No More Learning

Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let
some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only
chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have
told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done
to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for
half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable
ways of our fellow-men. "


It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a
subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the
great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came
down.

"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of
young Openshaw's. "

"What steps will you take? " I asked.

"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries.
I may have to go down to Horsham, after all. "

"You will not go there first? "

"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the
maid will bring up your coffee. "

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and
glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a
chill to my heart.

"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late. "

"Ah! " said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it
done? " He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy
Near Waterloo Bridge. ' Here is the account:

"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and
a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and
stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it
was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was
given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was
eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman
whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his
pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham.
It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch
the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and
the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge
of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body
exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that
the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident,
which should have the effect of calling the attention of the
authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages. "

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and
shaken than I had ever seen him.

"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty
feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal
matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my
hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that
I should send him away to his death--! " He sprang from his chair
and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a
flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and
unclasping of his long thin hands.

"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could
they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the
direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too
crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson,
we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now! "

"To the police? "

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may
take the flies, but not before. "

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in
the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes
had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he
entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,
and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously,
washing it down with a long draught of water.

"You are hungry," I remarked.

"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast. "

"Nothing? "

"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it. "

"And how have you succeeded? "

"Well. "

"You have a clue? "

"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not
long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish
trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of! "

"What do you mean? "

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and
thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote
"S. H. for J. O. " Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain
James Calhoun, Barque 'Lone Star,' Savannah, Georgia. "

"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling.
"It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a
precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him. "

"And who is this Captain Calhoun? "

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first. "

"How did you trace it, then? "

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with
dates and names.

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers
and files of the old papers, following the future career of every
vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in
'83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were
reported there during those months. Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,'
instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported
as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to
one of the states of the Union. "

"Texas, I think. "

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must
have an American origin. "

"What then? "

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque
'Lone Star' was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a
certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present
in the port of London. "

"Yes? "

"The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last week. I went down to the
Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by
the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired
to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and
as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the
Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight. "

"What will you do, then? "

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I
learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are
Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away
from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has
been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship
reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and
the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these
three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder. "

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans,
and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the
orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as
resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very
severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for
news of the "Lone Star" of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We
did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a
shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough
of a wave, with the letters "L. S. " carved upon it, and that is
all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone Star. "



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-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nearly eleven. "

"Of what day? "

"Of Friday, June 19th. "

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

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

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

"Yes, I have one waiting. "

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

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

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

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

"I have a cab outside. "

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

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

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

"I was certainly surprised to find you there. "

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

"I came to find a friend. "

"And I to find an enemy. "

"An enemy? "

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural
prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable
inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent
ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been
recognised 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 neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter
of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no
occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into
town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon
Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of
age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very
affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know
him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far
as we have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10s. , 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 neighbourhood in which she found herself.
While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly
heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her
husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning
to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she
distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly
agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then
vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that
he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.
One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that
although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town
in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

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

"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple
showed, made the inspector realise 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 immediately
implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the
vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was
known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few
seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could
hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence
was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no
knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he
could not account in any way for the presence of the missing
gentleman's clothes.

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

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

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

"Pray continue your narrative. "

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

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

"I cannot imagine. "

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

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

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose
that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the
window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.
What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him
that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize
the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it
would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little
time, for he has heard the scuffle 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?