Chapter X: Part 10

“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it
is cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface.
Look at it through my lens. There’s the varnish, too, like earth
on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice this scratch?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”

“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”

“Is it a simple key?”

“No, sir, it is a Chubb’s key.”

“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged,
young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw
the key, she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and
she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this
knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The
blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or
without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the maid,
there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the
time that you heard the cry, Susan?”

“No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I’d have
seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or I
would have heard it.”

“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way
she came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the
professor’s room. There is no exit that way?”

“No, sir.”

“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor.
Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed.
The professor’s corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”

“Well, sir, what of that?”

“Don’t you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don’t
insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be
suggestive. Come with me and introduce me.”

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps
ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the
professor’s bedroom.

It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes,
which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the
corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The
bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with
pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more
remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which
was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in
deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard
were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with
yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco
smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it was
also stained with yellow nicotine.

“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking in well-chosen English,
with a curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And
you, sir? I can recommend them, for I have them especially
prepared by Ionides, of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a
time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for a fresh
supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an old man has
few pleasures. Tobacco and my work—that is all that is left to
me.”

Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting
glances all over the room.

“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man
exclaimed. “Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have
foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I
assure you that, after a few months’ training, he was an
admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr.
Holmes?”

“I have not yet made up my mind.”

“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where
all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself
such a blow is paralysing. I seem to have lost the faculty of
thought. But you are a man of action—you are a man of affairs. It
is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can preserve
your balance in every emergency. We are fortunate, indeed, in
having you at our side.”

Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with
extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host’s
liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my
_magnum opus_—the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is
my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of
Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very
foundation of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do
not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that my
assistant has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes, why, you
are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”

Holmes smiled.

“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the
box—his fourth—and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy
cross-examination, Professor Coram, since I gather that you were
in bed at the time of the crime, and could know nothing about it.
I would only ask this: What do you imagine that this poor fellow
meant by his last words: ‘The professor—it was she’?”

The professor shook his head.

“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible
stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured
some incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into
this meaningless message.”

“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”

“Possibly an accident, possibly—I only breathe it among
ourselves—a suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles—some
affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a
more probable supposition than murder.”

“But the eyeglasses?”

“Ah! I am only a student—a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend,
that love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take
another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them
so. A fan, a glove, glasses—who knows what article may be carried
as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This
gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but, after all, it is
easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it might
well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is
possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he
continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and
consuming cigarette after cigarette.

“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that
cupboard in the bureau?”

“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my
poor wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour.
Here is the key. You can look for yourself.”

Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then
he handed it back.

“No, I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should
prefer to go quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole
matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the
theory of suicide which you have put forward. We must apologize
for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that
we won’t disturb you until after lunch. At two o’clock we will
come again, and report to you anything which may have happened in
the interval.”

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the
garden path for some time in silence.

“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.

“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is
possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show
me.”

“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth——”

“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm
done. Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back
upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the
good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive
conversation with her.”

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which
he had named, he had captured the housekeeper’s goodwill and was
chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve seen that
room of a morning—well, sir, you’d have thought it was a London
fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad
as the professor. His health—well, I don’t know that it’s better
nor worse for the smoking.”

“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”

“I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?”

“Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”

“I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his
lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

“Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a
remarkable big breakfast this morning. I don’t know when I’ve
known him make a better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of
cutlets for his lunch. I’m surprised myself, for since I came
into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on
the floor, I couldn’t bear to look at food. Well, it takes all
sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn’t let it take his
appetite away.”

We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had
gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange
woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the
previous morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to
have deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a
half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that
he had found the children, and that they had undoubtedly seen a
woman exactly corresponding with Holmes’s description, and
wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed to rouse any sign
of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who waited
upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed
Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he
had only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I
could not myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly
perceived that Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme
which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he sprang from his
chair and glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said
he. “We must go up and have it out with our friend, the
professor.”

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty
dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his
housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as
he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The
eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed
and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved
the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him
towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same
moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a
minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray
cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I observed
Holmes’s eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour.
Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”

Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor.

“Indeed! In the garden?”

“No, here.”

“Here! When?”

“This instant.”

“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to
tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such
a fashion.”

“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor
Coram, and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or
what exact part you play in this strange business, I am not yet
able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your
own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your
benefit, so that you may know the information which I still
require.

“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention
of possessing herself of certain documents which were in your
bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of
examining yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration
which the scratch made upon the varnish would have produced. You
were not an accessory, therefore, and she came, so far as I can
read the evidence, without your knowledge to rob you.”

The professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most
interesting and instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add?
Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what has
become of her.”

“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by
your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This
catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I
am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so
grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified
by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of
the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in
the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was
really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she
imagined to be that by which she had come—both were lined with
cocoanut matting—and it was only when it was too late that she
understood that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her
retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not
go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She
went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
herself in your room.”

The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes.
Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features.
Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into
insincere laughter.

“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little
flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I
never left it during the day.”

“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”

“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be
aware that a woman had entered my room?”

“I never said so. You _were_ aware of it. You spoke with her. You
recognized her. You aided her to escape.”

Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen
to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her
to escape? Where is she now?”

“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in
the corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed
over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same
instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a
hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she
cried, in a strange foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had
come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was
streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been
handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which
Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin.
What with her natural blindness, and what with the change from
dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see
where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these
disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman’s
bearing—a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head,
which compelled something of respect and admiration.

Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as
his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
over-mastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay
back in his chair with a twitching face, and stared at her with
brooding eyes.

“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I
could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the
truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But
you are right—you who say it was an accident. I did not even know
that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I
snatched anything from the table and struck at him to make him
let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”

“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear
that you are far from well.”

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the
bed; then she resumed.

“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you
to know the whole truth. I am this man’s wife. He is not an
Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”

For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he
cried. “God bless you!”

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why
should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours,
Sergius?” said she. “It has done harm to many and good to
none—not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause the
frail thread to be snapped before God’s time. I have enough
already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this cursed
house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty
and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city
of Russia, a university—I will not name the place.”

“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

“We were reformers—revolutionists—Nihilists, you understand. He
and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police
officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and
in order to save his own life and to earn a great reward, my
husband betrayed his own wife and his companions. Yes, we were
all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the
gallows, and some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term
was not for life. My husband came to England with his ill-gotten
gains and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing well that if the
Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would pass before
justice would be done.”

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always
good to me.”

“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she.
“Among our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the
friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving—all that my
husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty—if that is
guilt—but he was not. He wrote forever dissuading us from such a
course. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in
which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings towards
him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband found and
kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to
swear away the young man’s life. In this he failed, but Alexis
was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he
works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you
villain!—now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose name
you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a slave, and
yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you go.”

“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing
at his cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to
get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian
government, would procure my friend’s release. I knew that my
husband had come to England. After months of searching I
discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for
when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching
me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure that,
with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of his
own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object I
engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my
husband’s house as a secretary—it was your second secretary,
Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers
were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key.
He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

“I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when
the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He
had met me on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where
Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was in his employ.”

“Exactly! Exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back, and
told his employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last
breath, he tried to send a message that it was she—the she whom
he had just discussed with him.”

“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice,
and her face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I
rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in
my husband’s room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if
he did so, his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law, I
could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to
live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my
purpose. He knew that I would do what I said—that his own fate
was involved in mine. For that reason, and for no other, he
shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place—a relic of
old days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own
room, and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed
that when the police left the house I should slip away by night
and come back no more. But in some way you have read our plans.”
She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. “These are
my last words,” said she; “here is the packet which will save
Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now, I have
done my duty, and——”

“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.

“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took
the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am
going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”

“A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,”
Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from
the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of
the dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we could
ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me, from the
strength of the glasses, that the wearer must have been very
blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to
believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without
once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that
it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a
second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider
seriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house.
On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became
clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and,
in that case, it was evident that she must have entered the
professor’s room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for
whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the room
narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet
seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a
trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you
are aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed
that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but that
one bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I
could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun
colour, which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore
smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I
dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected
bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I
then went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence,
Watson, without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that
Professor Coram’s consumption of food had increased—as one would
expect when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to
the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained
a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite
clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the
prisoner had in our absence come out from her retreat. Well,
Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on
having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are
going to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will
drive together to the Russian Embassy.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker
Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached
us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight years ago,
and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was
addressed to him, and ran thus:

Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter
missing, indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON.

“Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes,
reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked
through _The Times_, and then we shall know all about it. Even
the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant
days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to
dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
companion’s brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous
to leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened
once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under
ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial
stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but
sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the
waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
look upon Holmes’s ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set
and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton
whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message
to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my
friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender,
and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge,
announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other with a comely
face which was haggard with anxiety.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My companion bowed.

“I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector
Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,
so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the
regular police.”

“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

“It’s awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful! I wonder my hair isn’t grey.
Godfrey Staunton—you’ve heard of him, of course? He’s simply the
hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare two from the
pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it’s
passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one to touch him,
and then, he’s got the head, and can hold us all together. What
am I to do? That’s what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse,
first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges
right in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touchline.
He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but then he has no judgment,
and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford
fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he
couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who
can’t either punt or drop isn’t worth a place for pace alone. No,
Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find Godfrey
Staunton.”

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand
upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes
stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of his
commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
varied information.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he,
“and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey
Staunton is a new name to me.”

It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I
suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you
don’t know Cyril Overton either?”

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

“Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ’Varsity all this
year. But that’s nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in
England who didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack
three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.
Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where _have_ you lived?”

Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naïve astonishment.

“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which
is the best and soundest thing in England. However, your
unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of
fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now,
my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and
quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire
that I should help you.”

Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the man who is
more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by
degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit
from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

“It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of
the Rugger team of Cambridge ’Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my
best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and
we settled at Bentley’s private hotel. At ten o’clock I went
round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I
believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team
fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He
seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the
matter. He said he was all right—just a touch of headache. I bade
him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells
me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for
Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his
room. Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been
pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch
me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled
himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to
the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off
together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost
running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This
morning Godfrey’s room was empty, his bed had never been slept
in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before. He had gone off at a moment’s notice with this stranger,
and no word has come from him since. I don’t believe he will ever
come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow,
and he wouldn’t have stopped his training and let in his skipper
if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No: I
feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him
again.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
singular narrative.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”

“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”

“Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.”

“But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”

“No, he has not been seen.”

“What did you do next?”

“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

“Why to Lord Mount-James?”

“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
relative—his uncle, I believe.”

“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James
is one of the richest men in England.”

“So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”

“And your friend was closely related?”

“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cram full
of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his
knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he
is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”

“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”

“No.”

“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
Mount-James?”

“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was
to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was
not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it.”

“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to
his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
agitation that was caused by his coming.”

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing
of it,” said he.

“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
into the matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you
to make your preparations for your match without reference to
this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an
overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion, and
the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step round
together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh
light upon the matter.”

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
Staunton’s abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter
had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman,
neither was he a workingman. He was simply what the porter
described as a “medium-looking chap,” a man of fifty, beard
grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be
agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had
held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note into his
pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in the hall.
They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had only
distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried off in
the manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall
clock.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed.
“You are the day porter, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”

“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

“No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

“Yes, sir, one telegram.”

“Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

“About six.”

“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

“Here in his room.”

“Were you present when he opened it?”

“Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”

“Well, was there?”

“Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”

“Did you take it?”

“No, he took it himself.”

“But he wrote it in your presence.”

“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
turned at that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All
right, porter, I will take this myself.’”

“What did he write it with?”

“A pen, sir.”

“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

“Yes, sir, it was the top one.”

Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window
and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them
down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt
frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes
through—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to
perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can
hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
the following hieroglyphic:

hieroglyphic

Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the
reverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over,
and we read:

the reverse

“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
remains—‘Stand by us for God’s sake!’—proves that this young man
saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which
someone else could protect him. ‘_Us_,’ mark you! Another person
was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man,
who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the
connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what
is the third source from which each of them sought for help
against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to
that.”

“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I
suggested.

“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had
already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your
notice that, counterfoil of another man’s message, there may be
some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you.
There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no
doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be
attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,
to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and
darting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By
the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow—nothing
amiss with him?”

“Sound as a bell.”

“Have you ever known him ill?”

“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped
his knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he
may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put
one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear
upon our future inquiry.”

“One moment—one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked
up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the
doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed
top-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of
a very rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of
his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp
crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded
attention.

“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman’s papers?” he asked.

“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by
Scotland Yard.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Cyril Overton.”

“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would
bring me. So you have instructed a detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,
will be prepared to do that.”

“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

“In that case, no doubt his family——”

“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look
to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I
tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it
is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not
propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you
are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be
anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to
account for what you do with them.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, in the
meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
this young man’s disappearance?”

“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I
entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite
understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has
gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a
gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from
him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
treasure.”

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine
lad—a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle
away. I’ll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In
the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no
stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so
far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can always look to me.”

Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give
us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the
private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to
find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
We halted outside it.

“It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a
warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not
reached that stage yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so
busy a place. Let us venture it.”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to
the young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake
about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I
very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the
end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

“What o’clock was it?” she asked.

“A little after six.”

“Whom was it to?”

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last
words in it were ‘For God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially;
“I am very anxious at getting no answer.”

The young woman separated one of the forms.

“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon
the counter.

“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said
Holmes. “Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind.”
He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the
street once more.

“Well?” I asked.

“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different
schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could
hardly hope to succeed the very first time.”

“And what have you gained?”

“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab.
“King’s Cross Station,” said he.

“We have a journey, then?”

“Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you
any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t
think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives
are more obscure. Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be
kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy
uncle?”

“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a
very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the
one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant
old person.”

“It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?”

“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
important match, and should involve the only man whose presence
seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be
a coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone’s while
to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one
is that this young man really is the heir of a great property,
however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be
concocted.”

“These theories take no account of the telegram.”

“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it.”

It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were
shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession
that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am
aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school
of the university, but a thinker of European reputation in more
than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his
brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere
glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes
under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert
mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr.
Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend’s card in his hand, and he
looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of
your profession—one of which I by no means approve.”

“In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member
of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official
machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling
is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of
private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are
better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men
who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for
example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
with you.”