To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom
heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to
love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent
to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most
perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover
he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer
passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the
observer–excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for
the trained teasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely
adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a
doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack
in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong
emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and
that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted
us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests
which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own
establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who
loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our
lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week
to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the
fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted
by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary
powers of observation in following out those clews, and clearing up those
mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From
time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa
in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy
of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he
had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of
Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared
with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and
companion.
One night–it was on the twentieth of March, 1888–I was
returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil
practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the
well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my
wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with
a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his
extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up,
I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind.
He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and
his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his
attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen
out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem.
I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part
my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad,
I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved
me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case
and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over
in his singular introspective fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you
have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven!” I answered.
“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle
more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me
that you intended to go into harness.”
“Then, how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been
getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless
servant girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would
certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that
I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I
have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she
is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to
see how you work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands
together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on
the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather
is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by
someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to
remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had
been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant
boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a
gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of
nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his
top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed,
if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”
I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained
his process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the
thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do
it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled
until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as
yours.”
“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing
himself down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The
distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which
lead up from the hall to this room.”
“Frequently.”
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That
is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have
both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are interested in these little
problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling
experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick,
pink-tinted note-paper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came by
the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature or
address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight
o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the
very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe
have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of
an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from
all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it
amiss if your visitor wear a mask.
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine
that it means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize
before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories,
instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from
it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it
was written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,
endeavoring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be
bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.”
“Peculiar–that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an
English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a
large “G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for
‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary
contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the
‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown
volume from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz–here we are, Egria. It is in a
German-speaking country–in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being
the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and
paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and
he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do
you note the peculiar construction of the sentence–‘This account of you we have
from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written
that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains,
therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian
paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I
am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and
grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued,
glancing out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A
hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there
is nothing else.”
“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my
Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”
“But your client–”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he
comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs
and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud
and authoritative tap.
“Come in!” said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet
six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was
rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad
taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of
his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his
shoulders was lined with flame-colored silk and secured at the neck with a
brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway
up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur,
completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole
appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across
the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard
mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still
raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a
man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin
suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a
strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from
one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and
colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases.
Whom have I the honor to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian
nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor and
discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If
not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me
back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this
gentleman anything which you may say to me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,”
said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of
that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to
say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor.
“The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I
may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not
exactly my own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes drily.
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every
precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal
and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak
plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of
Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself
down in his armchair and closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the
languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as
the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly
reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he
remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room
in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the
mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I
am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken
before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting
down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can
understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person.
Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without
putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose
of consulting you.”
“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once
more.
“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a
lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the wellknown adventuress,
Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”
“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes
without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing
all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a
subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this
case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and
that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the
year 1858. Contralto–hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of
Warsaw–yes! Retired from operatic stage–ha! Living in London–quite so! Your Majesty,
as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some
compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.”
“Precisely so. But how–”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person
should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to
prove their authenticity?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”
“My private note-paper.”
“Stolen.”
“My own seal.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed
committed an indiscretion.”
“I was mad–insane.”
“You have compromised yourself seriously.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty
now.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Stolen, then.”
“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked
her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been
waylaid. There has been no result.”
“No sign of it?”
“Absolutely none.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said
he.
“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King
reproachfully.
“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the
photograph?”
“To ruin me.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“So I have heard.”
“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of
the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She
is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct
would bring the matter to an end.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I
know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She
has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute
of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which
she would not go–none.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I am sure.”
“And why?”
“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when
the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”
“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn.
“That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look
into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the
present?”
“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of
the Count Von Kramm.”
“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we
progress.”
“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”
“Then, as to money?”
“You have carte blanche.”
“Absolutely?”
“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my
kingdom to have that photograph.”
“And for present expenses?”
The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his
cloak and laid it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in
notes,” he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and
handed it to him.
“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.
“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was
the photograph a cabinet?”
“It was.”
“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall
soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the
wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be good
enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this
little matter over with you.”
II.
At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes
had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house
shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire,
however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was
already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none
of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes
which I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted
station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the
nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in
his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made
it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick,
subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So
accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his
failing had ceased to enter into my head.
It was close upon four before the door opened, and a
drunkenlooking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s
amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was
certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence
he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his
hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and
laughed heartily for some minutes.
“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed
again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.
“What is it?”
“It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I
employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.”
“I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the
habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.”
“Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell
you, however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock this morning in the
character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry
among horsy men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I
soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back. but
built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door.
Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost
to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child
could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window
could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and
examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else
of interest.
“I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected,
that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I
lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange
twopence, a glass of half and half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much
information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen
other people in the neighborhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but
whose biographies I was compelled to listen to.”
“And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.
“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part.
She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at
five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other
times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of
him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and
often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the
advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times
from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they
had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think
over my plan of campaign.
“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the
matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between
them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his
friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the
photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of
this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or
turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate
point. and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with
these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to
understand the situation.”
“I am following you closely,” I answered.
“I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom
cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably
handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached– evidently the man of whom I had
heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and
brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was
thoroughly at home.
“He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch
glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking
excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he
emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab,
he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, ‘Drive like
the devil,’ he shouted, ‘first to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and
then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do
it in twenty minutes!’
“Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should
not do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the
coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all
the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t pulled up
before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of
her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die
for.
“‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a
sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’
“This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just
balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her
landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a
shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St.
Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It
was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was
in the wind.
“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but
the others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses
were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried into the
church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed and a
surprised clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all
three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle
like any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise,
the three at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as
hard as he could towards me.
“Thank God,” he cried. “You’ll do. Come! Come!”
“What then?” I asked.
“Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.”
I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I
was I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear. and
vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the
secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was
all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side
and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was
the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it
was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there
had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely
refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky
appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in
search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on
my watch-chain in memory of the occasion.”
“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “and
what then?”
“Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as
if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt
and energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they separated,
he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. ‘I shall drive out in
the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They
drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own
arrangements.”
“Which are?”
“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing
the bell. “I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier
still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your cooperation.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?”
“Not in the least.”
“Nor running a chance of arrest?”
“Not in a good cause.”
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
“Then I am your man.”
“I was sure that I might rely on you.”
“But what is it you wish?”
“When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it
clear to you. Now,” he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our
landlady had provided, “I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much
time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action.
Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at
Briony Lodge to meet her.”
“And what then?”
“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is
to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not
interfere, come what may. You understand?”
“I am to be neutral?”
“To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness.
Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or
five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station
yourself close to that open window.”
“Yes.”
“You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.”
“Yes.”
“And when I raise my hand–so–you will throw into the room
what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire.
You quite follow me?”
“Entirely.”
“It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long
cigar- shaped roll from his pocket. “It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke- rocket,
fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined
to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number
of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in
ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?”
“I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch
you, and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire,
and to wait you at the corner of the street.”
“Precisely.”
“Then you may entirely rely on me.”
“That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that
I prepare for the new role I have to play.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes
in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His
broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and
general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare
alone could have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume.
His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part
that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute
reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.
It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it
still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine
Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as we paced
up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occupant.
The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’s succinct
description, but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On
the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighborhood, it was remarkably
animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a
corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with
a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down
with cigars in their mouths.
“You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front
of the house, “this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes
a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its
being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of
his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?”
“Where, indeed?”
“It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It
is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman’s dress. She
knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts
of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not
carry it about with her.”
“Where, then?”
“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility.
But I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they
like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She
could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political
influence might be brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that
she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her
hands upon it. It must be in her own house.”
“But it has twice been burgled.”
“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”
“But how will you look?”
“I will not look.”
“What then?”
“I will get her to show me.”
“But she will refuse.”
“She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It
is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter.”
As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came
round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to
the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner
dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was
elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A
fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took
sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissorsgrinder, who was equally hot
upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had
stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed and
struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks.
Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but just as he reached her he
gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his
face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the
loungers in the other, while a number of better-dressed people, who had watched
the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to
attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried
up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against
the lights of the hall, looking back into the street.
“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked.
“He is dead,” cried several voices.
“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be
gone before you can get him to hospital.”
“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the
lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a rough
one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.”
“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?”
“Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a
comfortable sofa. This way, please!”
Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid
out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post
by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so
that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was
seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know
that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw
the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and
kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the
blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had
intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my
ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing
her from injuring another.
Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a
man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At
the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket
into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth than
the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill–gentlemen, ostlers, and
servant-maids–joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke
curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of
rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring
them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my
way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my
friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked
swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the
quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road.
“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could
have been better. It is all right.”
“You have the photograph?”
“I know where it is.”
“And how did you find out?”
“She showed me, as I told you she would.”
“I am still in the dark.”
“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The
matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street
was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.”
“I guessed as much.”
“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint
in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down. clapped my hand to my
face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.”
“That also I could fathom.”
“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What
else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I
suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see
which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were compelled to open
the window. and you had your chance.”
“How did that help you?”
“It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is
on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It
is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage
of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution scandal it was of use to me,
and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby;
an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our
lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are
in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done.
The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded
beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above
the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it
as she half-drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she
replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen
her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated
whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had come
in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to wait. A little
over-precipitance may ruin all.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the
King to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown
into the sitting-room to wait for the lady; but it is probable that when she
comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to
his Majesty to regain it with his own hands.”
“And when will you call?”
“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we
shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may
mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without
delay.”
We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He
was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:
“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”
There were several people on the pavement at the time, but
the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried
by.
“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the
dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been.”
III.
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon
our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the
room.
“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes
by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.
“Not yet.”
“But you have hopes?”
“I have hopes.”
“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”
“We must have a cab.”
“No, my brougham is waiting.”
“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started
off once more for Briony Lodge.
“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.
“Married! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“To an English lawyer named Norton.”
“But she could not love him.”
“I am in hopes that she does.”
“And why in hopes?”
“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future
annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If
she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere
with your Majesty’s plan.”
“It is true. And yet–Well! I wish she had been of my own
station! What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence,
which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood
upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
brougham.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.
“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with
a questioning and rather startled gaze.
“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call.
She left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for
the Continent.”
“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin
and surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”
“Never to return.”
“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”
“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into
the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered
about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the
lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the
bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled
out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in
evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left
till called for.” My friend tore it open and we all three read it together. It
was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:
My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,–You really did it very well. You
took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion.
But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been
warned against you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an
agent it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with
all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became
suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman.
But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is
nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent
John, the coachman, to watch you, ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes,
as I call them, and came down just as you departed.
Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I
was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I,
rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my
husband. We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so
formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call
to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am
loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance
from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and
to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might
take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I
remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
Very truly yours,
Irene Norton, nee Adler.
“What a woman–oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia,
when we had all three read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and
resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity
that she was not on my level?”
“From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on
a very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I
have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more successful
conclusion.”
“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing
could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is
now as safe as if it were in the fire.”
“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”
“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I
can reward you. This ring–” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger
and held it out upon the palm of his hand.
“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more
highly,” said Holmes.
“You have but to name it.”
“This photograph!”
The King stared at him in amazement.
“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”
“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in
the matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning.” He bowed, and,
turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to
him, he set off in my company for his chambers.
And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the
kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten
by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I
have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he
refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman.
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