                                      1893
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES
                              THE RESIDENT PATIENT
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  In glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with
which I have endeavoured to illustrate a few of the mental
peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck
by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out examples
which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those cases in
which Holmes has performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning,
and has demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of
investigation, the facts themselves have often been so slight or so
commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying them before
the public. On the other hand, it has frequently happened that he
has been concerned in some research where the facts have been of the
most remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share which he
has himself taken in determining their causes has been less pronounced
than I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have
chronicled under the heading of "A Study in Scarlet," and that other
later one connected with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as
examples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever threatening
the historian. It may be that in the business of which I am now
about to write the part which my friend played is not sufficiently
accentuated; and yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable
that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this series.
  It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds were
half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and
re-reading a letter which he had received by the morning post. For
myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat
better than cold, and a thermometer of ninety was no hardship. But the
paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of
town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of
Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea
presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie in the very
centre of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching out
and running through them, responsive to every little rumour or
suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of nature found no place
among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his
mind from the evildoer of the town to track down his brother of the
country.
  Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation, I had
tossed aside the barren paper, and, leaning back in my chair I fell
into a brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my
thoughts.
  "You are right Watson," said he. "It does seem a very preposterous
way of settling a dispute."
  "Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then, suddenly realizing how
he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair
and stared at him in blank amazement.
  "What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I
could have imagined."
  He laughed heartily at my perplexity
  "You remember," said he, "that some little time ago, when I read you
the passage in one of Poe's sketches, in which a close reasoner
follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to
treat the matter as a mere tour de force of the author. On my
remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing
you expressed incredulity."
  "Oh, no!"
  "Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter
upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of
reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that
I had been in rapport with you."
  But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read
to me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of
the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap
of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seated
quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"
  "You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as
the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are
faithful servants."
  "Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
features?"
  "Your features, and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot
yourself recall how your reverie commenced?"
  "No, I cannot."
  "Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the
action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute
with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your
newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in
your face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not
lead very far. Your eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of
Henry Ward Beecher, which stands upon the top of your books. You
then glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious.
You were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover
that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture over there."
  "You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.
  "So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts
went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were
studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to
pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was
thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I
was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the
mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the
Civil War, for I remember you expressing your passionate indignation
at the way in which he was received by the more turbulent of our
people. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not
think of Beecher without thinking of this also. When a moment later
I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected that your
mind had now turned to the Civil War, and when I observed that your
lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands clinched, I was
positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which was
shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then, again,
your face grew sadder; you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the
sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hand stole
towards your own old wound, and a smile quivered on your lips, which
showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this
point I agreed with you that it was preposterous, and was glad to find
that all my deductions had been correct."
  "Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
that I am as amazed as before."
  "It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
incredulity the other day. But the evening has brought a breeze with
it. What do you say to a ramble through London?"
  I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For
three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing
kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the
Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of detail
and subtle power of inference, held me amused and enthralled. It was
ten o'clock before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham was
waiting at our door.
  "Hum! A doctor's-general practitioner, I perceive," said Holmes.
"Not been long in practice, but has a good deal to do. Come to consult
us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!"
  I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to be able to
follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the
various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the
lamp-light inside the brougham had given him the data for his swift
deduction. The light in our window above showed that this late visit
was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to what could
have sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes
into our sanctum.
  A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair
by the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than three
or four and thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue
told of a life which had sapped his strength and robbed him of his
youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive
gentleman, and the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as
he rose was that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress
was quiet and sombre-a black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of
colour about his necktie.
  "Good-evening, Doctor," said Holmes cheerily. "I am glad to see that
you have only been waiting a very few minutes."
  "You spoke to my coachman, then?"
  "No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray resume
your seat and let me know how I can serve you."
  "My name is Dr. Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor, "and I live at
403 Brook Street."
  "Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous
lesions?" I asked.
  His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was
known to me.
  "I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead,"
said he. "My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its
sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?"
  "A retired army surgeon."
  "My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to make
it an absolute specialty, but of course a man must take what he can
get at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact
is that a very singular train of events has occurred recently at my
house in Brook Street, and to-night they came to such a head that I
felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another hour before asking
for your advice and assistance."
  Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. "You are very welcome
to both," said he. "pray let me have a detailed account of what the
circumstances are which have disturbed you."
  "One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr. Trevelyan, "that
really I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so
inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so
elaborate, that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge
what is essential and what is not."
  "I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own college
career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure that you
will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say that
my student career was considered by my professors to be a very
promising one. After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to
research, occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital and
I was fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my
research into the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce
Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to which
your friend has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were to say
that there was a general impression at that time that a
distinguished career lay before me.
  "But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As you
will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to
start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all
of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this
preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some
years, and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was
quite beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might
in ten years' time save enough to enable me to put up my plate.
Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new
prospect to me.
  "This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who
was a complete stranger to me. He came up into my room one morning,
and plunged into business in an instant.
  "'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a
career and won a great prize lately?' said he.
  "I bowed.
  "'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find it to your
interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a
successful man. Have you the tact?'
  "I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.
  "'I trust that I have my share,' I said.
  "'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'
  "'Really, sir!' I cried.
  "'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound to ask. With all
these qualities, why are you not in practice?'
  "I shrugged my shoulders.
  "'Come, come!' said he in his bustling way. 'It's the old story.
More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say if I
were to start you in Brook Street?'
  "I stared at him in astonishment.
  "'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried. 'I'll be perfectly
frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me very well. I
have a few thousands to invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them
in you.'
  "'But why?' I gasped.
  "'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and safer than most.'
  "'What am I to do, then?'
  "'Ill tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids,
and run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out your
chair in the consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and
everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what you
earn, and you keep the other quarter for yourself'
  "This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man
Blessington approached me. I won't weary you with the account of how
we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house next
Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the same conditions as
he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in the character
of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears, and he needed
constant medical supervision. He turned the two best rooms of the
first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for himself. He was a
man of singular habits, shunning company and very seldom going out.
His life was irregular, but in one respect he was regularity itself.
Every evening, at the same hour, he walked into the consulting-room,
examined the books, put down five and three-pence for every guinea
that I had earned, and carried the rest off to the strong-box in his
own room.
  "I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret
his speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and
the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to
the front, and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.
  "So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with
Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has
occurred to bring me here tonight.
  "Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed
to me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary
which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and he appeared, I
remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring that a
day should not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our windows
and doors. For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state of
restlessness, peering continually out of the windows, and ceasing to
take the short walk which had usually been the prelude to his
dinner. From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of
something or somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he
became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject.
Gradually, as time passed, his fears appeared to die away, and he
renewed his former habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the
pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies.
  "What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which
I now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

  "A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England [it runs],
would be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr.
Percy Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic
attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He
proposes to call at about a quarter-past six to-morrow evening, if Dr.
Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home.

  "This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in
the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may
believe, then, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the appointed
hour, the page showed in the patient.
  "He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace-by no means
the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck
by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man,
surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and
chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they
entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would
hardly have expected from his appearance.
  "'You will excuse my coming in, Doctor,' said he to me, speaking
English with a slight lisp. 'This is my father, and his health is a
matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.'
  "I was touched by this filial anxiety. 'You would, perhaps, care
to remain during the consultation?' said I.
  "'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of horror. 'It is more
painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one of
these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive it.
My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your
permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into my
father's case.'
  "To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The
patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I
took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his
answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his limited
acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing,
he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on my turning
towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in
his chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was
again in the grip of his mysterious malady.
  "My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and
horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional
satisfaction. I made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature,
tested the rigidity of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There
was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions, which
harmonized with my former experiences. I had obtained good results
in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present
seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was
downstairs in my laboratory, so, leaving my patient seated in his
chair, I ran down to get it. There was some little delay in finding
it-five minutes, let us say-and then I returned. Imagine my
amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone.
  "Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The son
had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page
who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits
downstairs and runs up to show patients out when I ring the
consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained
a complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly
afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for,
to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as
little communication with him as possible.
  "Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the
Russian and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very
same hour this evening, they both came marching into my
consulting-room, just as they had done before.
  "'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt
departure yesterday, Doctor,' said my patient.
  "'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,' said I.
  "'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I recover from these
attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone before.
I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way out
into the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.'
  "'And I," said the son, 'seeing my father pass the door of the
waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an
end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize
the true state of affairs.'
  "'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done except that you
puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was
brought to so abrupt an ending.'
  "For half an hour or so I discussed the old gentleman's symptoms
with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon
the arm of his son.
  "I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of
the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed
upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst into
my consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.
  "'Who has been in my room?' he cried.
  "No one,' said I.
  "'It's a lie!' he yelled. up and look!'
  "I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half
out of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed to
several footprints upon the light carpet.
  "'Do you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.
  "They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have
made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon,
as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It
must have been the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had,
for some unknown reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended
to the room of my resident patient. Nothing had been touched or taken,
but there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an
undoubted fact.
  "Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should
have thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb
anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an armchair, and
I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion that
I should come round to you, and of course I at once saw the
propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one,
though he appears to completely overrate its importance. If you
would only come back with me in my brougham, you would at least be
able to soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able
to explain this remarkable occurrence."
  Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an
intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His
face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily
over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his
pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor's tale. As our
visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my
hat, picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to
the door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped at the
door of the physician's residence in Brook Street, one of those
sombre, flat-faced houses. which one associates with a West End
practice. A small page admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the
broad, well-carpeted stair.
  But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at
the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a
reedy, quavering voice.
  "I have a pistol," it cried. "I give you my word that I'll fire if
you come any nearer."
  "This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried Dr.
Trevelyan.
  "Oh, then it is you, Doctor," said the voice with a great heave of
relief. "But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to be?"
  We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.
  "Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last. "You can come
up, and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you."
  He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a
singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice,
testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently
at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in
loose pouches, like the cheeks of a bloodhound. He was of a sickly
colour, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the
intensity of his emotion. In his hand he held a pistol, but he
thrust it into his pocket as we advanced.
  "Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am sure I am very much
obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more
than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most
unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms."
  "Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are these two men, Mr. Blessington,
and why do they wish to molest you?"
  "Well, well," said the resident patient in a nervous fashion, "of
course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer
that, Mr. Holmes."
  "Do you mean that you don't know?"
  "Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in
here."
  He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
furnished.
  "You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of
his bed. "I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes-never made but
one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I
don't believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes.
Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can
understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves
into my rooms."
  Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his
head.
  "I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me," said he.
  "But I have told you everything."
  Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. "Good-night Dr.
Trevelyan," said he.
  "And no advice for me?' cried Blessington in a breaking voice.
  "My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth."
  A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had
crossed Oxford Street and were halfway down Harley Street before I
could get a word from my companion.
  "Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson," he said at
last. "It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it."
  "I can make little of it," I confessed.
  "Well, it is quite evident that there are two men-more, perhaps, but
at least two-who are determined for some reason to get at this
fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the
first and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to
Blessington's room, while his confederate, by an ingenious device,
kept the doctor from interfering."
  "And the catalepsy?"
  "A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint
as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I
have done it myself."
  "And then?"
  "By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their
reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was
obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the
waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided with
Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show that they were not
very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they had
been merely after plunder they would at least have made some attempt
to search for it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it is his
own skin that he is frightened for. It is inconceivable that this
fellow could have made two such vindictive enemies as these appear
to be without knowing of it. I hold it, therefore, to be certain
that he does know who these men are, and that for reasons of his own
he suppresses it. It is just possible that to-morrow may find him in a
more communicative mood."
  "Is there not one alternative," I suggested, "grotesquely
improbable, no doubt but still just conceivable? Might the whole story
of the cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr.
Trevelyan's, who has, for his own purposes, been in Blessington's
rooms?"
  I saw in the gas-light that Holmes wore an amused smile at this
brilliant departure of mine.
  "My dear fellow," said he, "it was one of the first solutions
which occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the
doctor's tale. This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet
which made it quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which he
had made in the room. When I tell you that his shoes were squaretoed
instead of being pointed like Blessington's, and were quite an inch
and a third longer than the doctor's, you will acknowledge that
there can be no doubt as to his individuality. But we may sleep on
it now, for I shall be surprised if we do not hear something further
from Brook Street in the morning."

  Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic
fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first dim glimmer
of daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.
  "There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.
  "What's the matter, then?"
  "The Brook Street business."
  "Any fresh news?"
  "Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the blind. "Look at
this-a sheet from a notebook, with 'For God's sake come at once. P.
T.,' scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard
put to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's
an urgent call."
  In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician's house.
He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.
  "Oh, such a business!" he cried with his hands to his temples.
  "What then?"
  "Blessington has committed suicide!"
  Holmes whistled.
  "Yes, he hanged himself during the night."
  We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was
evidently his waiting-room.
  "I really hardly know what I am doing," he cried. "The police are
already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully."'
  "When did you find it out?"
  "He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When the
maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging in
the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which
the heavy lamp used to bang, and he had jumped off from the top of the
very box that he showed us yesterday."
  Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.
  "With your permission," said he at last, "I should like to go
upstairs and look into the matter."
  We both ascended, followed by the doctor.
  It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door.
I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man
Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated
and intensified until he was scarce human in his appearance. The
neck was drawn out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him
seem the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in
his long night-dress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet
protruded starkly from beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking
police-inspector, who was taking notes in a pocketbook.
  "Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he heartily as my friend entered, "I am
delighted to see you.
  "Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't think me an
intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to this
affair?"
  "Yes, I heard something of them."
  "Have you formed any opinion?"
  "As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by
fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his
impression, deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know,
that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for
hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair."
  "I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by
the rigidity of the muscles," said I.
  "Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked Holmes.
  "Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand.
Seems to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four
cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace."
  "Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"
  "No, I have seen none."
  "His cigar-case, then?"
  "Yes, it was in his coat-pocket."
  Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.
  "Oh, this is a Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar
sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian
colonies. They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner
for their length than any other brand." He picked up the four ends and
examined them with his pocket-lens.
  "Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without,"
said he. "Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have
had the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no
suicide, Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded
murder."
  "Impossible!" cried the inspector.
  "And why?"
  "Why should anyone murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging
him?"
  "That is what we have to find out."
  "How could they get in?"
  "Through the front door."
  "It was barred in the morning."
  "Then it was barred after them."
  "How do you know?"
  "I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give
you some further information about it."
  He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his
methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the inside, and
inspected also. The bed, the carpet the chairs, the mantelpiece, the
dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined, until at last he
professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector
cut down the wretched object and laid it reverently under a sheet.
  "How about this rope?" he asked.
  "It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil
from under the bed. "He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always
kept this beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case
the stairs were burning."
  "That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes thoughtfully. "Yes,
the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the
afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will
take this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece,
as it may help me in my inquiries."
  "But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.
  "Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events," said
Holmes. "There were three of them in it: the young man, the old man,
and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need
hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and
his son, so we can give a very full description of them. They were
admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a
word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I
understand, has only recently come into your service, Doctor."
  "The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan; "the maid and
the cook have just been searching for him."
  Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
  "He has played a not unimportant part in this drama," said he.
"The three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe,
the elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in
the rear-"
  "My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.
  "Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the
footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last night.
They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of which they
found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they forced
round the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by the
scratches on this ward, where the pressure was applied.
  "On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag
Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so
paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls
are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to
utter one, was unheard.
  "Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some
sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial
proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair, it
was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder;
he knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third
fellow paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the
bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely certain.
  "Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The
matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought
with them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows.
That screwdriver and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it
up. Seeing the hook, however, they naturally saved themselves the
trouble. Having finished their work they made off, and the door was
barred behind them by their confederate."
  We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of
the night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle
and minute that even when he had pointed them out to us, we could
scarcely follow him in his reasonings. The inspector hurried away on
the instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I
returned to Baker Street for breakfast.
  "I'll be back by three," said he when we had finished our meal.
"Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour, and
I hope by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which
the case may still present."
  Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter
to four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression
as he entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.
  "Any news, Inspector?"
  "We have got the boy, sir."
  "Excellent, and I have got the men."
  "You have got them!" we cried, all three.
  "Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called
Blessington is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so
are his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."
  "The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.
  "Precisely," said Holmes.
  "Then Blessington must have been Sutton."
  "Exactly," said Holmes.
  "Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said the inspector.
  But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.
  "You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business," said
Holmes. "Five men were in it-these four and a fifth called Cartwright.
Tobin, the caretaker, was murdered, and the thieves got away with
seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five
arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive.
This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned
informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and the other three
got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was
some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you
perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their
comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third
time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can
explain, Dr. Trevelyan?"
  "I think you have made it all remarkably clear," said the doctor.
"No doubt the day on which he was so perturbed was the day when he had
seen of their release in the newspapers."
  "Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind."
  "But why could he not tell you this?"
  "Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old
associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as
long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not
bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still
living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt,
Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to
guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge."
  Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident
Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing has
been seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised
at Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the
ill-fated steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all
hands upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of
Oporto. The proceedings against the page broke down for want of
evidence, and the Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never
until now been fully dealt with in any public print.
                                    THE END
