storing facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have
turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular
business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and
he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the
balance. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is
omniscience. We will suppose that a minister needs information as to
a point which involves the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic
question; he could get his separate advices from various departments
upon each, but only Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how
each factor would affect the other. They began by using him as a
short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In
that great brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed
out in an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national
policy. He lives in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as an
intellectual exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask him to
advise me on one of my little problems. But Jupiter is descending
to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan West, and what is
he to Mycroft?"
"I have it," I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon the
sofa. "Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogen West was the young
man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning."
Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.
"This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my brother to
alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the world can he
have to do with it? The case was featureless as I remember it. The
young man had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself.
He had not been robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspect
violence. Is that not so?"
"There has been an inquest," said I, "and a good many fresh facts
have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it
was a curious case."
"Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a
most extraordinary one." He snuggled down in his armchair. "Now,
Watson, let us have the facts."
"The man's name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven years of
age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal."
"Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!"
"He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his
fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about
7.30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can give
no motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when his
dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outside
Aldgate Station on the Underground system in London."
"When?"
"The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide of
the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at a
point close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel in
which it runs. The head was badly crushed--an injury which might well
have been caused by a fall from the train. The body could only have
come on the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any
neighbouring street, it must have passed the station barriers, where
a collector is always standing. This point seems absolutely certain."
"Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or alive,
either fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is clear to me.
Continue."
"The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the body
was found are those which run from west to east, some being purely
Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It can
be stated for certain that this young man, when he met his death, was
travelling in this direction at some late hour of the night, but at
what point he entered the train it is impossible to state."
"His ticket, of course, would show that."
"There was no ticket in his pockets."
"No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular. According
to my experience it is not possible to reach the platform of a
Metropolitan train without exhibiting one's ticket. Presumably, then,
the young man had one. Was it taken from him in order to conceal the
station from which he came? It is possible. Or did he drop it in the
carriage? That is also possible. But the point is of curious
interest. I understand that there was no sign of robbery?"
"Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His purse
contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on the
Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through this his
identity was established. There were also two dress-circle tickets
for the Woolwich Theatre, dated for that very evening. Also a small
packet of technical papers."
Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
"There we have it at last, Watson! British government--Woolwich.
Arsenal--technical papers--Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete.
But here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for himself."
A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was ushered
into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of
uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame
there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its
steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its
play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross
body and remembered only the dominant mind.
At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard--thin and
austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest.
The detective shook hands without a word. Mycroft Holmes struggled
out of his overcoat and subsided into an armchair.
"A most annoying business, Sherlock," said he. "I extremely dislike
altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no denial. In
the present state of Siam it is most awkward that I should be away
from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have never seen the Prime
Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty--it is buzzing like an
overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the case?"
"We have just done so. What were the technical papers?"
"Ah, there's the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The press
would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched youth had
in his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine."
Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of the
importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.
"Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of it."
"Only as a name."
"Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most
jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it from me
that naval warfare becomes impossible within the radius of a
Bruce-Partington's operation. Two years ago a very large sum was
smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in acquiring a
monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been made to keep the
secret. The plans, which are exceedingly intricate, comprising some
thirty separate patents, each essential to the working of the whole,
are kept in an elaborate safe in a confidential office adjoining the
arsenal, with burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable
circumstances were the plans to be taken from the office. If the
chief constructor of the Navy desired to consult them, even he was
forced to go to the Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet here we
find them in the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the heart of
London. From an official point of view it's simply awful."
"But you have recovered them?"
"No, Sherlock, no! That's the pinch. We have not. Ten papers were
taken from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of Cadogan West.
The three most essential are gone--stolen, vanished. You must drop
everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the
police-court. It's a vital international problem that you have to
solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the missing
ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found, how can
the evil be set right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you
will have done good service for your country."
"Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far as I."
"Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details. Give me
your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent
expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question
railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye--it is not
my m閠ier. No, you are the one man who can clear the matter up. If
you have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list--"
My friend smiled and shook his head.
"I play the game for the game's own sake," said he. "But the problem
certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall be very
pleased to look into it. Some more facts, please."
"I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of paper,
together with a few addresses which you will find of service. The
actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government
expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two
lines of a book of reference. He has grown gray in the service, is a
gentleman, a favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above
all, a man whose patriotism is beyond suspicion. He is one of two who
have a key of the safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in
the office during working hours on Monday, and that Sir James left
for London about three o'clock taking his key with him. He was at the
house of Admiral Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the
evening when this incident occurred."
"Has the fact been verified?"
"Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in
London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem."
"Who was the other man with a key?"
"The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of
forty, married, with five children. He is a silent, morose man, but
he has, on the whole, an excellent record in the public service. He
is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker. According to his
own account, corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at
home the whole of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has
never left the watch-chain upon which it hangs."
"Tell us about Cadogan West."
"He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He has
the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a straight,
honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next Sidney Johnson
in the office. His duties brought him into daily, personal contact
with the plans. No one else had the handling of them."
"Who locked up the plans that night?"
"Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk."
"Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan West.
That seems final, does it not?"
"It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In the
first place, why did he take them?"
"I presume they were of value?"
"He could have got several thousands for them very easily."
"Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to London
except to sell them?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West took
the papers. Now this could only be done by having a false key--"
"Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room."
"He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London to
sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans themselves
back in the safe next morning before they were missed. While in
London on this treasonable mission he met his end."
"How?"
"We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he was
killed and thrown out of the compartment."
"Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the station
London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich."
"Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass
London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example, with
whom he was having an absorbing interview. This interview led to a
violent scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he tried to leave
the carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his end. The other
closed the door. There was a thick fog, and nothing could be seen."
"No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge; and
yet consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We will
suppose, for argument's sake, that young Cadogan West had determined
to convey these papers to London. He would naturally have made an
