appointment with the foreign agent and kept his evening clear.
Instead of that he took two tickets for the theatre, escorted his
fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly disappeared."
"A blind," said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some impatience
to the conversation.
"A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2: We
will suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign agent. He
must bring back the papers before morning or the loss will be
discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his pocket. What had
become of the other three? He certainly would not leave them of his
own free will. Then, again, where is the price of his treason? Once
would have expected to find a large sum of money in his pocket."
"It seems to me perfectly clear," said Lestrade. "I have no doubt at
all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the
agent. They could not agree as to price. He started home again, but
the agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took
the more essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That
would account for everything, would it not?"
"Why had he no ticket?"
"The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent's
house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's pocket."
"Good, Lestrade, very good," said Holmes. "Your theory holds
together. But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On the one
hand, the traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of the
Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on the Continent.
What is there for us to do?"
"To act, Sherlock--to act!" cried Mycroft, springing to his feet.
"All my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go
to the scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone
unturned! In all your career you have never had so great a chance of
serving your country."
"Well, well!" said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "Come, Watson!
And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour
or two? We will begin our investigation by a visit to Aldgate
Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before
evening, but I warn you in advance that you have little to expect."
An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel immediately
before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old gentleman
represented the railway company.
"This is where the young man's body lay," said he, indicating a spot
about three feet from the metals. "It could not have fallen from
above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it
could only have come from a train, and that train, so far as we can
trace it, must have passed about midnight on Monday."
"Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"
"There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."
"No record of a door being found open?"
"None."
"We have had some fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade. "A
passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about
11.40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a
body striking the line, just before the train reached the station.
There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be seen. He made no
report of it at the time. Why, whatever is the matter with Mr.
Holmes?"
My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity upon
his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved out of the
tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a network of points. On
these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I saw on his keen,
alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostrils,
and concentration of the heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.
"Points," he muttered; "the points."
"What of it? What do you mean?"
"I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such as
this?"
"No; they are very few."
"And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were only so."
"What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?"
"An idea--an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows in
interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do not see any
indications of bleeding on the line."
"There were hardly any."
"But I understand that there was a considerable wound."
"The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury."
"And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be possible
for me to inspect the train which contained the passenger who heard
the thud of a fall in the fog?"
"I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before now, and
the carriages redistributed."
"I can assure you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "that every carriage
has been carefully examined. I saw to it myself."
It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was
impatient with less alert intelligences than his own.
"Very likely," said he, turning away. "As it happens, it was not the
carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done all we can
here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our
investigations must now carry us to Woolwich."
At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which he
handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:
See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.
Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker Street,
a complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to
be in England, with full address.
Sherlock.
"That should be helpful, Watson," he remarked as we took our seats in
the Woolwich train. "We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for
having introduced us to what promises to be a really very remarkable
case."
His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-strung
energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive circumstance
had opened up a stimulating line of thought. See the foxhound with
hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls about the kennels, and
compare it with the same hound as, with gleaming eyes and straining
muscles, it runs upon a breast-high scent--such was the change in
Holmes since the morning. He was a different man from the limp and
lounging figure in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown who had prowled
so restlessly only a few hours before round the fog-girt room.
"There is material here. There is scope," said he. "I am dull indeed
not to have understood its possibilities."
"Even now they are dark to me."
"The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may
lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the
roof of a carriage."
"On the roof!"
"Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a coincidence
that it is found at the very point where the train pitches and sways
as it comes round on the points? Is not that the place where an
object upon the roof might be expected to fall off? The points would
affect no object inside the train. Either the body fell from the
roof, or a very curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider
the question of the blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the
line if the body had bled elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in
itself. Together they have a cumulative force."
"And the ticket, too!" I cried.
"Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This would
explain it. Everything fits together."
"But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from unravelling
the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not simpler but
stranger."
"Perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "perhaps." He relapsed into a
silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up at last in
Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew Mycroft's paper from
his pocket.
"We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make," said he.
"I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention."
The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns
stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting,
and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered
our ring.
"Sir James, sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this
morning."
"Good heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"
"Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel
Valentine?"
"Yes, we had best do so."
We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant later
we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man of fifty,
the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes, stained
cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blow which had
fallen upon the household. He was hardly articulate as he spoke of
it.
"It was this horrible scandal," said he. "My brother, Sir James, was
a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an
affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the efficiency
of his department, and this was a crushing blow."
"We had hoped that he might have given us some indications which
would have helped us to clear the matter up."
"I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you and to
all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the disposal of
the police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan West was guilty.
But all the rest was inconceivable."
"You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?"
"I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no
desire to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes, that
we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to hasten this
interview to an end."
"This is indeed an unexpected development," said my friend when we
had regained the cab. "I wonder if the death was natural, or whether
the poor old fellow killed himself! If the latter, may it be taken as
some sign of self-reproach for duty neglected? We must leave that
question to the future. Now we shall turn to the Cadogan Wests."
A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town sheltered
the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with grief to be of
any use to us, but at her side was a white-faced young lady, who
introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the fiancee of the dead
man, and the last to see him upon that fatal night.
"I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I have not shut an eye
since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and day, what
the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most single-minded,
chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right
hand off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping.
It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him."
"But the facts, Miss Westbury?"
"Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them."
"Was he in any want of money?"
"No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had saved a
few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year."
"No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be
absolutely frank with us."
The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her manner.
She coloured and hesitated.
"Yes," she said at last, "I had a feeling that there was something on
his mind."
"For long?"
"Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried. Once I
pressed him about it. He admitted that there was something, and that
it was concerned with his official life. 'It is too serious for me to
speak about, even to you,' said he. I could get nothing more."
Holmes looked grave.
"Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go on.
We cannot say what it may lead to."
"Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to me
that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke one
evening of the importance of the secret, and I have some recollection
that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a great deal to
have it."
My friend's face grew graver still.
"Anything else?"
"He said that we were slack about such matters--that it would be easy
for a traitor to get the plans."
"Was it only recently that he made such remarks?"
"Yes, quite recently."
"Now tell us of that last evening."
"We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was
useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly
