Chapter XII: Part 12

“Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong
as a lion—witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three
in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,
finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story
is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the
handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that
bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have left us a
doubt.”

“Where was the clue?”

“Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would
you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached
to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as
this one has done?”

“Because it is frayed there?”

“Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was
cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is
not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were
on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without
any mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred.
The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of
giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang
up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on
the bracket—you will see the impression in the dust—and so got
his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by
at least three inches—from which I infer that he is at least
three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat
of the oaken chair! What is it?”

“Blood.”

“Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady’s story out of
court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done,
how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair _after_
the death of her husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a
corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo,
Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends
in victory. I should like now to have a few words with the nurse,
Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if we are to get the
information which we want.”

She was an interesting person, this stern Australian
nurse—taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before
Holmes’s pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she
said thawed her into a corresponding amiability. She did not
attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.

“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard
him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that
he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and
she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he
has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that
you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come from a
stab with a hatpin. The sly devil—God forgive me that I should
speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if ever
one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him—only
eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen
years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first
voyage—she had never been from home before. He won her with his
title and his money and his false London ways. If she made a
mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did
we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we arrived. We
arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in January of
last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room again, and I have
no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of her,
for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand.”

Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began
once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress’s brow.

“I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine
me again?”

“No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause
you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole
desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that
you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and
trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“To tell me the truth.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“No, no, Lady Brackenstall—it is no use. You may have heard of
any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the
fact that your story is an absolute fabrication.”

Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
frightened eyes.

“You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say
that my mistress has told a lie?”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“Have you nothing to tell me?”

“I have told you everything.”

“Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
frank?”

For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then
some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

“I have told you all I know.”

Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he
said, and without another word we left the room and the house.
There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way.
It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then
passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for
Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

“It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,”
said he. “I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I
think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of
the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall
Mall, if I remember right. There is a second line of steamers
which connect South Australia with England, but we will draw the
larger cover first.”

Holmes’s card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,
and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed.
In June of ’95, only one of their line had reached a home port.
It was the _Rock of Gibraltar_, their largest and best boat. A
reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of
Adelaide, with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was
now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia.
Her officers were the same as in ’95, with one exception. The
first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was
to take charge of their new ship, the _Bass Rock_, sailing in two
days’ time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was
likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to
wait for him.

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to
know more about his record and character.

His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet
to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a
wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship—hot-headed,
excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith
of the information with which Holmes left the office of the
Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard,
but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with his brows drawn
down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove round to the
Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message, and then, at
last, we made for Baker Street once more.

“No, I couldn’t do it, Watson,” said he, as we reentered our
room. “Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would
save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more
real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done
by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather play
tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. Let
us know a little more before we act.”

Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins.
Things were not going very well with him.

“I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do
sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how
on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom
of that pond?”

“I didn’t know it.”

“But you told me to examine it.”

“You got it, then?”

“Yes, I got it.”

“I am very glad if I have helped you.”

“But you haven’t helped me. You have made the affair far more
difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and
then throw it into the nearest pond?”

“It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going
on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did
not want it—who merely took it for a blind, as it were—then they
would naturally be anxious to get rid of it.”

“But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

“Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the
French window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole
in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a
better hiding-place?”

“Ah, a hiding-place—that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes,
yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the
roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they
sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast
was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes—that is better than your idea of
a blind.”

“Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that
my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have
ended in discovering the silver.”

“Yes, sir—yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad
setback.”

“A setback?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this
morning.”

“Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory
that they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

“It is fatal, Mr. Holmes—absolutely fatal. Still, there are other
gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang
of which the police have never heard.”

“Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the
bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

“I have given you one.”

“Which?”

“Well, I suggested a blind.”

“But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”

“Ah, that’s the question, of course. But I commend the idea to
your mind. You might possibly find that there was something in
it. You won’t stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know
how you get on.”

Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to
the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet
to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his
watch.

“I expect developments, Watson.”

“When?”

“Now—within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather
badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?”

“I trust your judgment.”

“A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way:
what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the
right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all,
or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not
put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information
until my own mind is clear upon the matter.”

“But when will that be?”

“The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of
a remarkable little drama.”

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to
admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He
was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a
skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step,
which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was strong.
He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with clenched
hands and heaving breast, choking down some overmastering
emotion.

“Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?”

Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the
other of us with questioning eyes.

“I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard
that you had been down to the office. There was no getting away
from you. Let’s hear the worst. What are you going to do with me?
Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can’t sit there and play with me
like a cat with a mouse.”

“Give him a cigar,” said Holmes. “Bite on that, Captain Crocker,
and don’t let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit
here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common
criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me and we may do
some good. Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey
Grange last night—a _true_ account, mind you, with nothing added
and nothing taken off. I know so much already that if you go one
inch off the straight, I’ll blow this police whistle from my
window and the affair goes out of my hands forever.”

The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
great sunburned hand.

“I’ll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your
word, and a white man, and I’ll tell you the whole story. But one
thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret
nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be
proud of the job. Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a
cat, he would owe them all to me! But it’s the lady, Mary—Mary
Fraser—for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I
think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just
to bring one smile to her dear face, it’s that that turns my soul
into water. And yet—and yet—what less could I do? I’ll tell you
my story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask you, as man to man, what
less could I do?

“I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect
that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was
first officer of the _Rock of Gibraltar_. From the first day I
met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I
loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the
darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship
because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged
to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I
have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a
free woman, but I could never again be a free man.

“Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well,
why shouldn’t she marry whom she liked? Title and money—who could
carry them better than she? She was born for all that is
beautiful and dainty. I didn’t grieve over her marriage. I was
not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck
had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a
penniless sailor. That’s how I loved Mary Fraser.

“Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait
for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in
a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me
all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you,
gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he
should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not
worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself—and
met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the other day
I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week,
and I determined that I would see her once before I left. Theresa
was always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain
almost as much as I did. From her I learned the ways of the
house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little room
downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched at the
window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the
frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front
window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the
dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made my
blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the
woman I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just
inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he
rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest name
that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across the face
with the stick he had in his hand. I had sprung for the poker,
and it was a fair fight between us. See here, on my arm, where
his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through him
as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry? Not
I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was his
life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this
madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what
would either of you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my
position?

“She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old
Theresa down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on
the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between Mary’s
lips, for she was half dead with shock. Then I took a drop
myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as much
as mine. We must make it appear that burglars had done the thing.
Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress, while I
swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed her in her
chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look
natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could
have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and
pots of silver, to carry out the idea of the robbery, and there I
left them, with orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of
an hour’s start. I dropped the silver into the pond, and made off
for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my life I had done a real
good night’s work. And that’s the truth and the whole truth, Mr.
Holmes, if it costs me my neck.”

Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room,
and shook our visitor by the hand.

“That’s what I think,” said he. “I know that every word is true,
for you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but
an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from
the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots
with which the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had this
lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was on her
voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life, since she
was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that she loved him.
You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you when once
I had started upon the right trail.”

“I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge.”

“And the police haven’t, nor will they, to the best of my belief.
Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious matter,
though I am willing to admit that you acted under the most
extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected. I am not
sure that in defence of your own life your action will not be
pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British jury to
decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you that, if you
choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will promise
you that no one will hinder you.”

“And then it will all come out?”

“Certainly it will come out.”

The sailor flushed with anger.

“What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of
law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you
think I would leave her alone to face the music while I slunk
away? No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven’s
sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out of
the courts.”

Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

“I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it
is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have
given Hopkins an excellent hint and if he can’t avail himself of
it I can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we’ll do this in
due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British
jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to
represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you
have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not
guilty?”

“Not guilty, my lord,” said I.

“_Vox populi, vox Dei_. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So
long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe from
me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future and
yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced this
night!”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN

I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last
of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I
should ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine
was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many
hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it
caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the
singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man.
The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown
to the continued publication of his experiences. So long as he
was in actual professional practice the records of his successes
were of some practical value to him, but since he has definitely
retired from London and betaken himself to study and bee-farming
on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and he
has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him
that I had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second
Stain” should be published when the times were ripe, and pointing
out to him that it is only appropriate that this long series of
episodes should culminate in the most important international
case which he has ever been called upon to handle, that I at last
succeeded in obtaining his consent that a carefully guarded
account of the incident should at last be laid before the public.
If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain
details, the public will readily understand that there is an
excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two
visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in
Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and
dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,
twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and
elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty
of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered
settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces
that it was business of the most pressing importance which had
brought them. The Premier’s thin, blue-veined hands were clasped
tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt,
ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European
Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with the
seals of his watch-chain.

“When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
o’clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It
was at his suggestion that we have both come to you.”

“Have you informed the police?”

“No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive
manner for which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it
possible that we should do so. To inform the police must, in the
long run, mean to inform the public. This is what we particularly
desire to avoid.”

“And why, sir?”

“Because the document in question is of such immense importance
that its publication might very easily—I might almost say
probably—lead to European complications of the utmost moment. It
is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon the issue.
Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost secrecy, then
it may as well not be recovered at all, for all that is aimed at
by those who have taken it is that its contents should be
generally known.”

“I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged
if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this
document disappeared.”

“That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter—for
it was a letter from a foreign potentate—was received six days
ago. It was of such importance that I have never left it in my
safe, but have taken it across each evening to my house in
Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked
despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that I am certain. I
actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner and saw
the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-box
had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night. I am
a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear
that no one could have entered the room during the night. And yet
I repeat that the paper is gone.”

“What time did you dine?”

“Half-past seven.”

“How long was it before you went to bed?”

“My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
half-past eleven before we went to our room.”

“Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?”

“No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid
in the morning, and my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest
of the day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us
for some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have known
that there was anything more valuable than the ordinary
departmental papers in my despatch-box.”

“Who did know of the existence of that letter?”

“No one in the house.”

“Surely your wife knew?”

“No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper
this morning.”

The Premier nodded approvingly.

“I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,”
said he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this
importance it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic
ties.”

The European Secretary bowed.

“You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have
never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”

“Could she have guessed?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed—nor could anyone have
guessed.”

“Have you lost any documents before?”

“No, sir.”

“Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this
letter?”

“Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the
pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was
increased by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime
Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I should
myself have lost it!” His handsome face was distorted with a
spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair. For a moment we
caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive, ardent, keenly
sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was replaced, and the
gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of the Cabinet
there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who know
of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

“But abroad?”

“I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote
it. I am well convinced that his Ministers—that the usual
official channels have not been employed.”

Holmes considered for some little time.

“Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document
is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous
consequences?”

The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier’s
shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

“Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue
colour. There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion.
It is addressed in large, bold handwriting to——”

“I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed
essential as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the
root of things. What _was_ the letter?”

“That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that
I cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the
aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find such
an envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have
deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it
lies in our power to bestow.”

Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

“You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and
in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I
regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any
continuation of this interview would be a waste of time.”

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of
his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not
accustomed, sir,” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed
his seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the
old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

“We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right,
and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give
you our entire confidence.”

“I agree with you,” said the younger statesman.

“Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that
of your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism
also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the
country than that this affair should come out.”

“You may safely trust us.”

“The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has
been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this
country. It has been written hurriedly and upon his own
responsibility entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers
know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is couched in so
unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so
provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly
lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country. There
would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that
within a week of the publication of that letter this country
would be involved in a great war.”

Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
Premier.

“Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter—this letter which may
well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of
a hundred thousand men—which has become lost in this
unaccountable fashion.”

“Have you informed the sender?”

“Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.”

“Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”

“No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed
manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country than
to us if this letter were to come out.”

“If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come
out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”

“There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high
international politics. But if you consider the European
situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive.
The whole of Europe is an armed camp. There is a double league
which makes a fair balance of military power. Great Britain holds
the scales. If Britain were driven into war with one confederacy,
it would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether
they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”

“Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a
breach between his country and ours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the
hands of an enemy?”

“To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably
speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as
steam can take it.”

Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

“It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you.
There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes,
you are in full possession of the facts. What course do you
recommend?”

Holmes shook his head mournfully.

“You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there
will be war?”

“I think it is very probable.”

“Then, sir, prepare for war.”

“That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”

“Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken
after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope
and his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss
was found out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between
seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour,
since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would
naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir, if a document
of this importance were taken at that hour, where can it be now?
No one has any reason to retain it. It has been passed rapidly on
to those who need it. What chance have we now to overtake or even
to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”

The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

“What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
matter is indeed out of our hands.”

“Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the document was taken
by the maid or by the valet——”

“They are both old and tried servants.”

“I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor,
that there is no entrance from without, and that from within no
one could go up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the
house who has taken it. To whom would the thief take it? To one
of several international spies and secret agents, whose names are
tolerably familiar to me. There are three who may be said to be
the heads of their profession. I will begin my research by going
round and finding if each of them is at his post. If one is
missing—especially if he has disappeared since last night—we will
have some indication as to where the document has gone.”

“Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He
would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”

“I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their
relations with the Embassies are often strained.”

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

“I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your
course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot
neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune.
Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall
communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the
results of your own inquiries.”

The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had
opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime
which had occurred in London the night before, when my friend
gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down
upon the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The
situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could
be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question
of money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury
behind me. If it’s on the market I’ll buy it—if it means another
penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might
hold it back to see what bids come from this side before he tries
his luck on the other. There are only those three capable of
playing so bold a game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and
Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”

I glanced at my morning paper.

“Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”

“Yes.”

“You will not see him.”

“Why not?”

“He was murdered in his house last night.”

My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized
how completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and
then snatched the paper from my hands. This was the paragraph
which I had been engaged in reading when he rose from his chair:

MURDER IN WESTMINSTER

A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,
Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the
Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of
Parliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited for
some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well-known in society circles
both on account of his charming personality and because he has
the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur
tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four
years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an
elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires
early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for
the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock
onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during
that time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve
Police-constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street observed
that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no
answer. Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced into
the passage and again knocked, but without reply. He then pushed
open the door and entered. The room was in a state of wild
disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and one
chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and
still grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the
house. He had been stabbed to the heart and must have died
instantly. The knife with which the crime had been committed was
a curved Indian dagger, plucked down from a trophy of Oriental
arms which adorned one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to
have been the motive of the crime, for there had been no attempt
to remove the valuable contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas
was so well-known and popular that his violent and mysterious
fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
widespread circle of friends.

“Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a
long pause.

“It is an amazing coincidence.”

“A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death
during the very hours when we know that that drama was being
enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No
figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events
are connected—_must_ be connected. It is for us to find the
connection.”

“But now the official police must know all.”

“Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
know—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only _we_ know
of both events, and can trace the relation between them. There is
one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my
suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only
a few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret
agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End. It was
easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
connection or receive a message from the European Secretary’s
household—a small thing, and yet where events are compressed into
a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?”

Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver.
Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to
me.

“Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step
up,” said he.

A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished
that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most
lovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the
youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description
of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had
prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful
colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that
autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first
thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was
paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the
brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
an effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was what sprang
first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant
in the open door.

“Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, madam, he has been here.”

“Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.”
Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

“Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that
you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I
cannot make any unconditional promise.”

She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
window. It was a queenly presence—tall, graceful, and intensely
womanly. “Mr. Holmes,” she said—and her white-gloved hands
clasped and unclasped as she spoke—“I will speak frankly to you
in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in return.
There is complete confidence between my husband and me on all
matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips are
sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a
most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that a
paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it
is essential—essential, I say—that I should thoroughly understand
it. You are the only other person, save only these politicians,
who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me
exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all,
Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client’s interests keep you
silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he would only see
it, would be best served by taking me into his complete
confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?”

“Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.”

She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

“You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit
to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.
It is him whom you must ask.”

“I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without
your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great
service if you would enlighten me on one point.”

“What is it, madam?”

“Is my husband’s political career likely to suffer through this
incident?”

“Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
unfortunate effect.”

“Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
resolved.

“One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my
husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
this document.”

“If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”

“Of what nature are they?”

“Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly
answer.”

“Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,
Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
desire, even against his will, to share my husband’s anxieties.
Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit.”

She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression
of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
mouth. Then she was gone.

“Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with
a smile, when the dwindling _frou-frou_ of skirts had ended in
the slam of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What
did she really want?”

“Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”

“Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson—her manner, her suppressed
excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.
Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show
emotion.”

“She was certainly much moved.”

“Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What
did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she
manœuvred to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to
read her expression.”

“Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.”

“And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember
the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No
powder on her nose—that proved to be the correct solution. How
can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may
mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon
a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson.”

“You are off?”

“Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the
solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an
inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I’ll join you at lunch if
I am able.”

All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which
his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out
and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin,
sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and
hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It was
evident to me that things were not going well with him or his
quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the
papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the
arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
the deceased. The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful
Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive
was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none
had been taken. The dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.
They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen
student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a
remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been
on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several
countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the
documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He
had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one
whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.
His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could
be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith
that night. The _alibi_ was complete. It is true that he started
home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster
before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own
explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable
enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had actually
arrived at twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the
unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
master. Several of the dead man’s possessions—notably a small
case of razors—had been found in the valet’s boxes, but he
explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the
housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been in
Lucas’s employment for three years. It was noticeable that Lucas
did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes he
visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she
had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
visitor he had himself admitted him.

So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him
into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close
touch with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared
a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole
question.