he could say.

“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen,

is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty’s Indian Army,

and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever

produced. I believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag

of tigers still remains unrivalled?”

The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my

companion. With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was

wonderfully like a tiger himself.

“I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a

_shikari_,” said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have

you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with

your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This

empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly

had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers,

or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you.

These,” he pointed around, “are my other guns. The parallel is

exact.”

Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the

constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible

to look at.

“I confess that you had one small surprise for me,” said Holmes.

“I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this

empty house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you

as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his

merry men were awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as

I expected.”

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

“You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” said he,

“but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the

gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things

be done in a legal way.”

“Well, that’s reasonable enough,” said Lestrade. “Nothing further

you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?”

Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was

examining its mechanism.

“An admirable and unique weapon,” said he, “noiseless and of

tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic,

who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty.

For years I have been aware of its existence though I have never

before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very

specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which

fit it.”

“You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade,

as the whole party moved towards the door. “Anything further to

say?”

“Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?”

“What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr.

Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at

all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the

remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I

congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and

audacity, you have got him.”

“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel

Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an

expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the

second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of

last month. That’s the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you

can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an

hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable

amusement.”

Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision

of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I

entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old

landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical corner

and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was

the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which

many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The

diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack—even the Persian

slipper which contained the tobacco—all met my eyes as I glanced

round me. There were two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson,

who beamed upon us both as we entered—the other, the strange

dummy which had played so important a part in the evening’s

adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so

admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a

small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes’s so

draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely

perfect.

“I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes.

“I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me.”

“Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe

where the bullet went?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it

passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I

picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!”

Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet, as you

perceive, Watson. There’s genius in that, for who would expect to

find such a thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I

am much obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see

you in your old seat once more, for there are several points

which I should like to discuss with you.”

He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the Holmes

of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his

effigy.

“The old _shikari’s_ nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor

his eyes their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected

the shattered forehead of his bust.

“Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through

the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there

are few better in London. Have you heard the name?”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right, you

had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one

of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of

biographies from the shelf.”

He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and

blowing great clouds from his cigar.

“My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself

is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the

poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who

knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross,

and, finally, here is our friend of to-night.”

He handed over the book, and I read:

_Moran_, _Sebastian_, _Colonel_. Unemployed. Formerly 1st

Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran,

C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.

Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab

(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of _Heavy Game of the

Western Himalayas_ (1881); _Three Months in the Jungle_ (1884).

Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the

Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.

On the margin was written, in Holmes’s precise hand:

The second most dangerous man in London.

“This is astonishing,” said I, as I handed back the volume. “The

man’s career is that of an honourable soldier.”

“It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain point he did

well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still

told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded

man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a

certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly

eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have a theory

that the individual represents in his development the whole

procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good

or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line

of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of

the history of his own family.”

“It is surely rather fanciful.”

“Well, I don’t insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran

began to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India

too hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again

acquired an evil name. It was at this time that he was sought out

by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the

staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him

only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary

criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection of

the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am

sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved.

So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the

Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not incriminate him. You

remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how

I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought

me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the

existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of the

best shots in the world would be behind it. When we were in

Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly

he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.

“You may think that I read the papers with some attention during

my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying

him by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would

really not have been worth living. Night and day the shadow would

have been over me, and sooner or later his chance must have come.

What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should

myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing to a

magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what would

appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But

I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I

should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My

chance had come at last. Knowing what I did, was it not certain

that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played cards with the lad,

he had followed him home from the club, he had shot him through

the open window. There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone

are enough to put his head in a noose. I came over at once. I was

seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the colonel’s

attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden

return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure

that he would make an attempt to get me out of the way _at once_,

and would bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I

left him an excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the

police that they might be needed—by the way, Watson, you spotted

their presence in that doorway with unerring accuracy—I took up

what seemed to me to be a judicious post for observation, never

dreaming that he would choose the same spot for his attack. Now,

my dear Watson, does anything remain for me to explain?”

“Yes,” said I. “You have not made it clear what was Colonel

Moran’s motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?”

“Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of

conjecture, where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may

form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is

as likely to be correct as mine.”

“You have formed one, then?”

“I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came

out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between

them, won a considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly

played foul—of that I have long been aware. I believe that on the

day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating.

Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had threatened to

expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the

club, and promised not to play cards again. It is unlikely that a

youngster like Adair would at once make a hideous scandal by

exposing a well-known man so much older than himself. Probably he

acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean ruin

to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains. He therefore

murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how

much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by

his partner’s foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies

should surprise him and insist upon knowing what he was doing

with these names and coins. Will it pass?”

“I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth.”

“It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come

what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous

air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum,

and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to

examining those interesting little problems which the complex

life of London so plentifully presents.”

Adventure 2.