come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to wait.
A little over-precipitance may ruin all."
"And now?" I asked.
"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King
to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be
shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable
that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It
might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own
hands."
"And when will you call?"
"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a
clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a
complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King
without delay."
We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was
searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:
"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."
There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
hurried by.
"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the dimly
lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been."
CHAPTER III
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our
toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into
the room.
"You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by
either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.
"Not yet."
"But you have hopes?"
"I have hopes."
"Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."
"We must have a cab."
"No, my brougham is waiting."
"Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off once
more for Briony Lodge.
"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.
"Married! When?"
"Yesterday."
"But to whom?"
"To an English lawyer named Norton."
"But she could not love him."
"I am in hopes that she does."
"And why in hopes?"
"Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If
the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she
does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should
interfere with your Majesty's plan."
"It is true. And yet--Well! I wish she had been of my own station!
What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a moody silence,
which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon
the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
brougham.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.
"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a
questioning and rather startled gaze.
"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left
this morning with her husband by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross
for the Continent."
"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and
surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"
"Never to return."
"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."
"We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the
drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open
drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her
flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding
shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a
letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress,
the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till
called for." My friend tore it open and we all three read it
together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in
this way:
"My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
"You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after
the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how
I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against
you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent it
would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with
all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I
became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of
the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,
ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came
down just as you departed.
"Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was
really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for
the Temple to see my husband.
"We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so
formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you
call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace.
I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he
will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep
it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will
always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I
leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
"Very truly yours,
"Irene Norton, n閑 Adler."
"What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we
had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and
resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it
not a pity that she was not on my level?"
"From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very
different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry
that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more
successful conclusion."
"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be
more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is
now as safe as if it were in the fire."
"I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."
"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can
reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his
finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.
"Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,"
said Holmes.
"You have but to name it."
"This photograph!"
The King stared at him in amazement.
"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."
"I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the
matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed,
and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had
stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.
And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of
Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by
a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women,
but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene
Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the
honourable title of the woman.
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled
me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.
"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,"
he said cordially.
"I was afraid that you were engaged."
"So I am. Very much so."
"Then I can wait in the next room."
"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and
helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that
he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.
"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial
moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is
bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday
life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has
prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so,
somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures."
"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I
observed.
"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination."
"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."
"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view,
for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now,
Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this
morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the
most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard
me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often
connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any
positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is
impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of
crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most
singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would
have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not
merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part
but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to
have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have
heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to
guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to
my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement
column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon
his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the
fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be
presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's check
trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front,
and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square
pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat
and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a
chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing
remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the
expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his
head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond the
obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he
takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and
that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can
deduce nothing else."
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon
the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual
labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter."
"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed."
"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"
"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
