                                      1891
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES
                          THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of
the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium.
He 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
oillamp 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 L1000 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 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 fringe 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-to 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
L88 10s., while he has L220 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 to-night.
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 afternoon. 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 Thread needle 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,
crosslegged, 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 halfpennies-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
downstairs 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 stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the
pockets to make sure of the coats 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 aqualine 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 the 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 stableboy 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 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 streets 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 stoneflagged 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 L25. 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 L2 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 L700 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 L2.
  "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."


                              -THE END-
