Chapter IX: Part 9

“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he
glanced at our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be
learned here, we had best go inside.”

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his
room. We stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination
of the carpet.

“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly
hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite
recovered. You left him in a chair, you say. Which chair?”

“By the window there.”

“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have
finished with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of
course, what has happened is very clear. The man entered and took
the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central table. He carried
them over to the window table, because from there he could see if
you came across the courtyard, and so could effect an escape.”

“As a matter of fact, he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered
by the side door.”

“Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see
the three strips. No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried over
this one first, and he copied it. How long would it take him to
do that, using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour,
not less. Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in
the midst of that when your return caused him to make a very
hurried retreat—_very_ hurried, since he had not time to replace
the papers which would tell you that he had been there. You were
not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you entered the
outer door?”

“No, I can’t say I was.”

“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had,
as you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson.
The pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size,
with a soft lead, the outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s
name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is
only about an inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr.
Soames, and you have got your man. When I add that he possesses a
large and very blunt knife, you have an additional aid.”

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information.
“I can follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this
matter of the length——”

Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of
clear wood after them.

“You see?”

“No, I fear that even now——”

“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others.
What could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware
that Johann Faber is the most common maker’s name. Is it not
clear that there is just as much of the pencil left as usually
follows the Johann?” He held the small table sideways to the
electric light. “I was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote
was thin, some trace of it might come through upon this polished
surface. No, I see nothing. I don’t think there is anything more
to be learned here. Now for the central table. This small pellet
is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly
pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say,
there appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very
interesting. And the cut—a positive tear, I see. It began with a
thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to
you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames. Where
does that door lead to?”

“To my bedroom.”

“Have you been in it since your adventure?”

“No, I came straight away for you.”

“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming,
old-fashioned room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until
I have examined the floor. No, I see nothing. What about this
curtain? You hang your clothes behind it. If anyone were forced
to conceal himself in this room he must do it there, since the
bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one there, I
suppose?”

As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity
and alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an
emergency. As a matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed
nothing but three or four suits of clothes hanging from a line of
pegs. Holmes turned away, and stooped suddenly to the floor.

“Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like
the one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his
open palm in the glare of the electric light.

“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well
as in your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

“What could he have wanted there?”

“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way,
and so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What
could he do? He caught up everything which would betray him, and
he rushed into your bedroom to conceal himself.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the
time I was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man
prisoner if we had only known it?”

“So I read it.”

“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know
whether you observed my bedroom window?”

“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one
swinging on hinge, and large enough to admit a man.”

“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to
be partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance
there, left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and finally,
finding the door open, have escaped that way.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that
there are three students who use this stair, and are in the habit
of passing your door?”

“Yes, there are.”

“And they are all in for this examination?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the
others?”

Soames hesitated.

“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to
throw suspicion where there are no proofs.”

“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three
men who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist,
a fine scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the
cricket team for the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles
and the long jump. He is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the
notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My
scholar has been left very poor, but he is hard-working and
industrious. He will do well.

“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a
quiet, inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is
well up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is
steady and methodical.

“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow
when he chooses to work—one of the brightest intellects of the
university; but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He
was nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has
been idling all this term, and he must look forward with dread to
the examination.”

“Then it is he whom you suspect?”

“I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps
the least unlikely.”

“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
Bannister.”

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow
of fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of
the quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with
his nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his
master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the
door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the
very day when there were these papers inside?”

“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the
same thing at other times.”

“When did you enter the room?”

“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’ tea time.”

“How long did you stay?”

“When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once.”

“Did you look at these papers on the table?”

“No, sir—certainly not.”

“How came you to leave the key in the door?”

“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for
the key. Then I forgot.”

“Has the outer door a spring lock?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it was open all the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone in the room could get out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?”

“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years
that I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder
near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

“I don’t know, sir, it didn’t matter to me where I sat.”

“I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was
looking very bad—quite ghastly.”

“You stayed here when your master left?”

“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my
room.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is
any gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by
such an action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.”

“Thank you, that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You
have not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend
that anything is amiss?”

“No, sir—not a word.”

“You haven’t seen any of them?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the
quadrangle, if you please.”

Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering
gloom.

“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking
up. “Halloa! What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”

It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon
his blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is
it possible?”

“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms
is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for
visitors to go over them. Come along, and I will personally
conduct you.”

“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s
door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and
made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were some
really curious pieces of mediæval domestic architecture within.
Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on
drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one
from our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own.
The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the
Indian—a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance,
and was obviously glad when Holmes’s architectural studies had
come to an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had
come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the third
did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to
our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad
language came from behind it. “I don’t care who you are. You can
go to blazes!” roared the angry voice. “Tomorrow’s the exam, and
I won’t be drawn by anyone.”

“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we
withdrew down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it
was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very
uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances rather
suspicious.”

Holmes’s response was a curious one.

“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than
the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six
would be about it.”

“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I
wish you good-night.”

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good
gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in
this abrupt fashion! You don’t seem to realize the position.
To-morrow is the examination. I must take some definite action
to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of the
papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced.”

“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in
a position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile, you
change nothing—nothing at all.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find
some way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay
with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again
looked up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The
others were invisible.

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came
out into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game—sort of
three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be
one of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?”

“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he
be pacing his room all the time?”

“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to
learn anything by heart.”

“He looked at us in a queer way.”

“So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you
were preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was
of value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives—all
was satisfactory. But that fellow _does_ puzzle me.”

“Who?”

“Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”

“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

“So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
honest man—well, well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin
our researches here.”

There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town,
and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for a
duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it
was not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in
stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure,
but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has
run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can
build up a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow,
it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at
seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your
irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to quit,
and that I shall share your downfall—not, however, before we have
solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless servant,
and the three enterprising students.”

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he
sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At
eight in the morning, he came into my room just as I finished my
toilet.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s.
Can you do without breakfast?”

“Certainly.”

“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell
him something positive.”

“Have you anything positive to tell him?”

“I think so.”

“You have formed a conclusion?”

“Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery.”

“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”

“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed
at the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work
and covered at least five miles, with something to show for it.
Look at that!”

He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
black, doughy clay.

“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday.”

“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever
No. 3 came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson?
Well, come along and put friend Soames out of his pain.”

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable
agitation when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the
examination would commence, and he was still in the dilemma
between making the facts public and allowing the culprit to
compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand still
so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with
two eager hands outstretched.

“Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it
up in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

“Yes, let it proceed, by all means.”

“But this rascal--?”

“He shall not compete.”

“You know him?”

“I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must give
ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small
private court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson,
you here! I’ll take the armchair in the middle. I think that we
are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty
breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear
at our judicial appearance.

“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister,
will you please tell us the truth about yesterday’s incident?”

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

“I have told you everything, sir.”

“Nothing to add?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat
down on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal
some object which would have shown who had been in the room?”

Bannister’s face was ghastly.

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit
that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since
the moment that Mr. Soames’s back was turned, you released the
man who was hiding in that bedroom.”

Bannister licked his dry lips.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
truth, but now I know that you have lied.”

The man’s face set in sullen defiance.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Come, come, Bannister!”

“No, sir, there was no one.”

“In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you
please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom
door. Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great
kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him
to step down into yours.”

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the
student. He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile,
with a springy step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue
eyes glanced at each of us, and finally rested with an expression
of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.

“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are
all quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what
passes between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We
want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever
came to commit such an action as that of yesterday?”

The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full of
horror and reproach at Bannister.

“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word—never one word!”
cried the servant.

“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that
after Bannister’s words your position is hopeless, and that your
only chance lies in a frank confession.”

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees
beside the table, and burying his face in his hands, he had burst
into a storm of passionate sobbing.

“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly, “it is human to err, and at
least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps
it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what
occurred, and you can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so?
Well, well, don’t trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do
you no injustice.

“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one,
not even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your
room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The
printer one could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the
papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of.
If the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what
they were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable
coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by
chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I dismissed
that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How
did he know?

“When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused
me by supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of
someone having in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these
opposite rooms, forced himself through it. Such an idea was
absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in order
to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table. I am
six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less than
that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to think
that, if one of your three students was a man of unusual height,
he was the most worth watching of the three.

“I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the
suggestions of the side table. Of the centre table I could make
nothing, until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned
that he was a long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to
me in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative proofs,
which I speedily obtained.

“What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his
afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising
the jump. He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are
provided, as you are aware, with several sharp spikes. As he
passed your window he saw, by means of his great height, these
proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they were. No harm
would have been done had it not been that, as he passed your
door, he perceived the key which had been left by the
carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to
enter, and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a
dangerous exploit for he could always pretend that he had simply
looked in to ask a question.

“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then
that he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table.
What was it you put on that chair near the window?”

“Gloves,” said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on
the chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them.
He thought the tutor must return by the main gate and that he
would see him. As we know, he came back by the side gate.
Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was no possible
escape. He forgot his gloves but he caught up his shoes and
darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch on that
table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe
had been drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken
refuge there. The earth round the spike had been left on the
table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the bedroom.
I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this morning,
saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit and
carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan
or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from
slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”

The student had drawn himself erect.

“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

“Good heavens! have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to
you early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was
before I knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You
will see that I have said, ‘I have determined not to go in for
the examination. I have been offered a commission in the
Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South Africa at once.’”

“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by
your unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your
purpose?”

Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you,
from what I have said, that only you could have let this young
man out, since you were left in the room, and must have locked
the door when you went out. As to his escaping by that window, it
was incredible. Can you not clear up the last point in this
mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?”

“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all
your cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was,
sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young
gentleman’s father. When he was ruined I came to the college as
servant, but I never forgot my old employer because he was down
in the world. I watched his son all I could for the sake of the
old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room yesterday, when
the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr.
Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves
well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, the
game was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would
budge me until Mr. Soames went for you. Then out came my poor
young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all
to me. Wasn’t it natural, sir, that I should save him, and wasn’t
it natural also that I should try to speak to him as his dead
father would have done, and make him understand that he could not
profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?”

“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet.
“Well, Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up,
and our breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you,
sir, I trust that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For
once you have fallen low. Let us see, in the future, how high you
can rise.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ

When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain
our work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very difficult
for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases
which are most interesting in themselves, and at the same time
most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my
friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my notes upon
the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of
Crosby, the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton
tragedy, and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow.
The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this
period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the
Boulevard assassin—an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph
letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the
Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on
the whole I am of opinion that none of them unites so many
singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place,
which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby
Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so
curious a light upon the causes of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November.
Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged
with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original
inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon
surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the
rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in
the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on
every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be
conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no
more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional
lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement.
A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

“Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,”
said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest.
“I’ve done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the
eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more exciting than
an Abbey’s accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth
century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s this?”

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a
horse’s hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against
the curb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

“Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to
fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There’s the cab off again!
There’s hope yet. He’d have kept it if he had wanted us to come.
Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous
folk have been long in bed.”

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I
had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley
Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
several times shown a very practical interest.

“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope
you have no designs upon us such a night as this.”

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
shining waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked
a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he.
“Here’s a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot
water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like this.
It must be something important which has brought you out in such
a gale.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I
promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the
latest editions?”

“I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you
have not missed anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my
feet. It’s down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from
the railway line. I was wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley Old
Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross
by the last train, and straight to you by cab.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your
case?”

“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as
I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled,
and yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn’t go wrong.
There’s no motive, Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers me—I can’t put
my hand on a motive. Here’s a man dead—there’s no denying
that—but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone
should wish him harm.”

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Let us hear about it,” said he.

“I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I
want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I
can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country house,
Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name
of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the
time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or
being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a Bath chair.
He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him, and
he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His
household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker,
and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him since
his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character.
The professor is writing a learned book, and he found it
necessary, about a year ago, to engage a secretary. The first two
that he tried were not successes, but the third, Mr. Willoughby
Smith, a very young man straight from the university, seems to
have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in
writing all the morning to the professor’s dictation, and he
usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages
which bore upon the next day’s work. This Willoughby Smith has
nothing against him, either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young
man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the
first he was a decent, quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak
spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death
this morning in the professor’s study under circumstances which
can point only to murder.”

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew
closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by
point developed his singular narrative.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose
you could find a household more self-contained or freer from
outside influences. Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them
go past the garden gate. The professor was buried in his work and
existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the
neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two
women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the
gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army pensioner—an old
Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the
house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the
garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the
grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the
garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road.
It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone
from walking in.

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the
only person who can say anything positive about the matter. It
was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged
at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front
bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the weather
is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied
with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had
been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room, but the
maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend
to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she
says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. She
did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there
was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse
scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either
from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy
thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The
maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her
courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut and she
opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon
the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to
raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of
his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound,
which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which
the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It
was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on
old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff
blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor’s own desk.

“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but
on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened
his eyes for an instant. ‘The professor,’ he murmured—‘it was
she.’ The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact
words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he held
his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead.

“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene,
but she was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words.
Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the professor’s room.
He was sitting up in bed, horribly agitated, for he had heard
enough to convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs.
Marker is prepared to swear that the professor was still in his
night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to dress
without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve
o’clock. The professor declares that he heard the distant cry,
but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the
young man’s last words, ‘The professor—it was she,’ but imagines
that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that
Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no
reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer, the
gardener, for the local police. A little later the chief
constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and
strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths
leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your
theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really
nothing wanting.”

“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat
bitter smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job did
you make of it?”

“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
which will give you a general idea of the position of the
professor’s study and the various points of the case. It will
help you in following my investigation.”

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid
it across Holmes’s knee. I rose and, standing behind Holmes,
studied it over his shoulder.

Professor's-Study

“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later
for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin
entered the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the
garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access
to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly
complicated. The escape must have also been made along that line,
for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan
as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the
professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to
the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain, and would
certainly show any footmarks.

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There
could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the
grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in
order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the
nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down,
and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the
murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been
there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the
night.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”

“To the road.”

“How long is it?”

“A hundred yards or so.”

“At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could
surely pick up the tracks?”

“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”

“Well, on the road itself?”

“No, it was all trodden into mire.”

“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they
coming or going?”

“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”

“A large foot or a small?”

“You could not distinguish.”

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

“It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,”
said he. “It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest.
Well, well, it can’t be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after
you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?”

“I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next
examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study
itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article is a
large writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of
a double column of drawers, with a central small cupboard between
them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it
seems, were always open, and nothing of value was kept in them.
There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there
were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the professor
assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no
robbery has been committed.

“I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart.
The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind
forward, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been
self-inflicted.”

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some
feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of
course, there are the man’s own dying words. And, finally, there
was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped
in the dead man’s right hand.”

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He
unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken
ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby
Smith had excellent sight,” he added. “There can be no question
that this was snatched from the face or the person of the
assassin.”

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined them
with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose,
endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared
up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full
light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at
the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he
tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

“That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be
of some use.”

The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either
side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression,
and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she
has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last
few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength, and as
opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in
tracing her.”

Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have
been reflected upon my features. “Surely my deductions are
simplicity itself,” said he. “It would be difficult to name any
articles which afford a finer field for inference than a pair of
glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That they
belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of
course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her being a
person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive,
handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that
anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other
respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your
nose, showing that the lady’s nose was very broad at the base.
This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there is
a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being
dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my description. My
own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my
eyes into the centre, nor near the centre, of these glasses.
Therefore, the lady’s eyes are set very near to the sides of the
nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave and
of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so extremely
contracted all her life is sure to have the physical
characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead,
the eyelids, and the shoulders.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess,
however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the
double visit to the optician.”

Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

“You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny
bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these
is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is
new. Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should
judge that the older of them has not been there more than a few
months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went
back to the same establishment for the second.”

“By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
admiration. “To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the
London opticians.”

“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell
us about the case?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
now—probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger
seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have
heard of none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in
the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.”

“Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you
want us to come out to-morrow?”

“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from
Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be
at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine.”

“Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of
great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well,
it’s nearly one, and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I
daresay you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the
fire. I’ll light my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee
before we start.”

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter
morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter
sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long,
sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with
our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our
career. After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a small
station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was being put into
a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast, and so
we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley
Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

“Well, Wilson, any news?”

“No, sir—nothing.”

“No reports of any stranger seen?”

“No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
either came or went yesterday.”

“Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”

“Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for.”

“Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
there or take a train without being observed. This is the garden
path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word there was
no mark on it yesterday.”

“On which side were the marks on the grass?”

“This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and
the flower-bed. I can’t see the traces now, but they were clear
to me then.”

“Yes, yes: someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over
the grass border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully,
must she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on
the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”

“Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face.

“You say that she must have come back this way?”

“Yes, sir, there is no other.”

“On this strip of grass?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance—very remarkable. Well,
I think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This
garden door is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor
had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in
her mind, or she would have provided herself with some sort of
weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the
writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no
traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in this
study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging.”

“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
before—about a quarter of an hour, she says.”

“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what
does she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not
for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her
taking, it would surely have been locked up. No, it was for
something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch
upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did you not
tell me of this, Hopkins?”

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four
inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll always find scratches round
a keyhole.”