Chapter III: Part 3

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN

Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long,
thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a
particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his
breast, and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank
bird, with dull grey plumage and a black top-knot.

“So, Watson,” said he, suddenly, “you do not propose to invest in
South African securities?”

I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes’s
curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate
thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

“How on earth do you know that?” I asked.

He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his
hand, and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.

“Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback,” said he.

“I am.”

“I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect.”

“Why?”

“Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly
simple.”

“I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind.”

“You see, my dear Watson,”—he propped his test-tube in the rack,
and began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his
class—“it is not really difficult to construct a series of
inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple
in itself. If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the
central inferences and presents one’s audience with the
starting-point and the conclusion, one may produce a startling,
though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really
difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left
forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did _not_ propose to
invest your small capital in the gold fields.”

“I see no connection.”

“Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection.
Here are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had
chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned from
the club last night. 2. You put chalk there when you play
billiards, to steady the cue. 3. You never play billiards except
with Thurston. 4. You told me, four weeks ago, that Thurston had
an option on some South African property which would expire in a
month, and which he desired you to share with him. 5. Your check
book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key.
6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner.”

“How absurdly simple!” I cried.

“Quite so!” said he, a little nettled. “Every problem becomes
very childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an
unexplained one. See what you can make of that, friend Watson.”
He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table, and turned once more
to his chemical analysis.

I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the
paper.

“Why, Holmes, it is a child’s drawing,” I cried.

“Oh, that’s your idea!”

“What else should it be?”

“That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, Norfolk,
is very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by the first
post, and he was to follow by the next train. There’s a ring at
the bell, Watson. I should not be very much surprised if this
were he.”

A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later
there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear
eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of
Baker Street. He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh,
bracing, east-coast air with him as he entered. Having shaken
hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye
rested upon the paper with the curious markings, which I had just
examined and left upon the table.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?” he cried. “They
told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don’t think
you can find a queerer one than that. I sent the paper on ahead,
so that you might have time to study it before I came.”

“It is certainly rather a curious production,” said Holmes. “At
first sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It
consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing across the
paper upon which they are drawn. Why should you attribute any
importance to so grotesque an object?”

“I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frightening
her to death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes.
That’s why I want to sift the matter to the bottom.”

Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it.
It was a page torn from a notebook. The markings were done in
pencil, and ran in this way:

AM-HERE-ABE-SLANEY

Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully
up, he placed it in his pocketbook.

“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,” said
he. “You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton
Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you would kindly go
over it all again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervously
clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands. “You’ll just ask
me anything that I don’t make clear. I’ll begin at the time of my
marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that, though
I’m not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a
matter of five centuries, and there is no better known family in
the County of Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the
Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in Russell Square,
because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it. There
was an American young lady there—Patrick was the name—Elsie
Patrick. In some way we became friends, until before my month was
up I was as much in love as a man could be. We were quietly
married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded
couple. You’ll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a
good old family should marry a wife in this fashion, knowing
nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her and knew
her, it would help you to understand.

“She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can’t say that she
did not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to
do so. ‘I have had some very disagreeable associations in my
life,’ said she, ‘I wish to forget all about them. I would rather
never allude to the past, for it is very painful to me. If you
take me, Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing that she
need be personally ashamed of, but you will have to be content
with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to all that
passed up to the time when I became yours. If these conditions
are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely
life in which you found me.’ It was only the day before our
wedding that she said those very words to me. I told her that I
was content to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good
as my word.

“Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have
been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the
first time signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter
from America. I saw the American stamp. She turned deadly white,
read the letter, and threw it into the fire. She made no allusion
to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a promise,
but she has never known an easy hour from that moment. There is
always a look of fear upon her face—a look as if she were waiting
and expecting. She would do better to trust me. She would find
that I was her best friend. But until she speaks, I can say
nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and
whatever trouble there may have been in her past life it has been
no fault of hers. I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is
not a man in England who ranks his family honour more highly than
I do. She knows it well, and she knew it well before she married
me. She would never bring any stain upon it—of that I am sure.

“Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week
ago—it was the Tuesday of last week—I found on one of the
window-sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like these
upon the paper. They were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it
was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore he knew
nothing about it. Anyhow, they had come there during the night. I
had them washed out, and I only mentioned the matter to my wife
afterwards. To my surprise, she took it very seriously, and
begged me if any more came to let her see them. None did come for
a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lying on
the sundial in the garden. I showed it to Elsie, and down she
dropped in a dead faint. Since then she has looked like a woman
in a dream, half dazed, and with terror always lurking in her
eyes. It was then that I wrote and sent the paper to you, Mr.
Holmes. It was not a thing that I could take to the police, for
they would have laughed at me, but you will tell me what to do. I
am not a rich man, but if there is any danger threatening my
little woman, I would spend my last copper to shield her.”

He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil—simple,
straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and
broad, comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her
shone in his features. Holmes had listened to his story with the
utmost attention, and now he sat for some time in silent thought.

“Don’t you think, Mr. Cubitt,” said he, at last, “that your best
plan would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask
her to share her secret with you?”

Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

“A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me
she would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But
I am justified in taking my own line—and I will.”

“Then I will help you with all my heart. In the first place, have
you heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?”

“No.”

“I presume that it is a very quiet place. Any fresh face would
cause comment?”

“In the immediate neighbourhood, yes. But we have several small
watering-places not very far away. And the farmers take in
lodgers.”

“These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If it is a purely
arbitrary one, it may be impossible for us to solve it. If, on
the other hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall
get to the bottom of it. But this particular sample is so short
that I can do nothing, and the facts which you have brought me
are so indefinite that we have no basis for an investigation. I
would suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen
lookout, and that you take an exact copy of any fresh dancing men
which may appear. It is a thousand pities that we have not a
reproduction of those which were done in chalk upon the
window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as to any strangers in
the neighbourhood. When you have collected some fresh evidence,
come to me again. That is the best advice which I can give you,
Mr. Hilton Cubitt. If there are any pressing fresh developments,
I shall be always ready to run down and see you in your Norfolk
home.”

The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several
times in the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper from
his notebook and look long and earnestly at the curious figures
inscribed upon it. He made no allusion to the affair, however,
until one afternoon a fortnight or so later. I was going out when
he called me back.

“You had better stay here, Watson.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning. You
remember Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men? He was to reach
Liverpool Street at one-twenty. He may be here at any moment. I
gather from his wire that there have been some new incidents of
importance.”

We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight
from the station as fast as a hansom could bring him. He was
looking worried and depressed, with tired eyes and a lined
forehead.

“It’s getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes,” said he,
as he sank, like a wearied man, into an armchair. “It’s bad
enough to feel that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk,
who have some kind of design upon you, but when, in addition to
that, you know that it is just killing your wife by inches, then
it becomes as much as flesh and blood can endure. She’s wearing
away under it—just wearing away before my eyes.”

“Has she said anything yet?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times when
the poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring
herself to take the plunge. I have tried to help her, but I
daresay I did it clumsily, and scared her from it. She has spoken
about my old family, and our reputation in the county, and our
pride in our unsullied honour, and I always felt it was leading
to the point, but somehow it turned off before we got there.”

“But you have found out something for yourself?”

“A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing-men
pictures for you to examine, and, what is more important, I have
seen the fellow.”

“What, the man who draws them?”

“Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will tell you everything in
order. When I got back after my visit to you, the very first
thing I saw next morning was a fresh crop of dancing men. They
had been drawn in chalk upon the black wooden door of the
tool-house, which stands beside the lawn in full view of the
front windows. I took an exact copy, and here it is.” He unfolded
a paper and laid it upon the table. Here is a copy of the
hieroglyphics:

AT-ELRIGES

“Excellent!” said Holmes. “Excellent! Pray continue.”

“When I had taken the copy, I rubbed out the marks, but, two
mornings later, a fresh inscription had appeared. I have a copy
of it here:”

COME-ELSIE

Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

“Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

“Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper, and
placed under a pebble upon the sundial. Here it is. The
characters are, as you see, exactly the same as the last one.
After that I determined to lie in wait, so I got out my revolver
and I sat up in my study, which overlooks the lawn and garden.
About two in the morning I was seated by the window, all being
dark save for the moonlight outside, when I heard steps behind
me, and there was my wife in her dressing-gown. She implored me
to come to bed. I told her frankly that I wished to see who it
was who played such absurd tricks upon us. She answered that it
was some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take any
notice of it.

“‘If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you
and I, and so avoid this nuisance.’

“‘What, be driven out of our own house by a practical joker?’
said I. ‘Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.’

“‘Well, come to bed,’ said she, ‘and we can discuss it in the
morning.’

“Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in
the moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder. Something
was moving in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a dark,
creeping figure which crawled round the corner and squatted in
front of the door. Seizing my pistol, I was rushing out, when my
wife threw her arms round me and held me with convulsive
strength. I tried to throw her off, but she clung to me most
desperately. At last I got clear, but by the time I had opened
the door and reached the house the creature was gone. He had left
a trace of his presence, however, for there on the door was the
very same arrangement of dancing men which had already twice
appeared, and which I have copied on that paper. There was no
other sign of the fellow anywhere, though I ran all over the
grounds. And yet the amazing thing is that he must have been
there all the time, for when I examined the door again in the
morning, he had scrawled some more of his pictures under the line
which I had already seen.”

“Have you that fresh drawing?”

“Yes, it is very short, but I made a copy of it, and here it is.”

Again he produced a paper. The new dance was in this form:

NEVER

“Tell me,” said Holmes—and I could see by his eyes that he was
much excited—“was this a mere addition to the first or did it
appear to be entirely separate?”

“It was on a different panel of the door.”

“Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our
purpose. It fills me with hopes. Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please
continue your most interesting statement.”

“I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry
with my wife that night for having held me back when I might have
caught the skulking rascal. She said that she feared that I might
come to harm. For an instant it had crossed my mind that perhaps
what she really feared was that _he_ might come to harm, for I
could not doubt that she knew who this man was, and what he meant
by these strange signals. But there is a tone in my wife’s voice,
Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which forbid doubt, and I am
sure that it was indeed my own safety that was in her mind.
There’s the whole case, and now I want your advice as to what I
ought to do. My own inclination is to put half a dozen of my farm
lads in the shrubbery, and when this fellow comes again to give
him such a hiding that he will leave us in peace for the future.”

“I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies,” said
Holmes. “How long can you stay in London?”

“I must go back to-day. I would not leave my wife alone all night
for anything. She is very nervous, and begged me to come back.”

“I daresay you are right. But if you could have stopped, I might
possibly have been able to return with you in a day or two.
Meanwhile you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is
very likely that I shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and
to throw some light upon your case.”

Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our
visitor had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him so
well, to see that he was profoundly excited. The moment that
Hilton Cubitt’s broad back had disappeared through the door my
comrade rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper
containing dancing men in front of him, and threw himself into an
intricate and elaborate calculation. For two hours I watched him
as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with figures and
letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had evidently
forgotten my presence. Sometimes he was making progress and
whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he was puzzled, and
would sit for long spells with a furrowed brow and a vacant eye.
Finally he sprang from his chair with a cry of satisfaction, and
walked up and down the room rubbing his hands together. Then he
wrote a long telegram upon a cable form. “If my answer to this is
as I hope, you will have a very pretty case to add to your
collection, Watson,” said he. “I expect that we shall be able to
go down to Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our friend some very
definite news as to the secret of his annoyance.”

I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that
Holmes liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his
own way, so I waited until it should suit him to take me into his
confidence.

But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days of
impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears at
every ring of the bell. On the evening of the second there came a
letter from Hilton Cubitt. All was quiet with him, save that a
long inscription had appeared that morning upon the pedestal of
the sundial. He inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced:

ELSIE-PREPARE-TO-MEET-THY-GOD

Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then
suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and
dismay. His face was haggard with anxiety.

“We have let this affair go far enough,” said he. “Is there a
train to North Walsham to-night?”

I turned up the time-table. The last had just gone.

“Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the
morning,” said Holmes. “Our presence is most urgently needed. Ah!
here is our expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson, there
may be an answer. No, that is quite as I expected. This message
makes it even more essential that we should not lose an hour in
letting Hilton Cubitt know how matters stand, for it is a
singular and a dangerous web in which our simple Norfolk squire
is entangled.”

So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a
story which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre, I
experience once again the dismay and horror with which I was
filled. Would that I had some brighter ending to communicate to
my readers, but these are the chronicles of fact, and I must
follow to their dark crisis the strange chain of events which for
some days made Riding Thorpe Manor a household word through the
length and breadth of England.

We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name
of our destination, when the station-master hurried towards us.
“I suppose that you are the detectives from London?” said he.

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

“What makes you think such a thing?”

“Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through.
But maybe you are the surgeons. She’s not dead—or wasn’t by last
accounts. You may be in time to save her yet—though it be for the
gallows.”

Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

“We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he, “but we have
heard nothing of what has passed there.”

“It’s a terrible business,” said the station-master. “They are
shot, both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then
herself—so the servants say. He’s dead and her life is despaired
of. Dear, dear, one of the oldest families in the county of
Norfolk, and one of the most honoured.”

Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long
seven miles’ drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen
him so utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during all our
journey from town, and I had observed that he had turned over the
morning papers with anxious attention, but now this sudden
realization of his worst fears left him in a blank melancholy. He
leaned back in his seat, lost in gloomy speculation. Yet there
was much around to interest us, for we were passing through as
singular a countryside as any in England, where a few scattered
cottages represented the population of to-day, while on every
hand enormous square-towered churches bristled up from the flat
green landscape and told of the glory and prosperity of old East
Anglia. At last the violet rim of the German Ocean appeared over
the green edge of the Norfolk coast, and the driver pointed with
his whip to two old brick and timber gables which projected from
a grove of trees. “That’s Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he.

As we drove up to the porticoed front door, I observed in front
of it, beside the tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the
pedestalled sundial with which we had such strange associations.
A dapper little man, with a quick, alert manner and a waxed
moustache, had just descended from a high dog-cart. He introduced
himself as Inspector Martin, of the Norfolk Constabulary, and he
was considerably astonished when he heard the name of my
companion.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three this
morning. How could you hear of it in London and get to the spot
as soon as I?”

“I anticipated it. I came in the hope of preventing it.”

“Then you must have important evidence, of which we are ignorant,
for they were said to be a most united couple.”

“I have only the evidence of the dancing men,” said Holmes. “I
will explain the matter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too
late to prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use
the knowledge which I possess in order to insure that justice be
done. Will you associate me in your investigation, or will you
prefer that I should act independently?”

“I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr.
Holmes,” said the inspector, earnestly.

“In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to
examine the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.”

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do
things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully
noting the results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man,
had just come down from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt’s room, and he
reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily
fatal. The bullet had passed through the front of her brain, and
it would probably be some time before she could regain
consciousness. On the question of whether she had been shot or
had shot herself, he would not venture to express any decided
opinion. Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close
quarters. There was only the one pistol found in the room, two
barrels of which had been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been
shot through the heart. It was equally conceivable that he had
shot her and then himself, or that she had been the criminal, for
the revolver lay upon the floor midway between them.

“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

“We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her
lying wounded upon the floor.”

“How long have you been here, Doctor?”

“Since four o’clock.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes, the constable here.”

“And you have touched nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have acted with great discretion. Who sent for you?”

“The housemaid, Saunders.”

“Was it she who gave the alarm?”

“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the kitchen, I believe.”

“Then I think we had better hear their story at once.”

The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned
into a court of investigation. Holmes sat in a great,
old-fashioned chair, his inexorable eyes gleaming out of his
haggard face. I could read in them a set purpose to devote his
life to this quest until the client whom he had failed to save
should at last be avenged. The trim Inspector Martin, the old,
grey-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village
policeman made up the rest of that strange company.

The two women told their story clearly enough. They had been
aroused from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had
been followed a minute later by a second one. They slept in
adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders.
Together they had descended the stairs. The door of the study was
open, and a candle was burning upon the table. Their master lay
upon his face in the centre of the room. He was quite dead. Near
the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning against the
wall. She was horribly wounded, and the side of her face was red
with blood. She breathed heavily, but was incapable of saying
anything. The passage, as well as the room, was full of smoke and
the smell of powder. The window was certainly shut and fastened
upon the inside. Both women were positive upon the point. They
had at once sent for the doctor and for the constable. Then, with
the aid of the groom and the stable-boy, they had conveyed their
injured mistress to her room. Both she and her husband had
occupied the bed. She was clad in her dress—he in his
dressing-gown, over his night-clothes. Nothing had been moved in
the study. So far as they knew, there had never been any quarrel
between husband and wife. They had always looked upon them as a
very united couple.

These were the main points of the servants’ evidence. In answer
to Inspector Martin, they were clear that every door was fastened
upon the inside, and that no one could have escaped from the
house. In answer to Holmes, they both remembered that they were
conscious of the smell of powder from the moment that they ran
out of their rooms upon the top floor. “I commend that fact very
carefully to your attention,” said Holmes to his professional
colleague. “And now I think that we are in a position to
undertake a thorough examination of the room.”

The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides with
books, and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window, which
looked out upon the garden. Our first attention was given to the
body of the unfortunate squire, whose huge frame lay stretched
across the room. His disordered dress showed that he had been
hastily aroused from sleep. The bullet had been fired at him from
the front, and had remained in his body, after penetrating the
heart. His death had certainly been instantaneous and painless.
There was no powder-marking either upon his dressing-gown or on
his hands. According to the country surgeon, the lady had stains
upon her face, but none upon her hand.

“The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence may
mean everything,” said Holmes. “Unless the powder from a badly
fitting cartridge happens to spurt backward, one may fire many
shots without leaving a sign. I would suggest that Mr. Cubitt’s
body may now be removed. I suppose, Doctor, you have not
recovered the bullet which wounded the lady?”

“A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done.
But there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have
been fired and two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be
accounted for.”

“So it would seem,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you can account also
for the bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the
window?”

He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing to
a hole which had been drilled right through the lower
window-sash, about an inch above the bottom.

“By George!” cried the inspector. “How ever did you see that?”

“Because I looked for it.”

“Wonderful!” said the country doctor. “You are certainly right,
sir. Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third
person must have been present. But who could that have been, and
how could he have got away?”

“That is the problem which we are now about to solve,” said
Sherlock Holmes. “You remember, Inspector Martin, when the
servants said that on leaving their room they were at once
conscious of a smell of powder, I remarked that the point was an
extremely important one?”

“Yes, sir; but I confess I did not quite follow you.”

“It suggested that at the time of the firing, the window as well
as the door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of
powder could not have been blown so rapidly through the house. A
draught in the room was necessary for that. Both door and window
were only open for a very short time, however.”

“How do you prove that?”

“Because the candle was not guttered.”

“Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital!”

“Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of the
tragedy, I conceived that there might have been a third person in
the affair, who stood outside this opening and fired through it.
Any shot directed at this person might hit the sash. I looked,
and there, sure enough, was the bullet mark!”

“But how came the window to be shut and fastened?”

“The woman’s first instinct would be to shut and fasten the
window. But, halloa! What is this?”

It was a lady’s hand-bag which stood upon the study table—a trim
little hand-bag of crocodile-skin and silver. Holmes opened it and
turned the contents out. There were twenty fifty-pound notes of
the Bank of England, held together by an india-rubber
band—nothing else.

“This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial,” said
Holmes, as he handed the bag with its contents to the inspector.
“It is now necessary that we should try to throw some light upon
this third bullet, which has clearly, from the splintering of the
wood, been fired from inside the room. I should like to see Mrs.
King, the cook, again. You said, Mrs. King, that you were
awakened by a _loud_ explosion. When you said that, did you mean
that it seemed to you to be louder than the second one?”

“Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so it is hard to judge.
But it did seem very loud.”

“You don’t think that it might have been two shots fired almost
at the same instant?”

“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

“I believe that it was undoubtedly so. I rather think, Inspector
Martin, that we have now exhausted all that this room can teach
us. If you will kindly step round with me, we shall see what
fresh evidence the garden has to offer.”

A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all broke
into an exclamation as we approached it. The flowers were
trampled down, and the soft soil was imprinted all over with
footmarks. Large, masculine feet they were, with peculiarly long,
sharp toes. Holmes hunted about among the grass and leaves like a
retriever after a wounded bird. Then, with a cry of satisfaction,
he bent forward and picked up a little brazen cylinder.

“I thought so,” said he, “the revolver had an ejector, and here
is the third cartridge. I really think, Inspector Martin, that
our case is almost complete.”

The country inspector’s face had shown his intense amazement at
the rapid and masterful progress of Holmes’s investigation. At
first he had shown some disposition to assert his own position,
but now he was overcome with admiration, and ready to follow
without question wherever Holmes led.

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

“I’ll go into that later. There are several points in this
problem which I have not been able to explain to you yet. Now
that I have got so far, I had best proceed on my own lines, and
then clear the whole matter up once and for all.”

“Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes, so long as we get our man.”

“I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the
moment of action to enter into long and complex explanations. I
have the threads of this affair all in my hand. Even if this lady
should never recover consciousness, we can still reconstruct the
events of last night and insure that justice be done. First of
all, I wish to know whether there is any inn in this
neighbourhood known as ‘Elrige’s’?”

The servants were cross-questioned, but none of them had heard of
such a place. The stable-boy threw a light upon the matter by
remembering that a farmer of that name lived some miles off, in
the direction of East Ruston.

“Is it a lonely farm?”

“Very lonely, sir.”

“Perhaps they have not heard yet of all that happened here during
the night?”

“Maybe not, sir.”

Holmes thought for a little, and then a curious smile played over
his face.

“Saddle a horse, my lad,” said he. “I shall wish you to take a
note to Elrige’s Farm.”

He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men.
With these in front of him, he worked for some time at the
study-table. Finally he handed a note to the boy, with directions
to put it into the hands of the person to whom it was addressed,
and especially to answer no questions of any sort which might be
put to him. I saw the outside of the note, addressed in
straggling, irregular characters, very unlike Holmes’s usual
precise hand. It was consigned to Mr. Abe Slaney, Elriges Farm,
East Ruston, Norfolk.

“I think, Inspector,” Holmes remarked, “that you would do well to
telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be
correct, you may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to convey
to the county jail. The boy who takes this note could no doubt
forward your telegram. If there is an afternoon train to town,
Watson, I think we should do well to take it, as I have a
chemical analysis of some interest to finish, and this
investigation draws rapidly to a close.”

When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock Holmes
gave his instructions to the servants. If any visitor were to
call asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt, no information should be
given as to her condition, but he was to be shown at once into
the drawing-room. He impressed these points upon them with the
utmost earnestness. Finally he led the way into the drawing-room,
with the remark that the business was now out of our hands, and
that we must while away the time as best we might until we could
see what was in store for us. The doctor had departed to his
patients, and only the inspector and myself remained.

“I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting
and profitable manner,” said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the
table, and spreading out in front of him the various papers upon
which were recorded the antics of the dancing men. “As to you,
friend Watson, I owe you every atonement for having allowed your
natural curiosity to remain so long unsatisfied. To you,
Inspector, the whole incident may appeal as a remarkable
professional study. I must tell you, first of all, the
interesting circumstances connected with the previous
consultations which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker
Street.” He then shortly recapitulated the facts which have
already been recorded. “I have here in front of me these singular
productions, at which one might smile, had they not proved
themselves to be the forerunners of so terrible a tragedy. I am
fairly familiar with all forms of secret writings, and am myself
the author of a trifling monograph upon the subject, in which I
analyze one hundred and sixty separate ciphers, but I confess
that this is entirely new to me. The object of those who invented
the system has apparently been to conceal that these characters
convey a message, and to give the idea that they are the mere
random sketches of children.

“Having once recognized, however, that the symbols stood for
letters, and having applied the rules which guide us in all forms
of secret writings, the solution was easy enough. The first
message submitted to me was so short that it was impossible for
me to do more than to say, with some confidence, that the symbol
XXX stood for E. As you are aware, E is the most common letter in
the English alphabet, and it predominates to so marked an extent
that even in a short sentence one would expect to find it most
often. Out of fifteen symbols in the first message, four were the
same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is true that
in some cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in some cases
not, but it was probable, from the way in which the flags were
distributed, that they were used to break the sentence up into
words. I accepted this as a hypothesis, and noted that E was
represented by

E

“But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry. The order of
the English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any
preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed sheet
may be reversed in a single short sentence. Speaking roughly, T,
A, O, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L are the numerical order in which
letters occur, but T, A, O, and I are very nearly abreast of each
other, and it would be an endless task to try each combination
until a meaning was arrived at. I therefore waited for fresh
material. In my second interview with Mr. Hilton Cubitt he was
able to give me two other short sentences and one message, which
appeared—since there was no flag—to be a single word. Here are
the symbols. Now, in the single word I have already got the two
E’s coming second and fourth in a word of five letters. It might
be ‘sever,’ or ‘lever,’ or ‘never.’ There can be no question that
the latter as a reply to an appeal is far the most probable, and
the circumstances pointed to its being a reply written by the
lady. Accepting it as correct, we are now able to say that the
symbols stand respectively for N, V, and R.

N-V-R

“Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy thought
put me in possession of several other letters. It occurred to me
that if these appeals came, as I expected, from someone who had
been intimate with the lady in her early life, a combination
which contained two E’s with three letters between might very
well stand for the name ‘ELSIE.’ On examination I found that such
a combination formed the termination of the message which was
three times repeated. It was certainly some appeal to ‘Elsie.’ In
this way I had got my L, S, and I. But what appeal could it be?
There were only four letters in the word which preceded ‘Elsie,’
and it ended in E. Surely the word must be ‘COME.’ I tried all
other four letters ending in E, but could find none to fit the
case. So now I was in possession of C, O, and M, and I was in a
position to attack the first message once more, dividing it into
words and putting dots for each symbol which was still unknown.
So treated, it worked out in this fashion:

.M .ERE ..E SL.NE.

“Now the first letter _can_ only be A, which is a most useful
discovery, since it occurs no fewer than three times in this
short sentence, and the H is also apparent in the second word.
Now it becomes:

AM HERE A.E SLANE.

Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:

AM HERE ABE SLANEY.

I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable
confidence to the second message, which worked out in this
fashion:

A. ELRI. ES.

Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing
letters, and supposing that the name was that of some house or
inn at which the writer was staying.”

Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to
the full and clear account of how my friend had produced results
which had led to so complete a command over our difficulties.

“What did you do then, sir?” asked the inspector.

“I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an
American, since Abe is an American contraction, and since a
letter from America had been the starting-point of all the
trouble. I had also every cause to think that there was some
criminal secret in the matter. The lady’s allusions to her past,
and her refusal to take her husband into her confidence, both
pointed in that direction. I therefore cabled to my friend,
Wilson Hargreave, of the New York Police Bureau, who has more
than once made use of my knowledge of London crime. I asked him
whether the name of Abe Slaney was known to him. Here is his
reply: ‘The most dangerous crook in Chicago.’ On the very evening
upon which I had his answer, Hilton Cubitt sent me the last
message from Slaney. Working with known letters, it took this
form:

ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.

The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed me
that the rascal was proceeding from persuasion to threats, and my
knowledge of the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that he
might very rapidly put his words into action. I at once came to
Norfolk with my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, but, unhappily,
only in time to find that the worst had already occurred.”

“It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of a
case,” said the inspector, warmly. “You will excuse me, however,
if I speak frankly to you. You are only answerable to yourself,
but I have to answer to my superiors. If this Abe Slaney, living
at Elrige’s, is indeed the murderer, and if he has made his
escape while I am seated here, I should certainly get into
serious trouble.”

“You need not be uneasy. He will not try to escape.”

“How do you know?”

“To fly would be a confession of guilt.”

“Then let us go arrest him.”

“I expect him here every instant.”

“But why should he come?”

“Because I have written and asked him.”

“But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why should he come because
you have asked him? Would not such a request rather rouse his
suspicions and cause him to fly?”

“I think I have known how to frame the letter,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the
gentleman himself coming up the drive.”

A man was striding up the path which led to the door. He was a
tall, handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of grey flannel,
with a Panama hat, a bristling black beard, and a great,
aggressive hooked nose, and flourishing a cane as he walked. He
swaggered up the path as if the place belonged to him, and we
heard his loud, confident peal at the bell.

“I think, gentlemen,” said Holmes, quietly, “that we had best
take up our position behind the door. Every precaution is
necessary when dealing with such a fellow. You will need your
handcuffs, Inspector. You can leave the talking to me.”

We waited in silence for a minute—one of those minutes which one
can never forget. Then the door opened and the man stepped in. In
an instant Holmes clapped a pistol to his head, and Martin
slipped the handcuffs over his wrists. It was all done so swiftly
and deftly that the fellow was helpless before he knew that he
was attacked. He glared from one to the other of us with a pair
of blazing black eyes. Then he burst into a bitter laugh.

“Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me this time. I seem to
have knocked up against something hard. But I came here in answer
to a letter from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt. Don’t tell me that she is in
this? Don’t tell me that she helped to set a trap for me?”

“Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured, and is at death’s
door.”

The man gave a hoarse cry of grief, which rang through the house.

“You’re crazy!” he cried, fiercely. “It was he that was hurt, not
she. Who would have hurt little Elsie? I may have threatened
her—God forgive me!—but I would not have touched a hair of her
pretty head. Take it back—you! Say that she is not hurt!”

“She was found badly wounded, by the side of her dead husband.”

He sank with a deep groan on the settee and buried his face in
his manacled hands. For five minutes he was silent. Then he
raised his face once more, and spoke with the cold composure of
despair.

“I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen,” said he. “If I shot
the man he had his shot at me, and there’s no murder in that. But
if you think I could have hurt that woman, then you don’t know
either me or her. I tell you, there was never a man in this world
loved a woman more than I loved her. I had a right to her. She
was pledged to me years ago. Who was this Englishman that he
should come between us? I tell you that I had the first right to
her, and that I was only claiming my own.”

“She broke away from your influence when she found the man that
you are,” said Holmes, sternly. “She fled from America to avoid
you, and she married an honourable gentleman in England. You
dogged her and followed her and made her life a misery to her, in
order to induce her to abandon the husband whom she loved and
respected in order to fly with you, whom she feared and hated.
You have ended by bringing about the death of a noble man and
driving his wife to suicide. That is your record in this
business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will answer for it to the law.”

“If Elsie dies, I care nothing what becomes of me,” said the
American. He opened one of his hands, and looked at a note
crumpled up in his palm. “See here, mister,” he cried, with a
gleam of suspicion in his eyes, “you’re not trying to scare me
over this, are you? If the lady is hurt as bad as you say, who
was it that wrote this note?” He tossed it forward on to the
table.

“I wrote it, to bring you here.”

“You wrote it? There was no one on earth outside the Joint who
knew the secret of the dancing men. How came you to write it?”

“What one man can invent another can discover,” said Holmes.
“There is a cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney. But
meanwhile, you have time to make some small reparation for the
injury you have wrought. Are you aware that Mrs. Hilton Cubitt
has herself lain under grave suspicion of the murder of her
husband, and that it was only my presence here, and the knowledge
which I happened to possess, which has saved her from the
accusation? The least that you owe her is to make it clear to the
whole world that she was in no way, directly or indirectly,
responsible for his tragic end.”

“I ask nothing better,” said the American. “I guess the very best
case I can make for myself is the absolute naked truth.”

“It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you,”
cried the inspector, with the magnificent fair play of the
British criminal law.

Slaney shrugged his shoulders.