Chapter VI: Part 6

“Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely not in
the eyes of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a murder at
which he was not present, and which he loathes and abhors as much
as you do. The instant that he heard of it he made a complete
confession to me, so filled was he with horror and remorse. He
lost not an hour in breaking entirely with the murderer. Oh, Mr.
Holmes, you must save him—you must save him! I tell you that you
must save him!” The Duke had dropped the last attempt at
self-command, and was pacing the room with a convulsed face and
with his clenched hands raving in the air. At last he mastered
himself and sat down once more at his desk. “I appreciate your
conduct in coming here before you spoke to anyone else,” said he.
“At least, we may take counsel how far we can minimize this
hideous scandal.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “I think, your Grace, that this can only
be done by absolute frankness between us. I am disposed to help
your Grace to the best of my ability, but, in order to do so, I
must understand to the last detail how the matter stands. I
realize that your words applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he
is not the murderer.”

“No, the murderer has escaped.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

“Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation which I
possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to escape
me. Mr. Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield, on my
information, at eleven o’clock last night. I had a telegram from
the head of the local police before I left the school this
morning.”

The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement at my
friend.

“You seem to have powers that are hardly human,” said he. “So
Reuben Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will not
react upon the fate of James.”

“Your secretary?”

“No, sir, my son.”

It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

“I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must
beg you to be more explicit.”

“I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that complete
frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy in
this desperate situation to which James’s folly and jealousy have
reduced us. When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I loved with
such a love as comes only once in a lifetime. I offered the lady
marriage, but she refused it on the grounds that such a match
might mar my career. Had she lived, I would certainly never have
married anyone else. She died, and left this one child, whom for
her sake I have cherished and cared for. I could not acknowledge
the paternity to the world, but I gave him the best of
educations, and since he came to manhood I have kept him near my
person. He surmised my secret, and has presumed ever since upon
the claim which he has upon me, and upon his power of provoking a
scandal which would be abhorrent to me. His presence had
something to do with the unhappy issue of my marriage. Above all,
he hated my young legitimate heir from the first with a
persistent hatred. You may well ask me why, under these
circumstances, I still kept James under my roof. I answer that it
was because I could see his mother’s face in his, and that for
her dear sake there was no end to my long-suffering. All her
pretty ways too—there was not one of them which he could not
suggest and bring back to my memory. I _could_ not send him away.
But I feared so much lest he should do Arthur—that is, Lord
Saltire—a mischief, that I dispatched him for safety to Dr.
Huxtable’s school.

“James came into contact with this fellow Hayes, because the man
was a tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow was a
rascal from the beginning, but, in some extraordinary way, James
became intimate with him. He had always a taste for low company.
When James determined to kidnap Lord Saltire, it was of this
man’s service that he availed himself. You remember that I wrote
to Arthur upon that last day. Well, James opened the letter and
inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him in a little wood called
the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school. He used the
Duchess’s name, and in that way got the boy to come. That evening
James bicycled over—I am telling you what he has himself
confessed to me—and he told Arthur, whom he met in the wood, that
his mother longed to see him, that she was awaiting him on the
moor, and that if he would come back into the wood at midnight he
would find a man with a horse, who would take him to her. Poor
Arthur fell into the trap. He came to the appointment, and found
this fellow Hayes with a led pony. Arthur mounted, and they set
off together. It appears—though this James only heard
yesterday—that they were pursued, that Hayes struck the pursuer
with his stick, and that the man died of his injuries. Hayes
brought Arthur to his public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he
was confined in an upper room, under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who
is a kindly woman, but entirely under the control of her brutal
husband.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first saw
you two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you. You
will ask me what was James’s motive in doing such a deed. I
answer that there was a great deal which was unreasoning and
fanatical in the hatred which he bore my heir. In his view he
should himself have been heir of all my estates, and he deeply
resented those social laws which made it impossible. At the same
time, he had a definite motive also. He was eager that I should
break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my power
to do so. He intended to make a bargain with me—to restore Arthur
if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for the
estate to be left to him by will. He knew well that I should
never willingly invoke the aid of the police against him. I say
that he would have proposed such a bargain to me, but he did not
actually do so, for events moved too quickly for him, and he had
not time to put his plans into practice.

“What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery
of this man Heidegger’s dead body. James was seized with horror
at the news. It came to us yesterday, as we sat together in this
study. Dr. Huxtable had sent a telegram. James was so overwhelmed
with grief and agitation that my suspicions, which had never been
entirely absent, rose instantly to a certainty, and I taxed him
with the deed. He made a complete voluntary confession. Then he
implored me to keep his secret for three days longer, so as to
give his wretched accomplice a chance of saving his guilty life.
I yielded—as I have always yielded—to his prayers, and instantly
James hurried off to the Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and give him
the means of flight. I could not go there by daylight without
provoking comment, but as soon as night fell I hurried off to see
my dear Arthur. I found him safe and well, but horrified beyond
expression by the dreadful deed he had witnessed. In deference to
my promise, and much against my will, I consented to leave him
there for three days, under the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it
was evident that it was impossible to inform the police where he
was without telling them also who was the murderer, and I could
not see how that murderer could be punished without ruin to my
unfortunate James. You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I
have taken you at your word, for I have now told you everything
without an attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you in
turn be as frank with me.”

“I will,” said Holmes. “In the first place, your Grace, I am
bound to tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious
position in the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony, and
you have aided the escape of a murderer, for I cannot doubt that
any money which was taken by James Wilder to aid his accomplice
in his flight came from your Grace’s purse.”

The Duke bowed his assent.

“This is, indeed, a most serious matter. Even more culpable in my
opinion, your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger son.
You leave him in this den for three days.”

“Under solemn promises——”

“What are promises to such people as these? You have no guarantee
that he will not be spirited away again. To humour your guilty
elder son, you have exposed your innocent younger son to imminent
and unnecessary danger. It was a most unjustifiable action.”

The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated
in his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high forehead,
but his conscience held him dumb.

“I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring
for the footman and let me give such orders as I like.”

Without a word, the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant
entered.

“You will be glad to hear,” said Holmes, “that your young master
is found. It is the Duke’s desire that the carriage shall go at
once to the Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.

“Now,” said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared,
“having secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient with
the past. I am not in an official position, and there is no
reason, so long as the ends of justice are served, why I should
disclose all that I know. As to Hayes, I say nothing. The gallows
awaits him, and I would do nothing to save him from it. What he
will divulge I cannot tell, but I have no doubt that your Grace
could make him understand that it is to his interest to be
silent. From the police point of view he will have kidnapped the
boy for the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves find it
out, I see no reason why I should prompt them to take a broader
point of view. I would warn your Grace, however, that the
continued presence of Mr. James Wilder in your household can only
lead to misfortune.”

“I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he
shall leave me forever, and go to seek his fortune in Australia.”

“In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that
any unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence, I
would suggest that you make such amends as you can to the
Duchess, and that you try to resume those relations which have
been so unhappily interrupted.”

“That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the Duchess
this morning.”

“In that case,” said Holmes, rising, “I think that my friend and
I can congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results from
our little visit to the North. There is one other small point
upon which I desire some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his
horses with shoes which counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it
from Mr. Wilder that he learned so extraordinary a device?”

The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense
surprise on his face. Then he opened a door and showed us into a
large room furnished as a museum. He led the way to a glass case
in a corner, and pointed to the inscription.

“These shoes,” it ran, “were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse
Hall. They are for the use of horses, but they are shaped below
with a cloven foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the
track. They are supposed to have belonged to some of the
marauding Barons of Holdernesse in the Middle Ages.”

Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it
along the shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.

“Thank you,” said he, as he replaced the glass. “It is the second
most interesting object that I have seen in the North.”

“And the first?”

Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully in his
notebook. “I am a poor man,” said he, as he patted it
affectionately, and thrust it into the depths of his inner
pocket.

THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER

I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental
and physical, than in the year ’95. His increasing fame had
brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an
indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some of
the illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker
Street. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his
art’s sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I
have seldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimable
services. So unworldly was he—or so capricious—that he frequently
refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the problem
made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of
most intense application to the affairs of some humble client
whose case presented those strange and dramatic qualities which
appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.

In this memorable year ’95, a curious and incongruous succession
of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous
investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry
which was carried out by him at the express desire of His
Holiness the Pope—down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious
canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End of
London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the
tragedy of Woodman’s Lee, and the very obscure circumstances
which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of
the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did not
include some account of this very unusual affair.

During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so often
and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on
hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called during that
time and inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that
Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises
and names with which he concealed his own formidable identity. He
had at least five small refuges in different parts of London, in
which he was able to change his personality. He said nothing of
his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a
confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the
direction which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary
one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine
when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and a huge
barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.

“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say that you
have been walking about London with that thing?”

“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

“The butcher’s?”

“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no
question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before
breakfast. But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the
form that my exercise has taken.”

“I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

“If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back shop, you would
have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a
gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this
weapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself
that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a
single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”

“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”

“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the
mystery of Woodman’s Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last
night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us.”

Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,
dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of
one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at
once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose
future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the
admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of
the famous amateur. Hopkins’s brow was clouded, and he sat down
with an air of deep dejection.

“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent
the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”

“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It’s my first big
chance, and I am at my wits’ end. For goodness’ sake, come down
and lend me a hand.”

“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the
available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with
some care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch,
found on the scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?”

Hopkins looked surprised.

“It was the man’s own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it.
And it was of sealskin,—and he was an old sealer.”

“But he had no pipe.”

“No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very little,
and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”

“No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handling the
case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point
of my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows
nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse for
hearing the sequence of events once more. Just give us some short
sketches of the essentials.”

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the
dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in ’45—fifty years of
age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher.
In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer _Sea Unicorn_, of Dundee.
He had then had several successful voyages in succession, and in
the following year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for
some years, and finally he bought a small place called Woodman’s
Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he has lived for six
years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.

“There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary
life, he was a strict Puritan—a silent, gloomy fellow. His
household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and
two female servants. These last were continually changing, for it
was never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it became past
all bearing. The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he
had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been known to
drive his wife and daughter out of doors in the middle of the
night and flog them through the park until the whole village
outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

“He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar,
who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct.
In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more
dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the
same character when he commanded his ship. He was known in the
trade as Black Peter, and the name was given him, not only on
account of his swarthy features and the colour of his huge beard,
but for the humours which were the terror of all around him. I
need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every one of his
neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of sorrow
about his terrible end.

“You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man’s
cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not heard of
it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse—he always called it
the ‘cabin’—a few hundred yards from his house, and it was here
that he slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut,
sixteen feet by ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own
bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the
threshold. There are small windows on each side, which were
covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows was
turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at
night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what
Black Peter was doing in there. That’s the window, Mr. Holmes,
which gave us one of the few bits of positive evidence that came
out at the inquest.

“You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from
Forest Row about one o’clock in the morning—two days before the
murder—stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square
of light still shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow
of a man’s head turned sideways was clearly visible on the blind,
and that this shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom
he knew well. It was that of a bearded man, but the beard was
short and bristled forward in a way very different from that of
the captain. So he says, but he had been two hours in the
public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the
window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was
done upon the Wednesday.

“On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods,
flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He
roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard
him coming. Late in the evening, he went down to his own hut.
About two o’clock the following morning, his daughter, who slept
with her window open, heard a most fearful yell from that
direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl and shout
when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising at seven,
one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but
so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday
before anyone would venture down to see what had become of him.
Peeping into the open door, they saw a sight which sent them
flying, with white faces, into the village. Within an hour, I was
on the spot and had taken over the case.

“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but
I give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into
that little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies
and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a
slaughter-house. He had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was,
sure enough, for you would have thought that you were in a ship.
There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a
picture of the _Sea Unicorn_, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all
exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain’s room. And
there, in the middle of it, was the man himself—his face twisted
like a lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck
upward in his agony. Right through his broad breast a steel
harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of
the wall behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of
course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the instant that
he had uttered that last yell of agony.

“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground
outside, and also the floor of the room. There were no
footmarks.”

“Meaning that you saw none?”

“I assure you, sir, that there were none.”

“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have
never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As
long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be
some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which
can be detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that
this blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have
aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there were
some objects which you failed to overlook?”

The young inspector winced at my companion’s ironical comments.

“I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. However,
that’s past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in
the room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon
with which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from
a rack on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a
vacant place for the third. On the stock was engraved ‘SS. _Sea
Unicorn_, Dundee.’ This seemed to establish that the crime had
been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer had seized
the first weapon which came in his way. The fact that the crime
was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was
fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the
murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and
two dirty glasses stood upon the table.”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are
permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?”

“Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the
decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used.”

“For all that, its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.
“However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem
to you to bear upon the case.”

“There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”

“What part of the table?”

“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin—the
straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was
‘P.C.’ on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship’s
tobacco in it.”

“Excellent! What more?”

Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The
outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first
page were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.”
Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his minute way,
while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page
were the printed letters “C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets
of numbers. Another heading was “Argentine,” another “Costa
Rica,” and another “San Paulo,” each with pages of signs and
figures after it.

“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.

“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought
that ‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’
may have been his client.”

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh
with his clenched hand.

“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you
say. Then ‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have
already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no
one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside brokers,
whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is
the most important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes,
that there is a possibility that these initials are those of the
second person who was present—in other words, of the murderer. I
would also urge that the introduction into the case of a document
relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the
first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”

Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback
by this new development.

“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this
notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views
which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in
which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace
any of the securities here mentioned?”

“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
complete register of the stockholders of these South American
concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse
before we can trace the shares.”

Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his
magnifying lens.

“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book
off the floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
crime was committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay
near the door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among
the property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was
a knife, was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the
dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s
property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and
have a look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

“Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But
even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you
can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you
will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for
Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at
bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of
Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the
seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have
been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North
have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in
a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,
stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the
fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,
was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
direction. It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us
to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,
whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror
in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of
hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her
daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly
at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,
and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a
terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,
and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the
sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been
worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had
stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and
surprise upon his face.

“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and
the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been
that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed
to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I
could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do
you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”

“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

“You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could
not manage it. What would he do?”

“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of
the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes
examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest
was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
investigation.

“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No, I have moved nothing.”

“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,
Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we
should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes
which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be
able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his
object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon
us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which
could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or
would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the
weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our
vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping
and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his
skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden
snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior
of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted
upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.
He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have
never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable
fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking
in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket
and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched
him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the
candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one
of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the
logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the
table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he
came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of
his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,
and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when
Hopkins’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud
gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering
in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,
and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and
what do you want here?”

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
that I am innocent.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your
name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I
hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.
Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes
was keenly interested.

“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared.”

“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all
listened intently to the young man’s words.

“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I
was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that
my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It
was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize
them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He
started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant
was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he
bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities
he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.
Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and
he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and
it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that
some of the securities which my father had with him had
reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I
spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he
had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a
long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well
have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In
any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these
securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
when he took them.

“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I
read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.
It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the
mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these
logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again
and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that
month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found
myself a prisoner in your hands.”

“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

He hesitated.

“No, there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?”

“No.”

“Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held
up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
trembled all over.

“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I
had lost it at the hotel.”

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have
to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to
the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns
out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I
am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye
Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we
travelled back next morning.

“I can see that you are not satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.
I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better
things from him. One should always look for a possible
alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
criminal investigation.”

“What, then, is the alternative?”

“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It
may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow
it to the end.”

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
triumphant chuckle of laughter.

“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten
to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The
other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if
unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal
case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
of it forever.”

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson
had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his
success.

“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked
Holmes.

“I could not imagine a more complete case.”

“It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

“Does your explanation cover every point?”

“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get
out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,
saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him
with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled
out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with
him in order to question Peter Carey about these different
securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked
with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those
which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the
others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and
young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to
recover them in order to do the right thing by his father’s
creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut
again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in
order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is
all simple and obvious?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is
that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a
harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really
pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you
that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy
matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow
was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank
deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anæmic youth was
capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed
in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was
it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No,
no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we
must seek.”

The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s
speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.
But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

“You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes.
The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to
satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.
Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon _my_ man. As to
this terrible person of yours, where is he?”

“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely.
“I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
where you can reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a
side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring
for Captain Basil.

“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

“The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with
ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
letter from his pocket.

“What name?” he asked.

“James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait
there for a few minutes.”

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two
bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,
overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning
his cap round in his hands.

“Your name?” asked Holmes.

“Patrick Cairns.”

“Harpooner?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

“Dundee, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What wages?”

“Eight pounds a month.”

“Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.”

“Have you your papers?”

“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his
pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on
the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his
neck.

“This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The
next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with
the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his
wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had
Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the
cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last
understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with
cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear
that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the
rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the
thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant
conclusion.”

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last,
with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a
fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I
should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the
master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don’t know how
you did it or what it signifies.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by
experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young
Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the
true murderer of Peter Carey.”

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I
_killed_ Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you
don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you
a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”