from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they
would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter
of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks
represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the
letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer."
"It is possible."
"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency
of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow
has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the
senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and
therefore we cannot count upon delay."
"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless persecution?"
"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance
to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is
quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man
could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a
coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must
have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean
to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K.
K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge
of a society."
"But of what society?"
"Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking
his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"
"I never have."
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it
is," said he presently:
"'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the
sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was
formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after
the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different
parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas,
Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes,
principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering
and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views.
Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked
man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape--a sprig of
oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On
receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways,
or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death
would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and
unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society,
and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon
record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in
which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For
some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the
United States government and of the better classes of the community
in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather
suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of
the same sort since that date.'
"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that the
sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the
disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well
have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family
have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can
understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the
first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep
easy at night until it is recovered."
"Then the page we have seen--"
"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent the
pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to them.
Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the
country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister
result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into
this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw
has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing
more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and
let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the
still more miserable ways of our fellow-men."
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued
brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.
"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young
Openshaw's."
"What steps will you take?" I asked.
"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I
may have to go down to Horsham, after all."
"You will not go there first?"
"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid
will bring up your coffee."
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and
glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill
to my heart.
"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."
"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it
done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.
"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy Near
Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:
"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a
splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and
stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was
quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given,
and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually
recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as
it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John
Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that
he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo
Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his
path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for
river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there
can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an
unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the
attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside
landing-stages."
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken
than I had ever seen him.
"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty
feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal
matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand
upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should
send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair and paced
about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his
sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin
hands.
"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could they
have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line
to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a
night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in
the long run. I am going out now!"
"To the police?"
"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take
the flies, but not before."
All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the
evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not
come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered, looking
pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece
from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long
draught of water.
"You are hungry," I remarked.
"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast."
"Nothing?"
"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."
"And how have you succeeded?"
"Well."
"You have a clue?"
"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long
remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish
trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"
"What do you mean?"
He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and
thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote "S.
H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain James
Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia."
"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling. "It
may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor
of his fate as Openshaw did before him."
"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"
"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."
"How did you trace it, then?"
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with
dates and names.
"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers and
files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83. There
were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there
during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly
attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having
cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the
states of the Union."
"Texas, I think."
"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have
an American origin."
"What then?"
"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone
Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
London."
"Yes?"
"The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early
tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend
and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is
easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not
very far from the Isle of Wight."
"What will you do, then?"
"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn,
the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship
last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their
cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the
mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have
informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly
wanted here upon a charge of murder."
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and
the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips
which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as
themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the
equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star
of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that
somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat
was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S."
carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate
of the Lone Star.
THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of
the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium.
The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak
when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of
his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum
in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more
have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of,
and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object
of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see
him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point
pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about
the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I
sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap
and made a little face of disappointment.
"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
