The Return of Sherlock Holmes

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"I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have you to
know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an Englishman. He
is a Russian. His name I will not tell."

For the first time the old man stirred. "God bless you, Anna!" he cried.
"God bless you!"

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. "Why should you
cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?" said she. "It
has done harm to many and good to none--not even to yourself. However,
it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped before God's
time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold
of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

"I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty and I
a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a
university--I will not name the place."

"God bless you, Anna!" murmured the old man again.

"We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand. He and I
and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer was
killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to save
his own life and to earn a great reward, my husband betrayed his own
wife and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession.
Some of us found our way to the gallows, and some to Siberia. I was
among these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to
England with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet ever since,
knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would
pass before justice would be done."

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
cigarette. "I am in your hands, Anna," said he. "You were always good to
me."

"I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said she. "Among
our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the friend of my heart.
He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my husband was not. He hated
violence. We were all guilty--if that is guilt--but he was not. He wrote
forever dissuading us from such a course. These letters would have saved
him. So would my diary, in which, from day to day, I had entered both my
feelings towards him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband
found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to
swear away the young man's life. In this he failed, but Alexis was sent
a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he works in a salt
mine. Think of that, you villain, you villain!--now, now, at this very
moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works and
lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you
go."

"You were always a noble woman, Anna," said the old man, puffing at his
cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

"I must finish," she said. "When my term was over I set myself to get
the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian government, would
procure my friend's release. I knew that my husband had come to England.
After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he
still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him
once, reproaching me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was
sure that, with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of
his own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object I engaged
an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my husband's house
as a secretary--it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left
you so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he
got an impression of the key. He would not go farther. He furnished me
with a plan of the house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study
was always empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I
took my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

"I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when the
young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me
on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram lived,
not knowing that he was in his employ."

"Exactly! Exactly!" said Holmes. "The secretary came back, and told his
employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last breath, he tried to
send a message that it was she--the she whom he had just discussed with
him."

"You must let me speak," said the woman, in an imperative voice, and
her face contracted as if in pain. "When he had fallen I rushed from the
room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband's room. He
spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so, his life was in
my hands. If he gave me to the law, I could give him to the Brotherhood.
It was not that I wished to live for my own sake, but it was that
I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I
said--that his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason, and for
no other, he shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place--a
relic of old days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own
room, and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that
when the police left the house I should slip away by night and come back
no more. But in some way you have read our plans." She tore from the
bosom of her dress a small packet. "These are my last words," said she;
"here is the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour
and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian
Embassy. Now, I have done my duty, and----"

"Stop her!" cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.

"Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed. "Too late! I took the
poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I
charge you, sir, to remember the packet."

"A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one," Holmes
remarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged from the outset upon
the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man having
seized these, I am not sure that we could ever have reached our
solution. It was clear to me, from the strength of the glasses, that
the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them.
When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of
grass without once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember,
that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a second
pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider seriously the
hypothesis that she had remained within the house. On perceiving the
similarity of the two corridors, it became clear that she might very
easily have made such a mistake, and, in that case, it was evident that
she must have entered the professor's room. I was keenly on the alert,
therefore, for whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined
the room narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The
carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of
a trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are
aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books
were piled on the floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was
left clear. This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide
me, but the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well
to examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent
cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the
suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective.
I then went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,
without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram's
consumption of food had increased--as one would expect when he is
supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again, when,
by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of
the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces upon the
cigarette ash, that the prisoner had in our absence come out from her
retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate
you on having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are
going to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will drive
together to the Russian Embassy."




THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER


We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street,
but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy
February morning, some seven or eight years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock
Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran
thus:


Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing,
indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON.


"Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six," said Holmes, reading
it over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when
he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he will
be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked through the TIMES, and
then we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem
would be welcome in these stagnant days."

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread
such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion's
brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without
material upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned him
from that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable
career. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved
for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was
not dead but sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one
and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set and
inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton whoever he might
be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous
calm which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his
tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and
the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge, announced
the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and
muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders, and looked
from one of us to the other with a comely face which was haggard with
anxiety.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

My companion bowed.

"I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police."

"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."

"It's awful, Mr. Holmes--simply awful I wonder my hair isn't gray.
Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the hinge
that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the pack,
and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's passing, or
tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him, and then, he's got
the head, and can hold us all together. What am I to do? That's what I
ask you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained
as a half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of
keeping out on the touchline. He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but
then he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or
Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is
fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-five line, and a
three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't worth a place for
pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find
Godfrey Staunton."

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which
was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point
being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker's
knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took
down letter "S" of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into
that mine of varied information.

"There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said he, "and
there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is
a new name to me."

It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.

"Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I suppose,
then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you don't know Cyril
Overton either?"

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

"Great Scott!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first reserve for England
against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year. But that's
nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't know
Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and
five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where HAVE you lived?"

Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.

"You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton--a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the
best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected visit this
morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play,
there may be work for me to do. So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit
down and to tell me, slowly and quietly, exactly what it is that has
occurred, and how you desire that I should help you."

Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by degrees, with many
repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid
his strange story before us.

"It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the
Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man.
To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and we settled at
Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and saw that all
the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and
plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey
before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked
him what was the matter. He said he was all right--just a touch of
headache. I bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the
porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note
for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room.
Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed.
The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey
stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together. Then
he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in the
hall, and the two of them went off together. The last that the porter
saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the direction
of the Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never
been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before. He had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no
word has come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He
was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have
stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some
cause that was too strong for him. No: I feel as if he were gone for
good, and we should never see him again."

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
narrative.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there.
I have had an answer. No one has seen him."

"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"

"Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven."

"But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?"

"No, he has not been seen."

"What did you do next?"

"I wired to Lord Mount-James."

"Why to Lord Mount-James?"

"Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest relative--his
uncle, I believe."

"Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is one
of the richest men in England."

"So I've heard Godfrey say."

"And your friend was closely related?"

"Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram full of
gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles.
He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute
miser, but it will all come to him right enough."

"Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"

"No."

"What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?"

"Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do
with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest relative,
who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have
much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man. He would
not go if he could help it."

"Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his
relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of this
rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that was
caused by his coming."

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. "I can make nothing of it,"
said he.

"Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the
matter," said Holmes. "I should strongly recommend you to make your
preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman.
It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him
away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him
away. Let us step round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can
throw any fresh light upon the matter."

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey Staunton's
abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had to tell.
The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither was he a
workingman. He was simply what the porter described as a "medium-looking
chap," a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed.
He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had observed his hand
trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed
the note into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in
the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had
only distinguished the one word "time." Then they had hurried off in the
manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall clock.

"Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed. "You are
the day porter, are you not?"

"Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven."

"The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"

"No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else."

"Were you on duty all day yesterday?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"

"Yes, sir, one telegram."

"Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?"

"About six."

"Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"

"Here in his room."

"Were you present when he opened it?"

"Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer."

"Well, was there?"

"Yes, sir, he wrote an answer."

"Did you take it?"

"No, he took it himself."

"But he wrote it in your presence."

"Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at
that table. When he had written it, he said: 'All right, porter, I will
take this myself.'"

"What did he write it with?"

"A pen, sir."

"Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"

"Yes, sir, it was the top one."

Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window and
carefully examined that which was uppermost.

"It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throwing them down
again with a shrug of disappointment. "As you have no doubt frequently
observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through--a fact which has
dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I
rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill
pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!"

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the
following hieroglyphic:


GRAPHIC


Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the glass!" he cried.

"That is unnecessary," said Holmes. "The paper is thin, and the reverse
will give the message. Here it is." He turned it over, and we read:


GRAPHIC [Stand by us for Gods sake]


"So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least
six words of the message which have escaped us; but what remains--'Stand
by us for God's sake!'--proves that this young man saw a formidable
danger which approached him, and from which someone else could protect
him. 'US,' mark you! Another person was involved. Who should it be but
the pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state?
What, then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded
man? And what is the third source from which each of them sought for
help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to
that."

"We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I suggested.

"Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had already
crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your notice that,
counterfoil of another man's message, there may be some disinclination
on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in
these matters. However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy
and finesse the end may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your
presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these papers which have been left
upon the table."

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which Holmes
turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting,
penetrating eyes. "Nothing here," he said, at last. "By the way, I
suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow--nothing amiss with him?"

"Sound as a bell."

"Have you ever known him ill?"

"Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his
knee-cap, but that was nothing."

"Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may
have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put one or two
of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future
inquiry."

"One moment--one moment!" cried a querulous voice, and we looked up to
find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway. He
was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed top-hat and a
loose white necktie--the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson
or of an undertaker's mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd
appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick
intensity which commanded attention.

"Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman's
papers?" he asked.

"I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance."

"Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?"

"This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by Scotland
Yard."

"Who are you, sir?"

"I am Cyril Overton."

"Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount-James. I
came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would bring me. So you have
instructed a detective?"

"Yes, sir."

"And are you prepared to meet the cost?"

"I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be
prepared to do that."

"But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!"

"In that case, no doubt his family----"

"Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man. "Don't look to me
for a penny--not a penny! You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am all
the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not
responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I
have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As
to those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that
in case there should be anything of any value among them, you will be
held strictly to account for what you do with them."

"Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes. "May I ask, in the meanwhile,
whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man's
disappearance?"

"No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after
himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely refuse
to accept the responsibility of hunting for him."

"I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't quite understand mine. Godfrey
Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped, it
could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame
of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely
possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to
gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
treasure."