第 三 章 · 第3章

In Quest of a Solution

It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager, and

in excellent spirits,—a mood which in his case alternated with fits of

the blackest depression.

“There is no great mystery in this matter,” he said, taking the cup of

tea which I had poured out for him. “The facts appear to admit of only

one explanation.”

“What! you have solved it already?”

“Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive

fact, that is all. It is, however, _very_ suggestive. The details are

still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of

the _Times_, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norwood, late of the 34th

Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882.”

“I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests.”

“No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan

disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is

Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.

Four years later Sholto dies. _Within a week of his death_ Captain

Morstan’s daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated from

year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a

wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of

her father? And why should the presents begin immediately after

Sholto’s death, unless it is that Sholto’s heir knows something of the

mystery and desires to make compensation? Have you any alternative

theory which will meet the facts?”

“But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too,

should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the

letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is

too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other

injustice in her case that you know of.”

“There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties,” said

Sherlock Holmes, pensively. “But our expedition of to-night will solve

them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. Are

you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a little past the

hour.”

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes

took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It

was clear that he thought that our night’s work might be a serious one.

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was

composed, but pale. She must have been more than woman if she did not

feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were

embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered

the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

“Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa’s,” she said. “His

letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were in

command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a

great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in papa’s

desk which no one could understand. I don’t suppose that it is of the

slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I

brought it with me. It is here.”

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his knee.

He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.

“It is paper of native Indian manufacture,” he remarked. “It has at

some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a

plan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and

passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it

is ‘3.37 from left,’ in faded pencil-writing. In the left-hand corner

is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with their arms

touching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse characters,

‘The sign of the four,—Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan,

Dost Akbar.’ No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon the

matter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance. It has been kept

carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean as the other.”

“It was in his pocket-book that we found it.”

“Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of

use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be much

deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider my

ideas.” He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn brow

and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss Morstan and I

chatted in an undertone about our present expedition and its possible

outcome, but our companion maintained his impenetrable reserve until

the end of our journey.

It was a September evening, and not yet seven o’clock, but the day had

been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city.

Mud-coloured clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down the

Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which threw

a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow glare

from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air, and

threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare. There

was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like in the endless

procession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars of

light,—sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human kind, they

flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloom once

more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy evening,

with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combined to make

me nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss Morstan’s manner that

she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes alone could rise

superior to petty influences. He held his open note-book upon his knee,

and from time to time he jotted down figures and memoranda in the light

of his pocket-lantern.

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the

side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and

four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of

shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly

reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,

dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

“Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?” he asked.

“I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends,” said she.

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon us.

“You will excuse me, miss,” he said with a certain dogged manner, “but

I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your companions

is a police-officer.”

“I give you my word on that,” she answered.

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a

four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us mounted

to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly done so

before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away at a

furious pace through the foggy streets.

The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place,

on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete

hoax,—which was an inconceivable hypothesis,—or else we had good reason

to think that important issues might hang upon our journey. Miss

Morstan’s demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I endeavored

to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in

Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our

situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were

slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one moving

anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night,

and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I had some

idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what with

our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost my

bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going a very long

way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he muttered the

names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuous

by-streets.

“Rochester Row,” said he. “Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the

Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.

Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses of

the river.”

We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the

lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, and

was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

“Wordsworth Road,” said my companion. “Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.

Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not

appear to take us to very fashionable regions.”

We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighbourhood.

Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glare

and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came rows of

two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, and then

again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings,—the monster

tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the country. At

last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace. None of the

other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as dark

as its neighbours, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window. On

our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open by a Hindoo

servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting clothes, and a

yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous in this Oriental

figure framed in the commonplace doorway of a third-rate suburban

dwelling-house.

“The Sahib awaits you,” said he, and even as he spoke there came a high

piping voice from some inner room. “Show them in to me, khitmutgar,” it

cried. “Show them straight in to me.”