第 20 页

room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough.

Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through

the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the

deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike

him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize

the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it

would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little

time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried

to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his

lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.

There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret

hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and

he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the

pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and

would have done the same with the other garments had not he

heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the

window when the police appeared."

"It certainly sounds feasible."

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a

better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the

station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been

anything against him. He had for years been known as a profes-

sional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and

innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the ques-

tions which have to be solved -- what Neville St. Clair was doing

in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he

now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance --

are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot

recall any case within my experience which looked at the first

glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular se-

ries of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the

great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind,

and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.

Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered

villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We

have touched on three English counties in our short drive. start-

ing in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in

Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and

beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already,

I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."

"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?"

I asked.

"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out

here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my

disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but

a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her,

Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are.

Whoa, there, whoa!"

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within

its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head,

and springing down I followed Holmes up the small, winding

gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door

flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad

in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy

pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure

outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one

half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and

face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing

question.

"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were

two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she

saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"No good news?"

"None."

"No bad?"

"No."

"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for

you have had a long day."

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use

to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it

possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this

investigation."

"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand

warmly. "You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be

wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which

has come so suddenly upon us."

"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I

were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can

be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be

indeed happy."

"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a

well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had

been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two

plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain

answer."

"Certainly, madam."

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor

given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

"Upon what point?"

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.

"Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and look-

ing keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

"You think that he is dead?"

"I do."

"Murdered?"

"I don't say that. Perhaps."

"And on what day did he meet his death?"

"On Monday."

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to

explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been

galvanized.

"What!" he roared.

"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of

paper in the air.

"May I see it?"

"Certainly."

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out

upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I

had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The

envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the

Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather

of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.

"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not

your husband's writing, madam."

"No, but the enclosure is."

"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to

go and inquire as to the address."

"How can you tell that?"

"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried

itself. The rest is of the grayish colour, which shows that blotting-

paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then

blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has

written the name, and there has then been a pause before he

wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar

with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important

as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an

enclosure here!"

"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

"One of his hands."

"One?"

"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual

writing, and yet I know it well."

"Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There

is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.

Wait in patience.

"NEVILLE.

Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no

water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a

dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not

very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco.

And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"

"None. Neville wrote those words."

"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St.

Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that

the danger is over."

"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent.

The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from

him.

"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday

and only posted to-day."

"That is possible."

"If so, much may have happened between."

"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that

all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that

I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw

him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-

room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that

something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to

such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"

"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a

woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analyti-

cal reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong

piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband

is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away

from you?"

"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

"No."

"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

"Very much so."

"Was the window open?"

"Yes."

"Then he might have called to you?"

"He might."

"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

"Yes."

"A call for help, you thought?"

"Yes. He waved his hands."

"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the

unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

"It is possible."

"And you thought he was pulled back?"

"He disappeared so suddenly."

"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in

the room?"

"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there,

and the lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his

ordinary clothes on?"

"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."

"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

"Never."

"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

"Never."

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points

about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have

a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day

to-morrow."

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed

at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was

weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man,

however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his

mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest,

turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every

point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced

himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me

that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his

coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then

wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and

cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed

a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-

legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid

out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting

there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly

upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from

him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set

aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he

sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I

found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was

still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the

room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of

the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

"Awake, Watson?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Game for a morning drive?"

"Certainly."

"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the

stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He

chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he

seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous

night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no

one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had

hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy

was putting in the horse.

"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his

boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the

presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve

to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the

key of the affair now."

"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not jok-

ing," he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just

been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this