remarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged from the outset
upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man
having seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our
solution. It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that
the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of
them. When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow
strip of grass without once making a false step I remarked, as you
may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set
it down as an impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that
she had a second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to
seriously consider the hypothesis that she had remained within the
house. On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors it became
clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and in
that case it was evident that she must have entered the Professor's
room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would bear
out this supposition, and I examined the room narrowly for anything
in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuous and
firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There might
well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such devices are
common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled on the
floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear.
This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but
the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to
examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent
cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the
suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective.
I then went downstairs and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,
without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor
Coram's consumption of food had increased--as one would expect when
he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again,
when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent
view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces
upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had, in our absence, come
out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross,
and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful
conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I think,
Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy."
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER
We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street,
but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a
gloomy February morning some seven or eight years ago and gave Mr.
Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to
him, and ran thus:
"Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter
missing; indispensable to-morrow.
Overton."
"Strand post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six," said Holmes,
reading it over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
Well, well, he will be here, I dare say, by the time I have looked
through the times, and then we shall know all about it. Even the most
insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days."
Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread
such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to
leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened once
to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary
conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I
was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping; and I have
known that the sleep was a light one and the waking near when in
periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic
face, and the brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes.
Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might be, since he
had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm
which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his
tempestuous life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and
the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge,
announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
shoulders and looked from one of us to the other with a comely face
which was haggard with anxiety.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
My companion bowed.
"I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police."
"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."
"It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn't grey.
Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the
hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the
pack and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's
passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him; and
then, he's got the head and can hold us all together. What am I to
do? That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first
reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges right in on
to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touch-line. He's a fine
place-kick, it's true, but, then, he has no judgment, and he can't
sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could
romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from
the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or
drop isn't worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done
unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."
My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon
the speaker's knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out
his hand and took down letter "S" of his commonplace book. For once
he dug in vain into that mine of varied information.
"There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said he, "and
there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton
is a new name to me."
It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.
"Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I suppose,
then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know
Cyril Overton either?"
Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.
"Great Scot!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year.
But that's nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who
didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge,
Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where
have you lived?"
Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.
"You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is
the best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected
visit this morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and
fair play there may be work for me to do; so now, my good sir, I beg
you to sit down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is
that has occurred, and how you desire that I should help you."
Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
accustomed to using his muscles than his wits; but by degrees, with
many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative,
he laid his strange story before us.
"It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the
Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best
man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up and we
settled at Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and
saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict
training and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two
with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and
bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He said he was all
right--just a touch of headache. I bade him good-night and left him.
Half an hour later the porter tells me that a rough-looking man with
a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and
the note was taken to his room. Godfrey read it and fell back in a
chair as if he had been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he
was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water,
and pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few
words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them
went off together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were
almost running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This
morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never been slept in,
and his things were all just as I had seen them the night before. He
had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no word has
come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He was a
sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have
stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some
cause that was too strong for him. No; I feel as if he were gone for
good and we should never see him again."
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
narrative.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him."
"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"
"Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven."
"But so far as you can ascertain he did not take it?"
"No, he has not been seen."
"What did you do next?"
"I wired to Lord Mount-James."
"Why to Lord Mount-James?"
"Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
relative--his uncle, I believe."
"Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is
one of the richest men in England."
"So I've heard Godfrey say."
"And your friend was closely related?"
"Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram full of
gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his
knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is
an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough."
"Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"
"No."
"What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?"
"Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to
do with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest
relative who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would
not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old
man. He would not go if he could help it."
"Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his
relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of
this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that
was caused by his coming."
Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. "I can make nothing of
it," said he.
"Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into
the matter," said Holmes. "I should strongly recommend you to make
your preparations for your match without reference to this young
gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity
which tore him away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is
likely to hold him away. Let us step round together to this hotel,
and see if the porter can throw any fresh light upon the matter."
Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
Staunton's abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had
to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither
was he a working man. He was simply what the porter described as a
"medium-looking chap"; a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face,
quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had
observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey
Staunton had crammed the note into his pocket. Staunton had not
shaken hands with the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few
sentences, of which the porter had only distinguished the one word
