第 九 章 · The Resident Patient

. The Resident Patient

In glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of memoirs with

which I have endeavoured to illustrate a few of the mental

peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been

struck by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out

examples which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those

cases in which Holmes has performed some _tour-de-force_ of

analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the value of his

peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have

often been so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel

justified in laying them before the public. On the other hand, it

has frequently happened that he has been concerned in some

research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and

dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself

taken in determining their causes has been less pronounced than

I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have

chronicled under the heading of “A Study in Scarlet,” and that

other later one connected with the loss of the _Gloria Scott_,

may serve as examples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are

forever threatening the historian. It may be that in the business

of which I am now about to write the part which my friend played

is not sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of

circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit

it entirely from this series.

I cannot be sure of the exact date, for some of my memoranda upon

the matter have been mislaid, but it must have been towards the

end of the first year during which Holmes and I shared chambers

in Baker Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had

both remained indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken

health to face the keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of

those abstruse chemical investigations which absorbed him utterly

as long as he was engaged upon them. Towards evening, however,

the breaking of a test-tube brought his research to a premature

ending, and he sprang up from his chair with an exclamation of

impatience and a clouded brow.

“A day’s work ruined, Watson,” said he, striding across to the

window. “Ha! the stars are out and the wind has fallen. What do

you say to a ramble through London?”

I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For

three hours we strolled about together, watching the

ever-changing kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through

Fleet Street and the Strand. Holmes had shaken off his temporary

ill-humour, and his characteristic talk, with its keen observance

of detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and

enthralled. It was ten o’clock before we reached Baker Street

again. A brougham was waiting at our door.

“Hum! A doctor’s—general practitioner, I perceive,” said Holmes.

“Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come

to consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!”

I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes’s methods to be able to

follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the

various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in

the lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data for his

swift deduction. The light in our window above showed that this

late visit was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to

what could have sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I

followed Holmes into our sanctum.

A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair

by the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than

three or four and thirty, but his haggard expression and

unhealthy hue told of a life which has sapped his strength and

robbed him of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like

that of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which he

laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather

than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and sombre—a black

frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of colour about his

necktie.

“Good-evening, doctor,” said Holmes, cheerily. “I am glad to see

that you have only been waiting a very few minutes.”

“You spoke to my coachman, then?”

“No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray

resume your seat and let me know how I can serve you.”

“My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan,” said our visitor, “and I

live at 403, Brook Street.”

“Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous

lesions?” I asked.

His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work

was known to me.

“I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead,”

said he. “My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of

its sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?”

“A retired Army surgeon.”

“My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to

make it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take

what he can get at first. This, however, is beside the question,

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your

time is. The fact is that a very singular train of events has

occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and to-night they

came to such a head that I felt it was quite impossible for me to

wait another hour before asking for your advice and assistance.”

Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. “You are very welcome

to both,” said he. “Pray let me have a detailed account of what

the circumstances are which have disturbed you.”

“One or two of them are so trivial,” said Dr. Trevelyan, “that

really I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so

inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so

elaborate, that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall

judge what is essential and what is not.

“I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own

college career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am

sure that you will not think that I am unduly singing my own

praises if I say that my student career was considered by my

professors to be a very promising one. After I had graduated I

continued to devote myself to research, occupying a minor

position in King’s College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough

to excite considerable interest by my research into the pathology

of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton prize and

medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to which your friend

has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were to say that

there was a general impression at that time that a distinguished

career lay before me.

“But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As

you will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is

compelled to start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish

Square quarter, all of which entail enormous rents and furnishing

expenses. Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to

keep himself for some years, and to hire a presentable carriage

and horse. To do this was quite beyond my power, and I could only

hope that by economy I might in ten years’ time save enough to

enable me to put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected

incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.

“This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington,

who was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one

morning, and plunged into business in an instant.

“‘You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a

career and won a great prize lately?’ said he.

“I bowed.

“‘Answer me frankly,’ he continued, ‘for you will find it to your

interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a

successful man. Have you the tact?’

“I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.

“‘I trust that I have my share,’ I said.

“‘Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?’

“‘Really, sir!’ I cried.

“‘Quite right! That’s all right! But I was bound to ask. With all

these qualities, why are you not in practice?’

“I shrugged my shoulders.

“‘Come, come!’ said he, in his bustling way. ‘It’s the old story.

More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say

if I were to start you in Brook Street?’

“I stared at him in astonishment.

“‘Oh, it’s for my sake, not for yours,’ he cried. ‘I’ll be

perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me

very well. I have a few thousands to invest, d’ye see, and I

think I’ll sink them in you.’

“‘But why?’ I gasped.

“‘Well, it’s just like any other speculation, and safer than

most.’

“‘What am I to do, then?’

“‘I’ll tell you. I’ll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids,

and run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out

your chair in the consulting-room. I’ll let you have pocket-money

and everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what

you earn, and you keep the other quarter for yourself.’

“This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man

Blessington approached me. I won’t weary you with the account of

how we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the

house next Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the

same conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with

me in the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it

appears, and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned

the two best rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and

bedroom for himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning

company and very seldom going out. His life was irregular, but in

one respect he was regularity itself. Every evening, at the same

hour, he walked into the consulting-room, examined the books, put

down five and three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and

carried the rest off to the strong-box in his own room.

“I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret

his speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good

cases and the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought

me rapidly to the front, and during the last few years I have

made him a rich man.

“So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with

Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has

occurred to bring me here to-night.

“Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed

to me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some

burglary which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and

he appeared, I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about

it, declaring that a day should not pass before we should add

stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a week he continued

to be in a peculiar state of restlessness, peering continually

out of the windows, and ceasing to take the short walk which had

usually been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner it struck

me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody, but when

I questioned him upon the point he became so offensive that I was

compelled to drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed, his

fears appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former habits,

when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable state of

prostration in which he now lies.

“What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which

I now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

“‘A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,’ it runs,

‘would be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of

Dr. Percy Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to

cataleptic attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is

an authority. He proposes to call at about quarter past six

to-morrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient to be

at home.’

“This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty

in the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may

believe, then, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the

appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.

“He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace—by no means

the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more

struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young

man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the

limbs and chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other’s

arm as they entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness

which one would hardly have expected from his appearance.

“‘You will excuse my coming in, doctor,’ said he to me, speaking

English with a slight lisp. ‘This is my father, and his health is

a matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.’

“I was touched by this filial anxiety. ‘You would, perhaps, care

to remain during the consultation?’ said I.

“‘Not for the world,’ he cried with a gesture of horror. ‘It is

more painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father

in one of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should

never survive it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally

sensitive one. With your permission, I will remain in the

waiting-room while you go into my father’s case.’

“To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The

patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of

which I took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for

intelligence, and his answers were frequently obscure, which I

attributed to his limited acquaintance with our language.

Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he ceased to give any answer

at all to my inquiries, and on my turning towards him I was

shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair,

staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again

in the grip of his mysterious malady.

“My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and

horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional

satisfaction. I made notes of my patient’s pulse and temperature,

tested the rigidity of his muscles, and examined his reflexes.

There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions,

which harmonised with my former experiences. I had obtained good

results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and

the present seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its

virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving

my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was

some little delay in finding it—five minutes, let us say—and then

I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the

patient gone.

“Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The

son had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut.

My page who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick.

He waits downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring

the consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair

remained a complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his

walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon

the subject, for, to tell the truth, I have got in the way of

late of holding as little communication with him as possible.

“Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the

Russian and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the

very same hour this evening, they both came marching into my

consulting-room, just as they had done before.

“‘I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt

departure yesterday, doctor,’ said my patient.

“‘I confess that I was very much surprised at it,’ said I.

“‘Well, the fact is,’ he remarked, ‘that when I recover from

these attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has

gone before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and

made my way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you

were absent.’

“‘And I,’ said the son, ‘seeing my father pass the door of the

waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to

an end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to

realize the true state of affairs.’

“‘Well,’ said I, laughing, ‘there is no harm done except that you

puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the

waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which

was brought to so abrupt an ending.’

“‘For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman’s

symptoms with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him

go off upon the arm of his son.

“I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour

of the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and

passed upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and

he burst into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with

panic.

“‘Who has been in my room?’ he cried.

“‘No one,’ said I.

“‘It’s a lie! He yelled. ‘Come up and look!’

“I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half

out of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he

pointed to several footprints upon the light carpet.

“‘D’you mean to say those are mine?’ he cried.

“They were certainly very much larger than any which he could

have made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this

afternoon, as you know, and my patients were the only people who

called. It must have been the case, then, that the man in the

waiting-room had, for some unknown reason, while I was busy with

the other, ascended to the room of my resident patient. Nothing

had been touched or taken, but there were the footprints to prove

that the intrusion was an undoubted fact.

“Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I

should have thought possible, though of course it was enough to

disturb anybody’s peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an

armchair, and I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was

his suggestion that I should come round to you, and of course I

at once saw the propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a

very singular one, though he appears to completely overrate its

importance. If you would only come back with me in my brougham,

you would at least be able to soothe him, though I can hardly

hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable

occurrence.”

Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an

intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused.

His face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more

heavily over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly

from his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor’s

tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word,

handed me my hat, picked his own from the table, and followed Dr.

Trevelyan to the door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been

dropped at the door of the physician’s residence in Brook Street,

one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which one associates with

a West-End practice. A small page admitted us, and we began at

once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair.

But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light

at the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a

reedy, quivering voice.

“I have a pistol,” it cried. “I give you my word that I’ll fire

if you come any nearer.”

“This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington,” cried Dr.

Trevelyan.

“Oh, then it is you, doctor,” said the voice, with a great heave

of relief. “But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend

to be?”

We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

“Yes, yes, it’s all right,” said the voice at last. “You can come

up, and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you.”

He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a

singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice,

testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had

apparently at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung

about his face in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a

blood-hound. He was of a sickly colour, and his thin, sandy hair

seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion. In his

hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we

advanced.

“Good-evening, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am sure I am very much

obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice

more than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this

most unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Who are these two men Mr. Blessington,

and why do they wish to molest you?”

“Well, well,” said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion,

“of course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to

answer that, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you mean that you don’t know?”

“Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in

here.”

He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably

furnished.

“You see that,” said he, pointing to a big black box at the end

of his bed. “I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes—never

made but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell

you. But I don’t believe in bankers. I would never trust a

banker, Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in

that box, so you can understand what it means to me when unknown

people force themselves into my rooms.”

Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his

head.

“I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me,” said he.

“But I have told you everything.”

Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. “Good-night,

Dr. Trevelyan,” said he.

“And no advice for me?” cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

“My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth.”

A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had

crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before

I could get a word from my companion.

“Sorry to bring you out on such a fool’s errand, Watson,” he said

at last. “It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it.”

“I can make little of it,” I confessed.

“Well, it is quite evident that there are two men—more, perhaps,

but at least two—who are determined for some reason to get at

this fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on

the first and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to

Blessington’s room, while his confederate, by an ingenious

device, kept the doctor from interfering.”

“And the catalepsy?”

“A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to

hint as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to

imitate. I have done it myself.”

“And then?”

“By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their

reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was

obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the

waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided

with Blessington’s constitutional, which seems to show that they

were not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course,

if they had been merely after plunder they would at least have

made some attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a

man’s eye when it is his own skin that he is frightened for. It

is inconceivable that this fellow could have made two such

vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of it. I

hold it, therefore, to be certain that he does know who these men

are, and that for reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just

possible that to-morrow may find him in a more communicative

mood.”

“Is there not one alternative,” I suggested, “grotesquely

improbable, no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole

story of the cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of

Dr. Trevelyan’s, who has, for his own purposes, been in

Blessington’s rooms?”

I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this

brilliant departure of mine.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “it was one of the first solutions

which occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the

doctor’s tale. This young man has left prints upon the

stair-carpet which made it quite superfluous for me to ask to see

those which he had made in the room. When I tell you that his

shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed like

Blessington’s, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the

doctor’s, you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to

his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I shall be

surprised if we do not hear something further from Brook Street

in the morning.”

Sherlock Holmes’s prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic

fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of

daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his

dressing-gown.

“There’s a brougham waiting for us, Watson,” said he.

“What’s the matter, then?”

“The Brook Street business.”

“Any fresh news?”

“Tragic, but ambiguous,” said he, pulling up the blind. “Look at

this—a sheet from a note-book, with ‘For God’s sake come at

once—P.T.,’ scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor,

was hard put to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear

fellow, for it’s an urgent call.”

In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician’s

house. He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

“Oh, such a business!” he cried, with his hands to his temples.

“What then?”

“Blessington has committed suicide!”

Holmes whistled.

“Yes, he hanged himself during the night.”

We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was

evidently his waiting-room.

“I really hardly know what I am doing,” he cried. “The police are

already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully.”

“When did you find it out?”

“He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When

the maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was

hanging in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the

hook on which the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off

from the top of the very box that he showed us yesterday.”

Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

“With your permission,” said he at last, “I should like to go

upstairs and look into the matter.”

We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom

door. I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this

man Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was

exaggerated and intensified until he was scarce human in his

appearance. The neck was drawn out like a plucked chicken’s,

making the rest of him seem the more obese and unnatural by the

contrast. He was clad only in his long night-dress, and his

swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath

it. Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who was

taking notes in a pocket-book.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” said he, heartily, as my friend entered, “I am

delighted to see you.”

“Good-morning, Lanner,” answered Holmes; “you won’t think me an

intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to

this affair?”

“Yes, I heard something of them.”

“Have you formed any opinion?”

“As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses

by fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There’s his

impression deep enough. It’s about five in the morning, you know,

that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for

hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair.”

“I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by

the rigidity of the muscles,” said I.

“Noticed anything peculiar about the room?” asked Holmes.

“Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand.

Seems to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four

cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, “have you got his cigar-holder?”

“No, I have seen none.”

“His cigar-case, then?”

“Yes, it was in his coat-pocket.”

Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

“Oh, this is a Havana, and these others are cigars of the

peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East

Indian colonies. They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and

are thinner for their length than any other brand.” He picked up

the four ends and examined them with his pocket-lens.

“Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without,”

said he. “Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two

have had the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is

no suicide, Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and

cold-blooded murder.”

“Impossible!” cried the inspector.

“And why?”

“Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by

hanging him?”

“That is what we have to find out.”

“How could they get in?”

“Through the front door.”

“It was barred in the morning.”

“Then it was barred after them.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to

give you some further information about it.”

He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in

his methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the

inside, and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs,

the mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn

examined, until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with

my aid and that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and

laid it reverently under a sheet.

“How about this rope?” he asked.

“It is cut off this,” said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil

from under the bed. “He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always

kept this beside him, so that he might escape by the window in

case the stairs were burning.”

“That must have saved them trouble,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.

“Yes, the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised

if by the afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as

well. I will take this photograph of Blessington, which I see

upon the mantelpiece, as it may help me in my inquiries.”

“But you have told us nothing!” cried the doctor.

“Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events,” said

Holmes. “There were three of them in it: the young man, the old

man, and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first

two, I need hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the

Russian count and his son, so we can give a very full description

of them. They were admitted by a confederate inside the house. If

I might offer you a word of advice, Inspector, it would be to

arrest the page, who, as I understand, has only recently come

into your service, Doctor.”

“The young imp cannot be found,” said Dr. Trevelyan; “the maid

and the cook have just been searching for him.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,” said he.

“The three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on

tiptoe, the elder man first, the younger man second, and the

unknown man in the rear—”

“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated.

“Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the

footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last

night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington’s room, the door

of which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire,

however, they forced round the key. Even without the lens you

will perceive, by the scratches on this ward, where the pressure

was applied.

“On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to

gag Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been

so paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These

walls are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had

time to utter one, was unheard.

“Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of

some sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a

judicial proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it

was then that these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that

wicker chair; it was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger

man sat over yonder; he knocked his ash off against the chest of

drawers. The third fellow paced up and down. Blessington, I

think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely

certain.

“Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The

matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought

with them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a

gallows. That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive,

for fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved

themselves the trouble. Having finished their work they made off,

and the door was barred behind them by their confederate.”

We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of

the night’s doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle

and minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we

could scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried

away on the instant to make inquiries about the page, while

Holmes and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

“I’ll be back by three,” said he, when we had finished our meal.

“Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that

hour, and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little

obscurity which the case may still present.”

Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter

to four before my friend put in an appearance. From his

expression as he entered, however, I could see that all had gone

well with him.

“Any news, Inspector?”

“We have got the boy, sir.”

“Excellent, and I have got the men.”

“You have got them!” we cried, all three.

“Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called

Blessington is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so

are his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.”

“The Worthingdon bank gang,” cried the inspector.

“Precisely,” said Holmes.

“Then Blessington must have been Sutton.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes.

“Why, that makes it as clear as crystal,” said the inspector.

But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

“You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business,”

said Holmes. “Five men were in it—these four and a fifth called

Cartwright. Tobin, the caretaker, was murdered, and the thieves

got away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were

all five arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means

conclusive. This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the

gang, turned informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and

the other three got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the

other day, which was some years before their full term, they set

themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to

avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to

get at him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off. Is

there anything further which I can explain, Dr. Trevelyan?”

“I think you have made it all remarkably clear,” said the doctor.

“No doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he

had seen of their release in the newspapers.”

“Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind.”

“But why could he not tell you this?”

“Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old

associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody

as long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could

not bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he

was still living under the shield of British law, and I have no

doubt, Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may

fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge.”

Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the

Resident Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night

nothing has been seen of the three murderers by the police, and

it is surmised at Scotland Yard that they were among the

passengers of the ill-fated steamer _Norah Creina_, which was

lost some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese coast,

some leagues to the north of Oporto. The proceedings against the

page broke down for want of evidence, and the Brook Street

Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been fully dealt

with in any public print.

X.