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" 'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we

fattened it expressly for you.'

" 'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

" 'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it

you want, then?'

" 'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of

the flock.'

" 'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird

all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was

a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed

until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My

heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I

knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird

rushed back to my sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There

was not a bird to be seen there.

" 'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

" 'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

" 'Which dealer's?'

" 'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

" 'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the

same as the one I chose?'

" 'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could

never tell them apart.'

"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my

feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold

the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where

they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has

always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going

mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now -- and now I

am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the

wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help

me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in

his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing

and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes's finger-tips

upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open

the door.

"Get out!" said he.

"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

"No more words. Get out!"

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter

upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running

footfalls from the street.

"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for

his clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their

deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing;

but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must

collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony. but it is just

possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong

again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and

you make him a jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of

forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and

whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you

will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin

another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief

feature."

The Aduenture of the Speckled Band

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I

have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend

Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large

number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as

he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of

wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation

which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic.

Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which

presented more singular features than that which was associated

with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke

Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my

association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bache-

lors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them

upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the

time, from which I have only been freed during the last month

by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given.

It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I

have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the

death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter

even more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning

to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of

my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the

mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I

blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little

resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the

common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up,

she retorted upon me, and I on you."

"What is it, then -- a fire?"

"No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a

considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me.

She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies

wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and

knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is

something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should

it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to

follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call

you and give you the chance."

"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his

plofessional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions,

as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis

wlth which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to

him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few

minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A

lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in

the window, rose as we entered.

"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name

is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate,

Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before

myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good

sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a

cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering."

"lt is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a

low voice, changing her seat as requested.

"What, then?"

"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as

she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable

state of agitation, her face all drawn and gray, with restless

frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features

and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot

with premature gray, and her expression was weary and haggard.

Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-

comprehensive glances.

"You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward

and patting her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have

no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see."

"You know me, then?"

"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the

palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet

you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before

you reached the station."

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my

companion.

"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling.

"The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less

than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no

vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and

then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver."

"Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,"

said she. "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead

at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I

can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I

have no one to turn to -- none, save only one, who cares for me,

and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you,

Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom

you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I

had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help

me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense

darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power

to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I

shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at

least you shall not find me ungrateful."

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small

case-book, which he consulted.

"Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was

concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time,

Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote

the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to

reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to

defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which

suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us

everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the

matter."

"Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation

lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions

depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial

to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to

look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as

the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can

read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have

heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold

wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk

amid the dangers which encompass me."

"I am all attention, madam."

"My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfa-

ther, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families

in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border

of Surrey."

Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said

he.

"The family was at one time among the richest in England,

and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the

north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however,

four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposi-

tion, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler

in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of

ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed

under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his exis-

tence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but

his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to

the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which

enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta,

where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he

established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by

some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat

his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sen-

tence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and

afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.

"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs.

Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal

Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only

two years old at the time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a

considerable sum of money -- not less than lOOO pounds a year -- and

this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with

him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be

allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after

our return to England my mother died -- she was killed eight

years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then

abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London

and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke

Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all

our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this

time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our

neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of

Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in

his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious

quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper

approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the

family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I believe, been

intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of

disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-

court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the

folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense

strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into

a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I

could gather together that I was able to avert another public

exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies,

and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the

few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family

estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents,

wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has

a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by