"I give you my word on that," she answered.
He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us
mounted to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly
done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away
at a furious pace through the foggy streets.
The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place,
on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete
hoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else we had good
reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.
Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I
endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures
in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at
our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories
were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one
moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of
night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I
had some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon,
what with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London,
I lost my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going
a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he
muttered the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out
by tortuous by-streets.
"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the
Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.
Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses
of the river."
We did indeed bet a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the
lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on,
and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.
"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.
Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not
appear to take us to very fashionable regions."
We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse
glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came
rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden,
and then again interminable lines of new staring brick
buildings,--the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing
out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a
new terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at
which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single
glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was
instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban,
white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something
strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the
commonplace door-way of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.
"The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a
high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me,
khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me."
CHAPTER IV
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and
worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he
threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the
centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a
bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining
scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from
fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his
features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but
never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip,
and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove
feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part
of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the
impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his
thirtieth year.
"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high
voice. "Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A
small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art
in the howling desert of South London."
We were all astonished by the appearance o the apartment into which
he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a
diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and
glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back
here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental
vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that
the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great
tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern
luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A
lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost
invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it
filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.
"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these
gentlemen--"
"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."
"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope?
Might I ask you--would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as
to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may
rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he
shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You
have no cause for uneasiness."
"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. "I
am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve.
I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father,
Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he
might have been alive now."
I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan
sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart
that he was dead," said she.
"I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I
can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may
say. I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to
you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The
three of us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us
have no outsiders,--no police or officials. We can settle everything
satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing
would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down
upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery
blue eyes.
"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go
no further."
I nodded to show my agreement.
"That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of
Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I
open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am
a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He
applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our
heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange,
jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in
the centre.
"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,
"I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the
liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my
man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete
confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were
dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse
these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might
even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than
a policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough
materialism. I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live,
as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may
call myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is
a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question
about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."
"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here
at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is
very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as
possible."
"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall
all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to
me. I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine
what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."
"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
once," I ventured to remark.
He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he
cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that
sudden way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to
each other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are
several points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only
lay the facts before you as far as I know them myself.
"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of
the Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live
at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and
brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these
advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My
twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.
"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,
and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations
as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect
that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all
men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.
"We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
danger--overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone,
and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.
He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never
tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to
men with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver
at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman
canvassing for orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter
up. My brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's,
but events have since led us to change our opinion.
"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a
great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he
opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in
the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it
that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered
for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse,
and towards the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all
hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us.
"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and
breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon
either side of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a
remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much by
emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in his own very
words.
"'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this
supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The
cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has
withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which should have
been hers. And yet I have made no use of it myself,--so blind and
foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been
