                                      1911
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES
                    THE DISAPPEARANCE OF LADY FRANCES CARFAX
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  "But why Turkish?" asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at my
boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment, and my
protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.
  "English," I answered in some surprise. "I got them at Latimer's, in
Oxford Street."
  Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.
  "The bath!" he said; "the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive
Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?"
  "Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and
old. A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine- a fresh
starting-point, a cleanser of the system.
  "By the way, Holmes," I added, "I have no doubt the connection
between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one to
a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you would
indicate it."
  "The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson," said Holmes
with a mischievous twinkle. "It belongs to the same elementary class
of deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you who shared
your cab in your drive this morning."
  "I don't admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation," said
I with some asperity.
  "Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let me
see, what were the points? Take the last one first- the cab. You
observe that you have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder of
your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you would probably
have had no splashes, and if you had they would certainly have been
symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that you sat at the side. Therefore
it is equally clear that you had a companion."
  "That is very evident."
  "Absurdly commonplace, is it not?"
  "But the boots and the bath?"
  "Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots in
a certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an
elaborate double bow, which is not your usual method of tying them.
You have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A bootmaker-
or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker, since
your boots are nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd, is it
not? But, for all that, the Turkish bath has served a purpose."
  "What is that?"
  "You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me
suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear Watson-
first-class tickets and all expenses paid on a princely scale?"
  "Splendid! But why?"
  Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his
pocket.
  "One of the most dangerous classes in the world," said he, "is the
drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and often
the most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable inciter of crime
in others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She has sufficient means
to take her from country to country and from hotel to hotel. She is
lost, as often as not, in a maze of obscure pensions and
boarding-houses. She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When
she is gobbled up she is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil has
come to the Lady Frances Carfax."
  I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
particular. Holmes consulted his notes.
  "Lady Frances," he continued, "is the sole survivor of the direct
family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may
remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but
with some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and
curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly attached- too attached,
for she refused to leave them with her banker and always carried
them about with her. A rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a
beautiful woman, still in fresh middle age, and yet, by a strange
chance, the last derelict of what only twenty years ago was a goodly
fleet."
  "What has happened to her, then?"
  "Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead?
There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and for four
years it has been her invariable custom to write every second week
to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long retired and lives in
Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted me. Nearly five
weeks have passed without a word. The last letter was from the Hotel
National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there and
given no address. The family are anxious, and as they are
exceedingly wealthy no sum will be spared if we can clear the matter
up."
  "Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had other
correspondents?"
  "There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is
the bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are
compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have glanced over
her account. The last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne, but
it was a large one and probably left her with cash in hand. Only one
check has been drawn since."
  "To whom, and where?"
  "To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check
was drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais at Montpellier less
than three weeks ago. The sum was fifty Pounds."
  "And who is Miss Marie Devine?"
  "That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was the
maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her this check
we have not yet determined. I have no doubt, however, that your
researches will soon clear the matter up."
  "My researches!"
  "Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I
cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal
terror of his life. Besides, on general principles it is best that I
should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely without me,
and it causes an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes.
Go, then, my dear Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever be
valued at so extravagant a rate as two pence a word, it waits your
disposal night and day at the end of the Continental wire."
  Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne, where I
received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-known
manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there for several
weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her. Her age was not
more than forty. She was still handsome and bore every sign of
having in her youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of
any valuable jewellery, but it had been remarked by the servants
that the heavy trunk in the lady's bedroom was always scrupulously
locked. Marie Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress. She
was actually engaged to one of the head waiters in the hotel, and
there was no difficulty in getting her address. It was 11 Rue de
Trajan, Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes
himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.
  Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's sudden departure.
She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason to believe that
she intended to remain for the season in her luxurious rooms
overlooking the lake. And yet she had left at a single day's notice,
which involved her in the useless payment of a week's rent. Only Jules
Vibart, the lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer. He
connected the sudden departure with the visit to the hotel a day or
two before of a tall, dark, bearded man. 'Un savage- un veritable
savage!' cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the
town. He had been seen talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by
the lake. Then he had called. She had refused to see him. He was
English, but of his name there was no record. Madame had left the
place immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of more
importance, Jules Vibart's sweetheart, thought that this call and this
departure were cause and effect. Only one thing Jules would not
discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left her mistress. Of
that he could or would say nothing. If I wished to know, I must go
to Montpellier and ask her.
  So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted
to the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left
Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which confirmed
the idea that she had gone with the intention of throwing someone
off her track. Otherwise why should not her luggage have been openly
labelled for Baden? Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some
circuitous route. This much I gathered from the manager of Cook's
local office. So to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes an
account of all my proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of
half-humorous commendation.
  At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had
stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she had made
the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a missionary
from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her
comfort and occupation in religion. Dr. Shlessinger's remarkable
personality, his whole-hearted devotion, and the fact that he was
recovering from a disease contracted in the exercise of his
apostolic duties affected her deeply. She had helped Mrs.
Shlessinger in the nursing of the convalescent saint. He spent his
day, as the manager described it to me, upon a lounge-chair on the
veranda, with an attendant lady upon either side of him. He was
preparing a map of the Holy Land, with special reference to the
kingdom of the Midianites, upon which he was writing a monograph.
Finally, having improved much in health, he and his wife had
returned to London, and Lady Frances had started thither in their
company. This was just three weeks before, and the manager had heard
nothing since. As to the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days
beforehand in floods of tears, after informing the other maids that
she was leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill
of the whole party before his departure.
  "By the way," said the landlord in conclusion, "you are not the only
friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now.
Only a week or so ago we had a man where upon the same errand."
  "Did he give a name?" I asked.
  "None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type."
  "A savage?" said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
illustrious friend.
  "Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a
farmers inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I
should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend."
  Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow
clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious lady
pursued from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting figure.
She feared him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne. He had still
followed. Sooner or later he would overtake her. Had he already
overtaken her? Was that the secret of her continued silence? Could the
good people who were her companions not screen her from his violence
or his blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay
behind this long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.
  To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down to
the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for a
description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's ideas of humour
are strange and occasionally, offensive, so I took no notice of his
ill-timed jest- indeed, I had already reached Montpellier in my
pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message came.
  I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all
that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only
left her mistress because she was sure that she was in good hands, and
because her own approaching marriage made a separation inevitable in
any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed with distress, shown some
irritability of temper towards her during their stay in Baden, and had
even questioned her once as if she had suspicions of her honesty,
and this had made the parting easier than it would otherwise have
been. Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present.
Like me, Marie viewed with deep distrust the stranger who had driven
her mistress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize
the lady's wrist with great violence on the public promenade by the
lake, He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it was out
of dread of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the
Shlessingers to London. She had never spoken to Marie about it, but
many little signs had convinced the maid that her mistress lived in
a state of continual nervous apprehension. So far she had got in her
narrative, when suddenly she sprang from her chair and her face was
convulsed with surprise and fear. "See!" she cried. "The miscreant
follows still! There is the very man of whom I speak."
  Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man
with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the
street and staring eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It was
clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid. Acting
upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and accosted him.
  "You are an Englishman," I said.
  "What if I am?" he asked with a most villainous scowl.
  "May I ask what your name is?"
  "No, you may not," said he with decision.
  The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the
best.
  "Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?" I asked.
  He stared at me in amazement.
  "What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist
upon an answer!" said I.
  The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I
have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of iron
and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my senses
were nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a blue blouse
darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in his hand, and
struck my assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him
leave go his hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and
uncertain whether he should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl
of anger, he left me and entered the cottage from which I had just
come. I turned to thank my preserver, who stood beside me in the
roadway.
  "Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made of it!
I rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night
express."
  An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style,
was seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of his
sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding
that he could get away from London, he determined to head me off at
the next obvious point of my travels. In the disguise of a
workingman he had sat in the cabaret waiting for my appearance.
  "And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear
Watson," said he. "I cannot at the moment recall any possible
blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding
has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing."
  "Perhaps you would have done no better," I answered bitterly.
  "There is no 'perhaps' about it. I have done better. Here is the
Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel,
and we may find him the starting-point for a more successful
investigation."
  A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same
bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started when
he saw me.
  "What is this, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "I had your note and I have
come. But what has this man to do with the matter?"
  This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us
in this affair."
  The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of
apology.
  "I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost
my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not responsible in these days. My
nerves are like live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I
want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world you
came to hear of my existence at all."
  "I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's governess."
  "Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well."
  "And she remembers you. It was in the days before- before you
found it better to go to South Africa."
  "Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you.
I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this world a man
who loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for
Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know- not worse than others of my
class. But her mind was pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of
coarseness. So, when she came to hear of things that I had done, she
would have no more to say to me. And yet she loved me- that is the
wonder of it!- loved me well enough to remain single all her sainted
days just for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I had
made my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out
and soften her. I had heard that she was still unmarried. I found
her at Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her
will was strong, and when next I called she had left the town. I
traced her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was
here. I'm a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson
spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But for
God's sake tell me what has become of the Lady Frances."
  "That is for us to find out," said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar
gravity. "What is your London address, Mr. Green?"
  "The Langham Hotel will find me."
  "Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I
should want you? I have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you
may rest assured that all that can be done will be done for the safety
of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I will leave you
this card so that you may be able to keep in touch with us. Now,
Watson, if you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to
make one of her best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7:30
to-morrow."

  A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street rooms,
which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw across
to me. "Jagged or torn," was the message, and the place of origin,
Baden.
  "What is this?" I asked.
  "It is everything," Holmes answered. "You may remember my
seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman's left
ear. You did not answer it."
  "I had left Baden and could not inquire."
  "Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the
Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here."
  "What does it show?"
  "It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally
astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from
South America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most
unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved- and for a
young country it has turned out some very finished types. His
particular specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon
their religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman
named Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics
suggested his identity to me, and this physical peculiarity- he was
badly bitten in a saloon-fight at Adelaide in '89- confirmed my
suspicion. This poor lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple,
who will stick at nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is a
very likely supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of
confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends.
It is always possible that she never reached London, or that she has
passed through it, but the former is improbable, as, with their system
of registration, it is not easy for foreigners to play tricks with the
Continental police; and the latter is also unlikely, as these rogues
could not hope to find any other place where it would be as easy to
keep a person under restraint. All my instincts tell me that she is in
London, but as we have at present no possible means of telling
where, we can only take the obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess
our souls in patience. Later in the evening I will stroll down and
have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard."
  But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but very
efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid the
crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were as
completely obliterated as if they had never lived. Advertisements were
tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing. Every
criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain.
His old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him. And
then suddenly, after a week of helplessness suspense there came a
flash of light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design
had been pawned at Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The pawner was
a large, clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address
were demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the
description was surely that of Shlessinger.
  Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for news-
the third time within an hour of this fresh development. His clothes
were getting looser on his great body. He seemed to be wilting away in
his anxiety. "If you will only give me something to do!" was his
constant wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.
  "He has begun, to pawn the jewels. We should get him now."
  "But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?"
  Holmes shook his head very gravely.
  "Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear
that they cannot let her loose without their own destruction. We
must prepare for the worst."
  "What can I do?"
  "These people do not know you by sight?"
  "No."
  "It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the
future. In that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he has
had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of
ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's. I will give you
a note to them, and they will let you wait in the shop. If the
fellow comes you will follow him home. But no indiscretion, and, above
all, no violence. I put you on your honour that you will take no
step without my knowledge and consent."
  For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the son
of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet
in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third he
rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with every muscle of
his powerful frame quivering with excitement.
  "We have him! We have him!" he cried.
  He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few
words and thrust him into an armchair.
  "Come, now, give us the order of events," said he.
  "She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the
pendant she brought was the fellow of the other, She is a tall, pale
woman, with ferret eyes."
  "That is the lady," said Holmes.
  "She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the
Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into a
shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker's."
  My companion started. "Well?" he asked in that vibrant voice which
told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.
  "She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well.
'It is late,' I heard her say, or words to that effect. The woman
was excusing herself. 'It should be there before now,' she answered.
'It took longer, being out of the ordinary.' They both stopped and
looked at me, so I asked some question and then left the shop."
  "You did excellently well. What happened next?"
  "The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her
suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her. Then
she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get another and
so to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square,
Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the corner of the square, and
watched the house."
  "Did you see anyone?"
  "The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The
blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing there,
wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with
two men in it. They descended, took something out of the van, and
carried it up the steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a
coffin."
  "Ah!"
  "For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had
been opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman who
had opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and
I think that she recognized me. I saw her start, and she hastily
closed the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I am."
  "You have done excellent work," said Holmes scribbling a few words
upon a half-sheet of paper. "We can do nothing legal without a
warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down
to the authorities and getting one. There may be some difficulty,
but I should think that the sale of the jewellery should be
sufficient. Lestrade will see to all details."
  "But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin
mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"
  "We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be
lost. Leave it in our hands. Now, Watson," he added as our client
hurried away, "he will set the regular forces on the move. We are,
as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The
situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures
are justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney
Square.
  "Let us try to reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove
swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge.
"These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first
alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any
letters they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have
engaged a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a
prisoner, and they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery
which has been their object from the first. Already they have begun to
sell part of it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have no
reason to think that anyone is interested in the lady's fate. When she
is released she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must
not be released. But they cannot keep her under lock and key
forever. So murder is their only solution."
  "That seems very clear."
  "Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start now,
not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That
incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It
points also to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical
certificate and official sanction. Had the lady been obviously
murdered, they would have buried her in a hole in the back garden. But
here all is open and regular. What does that mean? Surely that they
have done her to death in some way which has deceived the doctor and
simulated a natural end- poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange
that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a
confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition."
  "Could they have forged a medical certificate?"
  "Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing
that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker's, for we
have just passed the pawnbroker's. Would you go in, Watson? Your
appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square
funeral takes place to-morrow."
  The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was
to be at eight o'clock in the morning. "You see, Watson, no mystery;
everything aboveboard! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly
been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear.
Well, there's nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are
you armed?"
  "My stick!"
  "Well, well, we shall be strong enough. 'Thrice is he armed who hath
his quarrel just.' We simply can't afford to wait for the police or to
keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby.
Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck together, as we have
occasionally done in the past."
  He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre
of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a
tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.
  "Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply, peering at us through
the darkness.
  "I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.
  "There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to close the
door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.
  "Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call
himself," said Holmes firmly.
  She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. "Well, come in!" said
she. "My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world." She
closed the door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the
right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. "Mr. Peters
will be with you in an instant," she said.
  Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around
the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves
before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped
lightly into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous cheeks,
and a general air of superficial benevolence which was marred by a
cruel, vicious mouth.
  "There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in an
unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy that you have been
misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street-"
  "That will do; we have no time to waste," said my companion
firmly. "You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr.
Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as
that my own name is Sherlock Holmes."
  Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
formidable pursuer. "I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man's conscience is easy you can't
rattle him. What is your business in my house?"
  "I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax,
whom you brought away with you from Baden."
  "I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,"
Peters answered coolly. "I've a bill against her for nearly a
hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery
pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She attached herself to
Mrs. Peters and me at Baden- it is a fact that I was using another
name at the time- and she stuck on to us until we came to London. I
paid her bill and her ticket. Once in London, she gave us the slip,
and, as I say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You
find her, Mr. Holmes, and I'm your debtor."
  "I mean to find her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm going through
this house till I do find her."
  "Where is your warrant?"
  Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. "This will have to
serve till a better one comes."
  "Why, you are a common burglar."
  "So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My companion is
also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your
house."
  Our opponent opened the door.
  "Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of feminine
skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.
  "Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to stop
us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin
which was brought into your house?"
  "What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body
in it."
  "I must see that body."
  "Never with my consent."
  "Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to
one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood
immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the
table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes
turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of the
coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat
down upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of
cruelty, starvation, or disease could this wornout wreck be the
still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes's face showed his amazement and
also his relief.
  "Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."
  "Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
Peters, who had followed us into the room.
  "Who is this dead woman?"
  "Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's,
Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse
Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13
Firbank Villas- mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes- and had her
carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she died-
certificate says senile decay- but that's only the doctor's opinion,
and of course you know better. We ordered her funeral to be carried
out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at
eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr.
Holmes? You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it.
I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face
when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances
Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety."
  Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of
his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.
  "I am going through your house," said he.
  "Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's voice and heavy steps
sounded in the passage. "We'll soon see about that. This way,
officers, if you please. These men have forced their way into my
house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out."
  A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his
card from his case.
  "This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."
  "Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said the sergeant, "but you
can't stay here without a warrant."
  "Of course not. I quite understand that."
  "Arrest him!" cried Peters.
  "We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is
wanted," said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll have to go, Mr.
Holmes."
  "Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."
  A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes as cool as
ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The sergeant had
followed us.
  "Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."
  "Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."
  "I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If there is
anything I can do-"
  "It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and I think she is in that house.
I expect a warrant presently."
  "Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything comes
along, I will surely let you know."
  It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at
once. First we drove to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary, where we found
that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called
some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a
former servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away
with them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since
died.
  The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found the
woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away, and had
signed the certificate in due form. "I assure you that everything
was perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the
matter," said he. Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious
save that for people of their class it was remarkable that they should
have no servant. So far and no farther went the doctor.
  Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been
difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay was
inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be obtained until
next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go down with
Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save that near
midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that he had seen
flickering lights here and there in the windows of the great dark
house, but that no one had left it and none had entered. We could
but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.
  Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too
restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark
brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping upon the
arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible
solution of the mystery. Several times in the course of the night I
heard him prowling about the house. Finally, just after I had been
called in the morning, he rushed into my room. He was in his
dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face told me that his night
had been a sleepless one.
  "What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?" he asked eagerly.
"Well, it is 7:30 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any
brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It's life or death- a
hundred chances on death to one on life. I'll never forgive myself,
never, if we are too late!"
  Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down
Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we passed Big
Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But others
were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour the hearse was
still standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming horse
came to a halt the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the
threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their way.
  "Take it back!" he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
foremost. "Take it back this instant!"
  "What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your
warrant?" shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring over
the farther end of the coffin.
  "The warrant is on its way. This coffin shall remain in the house
until it comes."
  The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bearers.
Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed these new
orders. "Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!" he shouted
as the coffin was replaced upon the table. "Here's one for you, my
man! A sovereign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask no questions-
work away! That's good! Another! And another! Now pull all together!
It's giving! It's giving! Ah, that does it at last."
  With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so
there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of
chloroform. A body lay within, its head ill wreathed in cotton-wool,
which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it off and
disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual woman of
middle age. In an instant he had passed his arm round the figure and
raised her to a sitting position.
  "Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not too
late!"
  For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual
suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform,
the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall. And
then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected ether,
with every device that science could suggest, some flutter of life,
some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the
slowly returning life. A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the
blind, looked out at it. "Here is Lestrade with his warrant," said he.
"He will find that his birds have flown. And here," he added as a
heavy step hurried along the passage, "is someone who has a better
right to nurse this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I
think that the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better.
Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still
lies in that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."

  "Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,"
said Holmes that evening, "it can only be as an example of that
temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be exposed.
Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he who can
recognize and repair them. To this modified credit I may, perhaps,
make some claim. My night was haunted by the thought that somewhere
a clue, a strange sentence, a curious observation, had come under my
notice and had been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the
gray of the morning, the words came back to me. It was the remark of
the undertaker's wife, as reported by Philip Green. She had said,
'It should be there before now. It took longer, being out of the
ordinary.' It was the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out of
the ordinary. That could only mean that it had been made to some
special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered the
deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so large a
coffin for so small a body? To leave room for another body. Both would
be buried under the one certificate. It had all been so clear, if only
my own sight had not been dimmed. At eight the Lady Frances would be
buried. Our one chance was to stop the coffin before it left the
house.
  "It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it
was a chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to my
knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at
the last. They could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and
even if she were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that
such considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the
scene well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor
lady had been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with
their chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to
insure against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever
device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our
ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall
expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future career."


                        -THE END-
