The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
By Arthur Conan Doyle
Adventure I
A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
Part 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.”
Part 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.”
Part 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 the woman.
