
                       THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
                         The Man With the Twisted Lip
      Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of
      the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to
      opium.  The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some
      foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's
      description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his
      tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects.
      He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier
      to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to
      be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to
      his friends and relatives.  I can see him now, with yellow, pasty
      face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair,
      the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

          One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell,
      about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the
      clock.  I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work
      down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

          "A patient!" said she.  "You'll have to go out."

          I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

          We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick
      steps upon the linoleum.  Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad
      in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

          "You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then,
      suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms
      about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder.  "Oh, I'm in
      such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."

          "Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.
      How you startled me, Kate!  I had not an idea who you were when
      you came in."

          "I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you."  That
      was always the way.  Folk who were in grief came to my wife like
      birds to a light-house.

          "It was very sweet of you to come.  Now, you must have some
      wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it.
      Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

          "Oh, no, no!  I want the doctor's advice and help, too.  It's
      about Isa.  He has not been home for two days.  I am so frightened
      about him!"

          It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her
      husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend
      and school companion.  We soothed and comforted her by such words
      as we could find.  Did she know where her husband was?  Was it
      possible that we could bring him back to her?

          It seems that it was.  She had the surest information that of
      late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in
      the farthest east of the City.  Hitherto his orgies had always
      been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and
      shattered, in the evening.  But now the spell had been upon him
      eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs
      of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects.
      There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold,
      in Upper Swandam Lane.  But what was she to do?  How could she, a
      young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck
      her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

          There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of
      it.  Might I not escort her to this place?  And then, as a second
      thought, why should she come at all?  I was Isa Whitney's medical
      adviser, and as such I had influence over him.  I could manage it
      better if I were alone.  I promised her on my word that I would
      send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the
      address which she had given me.  And so in ten minutes I had left
      my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding
      eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at
      the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to
      be.

          But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my
      adventure.  Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the
      high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of
      London Bridge.  Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by
      a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth
      of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.  Ordering my
      cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by
      the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a
      flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my
      way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium
      smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an
      emigrant ship.

          Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies
      lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees,
      heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there
      a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer.  Out of the
      black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now
      bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the
      bowls of the metal pipes.  The most lay silent, but some muttered
      to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low,
      monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then
      suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own
      thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour.  At
      the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside
      which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old
      man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon
      his knees, staring into the fire.

          As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a
      pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty
      berth.

          "Thank you.  I have not come to stay," said I.  "There is a
      friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with
      him."

          There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and
      peering through the gloom I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and
      unkempt, staring out at me.

          "My God!  It's Watson," said he.  He was in a pitiable state
      of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter.  "I say, Watson, what
      o'clock is it?"

          "Nearly eleven."

          "Of what day?"

          "Of Friday, June 19th."

          "Good heavens!  I thought it was Wednesday.  It is Wednesday.
      What d'you want to frighten the chap for?"  He sank his face onto
      his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

          "I tell you that it is Friday, man.  Your wife has been
      waiting this two days for you.  You should be ashamed of
      yourself!"

          "So I am.  But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been
      here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many.  But
      I'll go home with you.  I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little
      Kate.  Give me your hand!  Have you a cab?"

          "Yes, I have one waiting."

          "Then I shall go in it.  But I must owe something.  Find what
      I owe, Watson.  I am all off colour.  I can do nothing for
      myself."

          I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of
      sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes
      of the drug, and looking about for the manager.  As I passed the
      tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt,
      and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at
      me."  The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear.  I glanced
      down.  They could only have come from the old man at my side, and
      yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent
      with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as
      though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers.  I took
      two steps forward and looked back.  It took all my self-control to
      prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment.  He had
      turned his back so that none could see him but I.  His form had
      filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained
      their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my
      surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.  He made a slight
      motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face
      half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering,
      loose-lipped senility.

          "Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this
      den?"

          "As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears.  If
      you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish
      friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk
      with you."

          "I have a cab outside."

          "Then pray send him home in it.  You may safely trust him, for
      he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief.  I should
      recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to
      say that you have thrown in your lot with me.  If you will wait
      outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."

          It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes's requests,
      for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with
      such a quiet air of mastery.  I felt, however, that when Whitney
      was once confined in the cab my mission was practically
      accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better
      than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular
      adventures which were the normal condition of his existence.  In a
      few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him
      out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness.  In a
      very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den,
      and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes.  For two
      streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.
      Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and
      burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

          "I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have
      added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other
      little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical
      views."

          "I was certainly surprised to find you there."

          "But not more so than I to find you."

          "I came to find a friend."

          "And I to find an enemy."

          "An enemy?"

          "Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural
      prey.  Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable
      inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent
      ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now.  Had I been
      recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an hour's
      purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and
      the rascally lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon
      me.  There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the
      corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of
      what has passed through it upon the moonless nights."

          "What!  You do not mean bodies?"

          "Ay, bodies, Watson.  We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds
      for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den.  It
      is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that
      Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more.  But our
      trap should be here."  He put his two forefingers between his
      teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a
      similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle
      of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

          "Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up
      through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light
      from its side lanterns.  "You'll come with me, won't you?"

          "If I can be of use."

          "Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still
      more so.  My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

          "The Cedars?"

          "Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house.  I am staying there while
      I conduct the inquiry."

          "Where is it, then?"

          "Near Lee, in Kent.  We have a seven-mile drive before us."

          "But I am all in the dark."

          "Of course you are.  You'll know all about it presently.  Jump
      up here.  All right, John; we shall not need you.  Here's half a
      crown.  Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven.  Give her her
      head.  So long, then!"

          He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through
      the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which
      widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded
      bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us.
      Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its
      silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the
      policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of
      revellers.  A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a
      star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the
      clouds.  Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
      breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat
      beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which
      seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in
      upon the current of his thoughts.  We had driven several miles,
      and were beginning to get to the hinge of the belt of suburban
      villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up
      his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he
      is acting for the best.

          "You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he.  "It
      makes you quite invaluable as a companion.  'Pon my word, it is a
      great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts
      are not over-pleasant.  I was wondering what I should say to this
      dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

          "You forget that I know nothing about it."

          "I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case
      before we get to Lee.  It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow,
      I can get nothing to go upon.  There's plenty of thread, no doubt,
      but I can't get the end of it into my hand.  Now, I'll state the
      case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a
      spark where all is dark to me."

          "Proceed, then."

          "Some years ago be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee a
      gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty
      of money.  He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very
      nicely, and lived generally in good style.  By degrees he made
      friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter
      of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children.  He had no
      occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into
      town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon
      Street every night.  Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of
      age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very
      affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know
      him.  I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far
      as we have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10 shillings.,
      while he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and
      Counties Bank.
      There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have
      been weighing upon his mind.

          "Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather
      earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two
      important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his
      little boy home a box of bricks.  Now, by the merest chance, his
      wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after
      his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable
      value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the
      offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company.  Now, if you are well up
      in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in
      Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you
      found me tight.  Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the
      City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office, got
      her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through
      Swandam Lane on her way back to the station.  Have you followed me
      so far?"

          "It is very clear."

          "If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs.
      St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a
      cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found
      herself.  While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she
      suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see
      her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her,
      beckoning to her from a second-floor window.  The window was open,
      and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being
      terribly agitated.  He waved his hands frantically to her, and
      then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her
      that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from
      behind.  One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye
      was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started
      to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

          "Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down
      the steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in
      which you found me to-night--and running through the front room
      she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor.
      At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this lascar scoundrel
      of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane,
      who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street.
      Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down
      the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number
      of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat.
      The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of
      the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to
      the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen.  There was no
      sign of him there.  In fact, in the whole of that floor there was
      no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who,
      it seems, made his home there.  Both he and the lascar stoutly
      swore that no one else had been in the front room during the
      aftenoon.  So determined was their denial that the inspector was
      staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had
      been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box
      which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it.  Out there fell
      a cascade of children's bricks.  It was the toy which he had
      promised to bring home.

          "This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple
      showed, made the inspector realize that the matter was serious.
      The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an
      abominable crime.  The front room was plainly furnished as a
      sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon
      the back of one of the wharves.  Between the wharf and the bedroom
      window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered
      at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water.  The
      bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below.  On
      examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the window-sill,
      and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of
      the bedroom.  Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were
      all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of
      his coat.  His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all were
      there.  There were no signs of violence upon any of these
      garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair.
      Out of the window he must apparently have gone, for no other exit
      could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill
      gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for
      the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

          "And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately
      implicated in the matter.  The lascar was known to be a man of the
      vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was
      known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few
      seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly
      have been more than an accessory to the crime.  His defense was
      one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no
      knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he
      could not account in any way for the presence of the missing
      gentleman's clothes.

          "So much for the lascar manager.  Now for the sinister cripple
      who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was
      certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.
      Clair.  His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which
      is familiar to every man who goes much to the City.  He is a
      professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police
      regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas.  Some
      little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side,
      there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall.
      Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged,
      with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous
      spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather
      cap which lies upon the pavement beside him.  I have watched the
      fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his
      professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the
      harvest which he has reaped in a short time.  His appearance, you
      see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing
      him.  A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible
      scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of
      his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark
      eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair,
      all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants, and so,
      too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece
      of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.  This is
      the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium
      den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we
      are in quest."

          "But a cripple!" said I.  "What could he have done
      single-handed against a man in the prime of life?"

          "He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but
      in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured
      man.  Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that
      weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional
      strength in the others."

          "Pray continue your narrative."

          "Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
      window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
      presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
      Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful
      examination of the premises, but without finding anything which
      threw any light upon the matter.  One mistake had been made in not
      arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes
      during which he might have communicated with his friend the
      lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and
      searched, without anything being found which could incriminate
      him.  There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right
      shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been
      cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from
      there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and
      that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from
      the same source.  He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr.
      Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in
      his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police.  As to
      Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband
      at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or
      dreaming.  He was removed, loudly protesting, to the
      police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in
      the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.

          "And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what
      they had feared to find.  It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not
      Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded.  And
      what do you think they found in the pockets?"

          "I cannot imagine."

          "No, I don't think you would guess.  Every pocket stuffed with
      pennies and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies.  It
      was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide.  But a
      human body is a different matter.  There is a fierce eddy between
      the wharf and the house.  It seemed likely enough that the
      weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked
      away into the river."

          "But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the
      room.  Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

          "No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough.
      Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through
      the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.
      What would he do then?  It would of course instantly strike him
      that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments.  He would seize
      the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it
      would occur to him that it would swim and not sink.  He has little
      time, for he has heard the scuffle down-stairs when the wife tried
      to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his
      lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
      There is not an instant to be lost.  He rushes to some secret
      hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he
      staffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the
      pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking.  He throws it out, and
      would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard
      the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
      window when the police appeared."

          "It certainly sounds feasible."

          "Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a
      better.  Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the
      station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been
      anything against him.  He had for years been known as a
      professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very
      quiet and innocent one.  There the matter stands at present, and
      the questions which have to be solved--what Neville St. Clair was
      doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is
      he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance--are
      all as far from a solution as ever.  I confess that I cannot
      recall any case within my experience which looked at the first
      glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."

          While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series
      of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great
      town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we
      rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.  Just
      as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages,
      where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

          "We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion.  "We have
      touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in
      Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent.
      See that light among the trees?  That is The Cedars, and beside
      that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have
      little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."

          "But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I
      asked.

          "Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here.
      Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and
      you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for
      my friend and colleague.  I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have
      no news of her husband.  Here we are.  Whoa, there, whoa!"

          We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within
      its own grounds.  A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head,
      and springing down I followed Holmes up the small, winding
      gravel-drive which led to the house.  As we approached, the door
      flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in
      some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink
      chiffon at her neck and wrists.  She stood with her figure
      outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one
      half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and
      face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing
      question.

          "Well?" she cried, "well?"  And then, seeing that there were
      two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she
      saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

          "No good news?"

          "None."

          "No bad?"

          "No."

          "Thank God for that.  But come in.  You must be weary, for you
      have had a long day."

          "This is my friend, Dr. Watson.  He has been of most vital use
      to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it
      possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this
      investigation."

          "I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand
      warmly.  "You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be
      wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has
      come so suddenly upon us."

          "My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I
      were not I can very well see that no apology is needed.  If I can
      be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall
      be indeed happy."

          "Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a
      well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had
      been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two
      plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain
      answer."

          "Certainly, madam."

          "Do not trouble about my feelings.  I am not hysterical, nor
      given to fainting.  I simply wish to hear your real, real
      opinion."

          "Upon what point?"

          "In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

          Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.
      "Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking
      keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

          "Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

          "You think that he is dead?"

          "I do."

          "Murdered?"

          "I don't say that.  Perhaps."

          "And on what day did he meet his death?"

          "On Monday."

          "Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain
      how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

          Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been
      galvanized.

          "What!" he roared.

          "Yes, to-day."  She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of
      paper in the air.

          "May I see it?"

          "Certainly."

          He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out
      upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently.  I
      had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder.  The
      envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend
      postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day
      before, for it was considerably after midnight.

          "Coarse writing," murmured Holmes.  "Surely this is not your
      husband's writing, madam."

          "No, but the enclosure is."

          "I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go
      and inquire as to the address."

          "How can you tell that?"

          "The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried
      itself.  The rest is of the grayish colour, which shows that
      blotting-paper has been used.  If it had been written straight
      off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade.  This
      man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before
      he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar
      with it.  It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so
      important as trifles.  Let us now see the letter.  Ha!  there has
      been an enclosure here!"

          "Yes, there was a ring.  His signet-ring."

          "And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

          "One of his hands."

          "One?"

          "His hand when he wrote hurriedly.  It is very unlike his
      usual writing, and yet I know it well."

              "Dearest do not be frightened.  All will come well.  There
          is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.
          Wait in patience.

                                                              "Neville.

          Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no
      water-mark.  Hum!  Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a
      dirty thumb.  Ha!  And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very
      much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco.  And you
      have no doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"

          "None.  Neville wrote those words."

          "And they were posted to-day at Gravesend.  Well, Mrs. St.
      Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that
      the danger is over."

          "But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

          "Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent.
      The ring, after all, proves nothing.  It may have been taken from
      him."

          "No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

          "Very well.  It may, however, have been written on Monday and
      only posted to-day."

          "That is possible."

          "If so, much may have happened between."

          "Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes.  I know that all
      is well with him.  There is so keen a sympathy between us that I
      should know if evil came upon him.  On the very day that I saw him
      last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room
      rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something
      had happened.  Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle
      and yet be ignorant of his death?"

          "I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a
      woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical
      reasoner.  And in this letter you certainly have a very strong
      piece of evidence to corroborate your view.  But if your husband
      is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from
      you?"

          "I cannot imagine.  It is unthinkable."

          "And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

          "No."

          "And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

          "Very much so."

          "Was the window open?"

          "Yes."

          "Then he might have called to you?"

          "He might."

          "He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

          "Yes."

          "A call for help, you thought?"

          "Yes.  He waved his hands."

          "But it might have been a cry of surprise.  Astonishment at
      the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his
      hands?"

          "It is possible."

          "And you thought he was pulled back?"

          "He disappeared so suddenly."

          "He might have leaped back.  You did not see anyone else in
      the room?"

          "No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and
      the lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

          "Quite so.  Your husband, as far as you could see, had his
      ordinary clothes on?"

          "But without his collar or tie.  I distinctly saw his bare
      throat."

          "Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

          "Never."

          "Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

          "Never."

          "Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair.  Those are the principal points
      about which I wished to be absolutely clear.  We shall now have a
      little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day
      to-morrow."

          A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at
      our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was
      weary after my night of adventure.  Sherlock Holmes was a man,
      however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would
      go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over,
      rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view
      until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data
      were insufficient.  It was soon evident to me that he was now
      preparing for an all-night sitting.  He took off his coat and
      waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered
      about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from
      the sofa and armchairs.  With these he constructed a sort of
      Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an
      ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of
      him.  In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old
      briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the
      corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
      motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline
      features.  So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when
      a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer
      sun shining into the apartment.  The pipe was still between his
      lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a
      dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which
      I had seen upon the previous night.

          "Awake, Watson?" he asked.

          "Yes."

          "Game for a morning drive?"

          "Certainly."

          "Then dress.  No one is stirring yet, but I know where the
      stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out."  He
      chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed
      a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

          As I dressed I glanced at my watch.  It was no wonder that no
      one was stirring.  It was twenty-five minutes past four.  I had
      hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy
      was putting in the horse.

          "I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on
      his boots.  "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the
      presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe.  I deserve
      to be kicked from here to Charing Cross.  But I think I have the
      key of the affair now."

          "And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

          "In the bathroom," he answered.  "Oh, yes, I am not joking,"
      he continued, seeing my look of incredulity.  "I have just been
      there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this
      Gladstone bag.  Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will
      not fit the lock."

          We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out
      into the bright morning sunshine.  In the road stood our horse and
      trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head.  We both
      sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road.  A few country
      carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but
      the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as
      some city in a dream.

          "It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes,
      flicking the horse on into a gallop.  "I confess that I have been
      as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than
      never to learn it at all."

          In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look
      sleepily from their windows as we drove through the sheets of the
      Surrey side.  Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed
      over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply
      to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street.  Sherlock Holmes
      was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door
      saluted him.  One of them held the horse's head while the other
      led us in.

          "Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

          "Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

          "Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?"  A tall, stout official had
      come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged
      jacket.  "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet."

          "Certainly, Mr. Holmes.  Step into my room here."

          It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the
      table, and a telephone projecting from the wall.  The inspector
      sat down at his desk.

          "What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

          "I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged
      with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St.
      Clair, of Lee."

          "Yes.  He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

          "So I heard.  You have him here?"

          "In the cells."

          "Is he quiet?"

          "Oh, he gives no trouble.  But he is a dirty scoundrel."

          "Dirty?"

          "Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his
      face is as black as a tinker's.  Well, when once his case has been
      settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you
      saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it."

          "I should like to see him very much."

          "Would you?  That is easily done.  Come this way.  You can
      leave your bag."

          "No, I think that I'll take it."

          "Very good.  Come this way, if you please."  He led us down a
      passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and
      brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each
      side.

          "The third on the right is his," said the inspector.  "Here it
      is!"  He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door
      and glanced through.

          "He is asleep," said he.  "You can see him very well."

          We both put our eyes to the grating.  The prisoner lay with
      his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and
      heavily.  He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his
      calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his
      tattered coat.  He was, as the inspector had said, extremely
      dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its
      repulsive ugliness.  A broad wheal from an old scar ran right
      across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up
      one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a
      perpetual snarl.  A shock of very bright red hair grew low over
      his eyes and forehead.

          "He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

          "He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes.  "I had an idea
      that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with
      me."  He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my
      astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

          "He! he!  You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

          "Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door
      very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable
      figure."

          "Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector.  "He doesn't
      look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?"  He slipped his
      key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell.  The
      sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep
      slumber.  Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge,
      and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner's
      face.

          "Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair,
      of Lee, in the county of Kent."

          Never in my life have I seen such a sight.  The man's face
      peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree.  Gone was
      the coarse brown tint!  Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had
      seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the
      repulsive sneer to the face!  A twitch brought away the tangled
      red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced,
      refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his
      eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment.  Then
      suddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw
      himself down with his face to the pillow.

          "Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the
      missing man.  I know him from the photograph."

          The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who
      abandons himself to his destiny.  "Be it so," said he.  "And pray,
      what am I charged with?"

          "With making away with Mr. Neville St.--Oh, come, you can't be
      charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of
      it," said the inspector with a grin.  "Well, I have been
      twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

          "If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no
      crime has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally
      detained."

          "No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said
      Holmes.  "You would have done better to have trusted your wife."

          "It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the
      prisoner.  "God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their
      father.  My God!  What an exposure!  What can I do?"

          Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted
      him kindly on the shoulder.

          "If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,"
      said he, "of course you can hardly avoid publicity.  On the other
      hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no
      possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason
      that the details should find their way into the papers.  Inspector
      Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you
      might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities.  The case
      would then never go into court at all."

          "God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately.  "I would
      have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have
      left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

          "You are the first who have ever heard my story.  My father
      was a school-master in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
      education.  I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and
      finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London.  One day
      my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the
      metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them.  There was the point
      from which all my adventures started.  It was only by trying
      begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to
      base my articles.  When an actor I had, of course learned all the
      secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for my
      skill.  I took advantage now of my attainments.  I painted my
      face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good
      scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small
      slip of flesh-coloured plaster.  Then with a red head of hair, and
      an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of
      the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar.
      For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the
      evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than
      26s. 4d.

          "I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter
      until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a
      writ served upon me for 25 pounds.  I was at my wit's end where to get
      the money, but a sudden idea came to me.  I begged a fortnight's
      grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,
      and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise.  In
      ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

          "Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to
      arduous work at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much in
      a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on
      the ground, and sitting still.  It was a long fight between my
      pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up
      reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first
      chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets
      with coppers.  Only one man knew my secret.  He was the keeper of
      a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could
      every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings
      transform myself into a well-dressed man about town.  This fellow,
      a lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that
      my secret was safe in his possession.

          "Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums
      of money.  I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London
      could earn 700 pounds a year--which is less than my average takings--but
      I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in
      a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me
      quite a recognized character in the City.  All day a stream of
      pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very
      bad day in which I failed to take 2 pounds.

          "As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the
      country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion
      as to my real occupation.  My dear wife knew that I had business
      in the City.  She little knew what.

          "Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my
      room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw,
      to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the
      street, with her eyes fixed full upon me.  I gave a cry of
      surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my
      confidant, the lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming
      up to me.  I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could
      not ascend.  Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a
      beggar, and put on my pigments and wig.  Even a wife's eyes could
      not pierce so complete a disguise.  But then it occurred to me
      that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes
      might betray me.  I threw open the window, reopening by my
      violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the
      bedroom that morning.  Then I seized my coat, which was weighted
      by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather
      bag in which I carried my takings.  I hurled it out of the window,
      and it disappeared into the Thames.  The other clothes would have
      followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the
      stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my
      relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair,
      I was arrested as his murderer.

          "I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain.
      I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and
      hence my preference for a dirty face.  Knowing that my wife would
      be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the
      lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together
      with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear."

          "That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

          "Good God!  What a week she must have spent!"

          "The police have watched this lascar," said Inspector
      Bradstreet, "and I can quite understand that he might find it
      difficult to post a letter unobserved.  Probably he handed it to
      some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some
      days."

          "That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no
      doubt of it.  But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

          "Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

          "It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet.  "If the police
      are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

          "I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can
      take."

          "In that case I think that it is probable that no further
      steps may be taken.  But if you are found again, then all must
      come out.  I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted
      to you for having cleared the matter up.  I wish I knew how you
      reach your results."

          "I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five
      pillows and consuming an ounce of shag.  I think, Watson, that if
      we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."

