had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and
stared at him in blank amazement.
"What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I
could have imagined."
He laughed heartily at my perplexity.
"You remember," said he, "that some little time ago when I read you
the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner
follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to
treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author. On my
remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing
you expressed incredulity."
"Oh, no!"
"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon
a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of
reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I
had been in rapport with you."
But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read to
me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of
the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a
heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been
seated quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"
"You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the
means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful
servants."
"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
features?"
"Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself
recall how your reverie commenced?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the
action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with
a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly
framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your
face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead
very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry
Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you
glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You
were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover
that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture there."
"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.
"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went
back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying
the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but
you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were
recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that
you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he
undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I
remember your expressing your passionate indignation at the way in
which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt
so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher
without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes
wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now
turned to the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set, your
eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched I was positive that you were
indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in
that desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you
shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and
useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old wound and
a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous
side of this method of settling international questions had forced
itself upon your mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was
preposterous and was glad to find that all my deductions had been
correct."
"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
that I am as amazed as before."
"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little
problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my
small essay I thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a short
paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent
through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?"
"No, I saw nothing."
"Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here
it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough
to read it aloud."
I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."
"Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made
the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting
practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be
attached to the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small
packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A
cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On
emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears,
apparently quite freshly severed. The box had been sent by parcel
post from Belfast upon the morning before. There is no indication as
to the sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing,
who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has
so few acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for
her to receive anything through the post. Some years ago, however,
when she resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three
young medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account
of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion that
this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these
youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by
sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some probability is
lent to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from
the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing's belief, from
Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated,
Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers,
being in charge of the case."
"So much for the Daily Chronicle," said Holmes as I finished reading.
"Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in
which he says:
"I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope
of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting
anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast
post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that
day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of
remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew
tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory
still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a
few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I
shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.
"What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down
to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?"
"I was longing for something to do."
"You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a
cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown
and filled my cigar-case."
A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was
far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a
wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as
ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took
us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.
It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and prim,
with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned women
gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at
a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was
sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a
placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair
curving down over her temples on each side. A worked antimacassar lay
upon her lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside
her.
"They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things," said she as
Lestrade entered. "I wish that you would take them away altogether."
"So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend, Mr.
Holmes, should have seen them in your presence."
"Why in my presence, sir?"
"In case he wished to ask any questions."
"What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know
nothing whatever about it?"
"Quite so, madam," said Holmes in his soothing way. "I have no doubt
that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this
business."
"Indeed I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life. It
is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the
police in my house. I won't have those things I here, Mr. Lestrade.
If you wish to see them you must go to the outhouse."
It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house.
Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box, with a piece
of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at the end of the
path, and we all sat down while Homes examined one by one, the
articles which Lestrade had handed to him.
"The string is exceedingly interesting," he remarked, holding it up
to the light and sniffing at it. "What do you make of this string,
Lestrade?"
"It has been tarred."
"Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no doubt,
remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as can
be seen by the double fray on each side. This is of importance."
"I cannot see the importance," said Lestrade.
"The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and
that this knot is of a peculiar character."
"It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note of that effect,"
said Lestrade complacently.
"So much for the string, then," said Holmes, smiling, "now for the
box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee. What, did
you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of it. Address
printed in rather straggling characters: 'Miss S. Cushing, Cross
Street, Croydon.' Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J, and
with very inferior ink. The word 'Croydon' has been originally
spelled with an 'i', which has been changed to 'y'. The parcel was
directed, then, by a man--the printing is distinctly masculine--of
limited education and unacquainted with the town of Croydon. So far,
so good! The box is a yellow, half-pound honeydew box, with nothing
distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner. It is
filled with rough salt of the quality used for preserving hides and
other of the coarser commercial purposes. And embedded in it are
these very singular enclosures."
He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across his
knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending forward
on each side of him, glanced alternately at these dreadful relics and
at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion. Finally he returned
them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep meditation.
"You have observed, of course," said he at last, "that the ears are
not a pair."
"Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of
some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for them
to send two odd ears as a pair."
"Precisely. But this is not a practical joke."
"You are sure of it?"
"The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the
dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears
bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off
with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had
done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the
preservatives which would suggest themselves to the medical mind,
certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no practical joke
here, but that we are investigating a serious crime."
A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion's words
and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features. This
brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and
inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook his
head like a man who is only half convinced.
"There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt," said he, "but
there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know that this
