
                       THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
                             The Red-Headed League
      I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
      autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
      stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.  With
      an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes
      pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

          "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear
      Watson," he said cordially.

          "I was afraid that you were engaged."

          "So I am.  Very much so."

          "Then I can wait in the next room."

          "Not at all.  This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner
      and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no
      doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

          The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
      greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small,
      fat-encircled eyes.

          "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
      putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in
      judicial moods.  "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love
      of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum
      routine of everyday life.  You have shown your relish for it by
      the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you
      will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own
      little adventures."

          "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,"
      I observed.

          "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before
      we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary
      Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
      combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more
      daring than any effort of the imagination."

          "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

          "You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my
      view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you
      until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be
      right.  Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call
      upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to
      be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some
      time.  You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique
      things are very often connected not with the larger but with the
      smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for
      doubt whether any positive crime has been committed.  As far as I
      have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present case
      is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is
      certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
      Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to
      recommence your narrative.  I ask you not merely because my friend
      Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the
      peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every
      possible detail from your lips.  As a rule, when I have heard some
      slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide
      myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my
      memory.  In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
      facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

          The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of
      some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from
      the inside pocket of his greatcoat.  As he glanced down the
      advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper
      flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and
      endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
      indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

          I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection.  Our
      visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British
      tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow.  He wore rather baggy gray
      shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat,
      unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy
      Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as
      an ornament.  A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a
      wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him.  Altogether,
      look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save
      his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
      discontent upon his features.

          Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he
      shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
      "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual
      labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has
      been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of
      writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

          Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
      upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

          "How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
      Holmes?" he asked.  "How did you know, for example, that I did
      manual labour?  It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's
      carpenter."

          "Your hands, my dear sir.  Your right hand is quite a size
      larger than your left.  You have worked with it, and the muscles
      are more developed."

          "Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

          "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read
      that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your
      order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin."

          "Ah, of course, I forgot that.  But the writing?"

          "What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny
      for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
      elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"

          "Well, but China?"

          "The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right
      wrist could only have been done in China.  I have made a small
      study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature
      of the subject.  That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a
      delicate pink is quite peculiar to China.  When, in addition, I
      see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter
      becomes even more simple."

          Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily.  "Well, I never!" said he.
      "I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see
      that there was nothing in it, after all."

          "I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a
      mistake in explaining.  `Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know,
      and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer
      shipwreck if I am so candid.  Can you not find the advertisement,
      Mr. Wilson?"

          "Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red
      finger planted halfway down the column.  "Here it is.  This is
      what began it all.  You just read it for yourself, sir."

          I took the paper from him and read as follows:

          To THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE:

              On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of
          Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there is now another vacancy
          open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of 4 pound a
          week for purely nominal services.  All red-headed men who are
          sound in body and mind, and above the age of twenty-one years,
          are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to
          Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court,
          Fleet Street.

          "What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice
      read over the extraordinary announcement.

          Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit
      when in high spirits.  "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't
      it?" said he.  "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and
      tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which
      this advertisement had upon your fortunes.  You will first make a
      note, Doctor, of the paper and the date."

          "It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890.  Just two
      months ago."

          "Very good.  Now, Mr. Wilson?"

          "Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock
      Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small
      pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the City.  It's not a
      very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than
      just give me a living.  I used to be able to keep two assistants,
      but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but
      that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the
      business."

          "What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock
      Holmes.

          "His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth,
      either.  It's hard to say his age.  I should not wish a smarter
      assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better
      himself and earn twice what I am able to give him.  But, after
      all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

          "Why, indeed?  You seem most fortunate in having an employee
      who comes under the full market price.  It is not a common
      experience among employers in this age.  I don't know that your
      assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement."

          "Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson.  "Never was
      such a fellow for photography.  Snapping away with a camera when
      he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the
      cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures.  That
      is his main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker.  There's
      no vice in him."

          "He is still with you, I presume?"

          "Yes, sir.  He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of
      simple cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the
      house, for I am a widower and never had any family.  We live very
      quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads
      and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

          "The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.
      Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks,
      with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

          "`I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed
      man.'

          "`Why that?' I asks.

          "`Why,' says he, `here's another vacancy on the League of the
      Red-headed Men.  It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who
      gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there
      are men, so that the trustees are at their wits end what to do
      with the money.  If my hair would only change colour, here's a
      nice little crib all ready for me to step into.'

          "`Why, what is it, then?' I asked.  "You see, Mr. Holmes, I am
      a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of
      my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my
      foot over the door-mat.  In that way I didn't know much of what
      was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

          "`Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?'
      he asked with his eyes open.

          "`Never.'

          "`Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one
      of the vacancies.'

          "`And what are they worth?' I asked.

          "`Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is
      slight, and it need not interfere very much with one's other
      occupations.'

          "Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my
      ears, for the business has not been over-good for some years, and
      an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

          "`Tell me all about it,' said I."

          "`Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, `you can see
      for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the
      address where you should apply for particulars.  As far as I can
      make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire,
      Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways.  He was
      himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed
      men; so when he died it was found that he had left his enormous
      fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the
      interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of
      that colour.  From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little
      to do.'

          "`But,' said I, `there would be millions of red-headed men who
      would apply.'

          "`Not so many as you might think,' he answered.  `You see it
      is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men.  This American
      had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the
      old town a good turn.  Then, again, I have heard it is no use your
      applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but
      real bright, blazing, fiery red.  Now, if you cared to apply, Mr.
      Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be
      worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a
      few hundred pounds.'

          "Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,
      that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to
      me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood
      as good a chance as any man that I had ever met.  Vincent
      Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might
      prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the
      day and to come right away with me.  He was very willing to have a
      holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the
      address that was given us in the advertisement.

          "I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes.
      From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red
      in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement.
      Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court
      looked like a coster's orange barrow.  I should not have thought
      there were so many in the whole country as were brought together
      by that single advertisement.  Every shade of colour they
      were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but,
      as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid
      flame-coloured tint.  When I saw how many were waiting, I would
      have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it.
      How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and
      butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the
      steps which led to the office.  There was a double stream upon the
      stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but
      we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the
      office."

          "Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked
      Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge
      pinch of snuff.  "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

          "There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs
      and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that
      was even redder than mine.  He said a few words to each candidate
      as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in
      them which would disqualify them.  Getting a vacancy did not seem
      to be such a very easy matter, after all.  However, when our turn
      came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of
      the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might
      have a private word with us.

          "`This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, `and he is
      willing to fill a vacancy in the League.'

          "`And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered.  `He
      has every requirement.  I cannot recall when I have seen anything
      so fine.'  He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side,
      and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful.  Then suddenly he
      plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my
      success.

          "`It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he.  `You will,
      however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.'
      With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I
      yelled with the pain.  `There is water in your eyes,' said he as
      he released me.  `I perceive that all is as it should be.  But we
      have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and
      once by paint.  I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which
      would disgust you with human nature.'  He stepped over to the
      window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the
      vacancy was filled.  A groan of disappointment came up from below,
      and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there
      was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the
      manager.

          "`My name,' said he, `is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one
      of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor.  Are
      you a married man, Mr. Wilson?  Have you a family?'

          "I answered that I had not.

          "His face fell immediately.

          "`Dear me!' he said gravely, `that is very serious indeed!  I
      am sorry to hear you say that.  The fund was, of course, for the
      propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their
      maintenance.  It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a
      bachelor.'

          "My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I
      was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over
      for a few minutes he said that it would be all right.

          "`In the case of another,' said he, `the objection might be
      fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a
      head of hair as yours.  When shall you be able to enter upon your
      new duties?'

          "`Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business
      already,' said I.

          "`Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent
      Spaulding.  `I should be able to look after that for you.'

          "`What would be the hours?' I asked.

          "`Ten to two.'

          "Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.
      Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just
      before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in
      the mornings.  Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man,
      and that he would see to anything that turned up.

          "`That would suit me very well,' said I.  `And the pay?'

          "`Is 4 pound a week.'

          "`And the work?'

          "`Is purely nominal.'

          "`What do you call purely nominal?'

          "`Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the
      building, the whole time.  If you leave, you forfeit your whole
      position forever.  The will is very clear upon that point.  You
      don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the office
      during that time.'

          "`It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of
      leaving,' said I.

          "`No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; `neither
      sickness nor business nor anything else.  There you must stay, or
      you lose your billet.'

          "`And the work?'

          "`Is to copy out the Encyclopedia Britannica.  There is the
      first volume of it in that press.  You must find your own ink,
      pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair.
      Will you be ready to-morrow?'

          "`Certainly,' I answered.

          "`Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate
      you once more on the important position which you have been
      fortunate enough to gain.'  He bowed me out of the room, and I
      went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I
      was so pleased at my own good fortune.

          "Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was
      in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the
      whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its
      object might be I could not imagine.  It seemed altogether past
      belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay
      such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
      Encyclopaedia Britannica.  Vincent Spaulding did what he could to
      cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole
      thing.  However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it
      anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen,
      and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope's
      Court.

          "Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
      possible.  The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross
      was there to see that I got fairly to work.  He started me off
      upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from
      time to time to see that all was right with me.  At two o'clock he
      bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
      written, and locked the door of the office after me.

          "This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the
      manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my
      week's work.  It was the same next week, and the same the week
      after.  Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I
      left at two.  By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only
      once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at
      all.  Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an
      instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was
      such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk the
      loss of it.

          "Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about
      Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and
      hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B's before very
      long.  It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly
      filled a shelf with my writings.  And then suddenly the whole
      business came to an end."

          "To an end?"

          "Yes, sir.  And no later than this morning.  I went to my work
      as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a
      little square of card-board hammered on to the middle of the panel
      with a tack.  Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

          He held up a piece of white card-board about the size of a
      sheet of note-paper.  It read in this fashion:

                             THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
                                      IS
                                  DISSOLVED.
                               October 9, 1890.

          Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the
      rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so
      completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst
      out into a roar of laughter.

          "I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our
      client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head.  "If you can
      do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

          "No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from
      which he had half risen.  "I really wouldn't miss your case for
      the world.  It is most refreshingly unusual.  But there is, if you
      will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.
      Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
      door?"

          "I was staggered, sir.  I did not know what to do.  Then I
      called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know
      anything about it.  Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an
      accountant living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he could
      tell me what had become of the Red-headed League.  He said that he
      had never heard of any such body.  Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan
      Ross was.  He answered that the name was new to him.

          "`Well,' said I, `the gentleman at No. 4.'

          "`What, the red-headed man?'

          "`Yes.'

          "`Oh,' said he, `his name was William Morris.  He was a
      solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until
      his new premises were ready.  He moved out yesterday.'

          "`Where could I find him?'

          "`Oh, at his new offices.  He did tell me the address.  Yes,
      17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

          "I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it
      was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had
      ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

          "And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

          "I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of
      my assistant.  But he could not help me in any way.  He could only
      say that if I waited I should hear by post.  But that was not
      quite good enough, Mr. Holmes.  I did not wish to lose such a
      place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good
      enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came
      right away to you."

          "And you did very wisely," said Holmes.  "Your case is an
      exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.
      From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver
      issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."

          "Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson.  "Why, I have lost four
      pound a week."

          "As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I
      do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary
      league.  On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some
      30 pound, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained
      on every subject which comes under the letter A.  You have lost
      nothing by them."

          "No, sir.  But I want to find out about them, and who they
      are, and what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a
      prank--upon me.  It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it
      cost them two and thirty pounds."

          "We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you.  And,
      first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson.  This assistant of yours
      who first called your attention to the advertisement--how long had
      he been with you?"

          "About a month then."

          "How did he come?"

          "In answer to an advertisement."

          "Was he the only applicant?"

          "No, I had a dozen."

          "Why did you pick him?"

          "Because he was handy and would come cheap."

          "At half-wages, in fact."

          "Yes."

          "What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

          "Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his
      face, though he's not short of thirty.  Has a white splash of acid
      upon his forehead."

          Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement.  "I
      thought as much," said he.  "Have you ever observed that his ears
      are pierced for earrings?"

          "Yes, sir.  He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when
      he was a lad."

          "Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought.  "He is
      still with you?"

          "Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

          "And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

          "Nothing to complain of, sir.  There's never very much to do
      of a morning."

          "That will do, Mr. Wilson.  I shall be happy to give you an
      opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two.  To-day is
      Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

          "Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us,
      "what do you make of it all?"

          "I make nothing of it," I answered frankly.  "It is a most
      mysterious business."

          "As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the
      less mysterious it proves to be.  It is your commonplace,
      featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a
      commonplace face is the most difficult to identify.  But I must be
      prompt over this matter."

          "What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

          "To smoke," he answered.  "It is quite a three pipe problem,
      and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes."  He
      curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to
      his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his
      black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.
      I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and
      indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his
      chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put
      his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

          "Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he
      remarked.  "What do you think, Watson?  Could your patients spare
      you for a few hours?"

          "I have nothing to do today.  My practice is never very
      absorbing."

          "Then put on your hat and come.  I am going through the City
      first, and we can have some lunch on the way.  I observe that
      there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is
      rather more to my taste than Italian or French.  It is
      introspective, and I want to introspect.  Come along!"

          We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a
      short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the
      singular story which we had listened to in the morning.  It was a
      poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy
      two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in
      enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded
      laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and
      uncongenial atmosphere.  Three gilt balls and a brown board with
      "JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced
      the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
      Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side
      and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
      puckered lids.  Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
      again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses.  Finally
      he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously
      upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to
      the door and knocked.  It was instantly opened by a
      bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step
      in.

          "Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you
      would go from here to the Strand."

          "Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly,
      closing the door.

          "Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away.  "He
      is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for
      daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third.  I have
      known something of him before."

          "Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good
      deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League.  I am sure that you
      inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."

          "Not him."

          "What then?"

          "The knees of his trousers."

          "And what did you see?"

          "What I expected to see."

          "Why did you beat the pavement?"

          "My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk.
      We are spies in an enemy's country.  We know something of
      Saxe-Coburg Square.  Let us now explore the parts which lie behind
      it."

          The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
      corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a
      contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back.  It was
      one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to
      the north and west.  The roadway was blocked with the immense
      stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward,
      while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of
      pedestrians.  It was difficult to realize as we looked at the line
      of fine shops and stately business premises that they really
      abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which
      we had just quitted.

          "Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing
      along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the
      houses here.  It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of
      London.  There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little
      newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank,
      the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building
      depot.  That carries us right on to the other block.  And now,
      Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play.  A
      sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where
      all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
      red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

          My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only
      a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit.  All
      the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect
      happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the
      music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes
      were as unlike those of Holmes, the sleuth-hound, Holmes the
      relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was
      possible to conceive.  In his singular character the dual nature
      alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and
      astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction
      against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally
      predominated in him.  The swing of his nature took him from
      extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
      never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
      lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his
      black-letter editions.  Then it was that the lust of the chase
      would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning
      power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were
      unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a
      man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals.  When I saw him
      that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I
      felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set
      himself to hunt down.

          "You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we
      emerged.

          "Yes, it would be as well."

          "And I have some business to do which will take some hours.
      This business at Coburg Square is serious."

          "Why serious?"

          "A considerable crime is in contemplation.  I have every
      reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it.  But to-day
      being Saturday rather complicates matters.  I shall want your help
      to-night."

          "At what time?"

          "Ten will be early enough."

          "I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

          "Very well.  And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little
      danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket."  He
      waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant
      among the crowd.

          I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was
      always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings
      with Sherlock Holmes.  Here I had heard what he had heard, I had
      seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that
      he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to
      happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and
      grotesque.  As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought
      over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier
      of the Encyclopaedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and
      the ominous words with which he had parted from me.  What was this
      nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?  Where were we
      going, and what were we to do?  I had the hint from Holmes that
      this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable man--a
      man who might play a deep game.  I tried to puzzle it out, but
      gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should
      bring an explanation.

          It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made
      my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker
      Street.  Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered
      the passage I heard the sound of voices from above.  On entering
      his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one
      of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent,
      while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny
      hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

          "Ha! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his
      pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.
      "Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard?  Let me
      introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in
      to-night's adventure."

          "We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones
      in his consequential way.  "Our friend here is a wonderful man for
      starting a chase.  All he wants is an old dog to help him to do
      the running down."

          "I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our
      chase," observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

          "You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,"
      said the police agent loftily.  "He has his own little methods,
      which are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too
      theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective
      in him.  It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that
      business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been
      more nearly correct than the official force."

          "Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the
      stranger with deference.  "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.
      It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I
      have not had my rubber."

          "I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will
      play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and
      that the play will be more exciting.  For you, Mr. Merryweather,
      the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the
      man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

          "John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger.  He's a
      young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his
      profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on
      any criminal in London.  He's a remarkable man, is young John
      Clay.  His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been
      to Eton and Oxford.  His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and
      though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to
      find the man himself.  He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week,
      and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
      I've been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him
      yet."

          "I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you
      to-night.  I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John
      Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his
      profession.  It is past ten, however, and quite time that we
      started.  If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will
      follow in the second."

          Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long
      drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard
      in the afternoon.  We rattled through an endless labyrinth of
      gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.

          "We are close there now," my friend remarked.  "This fellow
      Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
      matter.  I thought it as well to have Jones with us also.  He is
      not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession.
      He has one positive virtue.  He is as brave as a bulldog and as
      tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone.  Here we
      are, and they are waiting for us."

          We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had
      found ourselves in the morning.  Our cabs were dismissed, and,
      following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a
      narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us.
      Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive
      iron gate.  This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding
      stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate.  Mr.
      Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us
      down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third
      door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with
      crates and massive boxes.

          "You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as
      he held up the lantern and gazed about him.

          "Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick
      upon the flags which lined the floor.  "Why, dear me, it sounds
      quite hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.

          "I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes
      severely.  "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
      expedition.  Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit
      down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

          The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with
      a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon
      his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying
      lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones.  A
      few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet
      again and put his glass in his pocket.

          "We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they
      can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in
      bed.  Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do
      their work the longer time they will have for their escape.  We
      are at present, Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the
      cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks.
      Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain
      to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of
      London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at
      present."

          "It is our French gold," whispered the director.  "We have had
      several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

          "Your French gold?"

          "Yes.  We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our
      resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the
      Bank of France.  It has become known that we have never had
      occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our
      cellar.  The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons
      packed between layers of lead foil.  Our reserve of bullion is
      much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch
      office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject."

          "Which were very well justified," observed Holmes.  "And now
      it is time that we arranged our little plans.  I expect that
      within an hour matters will come to a head.  In the meantime, Mr.
      Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern."

          "And sit in the dark?"

          "I am afraid so.  I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket,
      and I thought that, as we were a partie carree, you might have
      your rubber after all.  But I see that the enemy's preparations
      have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light.
      And, first of all, we must choose our positions.  These are daring
      men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do
      us some harm unless we are careful.  I shall stand behind this
      crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those.  Then, when I
      flash a light upon them, close in swiftly.  If they fire, Watson,
      have no compunction about shooting them down."

          I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case
      behind which I crouched.  Holmes shot the slide across the front
      of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute
      darkness as I have never before experienced.  The smell of hot
      metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready
      to flash out at a moment's notice.  To me, with my nerves worked
      up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and
      subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the
      vault.

          "They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes.  "That is back
      through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square.  I hope that you have
      done what I asked you, Jones?"

          "I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front
      door."

          "Then we have stopped all the holes.  And now we must be
      silent and wait."

          What a time it seemed!  From comparing notes afterwards it was
      but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night
      must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us.  My
      limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position;
      yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and
      my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle
      breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper,
      heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note
      of the bank director.  From my position I could look over the case
      in the direction of the floor.  Suddenly my eyes caught the glint
      of a light.

          At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement.
      Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then,
      without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand
      appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the
      centre of the little area of light.  For a minute or more the
      hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor.  Then
      it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
      again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the
      stones.

          Its disappearance, however, was but momentary.  With a
      rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over
      upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which
      streamed the light of a lantern.  Over the edge there peeped a
      clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then,
      with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself
      shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge.
      In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was
      hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with
      a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

          "It's all clear," he whispered.  "Have you the chisel and the
      bags?  Great Scott!  Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

          Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the
      collar.  The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of
      rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts.  The light flashed
      upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop came down
      on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

          "It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly.  "You have no
      chance at all."

          "So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness.  "I
      fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his
      coat-tails."

          "There are three men waiting for him at the door," said
      Holmes.

          "Oh, indeed!  You seem to have done the thing very completely.
      I must compliment you."

          "And I you," Holmes answered.  "Your red-headed idea was very
      new and effective."

          "You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones.  "He's
      quicker at climbing down holes than I am.  Just hold out while I
      fix the derbies."

          "I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,"
      remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.
      "You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins.  Have
      the goodness, also, when you address me always to say `sir' and
      `please.'"

          "All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger.  "Well,
      would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to
      carry your Highness to the police-station?"

          "That is better," said John Clay serenely.  He made a sweeping
      bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of
      the detective.

          "Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed
      them from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or
      repay you.  There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated
      in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at
      bank robbery that have ever come within my experience."

          "I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with
      Mr. John Clay," said Holmes.  "I have been at some small expense
      over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but
      beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is
      in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative
      of the Red-headed League."

          "You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the
      morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street,
      "it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible
      object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of
      the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get
      this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of
      hours every day.  It was a curious way of managing it, but,
      really, it would be difficult to suggest a better.  The method was
      no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his
      accomplice's hair.  The 4 pound a week was a lure which must draw him,
      and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands?  They put
      in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the
      other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they
      manage to secure his absence every morning in the week.  From the
      time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it
      was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the
      situation."

          "But how could you guess what the motive was?"

          "Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a
      mere vulgar intrigue.  That, however, was out of the question.
      The man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his
      house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and
      such an expenditure as they were at.  It must, then, be something
      out of the house.  What could it be?  I thought of the assistant's
      fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the
      cellar.  The cellar!  There was the end of this tangled clue.
      Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found
      that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring
      criminals in London.  He was doing something in the
      cellar--something which took many hours a day for months on end.
      What could it be, once more?  I could think of nothing save that
      he was running a tunnel to some other building.

          "So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action.
      I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick.  I was
      ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.
      It was not in front.  Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
      assistant answered it.  We have had some skirmishes, but we had
      never set eyes upon each other before.  I hardly looked at his
      face.  His knees were what I wished to see.  You must yourself
      have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were.  They
      spoke of those hours of burrowing.  The only remaining point was
      what they were burrowing for.  I walked round the corner, saw the
      City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt
      that I had solved my problem.  When you drove home after the
      concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the
      bank directors, with the result that you have seen."

          "And how could you tell that they would make their attempt
      to-night?" I asked.

          "Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign
      that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in
      other words, that they had completed their tunnel.  But it was
      essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered,
      or the bullion might be removed.  Saturday would suit them better
      than any other day, as it would give them two days for their
      escape.  For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

          "You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
      admiration.  "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings
      true."

          "It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning.  "Alas!  I
      already feel it closing in upon me.  My life is spent in one long
      effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence.  These little
      problems help me to do so."

          "And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

          He shrugged his shoulders.  "Well, perhaps, after all, it is
      of some little use," he remarked.  "`L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre
      c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."

