ADVENTURE VI.

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-colored 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 l 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 neighbor. 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 color. 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 favored 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 clew 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 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 neighborhood, 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 l0s., 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 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 neighborhood 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 windowsill,

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 immedlately

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 color 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 clew.




"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 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 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 color, 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 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 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 colored 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 waterjug, 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 you 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 greenroom 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-colored 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 moch 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."

****

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