Chapter Chapter 7 · His Last Bow: The War Service of Sherlock Holmes

. His Last Bow: The War Service of Sherlock Holmes

It was nine o’clock at night upon the second of August—the most

terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought

already that God’s curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for there

was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry and

stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like an open

wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shining

brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay.

The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden

walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they

looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great

chalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched

himself four years before. They stood with their heads close together,

talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends of

their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of some malignant

fiend looking down in the darkness.

A remarkable man this Von Bork—a man who could hardly be matched among

all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which had

first recommended him for the English mission, the most important

mission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had become

more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world who were

really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present companion,

Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation, whose huge

100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited to

waft its owner back to London.

“So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back

in Berlin within the week,” the secretary was saying. “When you get

there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome

you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest

quarters of your work in this country.” He was a huge man, the

secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speech

which had been his main asset in his political career.

Von Bork laughed.

“They are not very hard to deceive,” he remarked. “A more docile,

simple folk could not be imagined.”

“I don’t know about that,” said the other thoughtfully. “They have

strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface

simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One’s first

impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon

something very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit and

must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insular

conventions which simply _must_ be observed.”

“Meaning ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?” Von Bork sighed as one

who had suffered much.

“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an

example I may quote one of my own worst blunders—I can afford to talk

of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of my

successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-end

gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The conversation

was amazingly indiscreet.”

Von Bork nodded. “I’ve been there,” said he dryly.

“Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a résumé of the information to Berlin.

Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these

matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was aware of

what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight up to me.

You’ve no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing soft about

our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I was two years

living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours—”

“No, no, don’t call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is

quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it.”

“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you

hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your

four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you go

the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result?

Nobody takes you seriously. You are a ‘good old sport’ ‘quite a decent

fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club, knock-about-town,

devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet country house

of yours is the centre of half the mischief in England, and the

sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius,

my dear Von Bork—genius!”

“You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim my four years in this

country have not been unproductive. I’ve never shown you my little

store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”

The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork

pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the

electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which

followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticed

window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested did

he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.

“Some of my papers have gone,” said he. “When my wife and the household

left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important with them. I

must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for the others.”

“Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There

will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just

possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to her

fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them.”

“And Belgium?”

“Yes, and Belgium, too.”

Von Bork shook his head. “I don’t see how that could be. There is a

definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a

humiliation.”

“She would at least have peace for the moment.”

“But her honour?”

“Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a mediæval

conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing,

but even our special war tax of fifty million, which one would think

made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the front page

of the _Times_, has not roused these people from their slumbers. Here

and there one hears a question. It is my business to find an answer.

Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my business to soothe

it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go—the storage

of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements

for making high explosives—nothing is prepared. How, then, can England

come in, especially when we have stirred her up such a devil’s brew of

Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her

thoughts at home.”

“She must think of her future.”

“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our own

very definite plans about England, and that your information will be

very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he

prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be

more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with

allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is

their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers.” He sat in

the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while he

puffed sedately at his cigar.

The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the

further corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound

safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after

some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy

door.

“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.

The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of the

embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed

pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its

label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such

titles as “Fords,” “Harbour-defences,” “Aeroplanes,” “Ireland,”

“Egypt,” “Portsmouth forts,” “The Channel,” “Rosythe,” and a score of

others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.

“Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly

clapped his fat hands.

“And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the

hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection

is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a

space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.

“But you have a good dossier there already.”

“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm

and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron—the worst setback

in my whole campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the good Altamont

all will be well to-night.”

The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of

disappointment.

“Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are

moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at our

posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did

Altamont name no hour?”

Von Bork pushed over a telegram.

Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.—ALTAMONT.

“Sparking plugs, eh?”

“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our

code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he

talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and

so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”

“From Portsmouth at midday,” said the secretary, examining the

superscription. “By the way, what do you give him?”

“Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a salary

as well.”

“The greedy rogue. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them

their blood money.”

“I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him

well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he

is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker is a

sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a real

bitter Irish-American.”

“Oh, an Irish-American?”

“If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I

can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the King’s

English as well as on the English king. Must you really go? He may be

here any moment.”

“No. I’m sorry, but I have already overstayed my time. We shall expect

you early to-morrow, and when you get that signal book through the

little door on the Duke of York’s steps you can put a triumphant Finis

to your record in England. What! Tokay!” He indicated a heavily sealed

dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a salver.

“May I offer you a glass before your journey?”

“No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.”

“Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay.

He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things. I have to

study him, I assure you.” They had strolled out on to the terrace

again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the

Baron’s chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. “Those are the

lights of Harwich, I suppose,” said the secretary, pulling on his dust

coat. “How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be other lights

within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place! The

heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zepplin

promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?”

Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp,

and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a

country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping

occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.

“That is Martha, the only servant I have left.”

The secretary chuckled.

“She might almost personify Britannia,” said he, “with her complete

self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au

revoir, Von Bork!” With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the

car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot

through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the

luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending

European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round

the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the

opposite direction.

Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the

motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed that

his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a new

experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread house,

for his family and household had been a large one. It was a relief to

him, however, to think that they were all in safety and that, but for

that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole

place to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his

study and he set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was

flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A leather valise stood

beside his table, and into this he began to pack very neatly and

systematically the precious contents of his safe. He had hardly got

started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught the sounds

of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction,

strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to

the terrace. He was just in time to see the lights of a small car come

to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang out of it and advanced

swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man

with a grey moustache, settled down like one who resigns himself to a

long vigil.

“Well?” asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.

For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above

his head.

“You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,” he cried. “I’m

bringing home the bacon at last.”

“The signals?”

“Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp

code, Marconi—a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too

dangerous. But it’s the real goods, and you can lay to that.” He

slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from

which the other winced.

“Come in,” he said. “I’m all alone in the house. I was only waiting for

this. Of course a copy is better than the original. If an original were

missing they would change the whole thing. You think it’s all safe

about the copy?”

The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs

from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut

features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general resemblance

to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden cigar hung from

the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and relit

it. “Making ready for a move?” he remarked as he looked round him.

“Say, mister,” he added, as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the

curtain was now removed, “you don’t tell me you keep your papers in

that?”

“Why not?”

“Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to be

some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a can-opener. If

I’d known that any letter of mine was goin’ to lie loose in a thing

like that I’d have been a mug to write to you at all.”

“It would puzzle any crook to force that safe,” Von Bork answered. “You

won’t cut that metal with any tool.”

“But the lock?”

“No, it’s a double combination lock. You know what that is?”

“Search me,” said the American.

“Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get

the lock to work.” He rose and showed a double-radiating disc round the

keyhole. “This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for the

figures.”

“Well, well, that’s fine.”

“So it’s not quite as simple as you thought. It was four years ago that

I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and figures?”

“It’s beyond me.”

“Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and here

we are.”

The American’s face showed his surprise and admiration.

“My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing.”

“Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is,

and I’m shutting down to-morrow morning.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to fix me up also. I’m not staying in this

goldarned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I

see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping. I’d rather

watch him from over the water.”

“But you’re an American citizen?”

“Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he’s doing time in

Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell him

you’re an American citizen. ‘It’s British law and order over here,’

says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to me you

don’t do much to cover your men.”

“What do you mean?” Von Bork asked sharply.

“Well, you are their employer, ain’t you? It’s up to you to see that

they don’t fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever pick

them up? There’s James—”

“It was James’s own fault. You know that yourself. He was too

self-willed for the job.”

“James was a bonehead—I give you that. Then there was Hollis.”

“The man was mad.”

“Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It’s enough to make a man

bug-house when he has to play a part from morning to night with a

hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there is

Steiner—”

Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.

“What about Steiner?”

“Well, they’ve got him, that’s all. They raided his store last night,

and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You’ll go off and he,

poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets off

with his life. That’s why I want to get over the water as soon as you

do.”

Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see that

the news had shaken him.

“How could they have got on to Steiner?” he muttered. “That’s the worst

blow yet.”

“Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off

me.”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and when

I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I want

to know, mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner is the

fifth man you’ve lost since I signed on with you, and I know the name

of the sixth if I don’t get a move on. How do you explain it, and ain’t

you ashamed to see your men go down like this?”

Von Bork flushed crimson.

“How dare you speak in such a way!”

“If I didn’t dare things, mister, I wouldn’t be in your service. But

I’ll tell you straight what is in my mind. I’ve heard that with you

German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry to

see him put away.”

Von Bork sprang to his feet.

“Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!”

“I don’t stand for that, mister, but there’s a stool pigeon or a cross

somewhere, and it’s up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I am

taking no more chances. It’s me for little Holland, and the sooner the

better.”

Von Bork had mastered his anger.

“We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of

victory,” he said. “You’ve done splendid work and taken risks, and I

can’t forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat

from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from now.

I’ll take that book and pack it with the rest.”

The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to

give it up.

“What about the dough?” he asked.

“The what?”

“The boodle. The reward. The £500. The gunner turned damned nasty at

the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it

would have been nitsky for you and me. ‘Nothin’ doin’!’ says he, and he

meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It’s cost me two hundred

pound from first to last, so it isn’t likely I’d give it up without

gettin’ my wad.”

Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. “You don’t seem to have a very

high opinion of my honour,” said he, “you want the money before you

give up the book.”

“Well, mister, it is a business proposition.”

“All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the table and scribbled a

check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to

his companion. “After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr.

Altamont,” said he, “I don’t see why I should trust you any more than

you trust me. Do you understand?” he added, looking back over his

shoulder at the American. “There’s the check upon the table. I claim

the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up.”

The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding of

string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in

silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the

cover was printed in golden letters _Practical Handbook of Bee

Culture_. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this

strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back

of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in

front of his writhing face.

“Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the

bottle of Imperial Tokay.

The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed

forward his glass with some eagerness.

“It is a good wine, Holmes.”

“A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me

that it is from Franz Josef’s special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace.

Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour does not

help the palate.”

The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was removing

dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it

neatly in Von Bork’s valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping

stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and another round his

legs.

“We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption.

Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except

old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the

situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be

glad to hear that all is well.”

The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with a

smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the figure

upon the sofa.

“It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all.”

“I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a

kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but

that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?”

“No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind. We

waited some time for your signal to-night.”

“It was the secretary, sir.”

“I know. His car passed ours.”

“I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your plans,

sir, to find him here.”

“No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so

until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You can

report to me to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge’s Hotel.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I suppose you have everything ready to leave.”

“Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses as

usual.”

“Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good-night. These

papers,” he continued as the old lady vanished, “are not of very great

importance, for, of course, the information which they represent has

been sent off long ago to the German government. These are the

originals which could not safely be got out of the country.”

“Then they are of no use.”

“I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least show

our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good many of

these papers have come through me, and I need not add are thoroughly

untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see a German

cruiser navigating the Solent according to the mine-field plans which I

have furnished. But you, Watson”—he stopped his work and took his old

friend by the shoulders—“I’ve hardly seen you in the light yet. How

have the years used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.”

“I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as

when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car. But

you, Holmes—you have changed very little—save for that horrible

goatee.”

“These are the sacrifices one makes for one’s country, Watson,” said

Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. “To-morrow it will be but a

dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I

shall no doubt reappear at Claridge’s to-morrow as I was before this

American stunt—I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English seems to

be permanently defiled—before this American job came my way.”

“But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a

hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South

Downs.”

“Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum

opus of my latter years!” He picked up the volume from the table and

read out the whole title, _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some

Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_. “Alone I did it.

Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched

the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of

London.”

“But how did you get to work again?”

“Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone I

could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my

humble roof—! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa

was a bit too good for our people. He was in a class by himself. Things

were going wrong, and no one could understand why they were going

wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was evidence of

some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary to

expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into the matter.

It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not been devoid of

excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago,

graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave serious trouble

to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so eventually caught the eye of

a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me as a likely man,

you will realise that the matter was complex. Since then I have been

honoured by his confidence, which has not prevented most of his plans

going subtly wrong and five of his best agents being in prison. I

watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they ripened. Well, sir, I

hope that you are none the worse!”

The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who after much

gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes’s statement.

He broke out now into a furious stream of German invective, his face

convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his swift investigation of

documents while his prisoner cursed and swore.

“Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages,” he

observed when Von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion. “Hullo!

Hullo!” he added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before

putting it in the box. “This should put another bird in the cage. I had

no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long had an

eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer for.”

The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa and

was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his

captor.

“I shall get level with you, Altamont,” he said, speaking with slow

deliberation. “If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you!”

“The old sweet song,” said Holmes. “How often have I heard it in days

gone by. It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented Professor

Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And

yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.”

“Curse you, you double traitor!” cried the German, straining against

his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.

“No, no, it is not so bad as that,” said Holmes, smiling. “As my speech

surely shows you, Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence in fact. I

used him and he is gone.”

“Then who are you?”

“It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to

interest you, Mr. Von Bork, I may say that this is not my first

acquaintance with the members of your family. I have done a good deal

of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar to

you.”

“I would wish to know it,” said the Prussian grimly.

“It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and the

late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial Envoy.

It was I also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman, Count Von

und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother’s elder brother. It was I—”

Von Bork sat up in amazement.

“There is only one man,” he cried.

“Exactly,” said Holmes.

Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. “And most of that

information came through you,” he cried. “What is it worth? What have I

done? It is my ruin forever!”

“It is certainly a little untrustworthy,” said Holmes. “It will require

some checking and you have little time to check it. Your admiral may

find the new guns rather larger than he expects, and the cruisers

perhaps a trifle faster.”

Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.

“There are a good many other points of detail which will, no doubt,

come to light in good time. But you have one quality which is very rare

in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear me no

ill-will when you realise that you, who have outwitted so many other

people, have at last been outwitted yourself. After all, you have done

your best for your country, and I have done my best for mine, and what

could be more natural? Besides,” he added, not unkindly, as he laid his

hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man, “it is better than to fall

before some ignoble foe. These papers are now ready, Watson. If you

will help me with our prisoner, I think that we may get started for

London at once.”

It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a

desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends walked him

very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with such proud

confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous

diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he

was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the

little car. His precious valise was wedged in beside him.

“I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit,” said

Holmes when the final arrangements were made. “Should I be guilty of a

liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?”

But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.

“I suppose you realise, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said he, “that if your

government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war.”

“What about your government and all this treatment?” said Holmes,

tapping the valise.

“You are a private individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The

whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous.”

“Absolutely,” said Holmes.

“Kidnapping a German subject.”

“And stealing his private papers.”

“Well, you realise your position, you and your accomplice here. If I

were to shout for help as we pass through the village—”

“My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would probably enlarge

the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us ‘The Dangling

Prussian’ as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient creature, but at

present his temper is a little inflamed, and it would be as well not to

try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you will go with us in a quiet,

sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can send for your friend,

Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill that place

which he has reserved for you in the ambassadorial suite. As to you,

Watson, you are joining us with your old service, as I understand, so

London won’t be out of your way. Stand with me here upon the terrace,

for it may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have.”

The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes,

recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner vainly

wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they turned to the car

Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful head.

“There’s an east wind coming, Watson.”

“I think not, Holmes. It is very warm.”

“Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.

There’s an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on

England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us

may wither before its blast. But it’s God’s own wind none the less, and

a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the

storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it’s time that we were on

our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which should be cashed

early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can.”