of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar
to you."
"I would wish to know it," said the Prussian grimly.
"It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and
the late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial
Envoy. It was I also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman,
Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother's elder brother. It
was I--"
Von Bork sat up in amazement.
"There is only one man," he cried.
"Exactly," said Holmes.
Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. "And most of that
information came through you," he cried. "What is it worth? What have
I done? It is my ruin forever!"
"It is certainly a little untrustworthy," said Holmes. "It will
require some checking and you have little time to check it. Your
admiral may find the new guns rather larger than he expects, and the
cruisers perhaps a trifle faster."
Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.
"There are a good many other points of detail which will, no doubt,
come to light in good time. But you have one quality which is very
rare in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear
me no ill-will when you realize that you, who have outwitted so many
other people, have at last been outwitted yourself. After all, you
have done your best for your country, and I have done my best for
mine, and what could be more natural? Besides," he added, not
unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man,
"it is better than to fall before some ignoble foe. These papers are
now ready, Watson. If you will help me with our prisoner, I think
that we may get started for London at once."
It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a
desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends walked
him very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with such
proud confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous
diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he
was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the
little car. His precious valise was wedged in beside him.
"I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit," said
Holmes when the final arrangements were made. "Should I be guilty of
a liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?"
But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.
"I suppose you realize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said he, "that if your
government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war."
"What about your government and all this treatment?" said Holmes,
tapping the valise.
"You are a private individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The
whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous."
"Absolutely," said Holmes.
"Kidnapping a German subject."
"And stealing his private papers."
"Well, you realize your position, you and your accomplice here. If I
were to shout for help as we pass through the village--"
"My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would probably
enlarge the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us 'The
Dangling Prussian' as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient
creature, but at present his temper is a little inflamed, and it
would be as well not to try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you will
go with us in a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you
can send for your friend, Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you
may not fill that place which he has reserved for you in the
ambassadorial suite. As to you, Watson, you are joining us with your
old service, as I understand, so London won't be out of your way.
Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may be the last quiet
talk that we shall ever have."
The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes,
recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner
vainly wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they turned to
the car Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful
head.
"There's an east wind coming, Watson."
"I think not, Holmes. It is very warm."
"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.
There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew
on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many
of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the
less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine
when the storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it's time that
we were on our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which
should be cashed early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping
it if he can."
THE CASE-BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
PREFACE
I fear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes may become like one of those popular
tenors who, having outlived their time, are still tempted to make
repeated farewell bows to their indulgent audiences. This must cease
and he must go the way of all flesh, material or imaginary. One likes
to think that there is some fantastic limbo for the children of
imagination, some strange, impossible place where the beaux of
Fielding may still make love to the belles of Richardson, where
Scott's heroes still may strut, Dickens's delightful Cockneys still
raise a laugh, and Thackeray's worldlings continue to carry on their
reprehensible careers. Perhaps in some humble corner of such a
Valhalla, Sherlock and his Watson may for a time find a place, while
some more astute sleuth with some even less astute comrade may fill
the stage which they have vacated.
His career has been a long one--though it is possible to exaggerate
it; decrepit gentlemen who approach me and declare that his
adventures formed the reading of their boyhood do not meet the
response from me which they seem to expect. One is not anxious to
have one's personal dates handled so unkindly. As a matter of cold
fact, Holmes made his debut in A Study in Scarlet and in The Sign of
Four, two small booklets which appeared between 1887 and 1889. It was
in 1891 that "A Scandal in Bohemia," the first of the long series of
short stories, appeared in The Strand Magazine. The public seemed
appreciative and desirous of more, so that from that date,
thirty-nine years ago, they have been produced in a broken series
which now contains no fewer than fifty-six stories, republished in
The Adventures, The Memoirs, The Return, and His Last Bow. And there
remain these twelve published during the last few years which are
here produced under the title of The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. He
began his adventures in the very heart of the later Victorian era,
carried it through the all-too-short reign of Edward, and has managed
to hold his own little niche even in these feverish days. Thus it
would be true to say that those who first read of him, as young men,
have lived to see their own grown-up children following the same
adventures in the same magazine. It is a striking example of the
patience and loyalty of the British public.
I had fully determined at the conclusion of The Memoirs to bring
Holmes to an end, as I felt that my literary energies should not be
directed too much into one channel. That pale, clear-cut face and
loose-limbed figure were taking up an undue share of my imagination.
I did the deed, but fortunately no coroner had pronounced upon the
remains, and so, after a long interval, it was not difficult for me
to respond to the flattering demand and to explain my rash act away.
I have never regretted it, for I have not in actual practice found
that these lighter sketches have prevented me from exploring and
finding my limitations in such varied branches of literature as
history, poetry, historical novels, psychic research, and the drama.
Had Holmes never existed I could not have done more, though he may
perhaps have stood a little in the way of the recognition of my more
serious literary work.
And so, reader, farewell to Sherlock Holmes! I thank you for your
past constancy, and can but hope that some return has been made in
the shape of that distraction from the worries of life and
stimulating change of thought which can only be found in the fairy
kingdom of romance.
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
"It can't hurt now," was Mr. Sherlock Holmes's comment when, for the
tenth time in as many years, I asked his leave to reveal the
following narrative. So it was that at last I obtained permission to
put on record what was, in some ways, the supreme moment of my
friend's career.
Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish bath. It was over a
smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found
him less reticent and more human than anywhere else. On the upper
floor of the Northumberland Avenue establishment there is an isolated
corner where two couches lie side by side, and it was on these that
we lay upon September 3, 1902, the day when my narrative begins. I
had asked him whether anything was stirring, and for answer he had
shot his long, thin, nervous arm out of the sheets which enveloped
him and had drawn an envelope from the inside pocket of the coat
which hung beside him.
"It may be some fussy, self-important fool; it may be a matter of
life or death," said he as he handed me the note. "I know no more
than this message tells me."
It was from the Carlton Club and dated the evening before. This is
what I read:
Sir James Damery presents his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and
will call upon him at 4.30 to-morrow. Sir James begs to say that the
matter upon which he desires to consult Mr. Holmes is very delicate
and also very important. He trusts, therefore, that Mr. Holmes will
make every effort to grant this interview, and that he will confirm
it over the telephone to the Carlton Club.
"I need not say that I have confirmed it, Watson," said Holmes as I
returned the paper. "Do you know anything of this man Damery?"
"Only that this name is a household word in society."
"Well, I can tell you a little more than that. He has rather a
reputation for arranging delicate matters which are to be kept out of
the papers. You may remember his negotiations with Sir George Lewis
over the Hammerford Will case. He is a man of the world with a
natural turn for diplomacy. I am bound, therefore, to hope that it is
not a false scent and that he has some real need for our assistance."
"Our?"
"Well, if you will be so good, Watson."
"I shall be honoured."
"Then you have the hour--4.30. Until then we can put the matter out
of our heads."
I was living in my own rooms in Queen Anne Street at the time, but I
was round at Baker Street before the time named. Sharp to the
half-hour, Colonel Sir James Damery was announced. It is hardly
necessary to describe him, for many will remember that large, bluff,
honest personality, that broad, clean-shaven face, and, above all,
that pleasant, mellow voice. Frankness shone from his gray Irish
eyes, and good humour played round his mobile, smiling lips. His
lucent top-hat, his dark frock-coat, indeed, every detail, from the
pearl pin in the black satin cravat to the lavender spats over the
varnished shoes, spoke of the meticulous care in dress for which he
was famous. The big, masterful aristocrat dominated the little room.
"Of course, I was prepared to find Dr. Watson," he remarked with a
courteous bow. "His collaboration may be very necessary, for we are
dealing on this occasion, Mr. Holmes, with a man to whom violence is
familiar and who will, literally, stick at nothing. I should say that
there is no more dangerous man in Europe."
"I have had several opponents to whom that flattering term has been
applied," said Holmes with a smile. "Don't you smoke? Then you will
excuse me if I light my pipe. If your man is more dangerous than the
late Professor Moriarty, or than the living Colonel Sebastian Moran,
then he is indeed worth meeting. May I ask his name?"
"Have you ever heard of Baron Gruner?"
"You mean the Austrian murderer?"
Colonel Damery threw up his kid-gloved hands with a laugh. "There is
no getting past you, Mr. Holmes! Wonderful! So you have already sized
him up as a murderer?"
"It is my business to follow the details of Continental crime. Who
could possibly have read what happened at Prague and have any doubts
as to the man's guilt! It was a purely technical legal point and the
suspicious death of a witness that saved him! I am as sure that he
killed his wife when the so-called 'accident' happened in the Splugen
Pass as if I had seen him do it. I knew, also, that he had come to
