Chapter Chapter 13 · THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN

I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last

of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I

should ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine

was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many

hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it

caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the

singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man.

The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown

to the continued publication of his experiences. So long as he

was in actual professional practice the records of his successes

were of some practical value to him, but since he has definitely

retired from London and betaken himself to study and bee-farming

on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and he

has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should

be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him

that I had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second

Stain” should be published when the times were ripe, and pointing

out to him that it is only appropriate that this long series of

episodes should culminate in the most important international

case which he has ever been called upon to handle, that I at last

succeeded in obtaining his consent that a carefully guarded

account of the incident should at last be laid before the public.

If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain

details, the public will readily understand that there is an

excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be

nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two

visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in

Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and

dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,

twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and

elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty

of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,

Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in

the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered

settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces

that it was business of the most pressing importance which had

brought them. The Premier’s thin, blue-veined hands were clasped

tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt,

ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European

Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with the

seals of his watch-chain.

“When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight

o’clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It

was at his suggestion that we have both come to you.”

“Have you informed the police?”

“No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive

manner for which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it

possible that we should do so. To inform the police must, in the

long run, mean to inform the public. This is what we particularly

desire to avoid.”

“And why, sir?”

“Because the document in question is of such immense importance

that its publication might very easily—I might almost say

probably—lead to European complications of the utmost moment. It

is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon the issue.

Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost secrecy, then

it may as well not be recovered at all, for all that is aimed at

by those who have taken it is that its contents should be

generally known.”

“I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged

if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this

document disappeared.”

“That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter—for

it was a letter from a foreign potentate—was received six days

ago. It was of such importance that I have never left it in my

safe, but have taken it across each evening to my house in

Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked

despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that I am certain. I

actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner and saw

the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-box

had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night. I am

a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear

that no one could have entered the room during the night. And yet

I repeat that the paper is gone.”

“What time did you dine?”

“Half-past seven.”

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

“My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was

half-past eleven before we went to our room.”

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

“No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid

in the morning, and my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest

of the day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us

for some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have known

that there was anything more valuable than the ordinary

departmental papers in my despatch-box.”

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

“No one in the house.”

“Surely your wife knew?”

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

this morning.”

The Premier nodded approvingly.

“I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,”

said he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this

importance it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic

ties.”

The European Secretary bowed.

“You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have

never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”

“Could she have guessed?”

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

guessed.”

“Have you lost any documents before?”

“No, sir.”

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

letter?”

“Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the

pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was

increased by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime

Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I should

myself have lost it!” His handsome face was distorted with a

spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair. For a moment we

caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive, ardent, keenly

sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was replaced, and the

gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of the Cabinet

there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who know

of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

“But abroad?”

“I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote

it. I am well convinced that his Ministers—that the usual

official channels have not been employed.”

Holmes considered for some little time.

“Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document

is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous

consequences?”

The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier’s

shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

“Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue

colour. There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion.

It is addressed in large, bold handwriting to——”

“I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed

essential as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the

root of things. What _was_ the letter?”

“That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that

I cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the

aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find such

an envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have

deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it

lies in our power to bestow.”

Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

“You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and

in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I

regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any

continuation of this interview would be a waste of time.”

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of

his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not

accustomed, sir,” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed

his seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the

old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

“We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right,

and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give

you our entire confidence.”

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

“Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that

of your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism

also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the

country than that this affair should come out.”

“You may safely trust us.”

“The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has

been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this

country. It has been written hurriedly and upon his own

responsibility entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers

know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is couched in so

unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so

provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly

lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country. There

would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that

within a week of the publication of that letter this country

would be involved in a great war.”

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

Premier.

“Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter—this letter which may

well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of

a hundred thousand men—which has become lost in this

unaccountable fashion.”

“Have you informed the sender?”

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

“Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”

“No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already

understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed

manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country than

to us if this letter were to come out.”

“If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come

out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”

“There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high

international politics. But if you consider the European

situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive.

The whole of Europe is an armed camp. There is a double league

which makes a fair balance of military power. Great Britain holds

the scales. If Britain were driven into war with one confederacy,

it would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether

they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”

“Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this

potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a

breach between his country and ours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the

hands of an enemy?”

“To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably

speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as

steam can take it.”

Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned

aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

“It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you.

There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes,

you are in full possession of the facts. What course do you

recommend?”

Holmes shook his head mournfully.

“You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there

will be war?”

“I think it is very probable.”

“Then, sir, prepare for war.”

“That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”

“Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken

after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope

and his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss

was found out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between

seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour,

since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would

naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir, if a document

of this importance were taken at that hour, where can it be now?

No one has any reason to retain it. It has been passed rapidly on

to those who need it. What chance have we now to overtake or even

to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”

The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

“What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the

matter is indeed out of our hands.”

“Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the document was taken

by the maid or by the valet——”

“They are both old and tried servants.”

“I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor,

that there is no entrance from without, and that from within no

one could go up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the

house who has taken it. To whom would the thief take it? To one

of several international spies and secret agents, whose names are

tolerably familiar to me. There are three who may be said to be

the heads of their profession. I will begin my research by going

round and finding if each of them is at his post. If one is

missing—especially if he has disappeared since last night—we will

have some indication as to where the document has gone.”

“Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He

would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”

“I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their

relations with the Embassies are often strained.”

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

“I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a

prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your

course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot

neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune.

Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall

communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the

results of your own inquiries.”

The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in

silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had

opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime

which had occurred in London the night before, when my friend

gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down

upon the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The

situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could

be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it

has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question

of money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury

behind me. If it’s on the market I’ll buy it—if it means another

penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might

hold it back to see what bids come from this side before he tries

his luck on the other. There are only those three capable of

playing so bold a game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and

Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”

I glanced at my morning paper.

“Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”

“Yes.”

“You will not see him.”

“Why not?”

“He was murdered in his house last night.”

My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our

adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized

how completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and

then snatched the paper from my hands. This was the paragraph

which I had been engaged in reading when he rose from his chair:

MURDER IN WESTMINSTER

A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,

Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of

eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the

Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of

Parliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited for

some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well-known in society circles

both on account of his charming personality and because he has

the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur

tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four

years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an

elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires

early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for

the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock

onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during

that time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve

Police-constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street observed

that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no

answer. Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced into

the passage and again knocked, but without reply. He then pushed

open the door and entered. The room was in a state of wild

disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and one

chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and

still grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the

house. He had been stabbed to the heart and must have died

instantly. The knife with which the crime had been committed was

a curved Indian dagger, plucked down from a trophy of Oriental

arms which adorned one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to

have been the motive of the crime, for there had been no attempt

to remove the valuable contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas

was so well-known and popular that his violent and mysterious

fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a

widespread circle of friends.

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

long pause.

“It is an amazing coincidence.”

“A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as

possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death

during the very hours when we know that that drama was being

enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No

figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events

are connected—_must_ be connected. It is for us to find the

connection.”

“But now the official police must know all.”

“Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They

know—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only _we_ know

of both events, and can trace the relation between them. There is

one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my

suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only

a few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret

agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End. It was

easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a

connection or receive a message from the European Secretary’s

household—a small thing, and yet where events are compressed into

a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?”

Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver.

Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to

me.

“Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step

up,” said he.

A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished

that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most

lovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the

youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description

of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had

prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful

colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that

autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first

thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was

paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the

brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in

an effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was what sprang

first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant

in the open door.

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

“Yes, madam, he has been here.”

“Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.”

Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

“Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that

you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I

cannot make any unconditional promise.”

She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the

window. It was a queenly presence—tall, graceful, and intensely

womanly. “Mr. Holmes,” she said—and her white-gloved hands

clasped and unclasped as she spoke—“I will speak frankly to you

in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in return.

There is complete confidence between my husband and me on all

matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips are

sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a

most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that a

paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my

husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it

is essential—essential, I say—that I should thoroughly understand

it. You are the only other person, save only these politicians,

who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me

exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all,

Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client’s interests keep you

silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he would only see

it, would be best served by taking me into his complete

confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?”

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

She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

“You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit

to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has

only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional

secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.

It is him whom you must ask.”

“I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without

your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great

service if you would enlighten me on one point.”

“What is it, madam?”

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

incident?”

“Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very

unfortunate effect.”

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

resolved.

“One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my

husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood

that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of

this document.”

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

“Of what nature are they?”

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

answer.”

“Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,

Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on

your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I

desire, even against his will, to share my husband’s anxieties.

Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit.”

She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression

of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn

mouth. Then she was gone.

“Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with

a smile, when the dwindling _frou-frou_ of skirts had ended in

the slam of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What

did she really want?”

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

“Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson—her manner, her suppressed

excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.

Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show

emotion.”

“She was certainly much moved.”

“Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us

that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What

did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she

manœuvred to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to

read her expression.”

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

“And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember

the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No

powder on her nose—that proved to be the correct solution. How

can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may

mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon

a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson.”

“You are off?”

“Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our

friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the

solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an

inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to

theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good

Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I’ll join you at lunch if

I am able.”

All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which

his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out

and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin,

sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and

hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It was

evident to me that things were not going well with him or his

quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the

papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the

arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of

the deceased. The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful

Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive

was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none

had been taken. The dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.

They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen

student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a

remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been

on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several

countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the

documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with

women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He

had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one

whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.

His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of

despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could

be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith

that night. The _alibi_ was complete. It is true that he started

home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster

before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own

explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable

enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had actually

arrived at twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the

unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his

master. Several of the dead man’s possessions—notably a small

case of razors—had been found in the valet’s boxes, but he

explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the

housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been in

Lucas’s employment for three years. It was noticeable that Lucas

did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes he

visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in

charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she

had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a

visitor he had himself admitted him.

So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could

follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own

counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him

into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close

touch with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared

a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole

question.

A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police (said the

_Daily Telegraph_) which raises the veil which hung round the

tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence

last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers

will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in

his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that

the case broke down on an _alibi_. Yesterday a lady, who has been

known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue

Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as

being insane. An examination showed she had indeed developed

mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry, the police

have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a

journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to

connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of

photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and

Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the

deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and

Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely

excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of

jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it

was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which

has caused such a sensation in London. Her movements upon the

Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a

woman answering to her description attracted much attention at

Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her

appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,

therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or

that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of

her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account

of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the

reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,

who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours upon

Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

“What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud

to him, while he finished his breakfast.

“My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up

and down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have

told you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is

nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us

much.”

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

“The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—in

comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document

and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has

happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has

happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and it

is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.

Now, if this letter were loose—no, it _can’t_ be loose—but if it

isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back?

That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it,

indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the

night when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him?

If so, why is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his

carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How

could I search for it without the French police having their

suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law

is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man’s hand is

against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I

bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent

the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the

front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed

in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of

interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down

together to Westminster.”

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy,

narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century

which gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us

from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big

constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into which

we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but

no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon

the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the centre

of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,

old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.

Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of

which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a

sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the

pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste

which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded.

“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No

doubt it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise

visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight

compartments—he let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She

told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to

another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It

wasn’t all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all

swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried

to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen

it.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“And yet you have sent for me?”

“Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort of

thing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what you might

call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can’t

have, on the face of it.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful

to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer

in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried

and the investigation over—so far as this room is concerned—we

thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not

fastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it.

We found——”

“Yes? You found——”

Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

“Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we

did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal

must have soaked through, must it not?”

“Undoubtedly it must.”

“Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on

the white woodwork to correspond.”

“No stain! But there must——”

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

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it

over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

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

a mark.”

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous

expert.

“Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There _is_ a second stain,

but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As

he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there,

sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white

facing of the old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr.

Holmes?”

“Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the

carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it

was easily done.”

“The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them

that the carpet must have been turned round. That’s clear enough,

for the stains lie above each other—if you lay it over this way.

But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”

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

inward excitement.

“Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the

passage been in charge of the place all the time?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before

us. We’ll wait here. You take him into the back room. You’ll be

more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he

dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don’t

ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you

_know_ someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full

confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I

tell you!”

“By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade.

He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying

voice sounded from the back room.

“Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the

demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner

burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the

floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing

at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as

he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid

of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged

his eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of

anger and disappointment. It was empty.

“Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was

replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when

Lestrade’s voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes

leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,

endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are

bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all

right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your

most inexcusable conduct.”

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

“I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door

last evening—mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.

It’s lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“She wanted to see where the crime was done—had read about it in

the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken

young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.

When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the

floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got

some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the

corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had

brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off—ashamed

of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.”

“How about moving that drugget?”

“Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.

You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with

nothing to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards.”

“It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive me, Constable

MacPherson,” said Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought

that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a

mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that

someone had been admitted to the room. It’s lucky for you, my

man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in Queer

Street. I’m sorry to have called you down over such a petty

business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain

not corresponding with the first would interest you.”

“Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been

here once, constable?”

“Yes, sir, only once.”

“Who was she?”

“Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about

typewriting and came to the wrong number—very pleasant, genteel

young woman, sir.”

“Tall? Handsome?”

“Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might

say she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very

handsome. ‘Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had

pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there was

no harm in letting her just put her head through the door.”

“How was she dressed?”

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

“What time was it?”

“It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the

lamps as I came back with the brandy.”

“Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have

more important work elsewhere.”

As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while

the repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes

turned on the step and held up something in his hand. The

constable stared intently.

“Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes

put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast

pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.

“Excellent!” said he. “Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up

for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will be

no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no

setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign

will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime

Minister will have no European complication to deal with, and

that with a little tact and management upon our part nobody will

be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly

incident.”

My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

“You have solved it!” I cried.

“Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as

ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we

cannot get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and

bring the matter to a head.”

When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was

for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We

were shown into the morning-room.

“Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her

indignation. “This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your

part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a

secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into

his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so

showing that there are business relations between us.”

“Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been

commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must

therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my

hands.”

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an

instant from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed—she tottered—I

thought that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she

rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and

indignation chased every other expression from her features.

“You—you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”

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

She darted to the bell.

“The butler shall show you out.”

“Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts

to avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all

will be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange

everything. If you work against me I must expose you.”

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon

his as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell,

but she had forborne to ring it.

“You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.

Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know

something. What is it that you know?”

“Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall.

I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you.”

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

“One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo

Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious return

to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the

letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

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

could speak.

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

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the

face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

“I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said

he. “The policeman has recognized it.”

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

“Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be

adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends

when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my

advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance.”

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

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

illusion.”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I

can see that it is all in vain.”

He rang the bell. The butler entered.

“Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

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

Holmes glanced at his watch.

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

The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda

was down on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched,

her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

“Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of

supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so!

I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would

break his noble heart.”

Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come

to your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant

to lose. Where is the letter?”

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a

long blue envelope.

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

“How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must

think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

“Still in his bedroom.”

“What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment

later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

“How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of

course you have. Open it!”

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box

flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue

envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of

some other document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to

the bedroom.

“Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten

minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you

will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of

this extraordinary affair.”

“Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh,

Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a

moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her

husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted—how I have

been compelled to act—he would never forgive me. For his own

honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse

in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our

very lives are at stake!”

“Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

“It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter

written before my marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an

impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have

thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would

have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had

thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard

from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that

he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy. He said

that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain

document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had

some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He

assured me that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in

my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?”

“Take your husband into your confidence.”

“I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed

certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my

husband’s paper, still in a matter of politics I could not

understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust

they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an

impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I

opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to

Godolphin Street.”

“What happened there, madam?”

“I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him

into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared

to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a woman

outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He had my

letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the

letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There were

steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget,

thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and covered it

over.

“What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a

vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which

screamed in French, ‘My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last

I have found you with her!’ There was a savage struggle. I saw

him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed

from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next

morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night

I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the

future would bring.

“It was the next morning that I realized that I had only

exchanged one trouble for another. My husband’s anguish at the

loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself

from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him

what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the

past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the full

enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it my

whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my

husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for

it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If

it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his

hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two days I

watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last night I

made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have

already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and thought of

destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without

confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon

the stair!”

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news,

Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried.

“I have some hopes.”

“Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister

is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of

steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this

terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come

up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. We

will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.”

The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the

gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he

shared the excitement of his young colleague.

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

“Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at

every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no

danger to be apprehended.”

“But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on

such a volcano. We must have something definite.”

“I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I

think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has

never left this house.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance

that it left the box.”

“Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

“No. It was not necessary.”

“You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

“Impossible, I say.”

“But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to

happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have

got mixed with them.”

“It was on the top.”

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

“No, no, I had everything out.”

“Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us

have the despatch-box brought in.”

The Secretary rang the bell.

“Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of

time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be

done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key

on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord

Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade,

note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note

from Lord Flowers——Good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger!

Lord Bellinger!”

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

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

you.”

“Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is

inconceivable—impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a

sorcerer! How did you know it was there?”

“Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

“I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is

my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we

heard his voice on the stairs.

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

“Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye.

How came the letter back in the box?”

Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those

wonderful eyes.

“We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up

his hat, he turned to the door.

THE END