some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed
and rounded off with a knife.
"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.
"No, it certainly is not."
"With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
But here are the regulars, so the auxiliary forces may beat a
retreat."
As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly
on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode
heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly, and plethoric, with
a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from
between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an
inspector in uniform and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.
"Here's a business!" he cried in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a
pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be
as full as a rabbit-warren!"
"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes
quietly.
"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on
causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It's
true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was
more by good luck than good guidance."
"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."
"Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all
this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here- no room for
theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over
another case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What
d'you think the man died of?"
"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes
dryly.
"No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a
million missing. How was the window?"
"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."
"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do
with the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died in a fit;
but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes
come upon me at times. Just step outside, Sergeant, and you, Mr.
Sholto. Your friend can remain. What do you think of this, Holmes?
Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. the
brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure?
How's that?"
"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door
on the inside."
"Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter.
This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was a quarrel: so
much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much
also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left
him. His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most
disturbed state of mind. His appearance is- well, not attractive.
You see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to
close upon him."
"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes.
"This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be
poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this
card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table, and beside it lay
this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit
into your theory?"
"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective pompously.
"House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if
this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous
use of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus- a blind,
as like as not. The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of
course, here is a hole in the roof."
With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps
and squeezed through into the garret and immediately afterwards we
heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trapdoor.
"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders;
"he has occasional glimmerings of reason. Il n'y a pas des sots si
incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"
"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again;
"facts are better than theories, after all. My view of the case is
confirmed. There is a trapdoor communicating with the roof, and it
is partly open."
"It was I who opened it."
"Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little
crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows
how our gentleman got away. Inspector!"
"Yes, sir," from the passage.
"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.- Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to
inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I
arrest you in the Queen's name as being concerned in the death of your
brother."
"There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing
out his hands and looking from one to the other of us.
"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes; "I think
that I can engage to clear you of the charge."
"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist, don't promise too much!"
snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you
think."
"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
present of the name and description of one of the two people who
were in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to
believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly educated man, small,
active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is
worn away upon the inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed
sole, with an iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man,
much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications may be
of some assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a
good deal of skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man-"
"Ah! the other man?" asked Athelney Jones in a sneering voice, but
impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of
the other's manner.
"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair
of them. A word with you, Watson."
He led me out to the head of the stair.
"This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose
sight of the original purpose of our journey."
"I have just been thinking so," I answered; "it is not right that
Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."
"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester
in Lower Camberwell, so it is not very far. I will wait for you here
if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"
"By no means. I don't think I could rest until I know more of this
fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life,
but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises
to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to
see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far."
"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We
shall work the case out independently and leave this fellow Jones to
exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. When
you have dropped Miss Morstan, I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin
Lane, down near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the
right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's; Sherman is the name. You will see
a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up
and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You
will bring Toby back in the cab with you."
"A dog, I suppose."
"Yes, a queer mongrel with a most amazing power of scent. I would
rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of
London."
"I shall bring him then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back
before three if I can get a fresh horse."
"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs,
Bernstone and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tells me,
sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's
methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms.
"`Wir sind gewohnt dass die Menschen verhohnen was sie nicht
verstehen.'
"Goethe is always pithy."
Chapter 7
THE EPISODE OF THE BARREL
The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted
Miss Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she
had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was someone weaker
than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by
the side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first
turned faint and then burst into a passion of weeping- so sorely had
she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me since
that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She little
guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint
which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as
my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the
conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet,
brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there
were two thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips.
She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take
her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse
still, she was rich. If Holmes's researches were successful, she would
be an heiress. Was it fair, was it honourable, that a half-pay surgeon
should take such advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought
about? Might she not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I
could not bear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind. This
Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.
It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's.
The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received that
she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door herself,
a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how
tenderly her arm stole round the other's waist and how motherly was
the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid
dependant but an honoured friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester
earnestly begged me to step in and tell her our adventures. I
explained, however, the importance of my errand and promised
faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with
the case. As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem
to see that little group on the step- the two graceful, clinging
figures, the half-opened door, the hall-light shining through
stained glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It was
soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home
in the midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.
And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker
it grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
rattled on through the silent, gas-lit streets. There was the original
problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain
Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter-
we had had light upon all those events. They had only led us, however,
to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the
curious plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange scene at Major
Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed
by the murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to
the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon the
card, corresponding with those upon Captain Morstan's chart- here
was indeed a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than
my fellow-lodger might well despair of ever finding the clue.
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby, two-storied brick houses in the
lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before
I could make any impression. At last, however, there was the glint
of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper
window.
"Go on, you drunken vagabond," said the face. "If you kick up any
more row, I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon
you."
"If you'll let one out, it's just what I have come for," said I.
"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in
this bag, and I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it!"
"But I want a dog," I cried.
"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for
when I say `three,' down goes the wiper."
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes-" I began; but the words had a most magical
effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the
door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man,
with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.
"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he. "Step in,
sir. Keep clear of the badger, for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty, you
take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust its
wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't mind
that, sir; it's only a slowworm. It hain't got no fangs, so I gives it
the run o' the room, for it keeps the beetles down. You must not
