A Magpie Audio Production
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
First published in 1892
To my old teacher Joseph Bell M.D. etc.,
of 2, Melville Crescent, Edinburgh.
A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
I.
To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman.
I have seldom heard him mention her under
any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
predominates the whole of her sex. It was
not that he felt any emotion akin to love
for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one
particularly, were abhorrent to his cold,
precise but admirably balanced mind. He was,
I take it, the most perfect reasoning and
observing machine that the world has seen,
but as a lover he would have placed himself
in a false position. He never spoke of the
softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer.
They were admirable things for the observer—excellent
for drawing the veil from men’s motives
and actions. But for the trained reasoner
to admit such intrusions into his own delicate
and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce
a distracting factor which might throw a doubt
upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive
instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power
lenses, would not be more disturbing than
a strong emotion in a nature such as his.
And yet there was but one woman to him, and
that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious
and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage
had drifted us away from each other. My own
complete happiness, and the home-centred interests
which rise up around the man who first finds
himself master of his own establishment, were
sufficient to absorb all my attention, while
Holmes, who loathed every form of society
with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in
our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among
his old books, and alternating from week to
week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness
of the drug, and the fierce energy of his
own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply
attracted by the study of crime, and occupied
his immense faculties and extraordinary powers
of observation in following out those clues,
and clearing up those mysteries which had
been abandoned as hopeless by the official
police. From time to time I heard some vague
account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa
in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his
clearing up of the singular tragedy of the
Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally
of the mission which he had accomplished so
delicately and successfully for the reigning
family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his
activity, however, which I merely shared with
all the readers of the daily press, I knew
little of my former friend and companion.
One night—it was on the twentieth of March,
1888—I was returning from a journey to a
patient (for I had now returned to civil practice),
when my way led me through Baker Street. As
I passed the well-remembered door, which must
always be associated in my mind with my wooing,
and with the dark incidents of the Study in
Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to
see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing
his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly
lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall,
spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette
against the blind. He was pacing the room
swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon
his chest and his hands clasped behind him.
To me, who knew his every mood and habit,
his attitude and manner told their own story.
He was at work again. He had risen out of
his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the
scent of some new problem. I rang the bell
and was shown up to the chamber which had
formerly been in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was;
but he was glad, I think, to see me. With
hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye,
he waved me to an armchair, threw across his
case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case
and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood
before the fire and looked me over in his
singular introspective fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I
think, Watson, that you have put on seven
and a half pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven!” I answered.
“Indeed, I should have thought a little
more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson.
And in practice again, I observe. You did
not tell me that you intended to go into harness.”
“Then, how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that
you have been getting yourself very wet lately,
and that you have a most clumsy and careless
servant girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too
much. You would certainly have been burned,
had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true
that I had a country walk on Thursday and
came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have
changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you
deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible,
and my wife has given her notice, but there,
again, I fail to see how you work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long,
nervous hands together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my
eyes tell me that on the inside of your left
shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,
the leather is scored by six almost parallel
cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone
who has very carelessly scraped round the
edges of the sole in order to remove crusted
mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction
that you had been out in vile weather, and
that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting
specimen of the London slavey. As to your
practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms
smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of
nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger,
and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat
to show where he has secreted his stethoscope,
I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce
him to be an active member of the medical
profession.”
I could not help laughing at the ease with
which he explained his process of deduction.
“When I hear you give your reasons,” I
remarked, “the thing always appears to me
to be so ridiculously simple that I could
easily do it myself, though at each successive
instance of your reasoning I am baffled until
you explain your process. And yet I believe
that my eyes are as good as yours.”
“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette,
and throwing himself down into an armchair.
“You see, but you do not observe. The distinction
is clear. For example, you have frequently
seen the steps which lead up from the hall
to this room.”
“Frequently.”
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet
you have seen. That is just my point. Now,
I know that there are seventeen steps, because
I have both seen and observed. By the way,
since you are interested in these little problems,
and since you are good enough to chronicle
one or two of my trifling experiences, you
may be interested in this.” He threw over
a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which
had been lying open upon the table. “It
came by the last post,” said he. “Read
it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature
or address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a
quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a
gentleman who desires to consult you upon
a matter of the very deepest moment. Your
recent services to one of the royal houses
of Europe have shown that you are one who
may safely be trusted with matters which are
of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
This account of you we have from all quarters
received. Be in your chamber then at that
hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
wear a mask.”
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked.
“What do you imagine that it means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake
to theorise before one has data. Insensibly
one begins to twist facts to suit theories,
instead of theories to suit facts. But the
note itself. What do you deduce from it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the
paper upon which it was written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably well
to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate
my companion’s processes. “Such paper
could not be bought under half a crown a packet.
It is peculiarly strong and stiff.”
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said
Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all.
Hold it up to the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small
“g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with
a small “t” woven into the texture of
the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his
monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small
‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which
is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary
contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of
course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the
‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental
Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume
from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here
we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking
country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad.
‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death
of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories
and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do
you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and
he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from
his cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note
is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction
of the sentence—‘This account of you we
have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman
or Russian could not have written that. It
is the German who is so uncourteous to his
verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover
what is wanted by this German who writes upon
Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask
to showing his face. And here he comes, if
I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’
hoofs and grating wheels against the curb,
followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,”
he continued, glancing out of the window.
“A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties.
A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s
money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing
else.”
“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are.
I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises
to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss
it.”
“But your client—”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and
so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that
armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard
upon the stairs and in the passage, paused
immediately outside the door. Then there was
a loud and authoritative tap.
“Come in!” said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less
than six feet six inches in height, with the
chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was
rich with a richness which would, in England,
be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy
bands of astrakhan were slashed across the
sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted
coat, while the deep blue cloak which was
thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured
silk and secured at the neck with a brooch
which consisted of a single flaming beryl.
Boots which extended halfway up his calves,
and which were trimmed at the tops with rich
brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric
opulence which was suggested by his whole
appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat
in his hand, while he wore across the upper
part of his face, extending down past the
cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he
had apparently adjusted that very moment,
for his hand was still raised to it as he
entered. From the lower part of the face he
appeared to be a man of strong character,
with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight
chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the
length of obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked with a deep
harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent.
“I told you that I would call.” He looked
from one to the other of us, as if uncertain
which to address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This
is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who
is occasionally good enough to help me in
my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm,
a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this
gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour
and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter
of the most extreme importance. If not, I
should much prefer to communicate with you
alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the
wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It
is both, or none,” said he. “You may say
before this gentleman anything which you may
say to me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then
I must begin,” said he, “by binding you
both to absolute secrecy for two years; at
the end of that time the matter will be of
no importance. At present it is not too much
to say that it is of such weight it may have
an influence upon European history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued
our strange visitor. “The august person
who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown
to you, and I may confess at once that the
title by which I have just called myself is
not exactly my own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.
“The circumstances are of great delicacy,
and every precaution has to be taken to quench
what might grow to be an immense scandal and
seriously compromise one of the reigning families
of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates
the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings
of Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes,
settling himself down in his armchair and
closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise
at the languid, lounging figure of the man
who had been no doubt depicted to him as the
most incisive reasoner and most energetic
agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his
eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic
client.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state
your case,” he remarked, “I should be
better able to advise you.”
The man sprang from his chair and paced up
and down the room in uncontrollable agitation.
Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore
the mask from his face and hurled it upon
the ground. “You are right,” he cried;
“I am the King. Why should I attempt to
conceal it?”
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your
Majesty had not spoken before I was aware
that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond
von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein,
and hereditary King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange
visitor, sitting down once more and passing
his hand over his high white forehead, “you
can understand that I am not accustomed to
doing such business in my own person. Yet
the matter was so delicate that I could not
confide it to an agent without putting myself
in his power. I have come incognito from
Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”
“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting
his eyes once more.
“The facts are briefly these: Some five
years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw,
I made the acquaintance of the well-known
adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt
familiar to you.”
“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,”
murmured Holmes without opening his eyes.
For many years he had adopted a system of
docketing all paragraphs concerning men and
things, so that it was difficult to name a
subject or a person on which he could not
at once furnish information. In this case
I found her biography sandwiched in between
that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander
who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea
fishes.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born
in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum!
La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera
of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha!
Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty,
as I understand, became entangled with this
young person, wrote her some compromising
letters, and is now desirous of getting those
letters back.”
“Precisely so. But how—”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If
this young person should produce her letters
for blackmailing or other purposes, how is
she to prove their authenticity?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”
“My private note-paper.”
“Stolen.”
“My own seal.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty
has indeed committed an indiscretion.”
“I was mad—insane.”
“You have compromised yourself seriously.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young.
I am but thirty now.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Stolen, then.”
“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars
in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted
her luggage when she travelled. Twice she
has been waylaid. There has been no result.”
“No sign of it?”
“Absolutely none.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little
problem,” said he.
“But a very serious one to me,” returned
the King reproachfully.
“Very, indeed. And what does she propose
to do with the photograph?”
“To ruin me.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“So I have heard.”
“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen,
second daughter of the King of Scandinavia.
You may know the strict principles of her
family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy.
A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would
bring the matter to an end.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“Threatens to send them the photograph.
And she will do it. I know that she will do
it. You do not know her, but she has a soul
of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful
of women, and the mind of the most resolute
of men. Rather than I should marry another
woman, there are no lengths to which she would
not go—none.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I am sure.”
“And why?”
“Because she has said that she would send
it on the day when the betrothal was publicly
proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”
“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said
Holmes with a yawn. “That is very fortunate,
as I have one or two matters of importance
to look into just at present. Your Majesty
will, of course, stay in London for the present?”
“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham
under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”
“Then I shall drop you a line to let you
know how we progress.”
“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”
“Then, as to money?”
“You have carte blanche.”
“Absolutely?”
“I tell you that I would give one of the
provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.”
“And for present expenses?”
The King took a heavy chamois leather bag
from under his cloak and laid it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold
and seven hundred in notes,” he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of
his note-book and handed it to him.
“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.
“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St.
John’s Wood.”
Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,”
said he. “Was the photograph a cabinet?”
“It was.”
“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust
that we shall soon have some good news for
you. And good-night, Watson,” he added,
as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled
down the street. “If you will be good enough
to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock
I should like to chat this little matter over
with you.” 
II.
At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker
Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The
landlady informed me that he had left the
house shortly after eight o’clock in the
morning. I sat down beside the fire, however,
with the intention of awaiting him, however
long he might be. I was already deeply interested
in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded
by none of the grim and strange features which
were associated with the two crimes which
I have already recorded, still, the nature
of the case and the exalted station of his
client gave it a character of its own. Indeed,
apart from the nature of the investigation
which my friend had on hand, there was something
in his masterly grasp of a situation, and
his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it
a pleasure to me to study his system of work,
and to follow the quick, subtle methods by
which he disentangled the most inextricable
mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable
success that the very possibility of his failing
had ceased to enter into my head.
It was close upon four before the door opened,
and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and
side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
disreputable clothes, walked into the room.
Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing
powers in the use of disguises, I had to look
three times before I was certain that it was
indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the
bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes
tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting
his hands into his pockets, he stretched out
his legs in front of the fire and laughed
heartily for some minutes.
“Well, really!” he cried, and then he
choked and laughed again until he was obliged
to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.
“What is it?”
“It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could
never guess how I employed my morning, or
what I ended by doing.”
“I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have
been watching the habits, and perhaps the
house, of Miss Irene Adler.”
“Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual.
I will tell you, however. I left the house
a little after eight o’clock this morning
in the character of a groom out of work. There
is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among
horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know
all that there is to know. I soon found Briony
Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden
at the back, but built out in front right
up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to
the door. Large sitting-room on the right
side, well furnished, with long windows almost
to the floor, and those preposterous English
window fasteners which a child could open.
Behind there was nothing remarkable, save
that the passage window could be reached from
the top of the coach-house. I walked round
it and examined it closely from every point
of view, but without noting anything else
of interest.
“I then lounged down the street and found,
as I expected, that there was a mews in a
lane which runs down by one wall of the garden.
I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down
their horses, and received in exchange twopence,
a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag
tobacco, and as much information as I could
desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of
half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood
in whom I was not in the least interested,
but whose biographies I was compelled to listen
to.”
“And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.
“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads
down in that part. She is the daintiest thing
under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly,
sings at concerts, drives out at five every
day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner.
Seldom goes out at other times, except when
she sings. Has only one male visitor, but
a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome,
and dashing, never calls less than once a
day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey
Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages
of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven
him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews,
and knew all about him. When I had listened
to all they had to tell, I began to walk up
and down near Briony Lodge once more, and
to think over my plan of campaign.
“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important
factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That
sounded ominous. What was the relation between
them, and what the object of his repeated
visits? Was she his client, his friend, or
his mistress? If the former, she had probably
transferred the photograph to his keeping.
If the latter, it was less likely. On the
issue of this question depended whether I
should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or
turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers
in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and
it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear
that I bore you with these details, but I
have to let you see my little difficulties,
if you are to understand the situation.”
“I am following you closely,” I answered.
“I was still balancing the matter in my
mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony
Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was
a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline,
and moustached—evidently the man of whom
I had heard. He appeared to be in a great
hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and
brushed past the maid who opened the door
with the air of a man who was thoroughly at
home.
“He was in the house about half an hour,
and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows
of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking
excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could
see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking
even more flurried than before. As he stepped
up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from
his pocket and looked at it earnestly, ‘Drive
like the devil,’ he shouted, ‘first to
Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then
to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware
Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty
minutes!’
“Away they went, and I was just wondering
whether I should not do well to follow them
when up the lane came a neat little landau,
the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned,
and his tie under his ear, while all the tags
of his harness were sticking out of the buckles.
It hadn’t pulled up before she shot out
of the hall door and into it. I only caught
a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was
a lovely woman, with a face that a man might
die for.
“ ‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’
she cried, ‘and half a sovereign if you
reach it in twenty minutes.’
“This was quite too good to lose, Watson.
I was just balancing whether I should run
for it, or whether I should perch behind her
landau when a cab came through the street.
The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare,
but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The
Church of St. Monica,’ said I, ‘and half
a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’
It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and
of course it was clear enough what was in
the wind.
“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I
ever drove faster, but the others were there
before us. The cab and the landau with their
steaming horses were in front of the door
when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried
into the church. There was not a soul there
save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced
clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating
with them. They were all three standing in
a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up
the side aisle like any other idler who has
dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise,
the three at the altar faced round to me,
and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as
he could towards me.
“ ‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll
do. Come! Come!’
“ ‘What then?’ I asked.
“ ‘Come, man, come, only three minutes,
or it won’t be legal.’
“I was half-dragged up to the altar, and
before I knew where I was I found myself mumbling
responses which were whispered in my ear,
and vouching for things of which I knew nothing,
and generally assisting in the secure tying
up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton,
bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and
there was the gentleman thanking me on the
one side and the lady on the other, while
the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was
the most preposterous position in which I
ever found myself in my life, and it was the
thought of it that started me laughing just
now. It seems that there had been some informality
about their license, that the clergyman absolutely
refused to marry them without a witness of
some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved
the bridegroom from having to sally out into
the streets in search of a best man. The bride
gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it
on my watch chain in memory of the occasion.”
“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,”
said I; “and what then?”
“Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced.
It looked as if the pair might take an immediate
departure, and so necessitate very prompt
and energetic measures on my part. At the
church door, however, they separated, he driving
back to the Temple, and she to her own house.
‘I shall drive out in the park at five as
usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard
no more. They drove away in different directions,
and I went off to make my own arrangements.”
“Which are?”
“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,”
he answered, ringing the bell. “I have been
too busy to think of food, and I am likely
to be busier still this evening. By the way,
Doctor, I shall want your co-operation.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?”
“Not in the least.”
“Nor running a chance of arrest?”
“Not in a good cause.”
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
“Then I am your man.”
“I was sure that I might rely on you.”
“But what is it you wish?”
“When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray
I will make it clear to you. Now,” he said
as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that
our landlady had provided, “I must discuss
it while I eat, for I have not much time.
It is nearly five now. In two hours we must
be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or
Madame, rather, returns from her drive at
seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet
her.”
“And what then?”
“You must leave that to me. I have already
arranged what is to occur. There is only one
point on which I must insist. You must not
interfere, come what may. You understand?”
“I am to be neutral?”
“To do nothing whatever. There will probably
be some small unpleasantness. Do not join
in it. It will end in my being conveyed into
the house. Four or five minutes afterwards
the sitting-room window will open. You are
to station yourself close to that open window.”
“Yes.”
“You are to watch me, for I will be visible
to you.”
“Yes.”
“And when I raise my hand—so—you will
throw into the room what I give you to throw,
and will, at the same time, raise the cry
of fire. You quite follow me?”
“Entirely.”
“It is nothing very formidable,” he said,
taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket.
“It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket,
fitted with a cap at either end to make it
self-lighting. Your task is confined to that.
When you raise your cry of fire, it will be
taken up by quite a number of people. You
may then walk to the end of the street, and
I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that
I have made myself clear?”
“I am to remain neutral, to get near the
window, to watch you, and at the signal to
throw in this object, then to raise the cry
of fire, and to wait you at the corner of
the street.”
“Precisely.”
“Then you may entirely rely on me.”
“That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it
is almost time that I prepare for the new
role I have to play.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned
in a few minutes in the character of an amiable
and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman.
His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his
white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general
look of peering and benevolent curiosity were
such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled.
It was not merely that Holmes changed his
costume. His expression, his manner, his very
soul seemed to vary with every fresh part
that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor,
even as science lost an acute reasoner, when
he became a specialist in crime.
It was a quarter past six when we left Baker
Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to
the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine
Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps
were just being lighted as we paced up and
down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for
the coming of its occupant. The house was
just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock
Holmes’ succinct description, but the locality
appeared to be less private than I expected.
On the contrary, for a small street in a quiet
neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated.
There was a group of shabbily dressed men
smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder
with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting
with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed
young men who were lounging up and down with
cigars in their mouths.
“You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced
to and fro in front of the house, “this
marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph
becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances
are that she would be as averse to its being
seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client
is to its coming to the eyes of his princess.
Now the question is, Where are we to find
the photograph?”
“Where, indeed?”
“It is most unlikely that she carries it
about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large
for easy concealment about a woman’s dress.
She knows that the King is capable of having
her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of
the sort have already been made. We may take
it, then, that she does not carry it about
with her.”
“Where, then?”
“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that
double possibility. But I am inclined to think
neither. Women are naturally secretive, and
they like to do their own secreting. Why should
she hand it over to anyone else? She could
trust her own guardianship, but she could
not tell what indirect or political influence
might be brought to bear upon a business man.
Besides, remember that she had resolved to
use it within a few days. It must be where
she can lay her hands upon it. It must be
in her own house.”
“But it has twice been burgled.”
“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”
“But how will you look?”
“I will not look.”
“What then?”
“I will get her to show me.”
“But she will refuse.”
“She will not be able to. But I hear the
rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now
carry out my orders to the letter.”
As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of
a carriage came round the curve of the avenue.
It was a smart little landau which rattled
up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled
up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed
forward to open the door in the hope of earning
a copper, but was elbowed away by another
loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention.
A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased
by the two guardsmen, who took sides with
one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder,
who was equally hot upon the other side. A
blow was struck, and in an instant the lady,
who had stepped from her carriage, was the
centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling
men, who struck savagely at each other with
their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into
the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as
he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped
to the ground, with the blood running freely
down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took
to their heels in one direction and the loungers
in the other, while a number of better dressed
people, who had watched the scuffle without
taking part in it, crowded in to help the
lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene
Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried
up the steps; but she stood at the top with
her superb figure outlined against the lights
of the hall, looking back into the street.
“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she
asked.
“He is dead,” cried several voices.
“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted
another. “But he’ll be gone before you
can get him to hospital.”
“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman.
“They would have had the lady’s purse
and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They
were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he’s
breathing now.”
“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring
him in, marm?”
“Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room.
There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!”
Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony
Lodge and laid out in the principal room,
while I still observed the proceedings from
my post by the window. The lamps had been
lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so
that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the
couch. I do not know whether he was seized
with compunction at that moment for the part
he was playing, but I know that I never felt
more heartily ashamed of myself in my life
than when I saw the beautiful creature against
whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness
with which she waited upon the injured man.
And yet it would be the blackest treachery
to Holmes to draw back now from the part which
he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart,
and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster.
After all, I thought, we are not injuring
her. We are but preventing her from injuring
another.
Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw
him motion like a man who is in need of air.
A maid rushed across and threw open the window.
At the same instant I saw him raise his hand
and at the signal I tossed my rocket into
the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word
was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole
crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen,
ostlers, and servant maids—joined in a general
shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke
curled through the room and out at the open
window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures,
and a moment later the voice of Holmes from
within assuring them that it was a false alarm.
Slipping through the shouting crowd I made
my way to the corner of the street, and in
ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s
arm in mine, and to get away from the scene
of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence
for some few minutes until we had turned down
one of the quiet streets which lead towards
the Edgeware Road.
“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked.
“Nothing could have been better. It is all
right.”
“You have the photograph?”
“I know where it is.”
“And how did you find out?”
“She showed me, as I told you she would.”
“I am still in the dark.”
“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said
he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly
simple. You, of course, saw that everyone
in the street was an accomplice. They were
all engaged for the evening.”
“I guessed as much.”
“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little
moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I
rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand
to my face, and became a piteous spectacle.
It is an old trick.”
“That also I could fathom.”
“Then they carried me in. She was bound
to have me in. What else could she do? And
into her sitting-room, which was the very
room which I suspected. It lay between that
and her bedroom, and I was determined to see
which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned
for air, they were compelled to open the window,
and you had your chance.”
“How did that help you?”
“It was all-important. When a woman thinks
that her house is on fire, her instinct is
at once to rush to the thing which she values
most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse,
and I have more than once taken advantage
of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution
Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the
Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman
grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches
for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me
that our lady of to-day had nothing in the
house more precious to her than what we are
in quest of. She would rush to secure it.
The alarm of fire was admirably done. The
smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves
of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph
is in a recess behind a sliding panel just
above the right bell-pull. She was there in
an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as
she half drew it out. When I cried out that
it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced
at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I
have not seen her since. I rose, and, making
my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated
whether to attempt to secure the photograph
at once; but the coachman had come in, and
as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed
safer to wait. A little over-precipitance
may ruin all.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Our quest is practically finished. I shall
call with the King to-morrow, and with you,
if you care to come with us. We will be shown
into the sitting-room to wait for the lady,
but it is probable that when she comes she
may find neither us nor the photograph. It
might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to
regain it with his own hands.”
“And when will you call?”
“At eight in the morning. She will not be
up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides,
we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean
a complete change in her life and habits.
I must wire to the King without delay.”
We had reached Baker Street and had stopped
at the door. He was searching his pockets
for the key when someone passing said:
“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”
There were several people on the pavement
at the time, but the greeting appeared to
come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
hurried by.
“I’ve heard that voice before,” said
Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street.
“Now, I wonder who the deuce that could
have been.” 
III.
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we
were engaged upon our toast and coffee in
the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed
into the room.
“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping
Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking
eagerly into his face.
“Not yet.”
“But you have hopes?”
“I have hopes.”
“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”
“We must have a cab.”
“No, my brougham is waiting.”
“Then that will simplify matters.” We
descended and started off once more for Briony
Lodge.
“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.
“Married! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“To an English lawyer named Norton.”
“But she could not love him.”
“I am in hopes that she does.”
“And why in hopes?”
“Because it would spare your Majesty all
fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves
her husband, she does not love your Majesty.
If she does not love your Majesty, there is
no reason why she should interfere with your
Majesty’s plan.”
“It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she
had been of my own station! What a queen she
would have made!” He relapsed into a moody
silence, which was not broken until we drew
up in Serpentine Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an
elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched
us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from
the brougham.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said
she.
“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion,
looking at her with a questioning and rather
startled gaze.
“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were
likely to call. She left this morning with
her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing
Cross for the Continent.”
“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back,
white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you
mean that she has left England?”
“Never to return.”
“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely.
“All is lost.”
“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant
and rushed into the drawing-room, followed
by the King and myself. The furniture was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled
shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had
hurriedly ransacked them before her flight.
Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back
a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in
his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter.
The photograph was of Irene Adler herself
in evening dress, the letter was superscribed
to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till
called for.” My friend tore it open, and
we all three read it together. It was dated
at midnight of the preceding night and ran
in this way: 
“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really
did it very well. You took me in completely.
Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a
suspicion. But then, when I found how I had
betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been
warned against you months ago. I had been
told that, if the King employed an agent,
it would certainly be you. And your address
had been given me. Yet, with all this, you
made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even
after I became suspicious, I found it hard
to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman.
But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
myself. Male costume is nothing new to me.
I often take advantage of the freedom which
it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch
you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes,
as I call them, and came down just as you
departed.
“Well, I followed you to your door, and
so made sure that I was really an object of
interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night,
and started for the Temple to see my husband.
“We both thought the best resource was flight,
when pursued by so formidable an antagonist;
so you will find the nest empty when you call
to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client
may rest in peace. I love and am loved by
a better man than he. The King may do what
he will without hindrance from one whom he
has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard
myself, and to preserve a weapon which will
always secure me from any steps which he might
take in the future. I leave a photograph which
he might care to possess; and I remain, dear
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
“Very truly yours,              
“IRENE NORTON, née ADLER.” 
“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried
the King of Bohemia, when we had all three
read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how
quick and resolute she was? Would she not
have made an admirable queen? Is it not a
pity that she was not on my level?”
“From what I have seen of the lady, she
seems, indeed, to be on a very different level
to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I
am sorry that I have not been able to bring
your Majesty’s business to a more successful
conclusion.”
“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried
the King; “nothing could be more successful.
I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph
is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”
“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”
“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell
me in what way I can reward you. This ring—”
He slipped an emerald snake ring from his
finger and held it out upon the palm of his
hand.
“Your Majesty has something which I should
value even more highly,” said Holmes.
“You have but to name it.”
“This photograph!”
The King stared at him in amazement.
“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly,
if you wish it.”
“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no
more to be done in the matter. I have the
honour to wish you a very good morning.”
He bowed, and, turning away without observing
the hand which the King had stretched out
to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. 
And that was how a great scandal threatened
to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how
the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were
beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make
merry over the cleverness of women, but I
have not heard him do it of late. And when
he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers
to her photograph, it is always under the
honourable title of thewoman.
