                                      1926
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES
                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GABLES
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  I don't think that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes
opened quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I
associate with The Three Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days
and had no idea of the new channel into which his activities had
been directed. He was in a chatty mood that morning, however, and
had just settled me into the well-worn low armchair on one side of the
fire, while he had curled down with his pipe in his mouth upon the
opposite chair, when our visitor arrived. If I had said that a mad
bull had arrived it would give a clearer impression of what occurred.
  The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He
would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he was
dressed in a very loud gray check suit with a flowing
salmon-coloured tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust
forward, as his sullen dark eyes, with a smouldering gleam of malice
in them, turned from one of us to the other.
  "Which of you gentlemen is Masser Holmes?" he asked.
  Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.
  "Oh! it's you, is it?" said our visitor, coming with an
unpleasant, stealthy step round the angle of the table. "See here,
Masser Holmes, you keep your hands out of other folks' business. Leave
folks to manage their own affairs. Got that, Masser Holmes?"
  "Keep on talking," said Holmes. "It's fine."
  "Oh! it's fine, is it?" growled the savage. "It won't be so damn
fine if I have to trim you up a bit. I've handled your kind before
now, and they didn't look fine when I was through with them. Look at
that, Masser Holmes!"
  He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend's nose.
Holmes examined it closely with an air of great interest. "Were you
born so?" he asked. "Or did it come by degrees?"
  It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have
been the slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In
any case, our visitor's manner became less flamboyant.
  "Well, I've given you fair warnin'," said he. "I've a friend
that's interested out Harrow way- you know what I'm meaning- and he
don't intend to have no buttin' in by you. Got that? You ain't the
law, and I ain't the law either, and if you come in I'll be on hand
also. Don't you forget it."
  "I've wanted to meet you for some time," said Holmes. "I won't ask
you to sit down, for I don't like the smell of you, but aren't you
Steve Dixie, the bruiser?"
  "That's my name, Masser Holmes, and you'll get put through it for
sure if you give me any lip."
  "It is certainly the last thing you need," said Holmes, staring at
our visitor's hideous mouth. "But it was the killing of young
Perkins outside the Holborn Bar- What! you're not going?"
  The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. "I won't
listen to no such talk," said he. "What have I to do with this 'ere
Perkins, Masser Holmes? I was trainin' at the Bull Ring in
Birmingham when this boy done gone get into trouble."
  "Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve," said Holmes.
"I've been watching you and Barney Stockdale-"
  "So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes-"
  "That's enough. Get out of it. I'll pick you up when I want you."
  "Good-mornin', Masser Holmes. I hope there ain't no hard feelin's
about this 'ere visit?"
  "There will be unless you tell me who sent you."
  "Why, there ain't no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that
same gen'l'man that you have just done gone mention."
  "And who set him on to it?"
  "S'elp me. I don't know, Masser Holmes. He just say, 'Steve, you
go see Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain't safe if he go down
Harrow way.' That's the whole truth." Without waiting for any
further questioning, our visitor bolted out of the room almost as
precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out the ashes of his
pipe with a quiet chuckle.
  "I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I
observed your manoeuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a
harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and
easily cowed, as you have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang and
has taken part in some dirty work of late which I may clear up when
I have time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute person.
They specialize in assaults, intimidation, and the like. What I want
to know is, who is at the back of them on this particular occasion?"
  "But why do they want to intimidate you?"
  "It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the
matter, for if it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble,
there must be something in it."
  "But what is it?"
  "I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is
Mrs. Maberley's note. If you care to come with me we will wire her and
go out at once."

DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES [I read]:
  I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in
connection with this house, and I should much value your advice. You
would find me at home any time to-morrow. The house is within a
short walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband,
Mortimer Maberley, was one of your early clients.
                                     Yours faithfully,
                                            MARY MABERLEY.

  The address was "The Three Gables, Harrow Weald."
  "So that's that!" said Holmes. "And now, if you can spare the
time, Watson, we will get upon our way."
  A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the
house, a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of
undeveloped grassland. Three small projections above the upper windows
made a feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove of
melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place was
poor and depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well
furnished, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly
person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.
  "I remember your husband well, madam," said Holmes, "though it is
some years since he used my services in some trifling matter."
  "Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son
Douglas."
  Holmes looked at her with great interest.
  "Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him
slightly. But of course all London knew him. What a magnificent
creature he was! Where is he now?"
  "Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was attache at Rome, and he died there
of pneumonia last month."
  "I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have
never known anyone so vitally alive, He lived intensely- every fibre
of him!"
  "Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember
him as he was- debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody,
morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was
broken. In a single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a
worn-out cynical man."
  "A love affair- a woman?"
  "Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked
you to come, Mr. Holmes."
  "Dr. Watson and I are at your service."
  "'There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in
this house more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired
life I have seen little of my neighbours. Three days ago I had a
call from a man who said that he was a house agent. He said that
this house would exactly suit a client of his, and that if I would
part with it money would be no object. It seemed to me very strange as
there are several empty houses on the market which appear to be
equally eligible, but naturally I was interested in what he said. I
therefore named a price which was five hundred pounds more than I
gave. He at once closed with the offer, but added that his client
desired to buy the furniture as well and would I put a price upon
it. Some of this furniture is from my old home, and it is, as you see,
very good, so that I named a good round sum. To this also he at once
agreed. I had always wanted to travel, and the bargain was so good a
one that it really seemed that I should be my own mistress for the
rest of my life.
  "Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily
I showed it to Mr. Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to
me, 'This is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign
it you could not legally take anything out of the house- not even your
own private possessions?' When the man came again in the evening I
pointed this out, and I said that I meant only to sell the furniture.
  "'No, no, everything,' said he.
  "'But my clothes? My jewels?'
  "'Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal
effects. But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client is
a very liberal man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing
things. It is everything or nothing with him.'
  "'Then it must be nothing,' said I. And there the matter was left,
but the whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought-"
  Here we had a very extraordinary interruption.
  Holmes raised his hand for silence. Then he strode across the
room, flung open the door, and dragged in a great gaunt woman whom
he had seized by the shoulder. She entered with ungainly struggle like
some huge awkward chicken, torn, squawking, out of its coop.
  "Leave me alone! What are you a-doin' of?" she screeched.
  "Why, Susan, what is this?"
  "Well, ma'am, I was comin' in to ask if the visitors was stayin' for
lunch when this man jumped out at me."
  "I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not
wish to interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little
wheezy, Susan, are you not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of
work."
  Susan turned a sulky but amazed face upon her captor. "Who be you,
anyhow, and what right have you a-pullin' me about like this?"
  "It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did
you, Mrs. Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write
to me and consult me?"
  "No, Mr. Holmes, I did not."
  "Who posted your letter?"
  "Susan did."
  "Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a
message to say that your mistress was asking advice from me?"
  "It's a lie. I sent no message."
  "Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. It's a
wicked thing to tell fibs. Whom did you tell?"
  "Susan!" cried her mistress, "I believe you are a bad, treacherous
woman. I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the
hedge."
  "That was my own business," said the woman sullenly.
  "Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?"
said Holmes.
  "Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?"
  "I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth
ten pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney."
  "Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you
have in the world."
  "So, a rich man? No; you smiled- a rich woman. Now we have got so
far, you may as well give the name and earn the tenner."
  "I'll see you in hell first."
  "Oh, Susan! Language!"
  "I am clearing out of here. I've had enough of you all. I'll send
for my box to-morrow." She flounced for the door.
  "Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff.... Now," he continued,
turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed behind
the flushed and angry woman, "this gang means business. Look how close
they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 P.M. postmark. And
yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to go to his
employer and get instructions; he or she- I incline to the latter from
Susan's grin when she thought I had blundered- forms a plan. Black
Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o'clock next
morning. That's quick work, you know."
  "But what do they want?"
  "Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?"
  "A retired sea captain called Ferguson."
  "Anything remarkable about him?"
  "Not that ever I heard of."
  "I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of
course, when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the
Post-Office bank. But there are always some lunatics about. It would
be a dull world without them. At first I thought of some buried
valuable. But why, in that case, should they want your furniture?
You don't happen to have a Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare
without knowing it?"
  "No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby
tea-set."
  "That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should
they not openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they
can surely offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock,
and barrel. No, as I read it, there is something which you do not know
that you have, and which you would not give up if you did know."
  "That is how I read it," said I.
  "Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it."
  "Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?"
  "Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it
to a finer point. You have been in this house a year."
  "Nearly two."
  "All the better. During this long period no one wants anything
from you. Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent
demands. What would you gather from that?"
  "It can only mean," said I, "that the object, whatever it may be,
has only just come into the house."
  "Settled once again," said Holmes. "Now, Mrs. Maberley, has any
object just arrived?"
  "No, I have bought nothing new this year."
  "Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let
matters develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that
lawyer of yours a capable man?"
  "Mr. Sutro is most capable."
  "Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged
your front door, alone?"
  "I have a young girl."
  "Try and get Sutro to spend a night or two in the house. You might
possibly want protection."
  "Against whom?"
  "Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can't find what
they are after, I must approach the matter from the other end and
try to get at the principal. Did this house-agent man give any
address?"
  "Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and
Valuer."
  "I don't think we shall find him in the directory. Honest business
men don't conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me
know any fresh development. I have taken up your case, and you may
rely upon it that I shall see it through."
  As we passed through the hall Holmes's eyes, which missed nothing,
lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled in a corner.
The labels shone out upon them.
  "'Milano.' 'Lucerne.' These are from Italy."
  "They are poor Douglas's things."
  "You have not unbacked them? How long have you had them?"
  "They arrived last week."
  "But you said- why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we
know that there is not something of value there?"
  "There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only
his pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?"
  Holmes was lost in thought.
  "Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley," he said at last. "Have these
things taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as
possible and see what they contain. I will come to-morrow and hear
your report."
  It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close
surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the
lane there was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We came
on him quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked in
that lonely place. Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.
  "Lookin' for your gun, Masser Holmes?"
  "No, for my scent-bottle, Steve."
  "You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain't you?"
  "It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you
fair warning this morning."
  "Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I
don't want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S'pose
I can help you, Masser Holmes, I will."
  "Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job."
  "So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before.
I don't know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all."
  "Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and
everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don't forget it."
  "All right, Masser Holmes. I'll remember."
  "I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson,"
Holmes remarked as we walked on. "I think he would double-cross his
employer if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of
the Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson,
this is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now.
When I get back I may be clearer in the matter."
  I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how
he spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon
all matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent
his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club and
was the receiving-station as well as the transmitter for all the
gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income
by the paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage
papers which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in
the turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or
eddy, it was marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon
the surface. Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on
occasion was helped in turn.
  When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious
from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most
unpleasant surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the
following telegram:

  Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police
in possession.
                                                 SUTRO.

  Holmes whistled. "The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I
had expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this
business, Watson, which does not surprise me after what I have
heard. This Sutro, of course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear,
in not asking you to spend the night on guard. This fellow has clearly
proved a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for it but another
journey to Harrow Weald."
  We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the
orderly household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had
assembled at the garden gate, while a couple of constables were
examining the windows and the geranium beds. Within we met a gray
old gentleman, who introduced himself as the lawyer, together with a
bustling, rubicund inspector, who greeted Holmes as an old friend.
  "Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I'm afraid.
Just a common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of
the poor old police. No experts need apply."
  "I am sure the case is in very good hands," said Holmes. "Merely
burglary, you say?"
  "Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find
that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in it- they've been
seen about here."
  "Excellent! What did they get?"
  "Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was
chloroformed and the house was- Ah! here is the lady herself."
  Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered
the room, leaning upon a little maidservant.
  "You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling ruefully.
"Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and
so I was unprotected."
  "I only heard of it this morning," the lawyer explained.
  "Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected
his advice, and I have paid for it."
  "You look wretchedly ill," said Holmes. "Perhaps you are hardly
equal to telling me what occurred."
  "It is all here," said the inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.
  "Still, if the lady is not too exhausted-"
  "There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked
Susan had planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house
to an inch. I was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which
was thrust over my mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have
been senseless. When I woke, one man was at the bedside and another
was rising with a bundle in his hand from among my son's baggage,
which was partially opened and littered over the floor. Before he
could get away I sprang up and seized him."
  "You took a big risk," said the inspector.
  "I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have
struck me, for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise
and began screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but
the rascals had got away."
  "What did they take?"
  "Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing, I am sure
there was nothing in my son's trunks."
  "Did the men leave no clue?"
  "There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man
that I grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my
son's handwriting."
  "Which means that it is not of much use," said the inspector. "Now
if it had been in the burglar's-"
  "Exactly," said Holmes. "What rugged common sense! None the less,
I should be curious to see it."
  The inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocketbook.
  "I never pass anything, however trifling," said he with some
pomposity. "That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twenty-five
years' experience I have learned my lesson. There is always the chance
of finger-marks or something."
  Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.
  "What do you make of it, Inspector?"
  "Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see."
  "It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale," said Holmes.
"You have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two hundred
and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four pages?"
  "Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!"
  "It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such
papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?"
  "Yes, sir, it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just
grabbed at what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got."
  "Why should they go to my son's things"' asked Mrs. Maberley.
  "Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their
luck upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr.
Holmes?"
  "I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson." Then,
as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began
in the middle of a sentence and ran like this:

  "...face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, But it was
nothing to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the
face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life,
looking out at his agony and humiliation, She smiled- yes, by
Heaven! she smiled, like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked
up at her. It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Man
must live for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady,
then it shall surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge."

  "Queer grammar!" said Holmes with a smile as he handed the paper
back to the inspector. "Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed
to 'my'? The writer was so carried away by his own story that he
imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero.
  "It seemed mighty poor stuff," said the inspector as he replaced
it in his book. "What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?"
  "I don't think there is anything more for me to do now that the case
is in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you
wished to travel?"
  "It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes."
  "Where would you like to go- Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?"
  "Oh, if I had the money I would go round the world."
  "Quite so. Round the world. Well, good-morning. I may drop you a
line in the evening." As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of
the inspector's smile and shake of the head. "These clever fellows
have always a touch of madness." That was what I read in the
inspector's smile.
  "Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey," said
Holmes when we were back in the roar of central London once more. "I
think we had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well
that you should come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when
you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein."
  We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor
Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself
suddenly.
  "By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?"
  "No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see
the lady who is behind all this mischief."
  "Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She
was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to
touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterful
Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for
generations. She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and
presently found herself the richest as well as the most lovely widow
upon earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased
her own tastes. She had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of
the most striking men in London, was one of them. It was by all
accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a society
butterfly but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But she
is the 'belle dame sans merci' of fiction. When her caprice is
satisfied the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter
can't take her word for it she knows how to bring it home to him."
  "Then that was his own story-"
  "Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to
marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His
Grace's ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a
different matter, so it is imperative- Ah! here we are."
  It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A
machine-like footman took up our cards and returned with word that the
lady was not at home. "Then we shall wait until she is," said Holmes
cheerfully.
  The machine broke down.
  "Not at home means not at home to you," said the footman.
  "Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait.
Kindly give this note to your mistress."
  He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook,
folded it, and handed it to the man.
  "What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.
  "I simply wrote: 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should
pass us in."
  It did- with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an
Arabian Nights drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom,
picked out with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had
come, I felt, to that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds
the half light more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered:
tall, queenly, a perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, with two
wonderful Spanish eyes which looked murder at us both.
  "What is this intrusion- and this insulting message?" she asked,
holding up the slip of paper.
  "I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your
intelligence to do so- though I confess that intelligence has been
surprisingly at fault of late."
  "How so, sir?"
  "By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my
work. Surely no man would take up my profession if it were not that
danger attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the
case of young Maberley."
  "I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with
hired bullies?"
  Holmes turned away wearily.
  "Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good-afternoon!"
  "Stop! Where are you going?"
  "To Scotland Yard."
  We had not got halfway to the door before she had overtaken us and
was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.
  "Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I
feel that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings
of a gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will
treat you as a friend."
  "I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I
represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to listen,
and then I will tell you how I will act."
  "No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like
yourself."
  "What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself
in the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away."
  "No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I
may say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have
the least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not
the first-" She smiled and nodded with a charming coquettish intimacy.
  "I see. You've tested them before."
  "They are good hounds who run silent."
  "Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that
feeds them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are
already after them."
  "They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid
for. I shall not appear in the matter."
  "Unless I bring you into it."
  "No, no, you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's
secret."
  "In the first place, you must give back this manuscript."
  She broke into a ripple of laughter and walked to the fireplace.
There was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker. "Shall
I give this back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as
she stood before us with a challenging smile, that I felt of all
Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to
face. However, he was immune from sentiment.
  "That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your
actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this occasion."
  She threw the poker down with a clatter.
  "How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"
  "I fancy I could tell it to you."
  "But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must
realize it from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life's
ambition about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to
be blamed if she protects herself?"
  "The original sin was yours."
  "Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced
that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage- marriage,
Mr Holmes- with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him.
Then he became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think
that I still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last I
had to make him realize it."
  "By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."
  "You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and
the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing
so. But what did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman
would do such an act? He wrote a book in which he described his own
story. I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there,
under different names, of course; but who in all London would have
failed to recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?"
  "Well, he was within his rights."
  "It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought
with it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a
copy of his book that I might have the torture of anticipation.
There were two copies, he said- one for me, one for his publisher."
  "How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"
  "I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I
found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas's sudden
death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there was
no safety for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and these
would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of them
got into the house as servant. I wanted to do the thing honestly. I
really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and everything in
it. I offered any price she cared to ask. I only tried the other way
when everything else had failed. Now, Mr. Holmes, granting that I
was too hard on Douglas- and, God knows, I am sorry for it!- what else
could I do with my whole future at stake?"
  Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
  "Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a
felony as usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in
first-class style?"
  The lady stared in amazement.
  "Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"
  "Well, I should think so, indeed!"
  "Very good. I think you will sign me a check for that, and I will
see that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of
air. Meantime, lady"- he wagged a cautionary forefinger- "have a care!
Have a care! You can't play with edged tools forever without cutting
those dainty hands."


                            -THE END-
