الفصل الفصل 12 · THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of

the winter of ’97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my

shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his

eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was

amiss.

“Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word!

Into your clothes and come!”

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the

silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first

faint winter’s dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly

see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us,

blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes

nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the

same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken

our fast.

It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and

taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently

thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his

pocket, and read aloud:

Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent, 3:30 A.M.

MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what

promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in

your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that

everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not

to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace

there.

Yours faithfully,

STANLEY HOPKINS.

“Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his

summons has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that

every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,

and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,

which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your

fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a

story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what might

have been an instructive and even classical series of

demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and

delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may

excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”

“Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some

bitterness.

“I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,

fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the

composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of

detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a

case of murder.”

“You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows considerable agitation,

and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been

violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere

suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to the

release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in

her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life, Watson,

crackling paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque

address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his

reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The

crime was committed before twelve last night.”

“How can you possibly tell?”

“By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The

local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with

Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send

for me. All that makes a fair night’s work. Well, here we are at

Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest.”

A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought

us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old

lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some

great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between

lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,

pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part

was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large

windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one

wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful

figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins

confronted us in the open doorway.

“I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr.

Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not

have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she

has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not

much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of

burglars?”

“What, the three Randalls?”

“Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their work. I have not a

doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were

seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so

near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It’s a hanging matter

this time.”

“Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

“Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”

“Exactly—one of the richest men in Kent—Lady Brackenstall is in

the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful

experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think

you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we

will examine the dining-room together.”

Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so

graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a

face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no

doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such

colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and

haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over

one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a

tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and

water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her quick,

observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression

of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her

courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was

enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a

black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

“I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said,

wearily. “Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it

necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they

been in the dining-room yet?”

“I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.”

“I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to

me to think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried

her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back

from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

“You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red

spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily

covered it.

“It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business

to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you

all I can.

“I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married

about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to

conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that

all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt

to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought

up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,

and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is

not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact,

which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was

a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is

unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and

high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a

sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is

binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a

curse upon the land—God will not let such wickedness endure.” For

an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing

from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong,

soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the

cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At

last she continued:

“I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that

in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This

central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen

behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my

room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who

are in the farther wing. This must have been well-known to the

robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

“Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had

already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had

remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her

services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a

book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went

upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have

explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into

the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the gun-room, the

billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As

I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I

suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was

open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face

with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped into

the room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a

door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my

hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others,

who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow

was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then

by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a

savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the

ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when

I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the bell-rope,

and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair which stands at the

head of the dining-table. I was so firmly bound that I could not

move, and a handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from

uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortunate

husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some suspicious

sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. He was

dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn

cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another—it was

an elderly man—stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and

struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and

never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only

have been for a very few minutes during which I was insensible.

When I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver

from the sideboard, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which

stood there. Each of them had a glass in his hand. I have already

told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the

others young, hairless lads. They might have been a father with

his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then they came

over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally they

withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter

of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams

brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon

alarmed, and we sent for the local police, who instantly

communicated with London. That is really all that I can tell you,

gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go

over so painful a story again.”

“Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

“I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall’s

patience and time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the

dining-room, I should like to hear your experience.” He looked at

the maid.

“I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she.

“As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight

down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the

time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my mistress

scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as she says,

and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over the room. It

was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied there, and her

very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted courage, did

Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey

Grange hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned her long

enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,

just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”

With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her

mistress and led her from the room.

“She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her

as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left

Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and

the kind of maid you don’t pick up nowadays. This way, Mr.

Holmes, if you please!”

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s expressive face, and

I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had

departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what

were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands with

them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has

been called in for a case of measles would experience something

of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s eyes. Yet the scene

in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange

to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest.

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,

oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer’s heads and ancient

weapons around the walls. At the further end from the door was

the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller

windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold

winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a

massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was a

heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom. In and

out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was

secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the

lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which

it had been secured still remained. These details only struck our

attention afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by

the terrible object which lay upon the tigerskin hearthrug in

front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of

age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white

teeth grinning through his short, black beard. His two clenched

hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick

lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were

convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his

dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently

been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a

foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from

his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room

bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck

him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by

the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable

wreck which it had wrought.

“He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is

a rough customer.”

“You should have no difficulty in getting him.”

“Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and

there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we

know that the gang are here, I don’t see how they can escape. We

have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be

offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have done

so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them and

that we could not fail to recognize the description.”

“Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence Lady

Brackenstall as well.”

“They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had

recovered from her faint.”

“That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would

not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem

to have heard some queer stories about him.”

“He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend

when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he

seldom really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him

at such times, and he was capable of anything. From what I hear,

in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly came our

way once or twice. There was a scandal about his drenching a dog

with petroleum and setting it on fire—her ladyship’s dog, to make

the matter worse—and that was only hushed up with difficulty.

Then he threw a decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright—there was

trouble about that. On the whole, and between ourselves, it will

be a brighter house without him. What are you looking at now?”

Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the

knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured.

Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it

had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

“When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have

rung loudly,” he remarked.

“No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of

the house.”

“How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull

at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I

have asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that

this fellow must have known the house and its habits. He must

have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed

at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly

hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in

close league with one of the servants. Surely that is evident.

But there are eight servants, and all of good character.”

“Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the

one at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would

involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems

devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have

Randall you will probably find no difficulty in securing his

accomplice. The lady’s story certainly seems to be corroborated,

if it needed corroboration, by every detail which we see before

us.” He walked to the French window and threw it open. “There are

no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one would not

expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece have

been lighted.”

“Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady’s bedroom

candle, that the burglars saw their way about.”

“And what did they take?”

“Well, they did not take much—only half a dozen articles of plate

off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were

themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did

not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done.”

“No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I

understand.”

“To steady their nerves.”

“Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been

untouched, I suppose?”

“Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it.”

“Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?”

The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with

wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The

bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a

long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the

bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers

had enjoyed.

A change had come over Holmes’s manner. He had lost his listless

expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his

keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

“How did they draw it?” he asked.

Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table

linen and a large corkscrew.

“Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”

“No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the

bottle was opened.”

“Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was _not_ used. This

bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a

knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will

examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was

driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has never

been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it and

drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow, you

will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his

possession.”

“Excellent!” said Hopkins.

“But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall

actually _saw_ the three men drinking, did she not?”

“Yes; she was clear about that.”

“Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet,

you must admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable,

Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it

pass. Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special

powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex

explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be

a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins. I

don’t see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to have

your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is

arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust

that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful

conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves

more profitably at home.”

During our return journey, I could see by Holmes’s face that he

was much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now

and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression, and

talk as if the matter were clear, but then his doubts would

settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted

eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the

great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this midnight

tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as

our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on to

the platform and pulled me out after him.

“Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear

carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, “I am sorry to

make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life,

Watson, I simply _can’t_ leave that case in this condition. Every

instinct that I possess cries out against it. It’s wrong—it’s all

wrong—I’ll swear that it’s wrong. And yet the lady’s story was

complete, the maid’s corroboration was sufficient, the detail was

fairly exact. What have I to put up against that? Three

wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things for

granted, if I had examined everything with the care which I

should have shown had we approached the case _de novo_ and had no

cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have found

something more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down

on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst arrives, and

allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring you in the

first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea that anything

which the maid or her mistress may have said must necessarily be

true. The lady’s charming personality must not be permitted to

warp our judgment.

“Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in

cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a

considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of

them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would

naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which

imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,

burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,

only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without

embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual

for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for

burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one

would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is

unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are

sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be

content with a limited plunder when there was much more within

their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual

for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these

unusuals strike you, Watson?”

“Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each

of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of

all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the

chair.”

“Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident

that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way

that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at

any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain

element of improbability about the lady’s story? And now, on the

top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses.”

“What about the wineglasses?”

“Can you see them in your mind’s eye?”

“I see them clearly.”

“We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you

as likely?”

“Why not? There was wine in each glass.”

“Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have

noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

“The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing.”

“Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable

that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily

charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only

two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was

violently agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing.

That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am

right.”

“What, then, do you suppose?”

“That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were

poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression

that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing

would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced

that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of

this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from

the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only

mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied

to us, that not one word of their story is to be believed, that

they have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal,

and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any

help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and

here, Watson, is the Sydenham train.”

The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our

return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had

gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the

dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself

for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations

which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of

deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested

student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I

followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the

curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope—each in turn was

minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate

baronet had been removed, and all else remained as we had seen it

in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on

to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few

inches of red cord which were still attached to the wire. For a

long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get

nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the

wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end

of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself

which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down

with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

“It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case—one of

the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how

slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the

blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing

links, my chain is almost complete.”

“You have got your men?”

“Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong

as a lion—witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three

in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,

finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story

is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the

handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that

bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have left us a

doubt.”

“Where was the clue?”

“Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would

you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached

to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as

this one has done?”

“Because it is frayed there?”

“Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was

cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is

not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were

on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without

any mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred.

The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of

giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang

up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on

the bracket—you will see the impression in the dust—and so got

his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by

at least three inches—from which I infer that he is at least

three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat

of the oaken chair! What is it?”

“Blood.”

“Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady’s story out of

court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done,

how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair _after_

the death of her husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a

corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo,

Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends

in victory. I should like now to have a few words with the nurse,

Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if we are to get the

information which we want.”

She was an interesting person, this stern Australian

nurse—taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before

Holmes’s pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she

said thawed her into a corresponding amiability. She did not

attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.

“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard

him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not

dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that

he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but

left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and

she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he

has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that

you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come from a

stab with a hatpin. The sly devil—God forgive me that I should

speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if ever

one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him—only

eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen

years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first

voyage—she had never been from home before. He won her with his

title and his money and his false London ways. If she made a

mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did

we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we arrived. We

arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in January of

last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room again, and I have

no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of her,

for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand.”

Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked

brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began

once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress’s brow.

“I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine

me again?”

“No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause

you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole

desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that

you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and

trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“To tell me the truth.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“No, no, Lady Brackenstall—it is no use. You may have heard of

any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the

fact that your story is an absolute fabrication.”

Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and

frightened eyes.

“You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say

that my mistress has told a lie?”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“Have you nothing to tell me?”

“I have told you everything.”

“Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be

frank?”

For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then

some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

“I have told you all I know.”

Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he

said, and without another word we left the room and the house.

There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way.

It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the

convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then

passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for

Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

“It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do

something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,”

said he. “I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I

think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of

the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall

Mall, if I remember right. There is a second line of steamers

which connect South Australia with England, but we will draw the

larger cover first.”

Holmes’s card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,

and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed.

In June of ’95, only one of their line had reached a home port.

It was the _Rock of Gibraltar_, their largest and best boat. A

reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of

Adelaide, with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was

now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia.

Her officers were the same as in ’95, with one exception. The

first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was

to take charge of their new ship, the _Bass Rock_, sailing in two

days’ time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was

likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to

wait for him.

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to

know more about his record and character.

His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet

to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a

wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship—hot-headed,

excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith

of the information with which Holmes left the office of the

Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard,

but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with his brows drawn

down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove round to the

Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message, and then, at

last, we made for Baker Street once more.

“No, I couldn’t do it, Watson,” said he, as we reentered our

room. “Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would

save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more

real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done

by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather play

tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. Let

us know a little more before we act.”

Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins.

Things were not going very well with him.

“I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do

sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how

on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom

of that pond?”

“I didn’t know it.”

“But you told me to examine it.”

“You got it, then?”

“Yes, I got it.”

“I am very glad if I have helped you.”

“But you haven’t helped me. You have made the affair far more

difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and

then throw it into the nearest pond?”

“It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going

on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did

not want it—who merely took it for a blind, as it were—then they

would naturally be anxious to get rid of it.”

“But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

“Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the

French window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole

in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a

better hiding-place?”

“Ah, a hiding-place—that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes,

yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the

roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they

sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast

was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes—that is better than your idea of

a blind.”

“Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that

my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have

ended in discovering the silver.”

“Yes, sir—yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad

setback.”

“A setback?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this

morning.”

“Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory

that they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

“It is fatal, Mr. Holmes—absolutely fatal. Still, there are other

gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang

of which the police have never heard.”

“Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the

bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

“I have given you one.”

“Which?”

“Well, I suggested a blind.”

“But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”

“Ah, that’s the question, of course. But I commend the idea to

your mind. You might possibly find that there was something in

it. You won’t stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know

how you get on.”

Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to

the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet

to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his

watch.

“I expect developments, Watson.”

“When?”

“Now—within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather

badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?”

“I trust your judgment.”

“A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way:

what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the

right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all,

or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not

put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information

until my own mind is clear upon the matter.”

“But when will that be?”

“The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of

a remarkable little drama.”

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to

admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He

was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a

skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step,

which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was strong.

He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with clenched

hands and heaving breast, choking down some overmastering

emotion.

“Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?”

Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the