The
police had brought a cab with
them, and in this I escorted
Miss Morstan back to her home.
After the angelic fashion of
women, she had borne trouble
with a calm face as long as there
was someone weaker than herself
to support, and I had found her
bright and placid by the side
of the frightened housekeeper.
ln the cab, however, she first
turned faint and then burst into
a passion of weeping -- so sorely
had she been tried by the adven-
tures of the night. She has told
me since that she thought me
cold and distant upon that journey.
She little guessed the struggle
within my breast, or the effort
of self-restraint which held
me back. My sympathies and my
love went out to her, even as
my hand had in the garden. I
felt that years of the conventionalities
of life could not teach me to
know her sweet, brave nature
as had this one day of strange
experiences. Yet there were two
thoughts which sealed the words
of affection upon my lips. She
was weak and helpless, shaken
in mind and nerve. It was to
take her at a disadvantage to
obtrude love upon her at such
a time. Worse still, she was
rich. If Holmes's researches
were successful, she would be
an heiress. Was it fair, was
it honourable, that a half-pay
surgeon should take such advantage
of an intimacy which chance had
brought about? Might she not
look upon me as a mere vulgar
fortune-seeker? I could not bear
to risk that such a thought should
cross her mind. This Agra treasure
intervened like an impassable
barrier between us.
It was nearly two o'clock when
we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's.
The servants had retired hours
ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been
so interested by the strange
message which Miss Morstan had
received that she had sat up
in the hope of her return. She
opened the door herself, a middle-aged,
graceful woman, and it gave me
joy to see how tenderly her arm
stole round the other's waist
and how motherly was the voice
in which she greeted her. She
was clearly no mere paid dependant
but an honoured friend. I was
introduced, and Mrs. Forrester
earnestly begged me to step in
and tell her our adventures.
I explained, however, the impor-
tance of my errand and promised
faithfully to call and report
any progress which we might make
with the case. As we drove away
I stole a glance back, and I
still seem to see that little
group on the step -- the two
graceful, clinging figures, the
half-opened door, the hall-light
shining through stained glass,
the barometer, and the bright
stair-rods. It was soothing to
catch even that passing glimpse
of a tranquil English home in
the midst of the wild, dark business
which had absorbed us.
And the more I thought of what
had happened, the wilder and
darker it grew. I reviewed the
whole extraordinary sequence
of events as I rattled on through
the silent, gas-lit streets.
There was the original problem:
that at least was pretty clear
now. The death of Captain Morstan,
the sending of the pearls, the
adver- tisement, the letter --
we had had light upon all those
events. They had only led us,
however, to a deeper and far
more tragic mystery. The Indian
treasure, the curious plan found
among Morstan's baggage, the
strange scene at Major Sholto's
death, the rediscovery of the
treasure immediately followed
by the murder of the discoverer,
the very singular accompaniments
to the crime, the footsteps,
the remarkable weapons, the words
upon the card, corresponding
with those upon Captain Morstan's
chart -- here was indeed a labyrinth
in which a man less singularly
endowed than my fellow-lodger
might well despair of ever find-
ing the clue.
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby,
two-storied brick houses in the
lower quarter of Lambeth. I had
to knock for some time at No.
3 before I could make any impression.
At last, however, there was the
glint of a candle behind the
blind, and a face looked out
at the upper window.
"Go on, you drunken vagabond," said
the face. "If you kick up any
more row, I'll open the kennels
and let out forty-three dogs
upon you."
"If you'll let one out, it's
just what I have come for," said
I.
"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So
help me gracious, I have a wiper
in this bag, and I'll drop it
on your 'ead if you don't hook
it!"
"But I want a dog," I
cried.
"I won't be argued with!" shouted
Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear,
for when I say 'three,' down
goes the wiper."
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes " I
began; but
the words had
a most magical
effect, for the window instantly
slammed down, and within a minute
the door was unbarred and open.
Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean
old man, with stooping shoulders,
a stringy neck, and blue-tinted
glasses.
"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is
always welcome," said he. "Step
in, sir. Keep clear of the badger,
for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty;
would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This
to a stoat which thrust its wicked
head and red eyes between the
bars of its cage. "Don't mind
that, sir; it's only a slowworm.
It hain't got no fangs, so I
gives it the run o' the room,
for it keeps the beetles down.
You must not mind my bein' just
a little short wi' you at first,
for I'm guyed at by the children,
and there's many a one just comes
down this lane to knock me up.
What was it that Mr. Sherlock
Holmes wanted, sir?"
"He
wanted a dog
of yours."
"Ah!
that would
be Toby."
"Yes,
Toby was the
name."
"Toby
lives at No.
7 on the left
here."
He moved slowly forward with
his candle among the queer animal
family which he had gathered
round him. In the uncer- tain,
shadowy light I could see dimly
that there were glancing, glimmering
eyes peeping down at us from
every cranny and corner. Even
the rafters above our heads were
lined by solemn fowls, who lazily
shifted their weight from one
leg to the other as our voices
disturbed their slumbers.
Toby proved to be an ugly,
long-haired, lop-eared creature,
half spaniel and half lurcher,
brown and white in colour, with
a very clumsy, waddling gait.
It accepted, after some hesitation,
a lump of sugar which the old
naturalist handed to me, and,
having thus sealed an alliance,
it followed me to the cab and
made no difficulties about accompanying
me. It had just struck three
on the Palace clock when I found
myself back once more at Pondicherry
Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo
had, I found, been arrested as
an accessory, and both he and
Mr. Sholto had been marched off
to the station. Two constables
guarded the narrow gate, but
they allowed me to pass with
the dog on my mentioning the
detective's name.
Holmes was standing on the
doorstep with his hands in his
pockets, smoking his pipe.
"Ah, you have him there!" said
he. "Good dog, then! Athelney
Jones has gone. We have had an
immense display of energy since
you left. He has arrested not
only friend Thaddeus but the
gatekeeper, the housekeeper,
and the Indian servant. We have
the place to ourselves but for
a sergeant upstairs. Leave the
dog here and come up."
We tied Toby to the hall table
and reascended the stairs. The
room was as we had left it, save
that a sheet had been draped
over the central figure. A weary-looking
police-sergeant reclined in the
corner.
"Lend me your bull's eye, Sergeant," said
my companion. "Now tie this bit
of card round my neck, so as
to hang it in front of me. Thank
you. Now I must kick off my boots
and stockings. Just you carry
them down with you, Watson. I
am going to do a little climbing.
And dip my handkerchief into
the creosote. That will do. Now
come up into the garret with
me for a moment."
We clambered up through the
hole. Holmes turned his light
once more upon the footsteps
in the dust.
"I wish you particularly to
notice these footmarks," he said. "Do
you observe anything noteworthy
about them?"
"They belong," I said, "to
a child or a small woman."
"Apart
from their
size, though.
Is there nothing else?"
"They
appear to be
much as other
footmarks."
"Not
at all. Look
here! This
is the print
of a right
foot
in the dust. Now I make one with
my naked foot beside it. What
is the chief difference?"
"Your
toes are all
cramped together.
The other print
has
each toe distinctly divided."
"Quite
so. That is
the point.
Bear that in
mind. Now,
would
you kindly step over to that
flap-window and smell the edge
of the woodwork? I shall stay
over here, as I have this handkerchief
in my hand."
I did as he directed and was
instantly conscious of a strong
tarry smell.
"That
is where he
put his foot
in getting out. If you can trace
him, I should think that Toby
will have no difficulty. Now
run downstairs, loose the dog,
and look out for Blondin."
By the time that I got out
into the grounds Sherlock Holmes
was on the roof, and I could
see him like an enormous glow-
worm crawling very slowly along
the ridge. I lost sight of him
behind a stack of chimneys, but
he presently reappeared and then
vanished once more upon the opposite
side. When I made my way round
there I found him seated at one
of the corner eaves.
"That you, Watson?" he
cried.
"Yes."
"This
is the place.
What is that
black thing
down there?"
"A
water-barrel."
"Top
on it?"
"Yes."
"No
sign of a ladder?"
"No."
"Confound
the fellow!
It's a most
breakneck place.
I ought
to be able to come down where
he could climb up. The water-pipe
feels pretty firm. Here goes,
anyhow."
There was a scuffling of feet,
and the lantern began to come
steadily down the side of the
wall. Then with a light spring
he came on to the barrel, and
from there to the earth.
"It was easy to follow him," he
said, drawing on his stock- ings
and boots. "Tiles were loosened
the whole way along, and in his
hurry he had dropped this. It
confirms my diagnosis, as you
doctors express it."
The object which he held up
to me was a small pocket or pouch
woven out of coloured grasses
and with a few tawdry beads strung
round it. In shape and size it
was not unlike a cigarette-case.
Inside were half a dozen spines
of dark wood, sharp at one end
and rounded at the other, like
that which had struck Bartholomew
Sholto.
"They are hellish things," said
he. "Look out that you don't
prick yourself. I'm delighted
to have them, for the chances
are that they are all he has.
There is the less fear of you
or me finding one in our skin
before long. I would sooner face
a Martini bullet, myself. Are
you game for a six-mile trudge,
Watson?"
"Certainly," I
answered.
"Your
leg will stand
it?"
"Oh,
yes."
"Here you are, doggy! Good
old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell
it!" He pushed the creosote handkerchief
under the dog's nose, while the
creature stood with its fluffy
legs separated, and with a most
comical cock to its head, like
a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet
of a famous vintage. Holmes then
threw the handker- chief to a
distance, fastened a stout cord
to the mongrel's collar, and
led him to the foot of the water-barrel.
The creature instantly broke
into a succession of high, tremulous
yelps and, with his nose on the
ground and his tail in the air,
pattered off upon the trail at
a pace which strained his leash
and kept us at the top of our
speed.
The east had been gradually
whitening, and we could now see
some distance in the cold gray
light. The square, massive house,
with its black, empty windows
and high, bare walls, towered
up, sad and forlorn, behind us.
Our course led right across the
grounds, in and out among the
trenches and pits with which
they were scarred and intersected.
The whole place, with its scattered
dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs,
had a blighted, ill-omened look
which harmonized with the black
tragedy which hung over it.
On reaching the boundary wall
Toby ran along, whining ea- gerly,
underneath its shadow, and stopped
finally in a corner screened
by a young beech. Where the two
walls joined, several bricks
had been loosened, and the crevices
left were worn down and rounded
upon the lower side, as though
they had frequently been used
as a ladder. Holmes clambered
up, and taking the dog from me
he dropped it over upon the other
side.
"There's the print of Wooden-leg's
hand," he remarked as I mounted
up beside him. "You see the slight
smudge of blood upon the white
plaster. What a lucky thing it
is that we have had no very heavy
rain since yesterday! The scent
wili lie upon the road in spite
of their eight-and-twenty hours'
start."
I confess that I had my doubts
myself when I reflected upon
the great traffic which had passed
along the London road in the
interval. My fears were soon
appeased, however. Toby never
hesitated or swerved but waddled
on in his peculiar rolling fashion.
Clearly the pungent smell of
the creosote rose high above
all other contending scents.
"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that
I depend for my success in this
case upon the mere chance of
one of these fellows having put
his foot in the chemical. I have
knowledge now which would enable
me to trace them in many different
ways. This, however, is the readiest,
and, since fortune has put it
into our hands, I should be culpable
if I neglected it. It has, however
prevented the case from becoming
the pretty little intellectuai
problem which it at one time
promised to be. There might have
been some credit to be gained
out of it but for this too palpable
clue."
"There is credit, and to spare," said
I. "I assure you, Holmes, that
I marvel at the means by which
you obtain your results in this
case even more than I did in
the Jefferson Hope murder. The
thing seems to me to be deeper
and more inexplicable. How, for
example, could you describe with
such confidence the wooden- legged
man?"
"Pshaw,
my dear boy!
it was simplicity
itself. I don't
wish
to be theatrical. It is all patent
and above-board. Two officers
who are in command of a convict-guard
learn an important secret as
to buried treasure. A map is
drawn for them by an Englishman
named Jonathan Small. You remember
that we saw the name upon the
chart in Captain Morstan's possession.
He had signed it in behalf of
himself and his associates --
the sign of the four, as he somewhat
dramatically called it. Aided
by this chart, the officers --
or one of them -- gets the treasure
and brings it to England, leaving,
we will suppose, some condition
under which he received it unfulfilled.
Now, then, why did not Jonathan
Small get the treasure himself?
The answer is obvious. The chart
is dated at a time when Morstan
was brought into close associa-
tion with convicts. Jonathan
Small did not get the treasure
because he and his associates
were themselves convicts and
could not get away."
"But this is mere speculation," said
I.
"It
is more than
that. It is
the only hypothesis which covers
the facts. Let us see how it
fits in with the sequel. Major
Sholto remains at peace for some
years, happy in the possession
of his treasure. Then he receives
a letter from India which gives
him a great fright. What was
that?"
"A
letter to say
that the men
whom he had wronged had been
set free."
"Or
had escaped.
That is much
more likely, for he would have
known what their term of imprisonment
was. It would not have been a
surprise to him. What does he
do then? He guards himself against
a wooden-legged man -- a white
man, mark you, for he mistakes
a white tradesman for him and
actually fires a pistol at him.
Now, only one white man's name
is on the chart. The others are
Hindoos or Mohammedans. There
is no other white man. Therefore
we may say with confidence that
the wooden-legged man is identical
with Jonathan Small. Does the
reasoning strike you as being
faulty?"
"No:
it is clear
and concise."
"Well,
now, let us
put ourselves
in the place of Jonathan Small.
Let us look at it from his point
of view. He comes to England
with the double idea of regaining
what he would con- sider to be
his rights and of having his
revenge upon the man who had
wronged him. He found out where
Sholto lived, and very possibly
he established communications
with someone in- side the house.
There is this butler, Lal Rao,
whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone
gives him far from a good character.
Small could not find out, however,
where the treasure was hid, for
no one ever knew save the major
and one faithful servant who
had died. Suddenly Small learns
that the major is on his deathbed.
ln a frenzy lest the secret of
the treasure die with him, he
runs the gauntlet of the guards,
makes his way to the dying man's
win- dow, and is only deterred
from entering by the presence
of his two sons. Mad with hate,
however, against the dead man,
he enters the room that night,
searches his private papers in
the hope of discovering some
memorandum relating to the treasure,
and finally leaves a memento
of his visit in the short inscription
upon the card. He had doubtless
planned beforehand that, should
he slay the major, he would leave
some such record upon the body
as a sign that it was not a common
murder but, from the point of
view of the four associates,
something in the nature of an
act of justice. Whimsical and
bizarre conceits of this kind
are common enough in the annals
of crime and usually afford valu-
able indications as to the criminal.
Do you follow all this?"
"Very
clearly."
"Now
what could
Jonathan Small
do? He could only continue to
keep a secret watch upon the
efforts made to find the treasure.
Possibly he leaves England and
only comes back at intervals.
Then comes the discovery of the
garret, and he is instantly informed
of it. We again trace the presence
of some confederate in the household.
Jonathan, with his wooden leg,
is utterly unable to reach the
lofty room of Bartholomew Sholto.
He takes with him, however, a
rather curious associate, who
gets over this difficulty but
dips his naked foot into creosote,
whence come Toby, and a six-mile
limp for a half-pay officer with
a damaged tendo Achillis."
"But
it was the
associate and
not Jonathan who committed the
crime."
"Quite
so. And rather
to Jonathan's
disgust, to judge by the way
he stamped about when he got
into the room. He bore no grudge
against Bartholomew Sholto and
would have preferred if he could
have been simply bound and gagged.
He did not wish to put his head
in a halter. There was no help
for it, however: the savage instincts
of his companion had broken out,
and the poison had done its work:
so Jonathan Small left his record,
lowered the treasure-box to the
ground, and followed it himself.
That was the train of events
as far as I can decipher them.
Of course, as to his personal
appearance, he must be middle-aged
and must be sun- burned after
serving his time in such an oven
as the Andamans. His height is
readily calculated from the length
of his stride, and we know that
he was bearded. His hairiness
was the one point which impressed
itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when
he saw him at the window. I don't
know that there is anything else."
"The
associate?"
"Ah,
well, there
is no great
mystery in that. But you will
know all about it soon enough.
How sweet the morning air is!
See how that one little cloud
floats like a pink feather from
some gigantic flamingo. Now the
red rim of the sun pushes itself
over the London cloud-bank. It
shines on a good many folk, but
on none, I dare bet, who are
on a stranger errand than you
and I. How small we feel with
our petty ambitions and strivings
in the presence of the great
elemental forces of Nature! Are
you well up in your Jean Paul?"
"Fairly
so. I worked
back to him
through Carlyle."
"That
was like following
the brook to
the parent
lake. He
makes one curious but profound
remark. It is that the chief
proof of man's real greatness
lies in his perception of his
own small- ness. It argues, you
see, a power of comparison and
of apprecia- tion which is in
itself a proof of nobility. There
is much food for thought in Richter.
You have not a pistol, have you?"
"I
have my stick."
"It
is just possible
that we may
need something
of the sort
if we get to their lair. Jonathan
I shall leave to you, but if
the other turns nasty I shall
shoot him dead."
He took out his revolver as
he spoke, and, having loaded
two of the chambers, he put it
back into the right-hand pocket
of his jacket.
We had during this time been
following the guidance of Toby
down the half-rural villa-lined
roads which lead to the metropolis.
Now, however, we were beginning
to come among continuous streets,
where labourers and dockmen were
already astir, and slatternly
women were taking down shutters
and brushing door- steps. At
the square-topped corner public-houses
business was just beginning,
and rough-looking men were emerging,
rubbing their sleeves across
their beards after their morning
wet. Strange dogs sauntered up
and stared wonderingly at us
as we passed, but our inimitable
Toby looked neither to the right
nor to the left but trotted onward
with his nose to the ground and
an occasional eager whine which
spoke of a hot scent.
We had traversed Streatham,
Brixton, Camberwell, and now
found ourselves in Kennington
Lane, having borne away through
the side streets to the east
of the Oval. The men whom we
pursued seemed to have taken
a curiously zigzag road, with
the idea probably of escaping
observation. They had never kept
to the main road if a parallel
side street would serve their
turn. At the foot of Kennington
Lane they had edged away to the
left through Bond Street and
Miles Street. Where the latter
street turns into Knight's Place,
Toby ceased to advance but began
to run backward and forward with
one ear cocked and the other
drooping, the very picture of
canine indecision. Then he waddled
round in circles, looking up
to us from time to time, as if
to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.
"What the deuce is the matter
with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They
surely would not take a cab or
go off in a balloon."
"Perhaps they stood here for
some time," I suggested.
"Ah! it's all right. He's off
again," said my companion in
a tone of relief.
He was indeed off, for after
sniffing round again he suddenly
made up his mind and darted away
with an energy and determi- nation
such as he had not yet shown.
The scent appeared to be much
hotter than before, for he had
not even to put his nose on the
ground but tugged at his leash
and tried to break into a run.
I could see by the gleam in Holmes's
eyes that he thought we were
nearing the end of our journey.
Our course now ran down Nine
Elms until we came to Broderick
and Nelson's large timber-yard
just past the White Eagle tavern.
Here the dog, frantic with excitement,
turned down through the side
gate into the enclosure, where
the sawyers were already at work.
On the dog raced through sawdust
and shavings, down an alley,
round a passage, between two
wood-piles, and finally, with
a triumphant yelp, sprang upon
a large barrel which still stood
upon the hand-trolley on which
it had been brought. With lolling
tongue and blinking eyes Toby
stood upon the cask, looking
from one to the other of us for
some sign of apprecia- tion.
The staves of the barrel and
the wheels of the trolley were
smeared with a dark liquid, and
the whole air was heavy with
the smell of creosote.
Sherlock Holmes and I looked
blankly at each other and then
burst simultaneously into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter. |