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on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she

values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have

more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darling-

ton substitution scandal it was of use to me, and also in the

Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby;

an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to

me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more

precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to

secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and

shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded

beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel

just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I

caught a glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I cried out

that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket,

rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and,

making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether

to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman

had 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."

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 an-

noyance. 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 Char-

ing 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 furni-

ture 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, nee 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 photogMph!" 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 combina-

tions 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 Brit-

ish tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy

gray 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's 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