last three days, and that is that nothing has happened. I get reports
almost hourly from the Government, and it is certain that nowhere in
Europe is there any sign of trouble. Now, if this letter were
loose--no, it can't be loose--but if it isn't loose, where can it be?
Who has it? Why is it held back? That's the question that beats in my
brain like a hammer. Was it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should
meet his death on the night when the letter disappeared? Did the
letter ever reach him? If so, why is it not among his papers? Did
this mad wife of his carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house
in Paris? How could I search for it without the French police having
their suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law
is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man's hand is
against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I
bring it to a successful conclusion it will certainly represent the
crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the front!"
He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed in. "Halloa!
Lestrade seems to have observed something of interest. Put on your
hat, Watson, and we will stroll down together to Westminster."
It was my first visit to the scene of the crime--a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century which
gave it birth. Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us from the
front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big constable had
opened the door and let us in. The room into which we were shown was
that in which the crime had been committed, but no trace of it now
remained, save an ugly, irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet
was a small square drugget in the centre of the room, surrounded by a
broad expanse of beautiful, old-fashioned wood-flooring in square
blocks highly polished. Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy
of weapons, one of which had been used on that tragic night. In the
window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the
apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a
taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.
"Seen the Paris news?" asked Lestrade.
Holmes nodded.
"Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No doubt
it's just as they say. She knocked at the door--surprise visit, I
guess, for he kept his life in water-tight compartments. He let her
in--couldn't keep her in the street. She told him how she had traced
him, reproached him, one thing led to another, and then with that
dagger so handy the end soon came. It wasn't all done in an instant,
though, for these chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one
in his hand as if he had tried to hold her off with it. We've got it
all clear as if we had seen it."
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
"And yet you have sent for me?"
"Ah, yes, that's another matter--a mere trifle, but the sort of thing
you take an interest in--queer, you know, and what you might call
freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact--can't have, on the
face of it."
"What is it, then?"
"Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful to
keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer in
charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried and
the investigation over--so far as this room is concerned--we thought
we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not fastened
down; only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it. We found--"
"Yes? You found--"
Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety.
"Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we did
find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal must have
soaked through, must it not?"
"Undoubtedly it must."
"Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on the
white woodwork to correspond."
"No stain! But there must--"
"Yes; so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn't."
He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it over, he
showed that it was indeed as he said.
"But the underside is as stained as the upper. It must have left a
mark."
Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.
"Now I'll show you the explanation. There is a second stain, but it
does not correspond with the other. See for yourself." As he spoke he
turned over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough,
was a great crimson spill upon the square white facing of the
old-fashioned floor. "What do you make of that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it was
easily done."
"The official police don't need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them that
the carpet must have been turned round. That's clear enough, for the
stains lie above each other--if you lay it over this way. But what I
want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?"
I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he was vibrating with
inward excitement.
"Look here, Lestrade," said he, "has that constable in the passage
been in charge of the place all the time?"
"Yes, he has."
"Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don't do it before us.
We'll wait here. You take him into the back room. You'll be more
likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he dared to
admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don't ask him if he
has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you know someone has been
here. Press him. Tell him that a full confession is his only chance
of forgiveness. Do exactly what I tell you!"
"By George, if he knows I'll have it out of him!" cried Lestrade. He
darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying voice
sounded from the back room.
"Now, Watson, now!" cried Holmes, with frenzied eagerness. All the
demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner burst
out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the floor, and
in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the
squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as he dug his nails
into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid of a box. A small
black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged his eager hand into
it, and drew it out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment.
It was empty.
"Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!" The wooden lid was
replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
Lestrade's voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes leaning
languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient, endeavouring
to conceal his irrepressible yawns.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes. I can see that you are bored
to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all right.
Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your most
inexcusable conduct."
The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.
"I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure. The young woman came to the door
last evening--mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.
It's lonesome, when you're on duty here all day."
"Well, what happened then?"
"She wanted to see where the crime was done--had read about it in the
papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken young
woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep. When she
saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the floor, and lay
as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got some water, but I
could not bring her to. Then I went round the corner to the Ivy Plant
for some brandy, and by the time I had brought it back the young
woman had recovered and was off--ashamed of herself, I dare say, and
dared not face me."
"How about moving that drugget?"
"Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back. You
see, she fell on it, and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to
keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards."
"It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable
MacPherson," said Lestrade, with dignity. "No doubt you thought that
your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a mere glance
at that drugget was enough to convince me that someone had been
admitted to the room. It's lucky for you, my man, that nothing is
missing, or you would find yourself in Queer Street. I'm sorry to
have called you down over such a petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I
thought the point of the second stain not corresponding with the
first would interest you."
"Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been here
once, constable?"
"Yes, sir, only once."
"Who was she?"
"Don't know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
type-writing, and came to the wrong number--very pleasant, genteel
young woman, sir."
"Tall? Handsome?"
"Yes, sir; she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might say
she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very handsome. 'Oh,
officer, do let me have a peep!' says she. She had pretty, coaxing
ways, as you might say, and I thought there was no harm in letting
her just put her head through the door."
"How was she dressed?"
"Quiet, sir--a long mantle down to her feet."
"What time was it?"
"It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the lamps
as I came back with the brandy."
"Very good," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, I think that we have more
important work elsewhere."
As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while the
repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes turned on
the step and held up something in his hand. The constable stared
intently.
"Good Lord, sir!" he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes put
his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast-pocket, and
burst out laughing as we turned down the street. "Excellent!" said
he. "Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up for the last act. You
will be relieved to hear that there will be no war, that the Right
Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no set-back in his brilliant
career, that the indiscreet Sovereign will receive no punishment for
his indiscretion, that the Prime Minister will have no European
complication to deal with, and that with a little tact and management
upon our part nobody will be a penny the worse for what might have
been a very ugly incident."
My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.
"You have solved it!" I cried.
"Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we cannot
get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and bring the
matter to a head."
When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was for
Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We were
shown into the morning-room.
"Mr. Holmes!" said the lady, and her face was pink with her
indignation, "this is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your
part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a
secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into his
affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so showing that
there are business relations between us."
"Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must
therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my hands."
The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an instant
from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed--she tottered--I thought
that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she rallied from the
shock, and a supreme astonishment and indignation chased every other
expression from her features.
"You--you insult me, Mr. Holmes."
"Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter."
She darted to the bell.
"The butler shall show you out."
"Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts to
avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all will
be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange everything. If
you work against me I must expose you."
She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon his
as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell, but she
had forborne to ring it.
"You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
something. What is it that you know?"
