                                      1911
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES
                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED CIRCLE
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  "Well, Mrs. Warren, I cannot see that you have any particular
cause for uneasiness, nor do I understand why I, whose time is of some
value, should interfere in the matter. I really have other things to
engage me." So spoke Sherlock Holmes and turned back to the great
scrapbook in which he was arranging and indexing some of his recent
material.
  But the landlady had the pertinacity and also the cunning of her
sex. She held her ground firmly.
  "You arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last year," she said-
"Mr. Fairdale Hobbs."
  "Ah, yes- a simple matter."
  "But he would never cease talking of it- your kindness, sir, and the
way in which you brought light into the darkness. I remembered his
words when I was in doubt and darkness myself. I know you could if you
only would."
  Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery, and also, to do him
justice, upon the side of kindliness. The two forces made him lay down
his gum-brush with a sigh of resignation and push back his chair.
  "Well, well, Mrs. Warren, let us hear about it then. You don't
object to tobacco, I take it? Thank you, Watson- the matches! You
are uneasy, as I understand, because your new lodger remains in his
rooms and you cannot see him. Why, bless you, Mrs. Warren, if I were
your lodger you often would not see me for weeks on end."
  "No doubt, sir, but this is different. It frightens me, Mr.
Holmes. I can't sleep for fright. To hear his quick step moving here
and moving there from early morning to late at night, and yet never to
catch so much as a glimpse of him- it's more than I can stand. My
husband is as nervous over it as I am, but he is out at his work all
day, while I get no rest from it. What is he hiding for? What has he
done? Except for the girl, I am all alone in the house with him, and
it's more than my nerves can stand."
  Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin fingers upon the
woman's shoulder. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing when
he wished. The scared look faded from her eyes, and her agitated
features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She sat down in the
chair which he had indicated.
  "If I take it up I must understand every detail," said he. "Take
time to consider. The smallest point may be the most essential. You
say that the man came ten days ago and paid you for a fortnight's
board and lodging?"
  "He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a week. There is a
small sittingroom and bedroom, and all complete, at the top of the
house."
  "Well?"
  "He said, 'I'll pay you five pounds a week if I can have it on my
own terms.' I'm a poor woman, sir, and Mr. Warren earns little, and
the money meant much to me. He took out a ten-pound note, and he
held it out to me then and there. 'You can have the same every
fortnight for a long time to come if you keep the terms,' he said. 'If
not, I'll have no more to do with you.'"
  "What were the terms?"
  "Well, sir, they were that he was to have a key of the house. That
was all right. Lodgers often have them. Also, that he was to be left
entirely to himself and never, upon any excuse, to be disturbed."
  "Nothing wonderful in that, surely?"
  "Not in reason, sir. But this is out of all reason. He has been
there for ten days, and neither Mr. Warren, nor I, nor the girl has
once set eyes upon him. We can hear that quick step of his pacing up
and down, up and down, night, morning, and noon; but except on that
first night he has never once gone out of the house."
  "Oh, he went out the first night, did he?"
  "Yes, sir, and returned very late- after we were all in bed. He told
me after he had taken the rooms that he would do so and asked me not
to bar the door. I heard him come up the stair after midnight."
  "But his meals?"
  "It was his particular direction that we should always, when he
rang, leave his meal upon a chair, outside his door. Then he rings
again when he has finished, and we take it down from the same chair.
If he wants anything else he prints it on a slip of paper and leaves
it."
  "Prints it?"
  "Yes, sir, prints it in pencil. just the word, nothing more.
Here's one I brought to show you- SOAP. Here's another- MATCH. This is
one he left the first morning- DAILY GAZETTE. I leave that paper
with his breakfast every morning."
  "Dear me, Watson," said Holmes, staring with great curiosity at
the slips of foolscap which the landlady had handed to him, "this is
certainly a little unusual. Seclusion I can understand; but why print?
Printing is a clumsy process. Why not write? What would it suggest
Watson?"
  "That he desired to conceal his handwriting."
  "But why? What can it matter to him that his landlady should have
a word of his writing? Still, it may be as you say. Then, again, why
such laconic messages?"
  "I cannot imagine."
  "It opens a pleasing field for intelligent speculation. The words
are written with a broad-pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a not
unusual pattern. You will observe that the paper is torn away at the
side here after the printing was done, so that the 'S' of 'SOAP' is
partly gone. Suggestive, Watson, is it not?"
  "Of caution?"
  "Exactly. There was evidently some mark, some thumbprint,
something which might give a clue to the person's identity. Now,
Mrs. Warren, you say that the man was of middle size, dark, and
bearded. What age would he be?"
  "Youngish, sir- not over thirty."
  "Well, can you give me no further indications?"
  "He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he was a foreigner by
his accent."
  "And he was well dressed?"
  "Very smartly dressed, sir- quite the gentleman. Dark clothes-
nothing you would note."
  "He gave no name?"
  "No, sir."
  "And has had no letters or callers?"
  "None."
  "But surely you or the girl enter his room of a morning?"
  "No, sir; he looks after himself entirely."
  "Dear me! that is certainly remarkable. What about his luggage?"
  "He had one big brown bag with him- nothing else."
  "Well, we don't seem to have much material to help us. Do you say
nothing has come out of that room- absolutely nothing?"
  The landlady drew an envelope from her bag, from it she shook out
two burnt matches and a cigarette-end upon the table.
  "They were on his tray this morning. I brought them because I had
heard that you can read great things out of small ones."
  Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
  "There is nothing here," said he. "The matches have, of course, been
used to light cigarettes. That is obvious from the shortness of the
burnt end. Half the match is consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar. But
dear me! this cigarette stub is certainly remarkable. The gentleman
was bearded and moustached, you say?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "I don't understand that. I should say that only a clean-shaven
man could have smoked this. Why, Watson, even your modest moustache
would have been singed."
  "A holder?" I suggested.
  "No, no; the end is matted. I suppose there could not be two
people in your rooms, Mrs. Warren?"
  "No, sir. He eats so little that I often wonder it can keep life
in one."
  "Well, I think we must wait for a little more material. After all,
you have nothing to complain of. You have received your rent and he is
not a troublesome lodger, though he is certainly an unusual one. He
pays you well. and if he choses to lie concealed it is no direct
business of yours. We have no excuse for an intrusion upon his privacy
until we have some reason to think that there is a guilty reason for
it. I've taken up the matter, and I won't lose sight of it. Report
to me if anything fresh occurs, and rely upon my assistance if it
should be needed.
  "There are certainly some points of interest in this case,
Watson," he remarked when the landlady had left us. "It may, of
course, be trivial- individual eccentricity; or it may be very much
deeper than appears on the surface. The first thing that strikes one
is the obvious possibility that the person now in the rooms may be
entirely different from the one who engaged them."
  "Why should you think so?"
  "Well, apart from this cigarette-end, was it not suggestive that the
only time the lodger went out was immediately after his taking the
rooms? He came back- or someone came back- when all witnesses were out
of the way. We have no proof that the person who came back was the
person who went out. Then, again, the man who took the rooms spoke
English well. This other, however, prints 'match' when it should
have been 'matches.' I can imagine that the word was taken out of a
dictionary, which would give the noun but not the plural. The
laconic style may be to conceal the absence of knowledge of English.
Yes, Watson, there are good reasons to suspect that there has been a
substitution of lodgers."
  "But for what possible end?"
  "Ah! there lies our problem. There is one rather obvious line of
investigation." He took down the great book in which, day by day, he
filed the agony columns of the various London journals. "Dear me!"
said he, turning over the pages, "what a chorus of groans, cries,
and bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the
most valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the
unusual! This person is alone and cannot be approached by letter
without a breach of that absolute secrecy which is desired. How is any
news or any message to reach him from without? Obviously by
advertisement through a news paper. There seems no other way, and
fortunately we need concern ourselves with the one paper only. Here
are the Daily Gazette extracts of the last fortnight. 'Lady with a
black boa at Prince's Skating Club'- that we may pass. 'Surely Jimmy
will not break his mother's heart'- that appears to be irrelevant. 'If
the lady who fainted in the Brixton bus'- she does not interest me.
'Every day my heart longs-' Bleat, Watson- unmitigated bleat! Ah, this
is a little more possible. Listen to this: 'Be patient. Will find some
sure means of communication. Meanwhile, this column. G.' That is two
days after Mrs. Warren's lodger arrived. It sounds plausible, does
it not? The mysterious one could understand English, even if he
could not print it. Let us see if we can pick up the trace again. Yes,
here we are- three days later. 'Am making successful arrangements.
Patience and prudence. The clouds will pass. G.' Nothing for a week
after that. Then comes something much more definite: 'The path is
clearing. If I find chance signal message remember code agreed- one A,
two B, and so on. You will hear soon. G.' That was in yesterday's
paper, and there is nothing in to-day's. It's all very appropriate
to Mrs. Warren's lodger. If we wait a little, Watson, I don't doubt
that the affair will grow more intelligible."
  So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend standing on the
hearthrug with his back to the fire and a smile of complete
satisfaction upon his face.
  "How's this, Watson?" he cried, picking up the paper from the table.
'High red house with white stone facings. Third floor. Second window
left. After dusk. G.' That is definite enough. I think after breakfast
we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs. Warren's neighbourhood.
Ah, Mrs. Warren! what news do you bring us this morning?"
  Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosive energy
which told of some new and momentous development.
  "It's a police matter, Mr. Holmes" she cried. "I'll have no more
of it. He shall pack out of there with his baggage. I would have
gone straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but fair to
you to take your opinion first. But I'm at the end of my patience, and
when it comes to knocking my old man about-"
  "Knocking Mr. Warren about?"
  "Using him roughly, anyway."
  "But who used him roughly?"
  "Ah! that's what we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr.
Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight's, in Tottenham Court
Road. He has to be out of the house before seven. Well, this morning
he had not gone ten paces down the road when two men came up behind
him, threw a coat over his head, and bundled him into a cab that was
beside the curb. They drove him an hour, and then opened the door
and shot him out. He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that
he never saw what became of the cab. When he picked himself up he
found he was on Hampstead Heath; so he took a bus home, and there he
lies now on the sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what had
happened."
  "Most interesting," said Holmes. "Did he observe the appearance of
these men- did he hear them talk?"
  "No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as if by
magic and dropped as if by magic. Two at least were in it, and maybe
three."
  "And you connect this attack with your lodger?"
  "Well, we've lived there fifteen years and no such happenings ever
came before. I've had enough of him. Money's not everything. I'll have
him out of my house before the day is done."
  "Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think that
this affair may be very much more important than appeared at first
sight. It is clear now that some danger is threatening your lodger. It
is equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait for him near your
door, mistook your husband for him in the foggy morning light. On
discovering their mistake they released him. What they would have done
had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture."
  "Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?"
  "I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Warren."
  "I don't see how that is to be managed, unless you break in the
door. I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after I leave
the tray."
  "He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves and
see him do it."
  The landlady thought for a moment.
  "Well, sir, there's the box-room opposite. I could arrange a
looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door-"
  "Excellent!" said Holmes. "When does he lunch?"
  "About one, sir."
  "Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For the present,
Mrs. Warren, good-bye."
  At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs.
Warren's house- a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme
Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the British
Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street, it commands
a view down Howe Street, with its more pretentious houses. Holmes
pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential flats,
which projected so that they could not fail to catch the eye.
  "See, Watson!" said he. "'High red house with stone facings.'
There is the signal station all right. We know the place, and we
know the code; so surely our task should be simple. There's a 'to let'
card in that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which the
confederate has access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what now?"
  "I have it all ready for you. If you will both come up and leave
your boots below on the landing, I'll put you there now."
  It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged. The
mirror was so placed that, seated in the dark, we could very plainly
see the door opposite. We had hardly settled down in it, and Mrs.
Warren left us, when a distant tinkle announced that our mysterious
neighbour had rung. Presently the landlady appeared with the tray,
laid it down upon a chair beside the closed door, and then, treading
heavily, departed. Crouching together in the angle of the door, we
kept our eyes fixed upon the mirror. Suddenly, as the landlady's
footsteps died away, there was the creak of a turning key, the handle
revolved, and two thin hands darted out and lifted the tray from the
chair. An instant later it was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a
glimpse of a dark, beautiful, horrified face glaring at the narrow
opening of the box-room. Then the door crashed to, the key turned once
more, and all was silence. Holmes twitched my sleeve, and together
we stole down the stair.
  "I will call again in the evening," said he to the expectant
landlady. "I think, Watson, we can discuss this business better in our
own quarters."
  "My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct," said he, speaking
from the depths of his easy-chair. "There has been a substitution of
lodgers. What I did not foresee is that we should find a woman, and no
ordinary woman, Watson."
  "She saw us."
  "Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is certain. The
general sequence of events is pretty clear, is it not? A couple seek
refuge in London from a very terrible and instant danger. The
measure of that danger is the rigour of their precautions. The man,
who has some work which he must do, desires to leave the woman in
absolute safety while he does it. It is not an easy problem, but he
solved it in an original fashion, and so effectively that her presence
was not even known to tile landlady who supplies her with food. The
printed messages, as is now evident, were to prevent her sex being
discovered by her writing. The man cannot come near the woman, or he
will guide their enemies to her. Since he cannot communicate with
her direct, he has recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far all
is clear."
  "But what is at the root of it?"
  "Ah, yes, Watson- severely practical, as usual! What is at the
root of it all? Mrs. Warren's whimsical problem enlarges somewhat
and assumes a more sinister aspect as we proceed. This much we can
say: that it is no ordinary love escapade. You saw the woman's face at
the sign of danger. We have heard, too, of the attack upon the
landlord, which was undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms,
and the desperate need for secrecy, argue that the matter is one of
life or death. The attack upon Mr. Warren further shows that the
enemy, whoever they are, are themselves not aware of the
substitution of the female lodger for the male. It is very curious and
complex, Watson."
  "Why should you go further in it? What have you to gain from it?"
  "What, indeed? It is art for art's sake, Watson. I suppose when
you doctored you found yourself studying cases without thought of a
fee?"
  "For my education, Holmes."
  "Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with the
greatest for the last. This is an instructive case. There is neither
money nor credit in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it up. When
dusk comes we should find ourselves one stage advanced in our
investigation."
  When we returned to Mrs. Warren's rooms, the gloom of a London
winter evening had thickened into one gray curtain, a dead monotone of
colour, broken only by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and the
blurred haloes of the gas-lamps. As we peered from the darkened
sitting-room of the lodging-house, one more dim light glimmered high
up through the obscurity.
  "Someone is moving in that room," said Holmes in a whisper, his
gaunt and cager face thrust forward to the window-pane. "Yes, I can
see his shadow. There he is again! He has a candle in his hand. Now he
is peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on the lookout. Now
he begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may check
each other. A single flash- that is A, surely. Now, then. How many did
you make it? Twenty. So did I. That should mean T. AT- that's
intelligible enough! Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a
second word. Now, then- TENTA. Dead stop. That can't be all, Watson?
ATTENTA gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN,
TA, unless T. A. are a person's initials. There it goes again!
What's that? ATTE- why, it is the same message over again. Curious,
Watson, very curious! Now he is off once more! AT- why, he is
repeating it for the third time. ATTENTA three times! How often will
be repeat it? No, that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn from
the window. What do you make of it, Watson?"
  "A cipher message, Holmes."
  My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension. "And not a very
obscure cipher, Watson," said he. "Why, of course, it is Italian!
The A means that it is addressed to a woman. 'Beware! Beware! Beware!'
How's that, Watson?"
  "I believe you have hit it."
  "Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated
to make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit; he is coming to
the window once more."
  Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk
of the small flame across the window as the signals were renewed. They
came more rapidly than before- so rapid that it was hard to follow
them.
   PERICOLO- pericolo- eh, what's that, Watson? 'Danger,' isn't it?
Yes, by Jove, it's a danger signal. There he goes again! PERI. Halloa,
what on earth-"
  The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of window had
disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the lofty
building, with its tiers of shining casements. That last warning cry
had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same thought
occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes sprang up from where he
crouched by the window.
  "This is serious, Watson," he cried. "There is some devilry going
forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way? I should put
Scotland Yard in touch with this business- and yet, it is too pressing
for us to leave."
  "Shall I go for the police?"
  "We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear
some more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go across
ourselves and see what we can make of it."
  As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building
which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could
see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing tensely, rigidly, out
into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal of
that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats a
man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the
railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.
  "Holmes!" he cried.
  "Why, Gregson!" said my companion as he shook hands with the
Scotland Yard detective. "Journeys end with lovers' meetings. What
brings you here?"
  "The same reasons that bring you, I expect," said Gregson. "How
you got on to it I can't imagine."
  "Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I've been
taking the signals."
  "Signals?"
  "Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over
to see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no
object in continuing the business."
  "Wait a bit!" cried Gregson eagerly. "I'll do you this justice,
Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel stronger
for having you on my side. There's only the one exit to these flats,
so we have him safe."
  "Who is he?"
  "Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give
us best this time." He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on
which a cabman, his whip in his band, sauntered over from a
four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. "May I
introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he said to the cabman. This
is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton's American Agency."
  "The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?" said Holmes. "Sir, I
am pleased to meet you."
  The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a
clean-shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation.
"I am on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes," said he. "If I can get
Gorgiano-"
  "What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?"
  "Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all about
him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and
yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over
from New York, and I've been close to him for a week in London,
waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I
ran him to ground in that big tenement house, and there's only the one
door, so he can't slip us. There's three folk come out since he went
in, but I'll swear he wasn't one of them."
  "Mr. Holmes talks of signals," said Gregson. "I expect, as usual, he
knows a good deal that we don't."
  In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had
appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.
  "He's on to us!" he cried.
  "Why do you think so?"
  "Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out
messages to an accomplice- there are several of his gang in London.
Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that
there was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that
from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the
street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was,
and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you
suggest, Mr. Holmes?"
  "That we go up at once and see for ourselves."
  "But we have no warrant for his arrest."
  "He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances,"
said Gregson. "That is good enough for the moment. When we have him by
the heels we can see if New York can't help us to keep him. I'll
take the responsibility of arresting him now."
  Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence,
but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this
desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and businesslike
bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of
Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but
Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege
of the London force.
  The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing
ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and
darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's lantern. As I did
so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of
surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor there was
outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us
and led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson
flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while
we all peered eagerly over his shoulders.
  In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the
figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face
grotesquely horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by a
ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the
white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in
agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat
there projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his
body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox
before that terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most formidable
horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and near it a black
kid glove.
  "By George! it's Black Gorgiano himself!" cried the American
detective. "Someone has got ahead of us this time."
  Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson. "Why,
whatever are you doing?"
   Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it
backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into
the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.
  "I rather think that will be helpful," said he. He came over and
stood in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the
body. "You say that three people came out from the flat while you were
waiting downstairs," said he at last. "Did you observe them closely?"
  "Yes, I did."
  "Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle
size?"
  "Yes; he was the last to pass me."
  "That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we
have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough
for you."
  "Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London."
  "Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to
your aid."
  We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway,
was a tall and beautiful woman- the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury.
Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful
apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted
upon the dark figure on the floor.
  "You have killed him!" she muttered. "Oh, Dio mio, you have killed
him!" Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang
into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced,
her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder,
and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It
was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy
at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a
questioning stare.
  "But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe
Gorgiano. Is it not so?"
  "We are police, madam."
  She looked round into the shadows of the room.
  "But where, then, is Gennaro?" she asked. "He is my husband, Gennaro
Lucca. am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is
Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with all
my speed."
  "It was I who called," said Holmes.
  "You! How could you call?"
  "Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was
desirable. I knew that I had only to flash "Vieni" and you would
surely come."
  The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.
  "I do not understand how you know these things," she said. "Giuseppe
Gorgiano- how did he--" She paused, and then suddenly her face lit
up with pride and delight. "Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid,
beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it,
with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how
wonderful you are! What woman could ever be worthy of such a man?"
  "Well, Mrs. Lucca," said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon
the lady's sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting
Hill hooligan, "I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are;
but you've said enough to make it very clear that we shall want you at
the Yard."
  "One moment, Gregson," said Holmes. "I rather fancy that this lady
may be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You
understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for
the death of the man who lies before us? What you say may be used in
evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motives which are
not criminal, and which he would wish to have known, then you cannot
serve him better than by telling us the whole story."
  "Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing," said the lady. "He
was a devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world
who would punish my husband for having killed him."
  "In that case," said Holmes, "my suggestion is that we lock this
door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room,
and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has to
say to us."
  Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small
sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative
of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to
witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional
English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.
  "I was born in Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was the
daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the
deputy of that part. Gennaro was in my father's employment, and I came
to love him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor position-
nothing but his beauty and strength and energy- so my father forbade
the match. We fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my
jewels to gain the money which would take us to America. This was four
years ago, and we have been in New York ever since.
  "Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a
service to an Italian gentleman- he saved him from some ruffians in
the place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name
was Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm
of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New
York. Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has
all power within the firm, which employs more than three hundred
men. He took my husband into his employment, made him head of a
department, and showed his good-will towards him in every way.
Signor Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if
Gennaro was his son, and both my husband and I loved him as if he were
our father. We had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and
our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which
was soon to overspread our sky.
  "One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a
fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had
come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for
you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a giant
but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying.
His voice was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce
room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his
emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked,
or rather roared, with such energy that others could but sit and
listen, cowed with the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at
you and held you at his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man.
I thank God that he is dead!
  "He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no more
happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit pale and
listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon
social questions which made up our visitor's conversation. Gennaro
said nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in his face some
emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought that
it was dislike. And then, gradually, I understood that it was more
than dislike. It was fear- a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night-
the night that I read his terror- I put my arms round him and I
implored him by his love for me and by all that he held dear to hold
nothing from me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so.
  "He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My
poor Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed
against him and his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of
life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was
allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this brotherhood
were frightful, but once within its rule no escape was possible.
When we had fled to America Gennaro thought that he had cast it all
off forever. What was his horror one evening to meet in the streets
the very man who had initiated him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a
man who had earned the name of 'Death' in the south of Italy, for he
was red to the elbow in murder! He had come to New York to avoid the
Italian police, and he had already planted a branch of this dreadful
society in his new home. All this Gennaro told me and showed me a
summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle drawn upon
the head of it telling him that a lodge would be held upon a certain
date, and that his presence at it was required and ordered.
  "That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for
some time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly did, in
the evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his words were to my
husband those terrible, glaring, wildbeast eyes of his were always
turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what
he called 'love' within him- the love of a brute- a savage. Gennaro
had not yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me
in his mighty arms, hugged me in his bear's embrace, covered me with
kisses, and implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and
screaming when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck Gennaro
senseless and fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It
was a deadly enemy that we made that night.
  "A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it with
a face which told me that something dreadful had occurred. It was
worse than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society
were raised by blackmailing rich Italians and threatening them with
violence should they refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our
dear friend and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to
yield to threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It
was resolved how that such an example should be made of him as would
prevent any other victim, from rebelling. At the meeting it was
arranged that he and his house should be blown up with dynamite. There
was a drawing of lots as to who should carry out the deed. Gennaro saw
our enemy's cruel face, smiling at him as he dipped his hand in the
bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some fashion, for it was
the fatal disc with the Red Circle upon it, the mandate for murder,
which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend, or he was
to expose himself and me to the vengeance of his comrades. It was part
of their fiendish system to punish those whom they feared or hated
by injuring not only their own persons but those whom they loved,
and it was the knowledge of this which hung as a terror over my poor
Gennaro's head and drove him nearly crazy with apprehension.
  "All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each
strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very
next evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband
and I were on our way to London, but not before he had given our
benefactor full warning of his danger, and had also left such
information for the police as would safeguard his life for the future.
  "The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our
enemies would be behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his
private reasons for vengence, but in any case we knew how ruthless,
cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full
of stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exerted it
would be now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our
start had given us in arranging for a refuge for me in such a
fashion that no possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he
wished to be free that he might communicate both with the American and
with the Italian police. I do not myself know where he lived, or
how. All that I learned was through the columns of a newspaper. But
once as I looked through my window, I saw two Italians watching the
house, and I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found out our
retreat. Finally Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he would
signal to me from a certain window, but when the signals came they
were nothing but warnings, which were suddenly interrupted. It is very
clear to me now that he knew Gorgiano to be close upon him, and
that, thank God! he was ready for him when he came. And now,
gentlemen, I would ask you whether we have anything to fear from the
law, or whether any judge upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for what
he has done?"
  "Well, Mr. Gregson," said the American, looking across at the
official, "I don't know what your British point of view may be, but
I guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive a pretty
general vote of thanks."
  "She will have to come with me and see the chief," Gregson answered.
"If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband
has much to fear. But what I can't make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes,
is how on earth you got yourself mixed up in the matter."
  "Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking knowledge at the old
university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic and
grotesque to add to your collection. By the way, it is not eight
o'clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden! If we burry, we might be
in time for the second act."


                           -THE END-
