
                       THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
                      The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
      I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second
      morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the
      compliments of the season.  He was lounging upon the sofa in a
      purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right,
      and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied,
      near at hand.  Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the
      angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt
      hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places.  A
      lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that
      the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of
      examination.

          "You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

          "Not at all.  I am glad to have a friend with whom I can
      discuss my results.  The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he
      jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat--"but there are
      points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of
      interest and even of instruction."

          I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
      crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
      thick with the ice crystals.  "I suppose," I remarked, "that,
      homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to
      it--that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of
      some mystery and the punishment of some crime."

          "No, no.  No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing.  "Only
      one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you
      have four million human beings all jostling each other within the
      space of a few square miles.  Amid the action and reaction of so
      dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events
      may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be
      presented which may be striking and bizarre without being
      criminal.  We have already had experience of such."

          "So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I
      have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal
      crime."

          "Precisely.  You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene
      Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to
      the adventure of the man with the twisted lip.  Well, I have no
      doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent
      category.  You know Peterson, the commissionaire?"

          "Yes."

          "It is to him that this trophy belongs."

          "It is his hat."

          "No, no; he found it.  Its owner is unknown.  I beg that you
      will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an
      intellectual problem.  And, first, as to how it came here.  It
      arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose,
      which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of
      Peterson's fire.  The facts are these: about four o'clock on
      Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest
      fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making
      his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road.  In front of him he
      saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight
      stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder.  As
      he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between
      this stranger and a little knot of roughs.  One of the latter
      knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend
      himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
      behind him.  Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger
      from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the
      window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing
      towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished
      amid the labyrinth of small sheets which lie at the back of
      Tottenham Court Road.  The roughs had also fled at the appearance
      of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of
      battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this
      battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose."

          "Which surely he restored to their owner?"

          "My dear fellow, there lies the problem.  It is true that `For
      Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to
      the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials `H. B.'
      are legible upon the lining of this hat; but as there are some
      thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this
      city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one
      of them."

          "What, then, did Peterson do?"

          "He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas
      morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest
      to me.  The goose we retained until this morning, when there were
      signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it
      should be eaten without unnecessary delay.  Its finder has carried
      it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose,
      while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who
      lost his Christmas dinner."

          "Did he not advertise?"

          "No."

          "Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

          "Only as much as we can deduce."

          "From his hat?"

          "Precisely."

          "But you are joking.  What can you gather from this old
      battered felt?"

          "Here is my lens.  You know my methods.  What can you gather
      yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this
      article?"

          I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over
      rather ruefully.  It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual
      round shape, hard and much the worse for wear.  The lining had
      been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured.  There was no
      maker's name; but, as Holmes had remarkcd, the initials "H. B."
      were scrawled upon one side.  It was pierced in the brim for a
      hat-securer, but the elastic was missing.  For the rest, it was
      cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places,
      although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
      discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

          "I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

          "On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything.  You fail,
      however, to reason from what you see.  You are too timid in
      drawing your inferences."

          "Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this
      hat?"

          He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective
      fashion which was characteristic of him.  "It is perhaps less
      suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there
      are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others
      which represent at least a strong balance of probability.  That
      the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face
      of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last
      three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days.  He had
      foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral
      retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes,
      seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work
      upon him.  This may account also for the obvious fact that his
      wife has ceased to love him."

          "My dear Holmes!"

          "He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
      continued, disregarding my remonstrance.  "He is a man who leads a
      sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
      middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the
      last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream.  These are
      the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat.  Also,
      by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid
      on in his house."

          "You are certainly joking, Holmes."

          "Not in the least.  Is it possible that even now, when I give
      you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

          "I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess
      that I am unable to follow you.  For example, how did you deduce
      that this man was intellectual?"

          For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head.  It came
      right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose.
      "It is a question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so
      large a brain must have something in it."

          "The decline of his fortunes, then?"

          "This hat is three years old.  These flat brims curled at the
      edge came in then.  It is a hat of the very best quality.  Look at
      the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining.  If this man
      could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has
      had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

          "Well, that is clear enough, certainly.  But how about the
      foresight and the moral retrogression?"

          Sherlock Holmes laughed.  "Here is the foresight," said he,
      putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the
      hat-securer.  "They are never sold upon hats.  If this man ordered
      one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went
      out of his way to take this precaution against the wind.  But
      since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled
      to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than
      formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature.  On the
      other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains
      upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he
      has not entirely lost his self-respect."

          "Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

          "The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
      grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses
      lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the
      lower part of the lining.  The lens discloses a large number of
      hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber.  They all
      appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of
      lime-cream.  This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, gray
      dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing
      that it has been hung up indoors most of the time; while the marks
      of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer
      perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best
      of training."

          "But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

          "This hat has not been brushed for weeks.  When I see you, my
      dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and
      when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear
      that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's
      affection."

          "But he might be a bachelor."

          "Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to
      his wife.  Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

          "You have an answer to everything.  But how on earth do you
      deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

          "One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when
      I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt
      that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with
      burning tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in
      one hand and a guttering candle in the other.  Anyhow, he never
      got tallow-stains from a gas-jet.  Are you satisfied?"

          "Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as
      you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm
      done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste
      of energy."

          Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door
      flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the
      apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed
      with astonishment.

          "The goose, Mr. Holmes!  The goose, sir!" he gasped.

          "Eh?  What of it, then?  Has it returned to life and flapped
      off through the kitchen window?"  Holmes twisted himself round
      upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

          "See here, sir!  See what my wife found in its crop!"  He held
      out his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a
      brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean
      in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an
      electric point in the dark hollow of his hand.

          Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle.  "By Jove, Peterson!"
      said he, "this is treasure trove indeed.  I suppose you know what
      you have got?"

          "A diamond, sir?  A precious stone.  It cuts into glass as
      though it were putty."

          "It's more than a precious stone.  It is the precious stone."

          "Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

          "Precisely so.  I ought to know its size and shape, seeing
      that I have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day
      lately.  It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be
      conjectured, but the reward offered of 1000 pounds is certainly not
      within a twentieth part of the market price."

          "A thousand pounds!  Great Lord of mercy!"  The commissionaire
      plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

          "That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
      sentimental considerations in the background which would induce
      the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but
      recover the gem."

          "It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel
      Cosmopolitan," I remarked.

          "Precisely so, on December 22d, just five days ago.  John
      Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the
      lady's jewel-case.  The evidence against him was so strong that
      the case has been referred to the Assizes.  I have some account of
      the matter here, I believe."  He rummaged amid his newspapers,
      glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out,
      doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:

              "Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery.  John Horner, 26,
          plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22d
          inst., abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of
          Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle.  James
          Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the
          effect that he had shown Homer up to the dressing-room of the
          Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that
          he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose.
          He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally
          been called away.  On returning, he found that Horner had
          disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that
          the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards
          transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was
          lying empty upon the dressing-table.  Ryder instantly gave the
          alarm, and Homer was arrested the same evening; but the stone
          could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms.
          Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having
          heard Ryder's cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to
          having rushed into the room, where she found matters as
          described by the last witness.  Inspector Bradstreet, B
          division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Homer, who
          struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the
          strongest terms.  Evidence of a previous conviction for
          robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate
          refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to
          the Assizes.  Homer, who had shown signs of intense emotion
          during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was
          carried out of court.

          "Hum!  So much for the police-court," said Holmes
      thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper.  "The question for us now
      to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled
      jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court
      Road at the other.  You see, Watson, our little deductions have
      suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect.
      Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose
      came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all
      the other characteristics with which I have bored you.  So now we
      must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and
      ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery.  To
      do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie
      undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers.  If
      this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods."

          "What will you say?"

          "Give me a pencil and that slip of paper.  Now, then:

              "Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black
          felt hat.  Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at
          6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.

          That is clear and concise."

          "Very.  But will he see it?"

          "Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a
      poor man, the loss was a heavy one.  He was clearly so scared by
      his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of
      Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he
      must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop
      his bird.  Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause
      him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his
      attention to it.  Here you are, Peterson, run down to the
      advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers."

          "In which, sir?"

          "Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News
      Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

          "Very well, sir.  And this stone?"

          "Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone.  Thank you.  And, I say,
      Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with
      me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the
      one which your family is now devouring."

          When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and
      held it against the light.  "It's a bonny thing," said he.  "Just
      see how it glints and sparkles.  Of course it is a nucleus and
      focus of crime.  Every good stone is.  They are the devil's pet
      baits.  In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a
      bloody deed.  This stone is not yet twenty years old.  It was
      found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is
      remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save
      that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red.  In spite of its
      youth, it has already a sinister history.  There have been two
      murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies
      brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of
      crystallized charcoal.  Who would think that so pretty a toy would
      be a purueyor to the gallows and the prison?  I'll lock it up in
      my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we
      have it."

          "Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

          "I cannot tell."

          "Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker,
      had anything to do with the matter?"

          "It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an
      absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he
      was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made
      of solid gold.  That, however, I shall determine by a very simple
      test if we have an answer to our advertisement."

          "And you can do nothing until then?"

          "Nothing."

          "In that case I shall continue my professional round.  But I
      shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for
      I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

          "Very glad to see you.  I dine at seven.  There is a woodcock,
      I believe.  By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I
      ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

          I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after
      half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more.  As I
      approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a
      coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the
      bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight.  Just as I
      arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to
      Holmes's room.

          "Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his
      armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality
      which he could so readily assume.  "Pray take this chair by the
      fire, Mr. Baker.  It is a cold night, and I observe that your
      circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter.  Ah,
      Watson, you have just come at the right time.  Is that your hat,
      Mr. Baker?"

          "Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

          He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and
      a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of
      grizzled brown.  A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight
      tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes's surmise as to his
      habits.  His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in
      front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded
      from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt.  He spoke in a
      slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the
      impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had
      ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

          "We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes,
      "because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your
      address.  I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

          Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh.  "Shillings have
      not been so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked.  "I
      had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried
      off both my hat and the bird.  I did not care to spend more money
      in a hopeless attempt at recovering them."

          "Very naturally.  By the way, about the bird, we were
      compelled to eat it."

          "To eat it!"  Our visitor half rose from his chair in his
      excitement.

          "Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done
      so.  But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which
      is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your
      purpose equally well?"

          "Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of
      relief.

          "Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on
      of your own bird, so if you wish--"

          The man burst into a hearty laugh.  "They might be useful to
      me as relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can
      hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance
      are going to be to me.  No, sir, I think that, with your
      permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird
      which I perceive upon the sideboard."

          Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight
      shrug of his shoulders.

          "There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he.  "By
      the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one
      from?  I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a
      better grown goose."

          "Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his
      newly gained property under his arm.  "There are a few of us who
      frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in the
      Museum itself during the day, you understand.  This year our good
      host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on
      consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to
      receive a bird at Christmas.  My pence were duly paid, and the
      rest is familiar to you.  I am much indebted to you, sir, for a
      Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity."  With
      a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and
      strode off upon his way.

          "So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed
      the door behind him.  "It is quite certain that he knows nothing
      whatever about the matter.  Are you hungry, Watson?"

          "Not particularly."

          "Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and
      follow up this clue while it is still hot."

          "By all means."

          It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped
      cravats about our throats.  Outside, the stars were shining coldly
      in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into
      smoke like so many pistol shots.  Our footfalls rang out crisply
      and loudly as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole
      Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford
      Street.  In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the
      Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of
      the streets which runs down into Holborn.  Holmes pushed open the
      door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the
      ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

          "Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your
      geese," said he.

          "My geese!"  The man seemed surprised.

          "Yes.  I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry
      Baker, who was a member of your goose club."

          "Ah! yes, I see.  But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

          "Indeed!  Whose, then?"

          "Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

          "Indeed?  I know some of them.  Which was it?"

          "Breckinridge is his name."

          "Ah!  I don't know him.  Well, here's your good health,
      landlord, and prosperity to your house.  Good-night."

          "Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his
      coat as we came out into the frosty air.  "Remember, Watson, that
      though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this
      chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven
      years' penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence.  It
      is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in
      any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by
      the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands.
      Let us follow it out to the bitter end.  Faces to the south, then,
      and quick march!"

          We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a
      zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market.  One of the largest
      stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor,
      a horsy-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers, was
      helping a boy to put up the shutters.

          "Good-evening.  It's a cold night"' said Holmes.

          The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my
      companion.

          "Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the
      bare slabs of marble.

          "Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

          "Thats no good."

          "Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

          "Ah, but I was recommended to you."

          "Who by?"

          "The landlord of the Alpha."

          "Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

          "Fine birds they were, too.  Now where did you get them from?"

          To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
      salesman.

          "Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his
      arms akimbo, "what are you driving at?  Let's have it straight,
      now."

          "It is straight enough.  I should like to know who sold you
      the geese which you supplied to the Alpha."

          "Well, then, I shan't tell you.  So now!"

          "Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you
      should be so warm over such a trifle."

          "Warm!  You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I
      am.  When I pay good money for a good article there should be an
      end of the business; but it's `Where are the geese?' and `Who did
      you sell the geese to?' and `What will you take for the geese?'
      One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the
      fuss that is made over them."

          "Well,  I have no connection with any other people who have
      been making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly.  "If you won't
      tell us the bet is off, that is all.  But I'm always ready to back
      my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the
      bird I ate is country bred."

          "Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred,"
      snapped the salesman.

          "It's nothing of the kind."

          "I say it is."

          "I don't believe it."

          "D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have
      handled them ever since I was a nipper?  I tell you, all those
      birds that went to the Alpha were town bred."

          "You'll never persuade me to believe that."

          "Will you bet, then?"

          "It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right.
      But I'll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be
      obstinate."

          The salesman chuckled grimly.  "Bring me the books, Bill,"
      said he.

          The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
      greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging
      lamp.

          "Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I
      was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is
      still one left in my shop.  You see this little book?"

          "Well?"

          "That's the list of the folk from whom I buy.  D'you see?
      Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the
      numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big
      ledger.  Now, then!  You see this other page in red ink?  Well,
      that is a list of my town suppliers.  Now, look at that third
      name.  Just read it out to me."

          "Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

          "Quite so.  Now turn that up in the ledger."

          Holmes turned to the page indicated.  "Here you are, `Mrs.
      Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

          "Now, then, what's the last entry?"

          "`December 22d.  Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

          "Quite so.  There you are.  And underneath?"

          "`Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

          "What have you to say now?"

          Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined.  He drew a sovereign
      from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with
      the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words.  A few yards
      off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty,
      noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.

          "When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the `Pink
      'un' protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a
      bet," said he.  "I daresay that if I had put 100 pounds down in front of
      him, that man would not have given me such complete information as
      was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager.
      Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and
      the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should
      go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should
      reserve it for to-morrow.  It is clear from what that surly fellow
      said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about
      the matter, and I should--"

          His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which
      broke out from the stall which we had just left.  Turning round we
      saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle
      of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while
      Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was
      shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.

          "I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted.  "I wish
      you were all at the devil together.  If you come pestering me any
      more with your silly talk I'll set the dog at you.  You bring Mrs.
      Oakshott here and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with
      it?  Did I buy the geese off you?"

          "No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little
      man.

          "Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

          "She told me to ask you."

          "Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care.  I've
      had enough of it.  Get out of this!"  He rushed fiercely forward,
      and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

          "Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered
      Holmes.  "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this
      fellow."  Striding through the scattered knots of people who
      lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook
      the little man and touched him upon the shoulder.  He sprang
      round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of
      colour had been driven from his face.

          "Who are you, then?  What do you want?" he asked in a
      quavering voice.

          "You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not
      help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just
      now.  I think that I could be of assistance to you."

          "You?  Who are you?  How could you know anything of the
      matter?"

          "My name is Sherlock Holmes.  It is my business to know what
      other people don't know."

          "But you can know nothing of this?"

          "Excuse me, I know everything of it.  You are endeavouring to
      trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton
      Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr.
      Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr.
      Henry Baker is a member."

          "Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,"
      cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering
      fingers.  "I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this
      matter."

          Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing.  "In
      that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in
      this wind-swept market-place," said he.  "But pray tell me, before
      we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

          The man hesitated for an instant.  "My name is John Robinson,"
      he answered with a sidelong glance.

          "No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly.  "It is always
      awkward doing business with an alias."

          A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger.  "Well,
      then," said he, "my real name is James Ryder."

          "Precisely so.  Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan.
      Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you
      everything which you would wish to know."

          The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
      half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether
      he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe.  Then he
      stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the
      sitting-room at Baker Street.  Nothing had been said during our
      drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the
      claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous
      tension within him.

          "Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room.
      "The fire looks very seasonable in this weather.  You look cold,
      Mr. Ryder.  Pray take the basket-chair.  I will just put on my
      slippers before we settle this little matter of yours.  Now, then!
      You want to know what became of those geese?"

          "Yes, sir."

          "Or rather, I fancy, of that goose.  It was one bird, I
      imagine, in which you were interested--white, with a black bar
      across the tail."

          Ryder quivered with emotion.  "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you
      tell me where it went to?"

          "It came here."

          "Here?"

          "Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved.  I don't wonder
      that you should take an interest in it.  It laid an egg after it
      was dead--the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was
      seen.  I have it here in my museum."

          Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece
      with his right hand.  Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up
      the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold,
      brilliant, many-pointed radiance.  Ryder stood glaring with a
      drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

          "The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly.  "Hold up, man,
      or you'll be into the fire!  Give him an arm back into his chair,
      Watson.  He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with
      impunity.  Give him a dash of brandy.  So!  Now he looks a little
      more human.  What a shrimp it is, to be sure!"

          For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the
      brandy brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat
      staring with frightened eyes at his accuser.

          "I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs
      which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need
      tell me.  Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the
      case complete.  You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the
      Countess of Morcar's?"

          "It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a
      crackling voice.

          "I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid.  Well, the temptation of
      sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has
      been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous
      in the means you used.  It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the
      making of a very pretty villain in you.  You knew that this man
      Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter
      before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him.
      What did you do, then?  You made some small job in my lady's
      room--you and your confederate Cusack--and you managed that he
      should be the man sent for.  Then, when he had left, you rifled
      the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man
      arrested.  You then--"

          Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at
      my companion's knees.  "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked.
      "Think of my father!  of my mother!  It would break their hearts.
      I never went wrong before!  I never will again.  I swear it.  I'll
      swear it on a Bible.  Oh, don't bring it into court!  For Christ's
      sake, don't!"

          "Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly.  "It is very
      well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of
      this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew
      nothing."

          "I will fly, Mr. Holmes.  I will leave the country, sir.  Then
      the charge against him will break down."

          "Hum!  We will talk about that.  And now let us hear a true
      account of the next act.  How came the stone into the goose, and
      how came the goose into the open market?  Tell us the truth, for
      there lies your only hope of safety."

          Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips.  "I will tell
      you it just as it happened, sir," said he.  "When Horner had been
      arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away
      with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the
      police might not take it into their heads to search me and my
      room.  There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe.
      I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister's
      house.  She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton
      Road, where she fattened fowls for the market.  All the way there
      every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective;
      and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down
      my face before I came to the Brixton Road.  My sister asked me
      what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I
      had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel.  Then I went
      into the back yard and smoked a pipe, and wondered what it would
      be best to do.

          "I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and
      has just been serving his time in PentonvilIe.  One day he had met
      me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they
      could get rid of what they stole.  I knew that he would be true to
      me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind
      to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my
      confidence.  He would show me how to turn the stone into money.
      But how to get to him in safety?  I thought of the agonies I had
      gone through in coming from the hotel.  I might at any moment be
      seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat
      pocket.  I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at
      the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an
      idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best
      detective that ever lived.

          "My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the
      pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was
      always as good as her word.  I would take my goose now, and in it
      I would carry my stone to Kilburn.  There was a little shed in the
      yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big one,
      white, with a barred tail.  I caught it, and, prying its bill
      open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could
      reach.  The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its
      gullet and down into its crop.  But the creature flapped and
      struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter.  As
      I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off
      among the others.

          "`Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

          "`Well,' said I, `you said you'd give me one for Christmas,
      and I was feeling which was the fattest.'

          "`Oh,' says she, `we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird,
      we call it.  It's the big white one over yonder.  There's
      twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and
      two dozen for the market.'

          "`Thank you, Maggie,' says I; `but if it is all the same to
      you, I'd rather have that one I was handling just now.'

          "`The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, `and we
      fattened it expressly for you.'

          "`Never mind.  I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,'
      said I.

          "`Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed.  `Which is
      it you want, then?'

          "`That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of
      the flock.'

          `Oh, very well.  Kill it and take it with you.'

          "Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird
      all the way to Kilburn.  I told my pal what I had done, for he was
      a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to.  He laughed
      until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose.  My
      heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I
      knew that some terrible mistake had occurred.  I left the bird,
      rushed back to my sister's, and hurried into the back yard.  There
      was not a bird to be seen there.

          "`Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

          "`Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

          "`Which dealer's?'

          "`Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

          "`But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, `the
      same as the one I chose?'

          "`Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could
      never tell them apart.'

          "Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as
      my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold
      the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where
      they had gone.  You heard him yourselves to-night.  Well, he has
      always answered me like that.  My sister thinks that I am going
      mad.  Sometimes I think that I am myself.  And now--and now I am
      myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for
      which I sold my character.  God help me!  God help me!"  He burst
      into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.

          There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing,
      and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes's finger-tips upon
      the edge of the table.  Then my friend rose and threw open the
      door.

          "Get out!" said he.

          "What, sir!  Oh, Heaven bless you!"

          "No more words.  Get out!"

          And no more words were needed.  There was a rush, a clatter
      upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of
      running footfalls from the street.

          "After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his
      clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their
      deficiencies.  If Horner were in danger it would be another thing;
      but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must
      collapse.  I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just
      possible that I am saving a soul.  This fellow will not go wrong
      again; he is too terribly frightened.  Send him to jail now, and
      you make him a jail-bird for life.  Besides, it is the season of
      forgiveness.  Chance has put in our way a most singular and
      whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward.  If you
      will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin
      another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief
      feature."

