Chapter III: Part 3

“It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a
bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred
yards. I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I
could see the blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as
fast as I, and they must have been a long mile from the shore
before I caught them up. The haze was like a curtain all round
us, and there were we three in the middle of it. My God, shall I
ever forget their faces when they saw who was in the boat that
was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a
madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death
in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick that
crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps,
for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out
to him, and calling him ‘Alec.’ I struck again, and she lay
stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had
tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should
have joined them. I pulled out my knife, and—well, there! I’ve
said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how
Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of what her
meddling had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat,
stove a plank, and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well
that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in
the haze, and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up,
got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a
suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for
Sarah Cushing, and next day I sent it from Belfast.

“There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do
what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been
punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces
staring at me—staring at me as they stared when my boat broke
through the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me
slow; and if I have another night of it I shall be either mad or
dead before morning. You won’t put me alone into a cell, sir? For
pity’s sake don’t, and may you be treated in your day of agony as
you treat me now.’

“What is the meaning of it, Watson?” said Holmes solemnly as he
laid down the paper. “What object is served by this circle of
misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else
our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what
end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human
reason is as far from an answer as ever.”

III. The Yellow Face

In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases
in which my companion’s singular gifts have made us the listeners
to, and eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only
natural that I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon
his failures. And this not so much for the sake of his
reputation—for, indeed, it was when he was at his wits’ end that
his energy and his versatility were most admirable—but because
where he failed it happened too often that no one else succeeded,
and that the tale was left forever without a conclusion. Now and
again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth was
still discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of the
kind, of which the Affair of the Second Stain and that which I am
now about to recount are the two which present the strongest
features of interest.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s
sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was
undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have
ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste
of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was
some professional object to be served. Then he was absolutely
untiring and indefatigable. That he should have kept himself in
training under such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was
usually of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge
of austerity. Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no
vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the
monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papers
uninteresting.

One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk
with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were
breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the
chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold
leaves. For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for
the most part, as befits two men who know each other intimately.
It was nearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy, as he opened the door.
“There’s been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.”

Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoon
walks!” said he. “Has this gentleman gone, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Didn’t you ask him in?”

“Yes, sir; he came in.”

“How long did he wait?”

“Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir,
a-walkin’ and a-stampin’ all the time he was here. I was waitin’
outside the door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into
the passage, and he cries, ‘Is that man never goin’ to come?’
Those were his very words, sir. ‘You’ll only need to wait a
little longer,’ says I. ‘Then I’ll wait in the open air, for I
feel half choked,’ says he. ‘I’ll be back before long.’ And with
that he ups and he outs, and all I could say wouldn’t hold him
back.”

“Well, well, you did your best,” said Holmes, as we walked into
our room. “It’s very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in
need of a case, and this looks, from the man’s impatience, as if
it were of importance. Halloa! That’s not your pipe on the table.
He must have left his behind him. A nice old briar with a good
long stem of what the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many
real amber mouthpieces there are in London. Some people think
that a fly in it is a sign. Well, he must have been disturbed in
his mind to leave a pipe behind him which he evidently values
highly.”

“How do you know that he values it highly?” I asked.

“Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and
sixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the
wooden stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as
you observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe
did originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he
prefers to patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same
money.”

“Anything else?” I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about
in his hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.

He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin fore-finger,
as a professor might who was lecturing on a bone.

“Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,” said he.
“Nothing has more individuality, save perhaps watches and
bootlaces. The indications here, however, are neither very marked
nor very important. The owner is obviously a muscular man,
left-handed, with an excellent set of teeth, careless in his
habits, and with no need to practise economy.”

My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I
saw that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his
reasoning.

“You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling
pipe,” said I.

“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes
answered, knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an
excellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise
economy.”

“And the other points?”

“He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and
gas-jets. You can see that it is quite charred all down one side.
Of course a match could not have done that. Why should a man hold
a match to the side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a
lamp without getting the bowl charred. And it is all on the right
side of the pipe. From that I gather that he is a left-handed
man. You hold your own pipe to the lamp, and see how naturally
you, being right-handed, hold the left side to the flame. You
might do it once the other way, but not as a constancy. This has
always been held so. Then he has bitten through his amber. It
takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of
teeth, to do that. But if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the
stair, so we shall have something more interesting than his pipe
to study.”

An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered
the room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-grey suit,
and carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him
at about thirty, though he was really some years older.

“I beg your pardon,” said he, with some embarrassment; “I suppose
I should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The
fact is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to
that.” He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is
half dazed, and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.

“I can see that you have not slept for a night or two,” said
Holmes, in his easy, genial way. “That tries a man’s nerves more
than work, and more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help
you?”

“I wanted your advice, sir. I don’t know what to do and my whole
life seems to have gone to pieces.”

“You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?”

“Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man—as a man
of the world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to
God you’ll be able to tell me.”

He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me
that to speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will
all through was overriding his inclinations.

“It’s a very delicate thing,” said he. “One does not like to
speak of one’s domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful
to discuss the conduct of one’s wife with two men whom I have
never seen before. It’s horrible to have to do it. But I’ve got
to the end of my tether, and I must have advice.”

“My dear Mr. Grant Munro—” began Holmes.

Our visitor sprang from his chair. “What!” he cried, “you know my
name?”

“If you wish to preserve your _incognito_,” said Holmes, smiling,
“I would suggest that you cease to write your name upon the
lining of your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the
person whom you are addressing. I was about to say that my friend
and I have listened to a good many strange secrets in this room,
and that we have had the good fortune to bring peace to many
troubled souls. I trust that we may do as much for you. Might I
beg you, as time may prove to be of importance, to furnish me
with the facts of your case without further delay?”

Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead, as if he
found it bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could
see that he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of
pride in his nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to
expose them. Then suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his closed
hand, like one who throws reserve to the winds, he began.

“The facts are these, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am a married man,
and have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I
have loved each other as fondly and lived as happily as any two
that ever were joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in
thought or word or deed. And now, since last Monday, there has
suddenly sprung up a barrier between us, and I find that there is
something in her life and in her thought of which I know as
little as if she were the woman who brushes by me in the street.
We are estranged, and I want to know why.

“Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I
go any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don’t let there be
any mistake about that. She loves me with her whole heart and
soul, and never more than now. I know it. I feel it. I don’t want
to argue about that. A man can tell easily enough when a woman
loves him. But there’s this secret between us, and we can never
be the same until it is cleared.”

“Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro,” said Holmes, with some
impatience.

“I’ll tell you what I know about Effie’s history. She was a widow
when I met her first, though quite young—only twenty-five. Her
name then was Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was
young, and lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this
Hebron, who was a lawyer with a good practice. They had one
child, but the yellow fever broke out badly in the place, and
both husband and child died of it. I have seen his death
certificate. This sickened her of America, and she came back to
live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in Middlesex. I may mention
that her husband had left her comfortably off, and that she had a
capital of about four thousand five hundred pounds, which had
been so well invested by him that it returned an average of seven
per cent. She had only been six months at Pinner when I met her;
we fell in love with each other, and we married a few weeks
afterwards.

“I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or
eight hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a
nice eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was
very countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had
an inn and two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at
the other side of the field which faces us, and except those
there were no houses until you got half way to the station. My
business took me into town at certain seasons, but in summer I
had less to do, and then in our country home my wife and I were
just as happy as could be wished. I tell you that there never was
a shadow between us until this accursed affair began.

“There’s one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When
we married, my wife made over all her property to me—rather
against my will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business
affairs went wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was
done. Well, about six weeks ago she came to me.

“‘Jack,’ said she, ‘when you took my money you said that if ever
I wanted any I was to ask you for it.’

“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘It’s all your own.’

“‘Well,’ said she, ‘I want a hundred pounds.’

“I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply
a new dress or something of the kind that she was after.

“‘What on earth for?’ I asked.

“‘Oh,’ said she, in her playful way, ‘you said that you were only
my banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.’

“‘If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,’
said I.

“‘Oh, yes, I really mean it.’

“‘And you won’t tell me what you want it for?’

“‘Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.’

“So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time
that there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a
check, and I never thought any more of the matter. It may have
nothing to do with what came afterwards, but I thought it only
right to mention it.

“Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from
our house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you
have to go along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond
it is a nice little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very
fond of strolling down there, for trees are always a neighbourly
kind of things. The cottage had been standing empty this eight
months, and it was a pity, for it was a pretty two-storied place,
with an old-fashioned porch and honeysuckle about it. I have
stood many a time and thought what a neat little homestead it
would make.

“Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way,
when I met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of
carpets and things lying about on the grass-plot beside the
porch. It was clear that the cottage had at last been let. I
walked past it, and wondered what sort of folk they were who had
come to live so near us. And as I looked I suddenly became aware
that a face was watching me out of one of the upper windows.

“I don’t know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it
seemed to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way
off, so that I could not make out the features, but there was
something unnatural and inhuman about the face. That was the
impression that I had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a
nearer view of the person who was watching me. But as I did so
the face suddenly disappeared, so suddenly that it seemed to have
been plucked away into the darkness of the room. I stood for five
minutes thinking the business over, and trying to analyze my
impressions. I could not tell if the face were that of a man or a
woman. It had been too far from me for that. But its colour was
what had impressed me most. It was of a livid chalky white, and
with something set and rigid about it which was shockingly
unnatural. So disturbed was I that I determined to see a little
more of the new inmates of the cottage. I approached and knocked
at the door, which was instantly opened by a tall, gaunt woman
with a harsh, forbidding face.

“‘What may you be wantin’?’ she asked, in a Northern accent.

“‘I am your neighbour over yonder,’ said I, nodding towards my
house. ‘I see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that
if I could be of any help to you in any—’

“‘Ay, we’ll just ask ye when we want ye,’ said she, and shut the
door in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back
and walked home. All evening, though I tried to think of other
things, my mind would still turn to the apparition at the window
and the rudeness of the woman. I determined to say nothing about
the former to my wife, for she is a nervous, highly strung woman,
and I had no wish that she would share the unpleasant impression
which had been produced upon myself. I remarked to her, however,
before I fell asleep, that the cottage was now occupied, to which
she returned no reply.

“I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing
jest in the family that nothing could ever wake me during the
night. And yet somehow on that particular night, whether it may
have been the slight excitement produced by my little adventure
or not I know not, but I slept much more lightly than usual. Half
in my dreams I was dimly conscious that something was going on in
the room, and gradually became aware that my wife had dressed
herself and was slipping on her mantle and her bonnet. My lips
were parted to murmur out some sleepy words of surprise or
remonstrance at this untimely preparation, when suddenly my
half-opened eyes fell upon her face, illuminated by the
candle-light, and astonishment held me dumb. She wore an
expression such as I had never seen before—such as I should have
thought her incapable of assuming. She was deadly pale and
breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she
fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then,
thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from
the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking which
could only come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in
bed and rapped my knuckles against the rail to make certain that
I was truly awake. Then I took my watch from under the pillow. It
was three in the morning. What on this earth could my wife be
doing out on the country road at three in the morning?

“I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my
mind and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I
thought, the more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I
was still puzzling over it when I heard the door gently close
again, and her footsteps coming up the stairs.

“‘Where in the world have you been, Effie?’ I asked as she
entered.

“She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke,
and that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for
there was something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had
always been a woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a
chill to see her slinking into her own room, and crying out and
wincing when her own husband spoke to her.

“‘You awake, Jack!’ she cried, with a nervous laugh. ‘Why, I
thought that nothing could awake you.’

“‘Where have you been?’ I asked, more sternly.

“‘I don’t wonder that you are surprised,’ said she, and I could
see that her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings
of her mantle. ‘Why, I never remember having done such a thing in
my life before. The fact is that I felt as though I were choking,
and had a perfect longing for a breath of fresh air. I really
think that I should have fainted if I had not gone out. I stood
at the door for a few minutes, and now I am quite myself again.’

“All the time that she was telling me this story she never once
looked in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual
tones. It was evident to me that she was saying what was false. I
said nothing in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at
heart, with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts and
suspicions. What was it that my wife was concealing from me?
Where had she been during that strange expedition? I felt that I
should have no peace until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking
her again after once she had told me what was false. All the rest
of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after theory,
each more unlikely than the last.

“I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too disturbed
in my mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My
wife seemed to be as upset as myself, and I could see from the
little questioning glances which she kept shooting at me that she
understood that I disbelieved her statement, and that she was at
her wits’ end what to do. We hardly exchanged a word during
breakfast, and immediately afterwards I went out for a walk, that
I might think the matter out in the fresh morning air.

“I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the
grounds, and was back in Norbury by one o’clock. It happened that
my way took me past the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to
look at the windows, and to see if I could catch a glimpse of the
strange face which had looked out at me on the day before. As I
stood there, imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the door
suddenly opened and my wife walked out.

“I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her; but my
emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her
face when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to
shrink back inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless
all concealment must be, she came forward, with a very white face
and frightened eyes which belied the smile upon her lips.

“‘Ah, Jack,’ she said, ‘I have just been in to see if I can be of
any assistance to our new neighbours. Why do you look at me like
that, Jack? You are not angry with me?’

“‘So,’ said I, ‘this is where you went during the night.’

“‘What do you mean?’ she cried.

“‘You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people, that you
should visit them at such an hour?’

“‘I have not been here before.’

“‘How can you tell me what you know is false?’ I cried. ‘Your
very voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret
from you? I shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the
matter to the bottom.’

“‘No, no, Jack, for God’s sake!’ she gasped, in uncontrollable
emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and
pulled me back with convulsive strength.

“‘I implore you not to do this, Jack,’ she cried. ‘I swear that I
will tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can
come of it if you enter that cottage.’ Then, as I tried to shake
her off, she clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.

“‘Trust me, Jack!’ she cried. ‘Trust me only this once. You will
never have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a
secret from you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives
are at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will be well.
If you force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.’

“There was such earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her
words arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.

“‘I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,’
said I at last. ‘It is that this mystery comes to an end from
now. You are at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must
promise me that there shall be no more nightly visits, no more
doings which are kept from my knowledge. I am willing to forget
those which are passed if you will promise that there shall be no
more in the future.’

“‘I was sure that you would trust me,’ she cried, with a great
sigh of relief. ‘It shall be just as you wish. Come away—oh, come
away up to the house.’

“Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As
we went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face
watching us out of the upper window. What link could there be
between that creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough
woman whom I had seen the day before be connected with her? It
was a strange puzzle, and yet I knew that my mind could never
know ease again until I had solved it.

“For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared
to abide loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she
never stirred out of the house. On the third day, however, I had
ample evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her
back from this secret influence which drew her away from her
husband and her duty.

“I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40
instead of the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the
house the maid ran into the hall with a startled face.

“‘Where is your mistress?’ I asked.

“‘I think that she has gone out for a walk,’ she answered.

“My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs
to make sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I
happened to glance out of one of the upper windows, and saw the
maid with whom I had just been speaking running across the field
in the direction of the cottage. Then of course I saw exactly
what it all meant. My wife had gone over there, and had asked the
servant to call her if I should return. Tingling with anger, I
rushed down and hurried across, determined to end the matter once
and forever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back along the
lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay
the secret which was casting a shadow over my life. I vowed that,
come what might, it should be a secret no longer. I did not even
knock when I reached it, but turned the handle and rushed into
the passage.

“It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor. In the kitchen
a kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay
coiled up in the basket; but there was no sign of the woman whom
I had seen before. I ran into the other room, but it was equally
deserted. Then I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other
rooms empty and deserted at the top. There was no one at all in
the whole house. The furniture and pictures were of the most
common and vulgar description, save in the one chamber at the
window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable
and elegant, and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter
flame when I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a copy of a
full-length photograph of my wife, which had been taken at my
request only three months ago.

“I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was
absolutely empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart
such as I had never had before. My wife came out into the hall as
I entered my house; but I was too hurt and angry to speak with
her, and pushing past her, I made my way into my study. She
followed me, however, before I could close the door.

“‘I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,’ said she; ‘but if
you knew all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive
me.’

“‘Tell me everything, then,’ said I.

“‘I cannot, Jack, I cannot,’ she cried.

“‘Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that
cottage, and who it is to whom you have given that photograph,
there can never be any confidence between us,’ said I, and
breaking away from her, I left the house. That was yesterday, Mr.
Holmes, and I have not seen her since, nor do I know anything
more about this strange business. It is the first shadow that has
come between us, and it has so shaken me that I do not know what
I should do for the best. Suddenly this morning it occurred to me
that you were the man to advise me, so I have hurried to you now,
and I place myself unreservedly in your hands. If there is any
point which I have not made clear, pray question me about it.
But, above all, tell me quickly what I am to do, for this misery
is more than I can bear.”

Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this
extraordinary statement, which had been delivered in the jerky,
broken fashion of a man who is under the influence of extreme
emotions. My companion sat silent for some time, with his chin
upon his hand, lost in thought.

“Tell me,” said he at last, “could you swear that this was a
man’s face which you saw at the window?”

“Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so
that it is impossible for me to say.”

“You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it.”

“It seemed to be of an unnatural colour, and to have a strange
rigidity about the features. When I approached, it vanished with
a jerk.”

“How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?”

“Nearly two months.”

“Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?”

“No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his
death, and all her papers were destroyed.”

“And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw
it.”

“Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire.”

“Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?”

“No.”

“Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?”

“No.”

“Or get letters from it?”

“No.”

“Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now.
If the cottage is now permanently deserted we may have some
difficulty. If, on the other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the
inmates were warned of your coming, and left before you entered
yesterday, then they may be back now, and we should clear it all
up easily. Let me advise you, then, to return to Norbury, and to
examine the windows of the cottage again. If you have reason to
believe that it is inhabited, do not force your way in, but send
a wire to my friend and me. We shall be with you within an hour
of receiving it, and we shall then very soon get to the bottom of
the business.”

“And if it is still empty?”

“In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with
you. Good-by; and, above all, do not fret until you know that you
really have a cause for it.”

“I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson,” said my
companion, as he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to
the door. “What do you make of it?”

“It had an ugly sound,” I answered.

“Yes. There’s blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken.”

“And who is the blackmailer?”

“Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only comfortable
room in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace.
Upon my word, Watson, there is something very attractive about
that livid face at the window, and I would not have missed the
case for worlds.”

“You have a theory?”

“Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not
turn out to be correct. This woman’s first husband is in that
cottage.”

“Why do you think so?”

“How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one
should not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something
like this: This woman was married in America. Her husband
developed some hateful qualities; or shall we say that he
contracted some loathsome disease, and became a leper or an
imbecile? She flies from him at last, returns to England, changes
her name, and starts her life, as she thinks, afresh. She has
been married three years, and believes that her position is quite
secure, having shown her husband the death certificate of some
man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her whereabouts is
discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose, by some
unscrupulous woman who has attached herself to the invalid. They
write to the wife, and threaten to come and expose her. She asks
for a hundred pounds, and endeavours to buy them off. They come
in spite of it, and when the husband mentions casually to the
wife that there are new-comers in the cottage, she knows in some
way that they are her pursuers. She waits until her husband is
asleep, and then she rushes down to endeavour to persuade them to
leave her in peace. Having no success, she goes again next
morning, and her husband meets her, as he has told us, as she
comes out. She promises him then not to go there again, but two
days afterwards the hope of getting rid of those dreadful
neighbours was too strong for her, and she made another attempt,
taking down with her the photograph which had probably been
demanded from her. In the midst of this interview the maid rushed
in to say that the master had come home, on which the wife,
knowing that he would come straight down to the cottage, hurried
the inmates out at the back door, into the grove of fir-trees,
probably, which was mentioned as standing near. In this way he
found the place deserted. I shall be very much surprised,
however, if it is still so when he reconnoitres it this evening.
What do you think of my theory?”

“It is all surmise.”

“But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our
knowledge which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough
to reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a message
from our friend at Norbury.”

But we had not a very long time to wait for that. It came just as
we had finished our tea. “The cottage is still tenanted,” it
said. “Have seen the face again at the window. Will meet the
seven o’clock train, and will take no steps until you arrive.”

He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could
see in the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and
quivering with agitation.

“They are still there, Mr. Holmes,” said he, laying his hand hard
upon my friend’s sleeve. “I saw lights in the cottage as I came
down. We shall settle it now once and for all.”

“What is your plan, then?” asked Holmes, as he walked down the
dark tree-lined road.

“I am going to force my way in and see for myself who is in the
house. I wish you both to be there as witnesses.”

“You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife’s
warning that it is better that you should not solve the mystery?”

“Yes, I am determined.”

“Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better
than indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course,
legally, we are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I
think that it is worth it.”

It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to fall as we
turned from the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with
hedges on either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently
forward, however, and we stumbled after him as best we could.

“There are the lights of my house,” he murmured, pointing to a
glimmer among the trees. “And here is the cottage which I am
going to enter.”

We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the
building close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black
foreground showed that the door was not quite closed, and one
window in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked,
we saw a dark blur moving across the blind.

“There is that creature!” cried Grant Munro. “You can see for
yourselves that some one is there. Now follow me, and we shall
soon know all.”

We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared out of the
shadow and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could
not see her face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in
an attitude of entreaty.

“For God’s sake, don’t Jack!” she cried. “I had a presentiment
that you would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust
me again, and you will never have cause to regret it.”

“I have trusted you too long, Effie,” he cried, sternly. “Leave
go of me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle
this matter once and forever!” He pushed her to one side, and we
followed closely after him. As he threw the door open an old
woman ran out in front of him and tried to bar his passage, but
he thrust her back, and an instant afterwards we were all upon
the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into the lighted room at the top,
and we entered at his heels.

It was a cosey, well-furnished apartment, with two candles
burning upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the
corner, stooping over a desk, there sat what appeared to be a
little girl. Her face was turned away as we entered, but we could
see that she was dressed in a red frock, and that she had long
white gloves on. As she whisked round to us, I gave a cry of
surprise and horror. The face which she turned towards us was of
the strangest livid tint, and the features were absolutely devoid
of any expression. An instant later the mystery was explained.
Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child’s ear, a
mask peeled off from her countenance, and there was a little coal
black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at
our amazed faces. I burst out laughing, out of sympathy with her
merriment; but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching
his throat.

“My God!” he cried. “What can be the meaning of this?”

“I will tell you the meaning of it,” cried the lady, sweeping
into the room with a proud, set face. “You have forced me,
against my own judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make
the best of it. My husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.”

“Your child?”

She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. “You have never
seen this open.”

“I understood that it did not open.”

She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a
portrait within of a man strikingly handsome and
intelligent-looking, but bearing unmistakable signs upon his
features of his African descent.

“That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,” said the lady, “and a nobler
man never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in
order to wed him, but never once while he lived did I for an
instant regret it. It was our misfortune that our only child took
after his people rather than mine. It is often so in such
matches, and little Lucy is darker far than ever her father was.
But dark or fair, she is my own dear little girlie, and her
mother’s pet.” The little creature ran across at the words and
nestled up against the lady’s dress. “When I left her in
America,” she continued, “it was only because her health was
weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given to
the care of a faithful Scotch woman who had once been our
servant. Never for an instant did I dream of disowning her as my
child. But when chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned
to love you, I feared to tell you about my child. God forgive me,
I feared that I should lose you, and I had not the courage to
tell you. I had to choose between you, and in my weakness I
turned away from my own little girl. For three years I have kept
her existence a secret from you, but I heard from the nurse, and
I knew that all was well with her. At last, however, there came
an overwhelming desire to see the child once more. I struggled
against it, but in vain. Though I knew the danger, I determined
to have the child over, if it were but for a few weeks. I sent a
hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her instructions about
this cottage, so that she might come as a neighbour, without my
appearing to be in any way connected with her. I pushed my
precautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the house
during the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands so
that even those who might see her at the window should not gossip
about there being a black child in the neighbourhood. If I had
been less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half
crazy with fear that you should learn the truth.

“It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I
should have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for
excitement, and so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult
it is to awake you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning
of my troubles. Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but you
nobly refrained from pursuing your advantage. Three days later,
however, the nurse and child only just escaped from the back door
as you rushed in at the front one. And now to-night you at last
know all, and I ask you what is to become of us, my child and
me?” She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.

It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence,
and when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He
lifted the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying
her, he held his other hand out to his wife and turned towards
the door.

“We can talk it over more comfortably at home,” said he. “I am
not a very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one
than you have given me credit for being.”

Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friend plucked
at my sleeve as we came out.

“I think,” said he, “that we shall be of more use in London than
in Norbury.”

Not another word did he say of the case until late that night,
when he was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his
bedroom.

“Watson,” said he, “if it should ever strike you that I am
getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less
pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper ‘Norbury’ in my
ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”

IV. The Stockbroker’s Clerk

Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the
Paddington district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it,
had at one time an excellent general practice; but his age, and
an affliction of the nature of St. Vitus’s dance from which he
suffered, had very much thinned it. The public not unnaturally
goes on the principle that he who would heal others must himself
be whole, and looks askance at the curative powers of the man
whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs. Thus as my
predecessor weakened his practice declined, until when I
purchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to little
more than three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in my
own youth and energy, and was convinced that in a very few years
the concern would be as flourishing as ever.

For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very
closely at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for
I was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere
himself save upon professional business. I was surprised,
therefore, when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the
_British Medical Journal_ after breakfast, I heard a ring at the
bell, followed by the high, somewhat strident tones of my old
companion’s voice.

“Ah, my dear Watson,” said he, striding into the room, “I am very
delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely
recovered from all the little excitements connected with our
adventure of the Sign of Four.”

“Thank you, we are both very well,” said I, shaking him warmly by
the hand.

“And I hope, also,” he continued, sitting down in the
rocking-chair, “that the cares of medical practice have not
entirely obliterated the interest which you used to take in our
little deductive problems.”

“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was only last night that I was
looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past
results.”

“I trust that you don’t consider your collection closed.”

“Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more
of such experiences.”

“To-day, for example?”

“Yes, to-day, if you like.”

“And as far off as Birmingham?”

“Certainly, if you wish it.”

“And the practice?”

“I do my neighbour’s when he goes. He is always ready to work off
the debt.”

“Ha! Nothing could be better,” said Holmes, leaning back in his
chair and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids.
“I perceive that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are
always a little trying.”

“I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days
last week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of
it.”

“So you have. You look remarkably robust.”

“How, then, did you know of it?”

“My dear fellow, you know my methods.”

“You deduced it, then?”

“Certainly.”

“And from what?”

“From your slippers.”

I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing.
“How on earth—” I began, but Holmes answered my question before
it was asked.

“Your slippers are new,” he said. “You could not have had them
more than a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment
presenting to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I thought
they might have got wet and been burned in the drying. But near
the instep there is a small circular wafer of paper with the
shopman’s hieroglyphics upon it. Damp would of course have
removed this. You had, then, been sitting with your feet
outstretched to the fire, which a man would hardly do even in so
wet a June as this if he were in his full health.”

Like all Holmes’s reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself
when it was once explained. He read the thought upon my features,
and his smile had a tinge of bitterness.

“I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain,” said
he. “Results without causes are much more impressive. You are
ready to come to Birmingham, then?”

“Certainly. What is the case?”

“You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in a
four-wheeler. Can you come at once?”

“In an instant.” I scribbled a note to my neighbour, rushed
upstairs to explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon
the door-step.

“Your neighbour is a doctor,” said he, nodding at the brass
plate.

“Yes; he bought a practice as I did.”

“An old-established one?”

“Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses were
built.”

“Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two.”

“I think I did. But how do you know?”

“By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than
his. But this gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall
Pycroft. Allow me to introduce you to him. Whip your horse up,
cabby, for we have only just time to catch our train.”