The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
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lifted and conveyed somewhere."
"What I cannot understand," said I, "is why they should have spared you
when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain was
softened by the woman's entreaties."
"I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my
"Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Bradstreet. "Well, I have drawn
my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk that we are in
search of are to be found."
"I think I could lay my finger on it," said Holmes quietly.
"Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have formed your opinion! Come,
now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the country is
more deserted there."
"And I say east," said my patient.
"I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes man. "There are several quiet
little villages up there."
"And I am for north," said I, "because there are no hills there, and our
friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any."
"Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a very pretty diversity of
opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your casting vote
"You are all wrong."
"But we can't all be."
"Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed his finger in the centre of
the circle. "This is where we shall find them."
"But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley.
"Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse was
fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had gone twelve
miles over heavy roads?"
"Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed Bradstreet thoughtfully. "Of
course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this gang."
"None at all," said Holmes. "They are coiners on a large scale, and have
used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of silver."
"We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work," said the
inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We even
traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they had covered
their traces in a way that showed that they were very old hands. But now, thanks
to this lucky chance, I think that we have got them right enough."
But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined to
fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we saw a
gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small clump of trees in
the neighborhood and hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape.
"A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on its
"Yes, sir!" said the station-master.
"When did it break out?"
"I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and the
whole place is in a blaze."
"Whose house is it?"
"Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a German, very thin, with
a long, sharp nose?"
The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr. Becher is an Englishman,
and there isn't a man in the parish who has a better-lined waistcoat. But he has
a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner,
and he looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."
The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all hastening
in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a great
widespread whitewashed building in front of us, spouting fire at every chink and
window, while in the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to
keep the flames under.
"That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is the
gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second window is
the one that I jumped from."
"Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your revenge upon them. There
can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was crushed in the
press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt they were too excited in
the chase after you to observe it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this
crowd for your friends of last night, though I very much fear that they are a
good hundred miles off by now."
And Holmes's fears came to be realized, for from that day to this no word
has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the
morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met a cart containing
several people and some very bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of
Reading, but there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes's
ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clew as to their whereabouts.
The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which they
had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed human thumb
upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset, however, their efforts
were at last successful, and they subdued the flames, but not before the roof
had fallen in, and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save
some twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery
which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel
and of tin were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be
found, which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have
been already referred to.
How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the spot
where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a mystery were it not
for the soft mould, which told us a very plain tale. He had evidently been
carried down by two persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the other
unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the silent
Englishman, being less bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted
the woman to bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger.
"Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once more
to London, "it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my thumb and I
have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?"
"Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indirectly it may be of value, you
know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of being
excellent company for the remainder of your existence."
ADVENTURE 10. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR
The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long ceased
to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which the unfortunate
bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and their more piquant
details have drawn the gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have
reason to believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the
general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in
clearing the matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without
some little sketch of this remarkable episode.
It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was still
sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from an afternoon
stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I had remained indoors all
day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds,
and the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of
my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one
easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of
newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all
aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the envelope
upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend's noble correspondent could
"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered. "Your
morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a
"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he answered,
smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more interesting. This looks like one
of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or
He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.
"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all."
"Not social, then?"
"No, distinctly professional."
"And from a noble client?"
"One of the highest in England."
"My dear fellow. I congratulate you."
"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my client is
a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case. It is just
possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this new investigation.
You have been reading the papers diligently of late, have you not?"
"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the
corner. "I have had nothing else to do."
"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read
nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is always
instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely you must have
read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?"
"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."
"That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St. Simon. I
will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these papers and let me
have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he says:
"'MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:--"Lord Backwater tells me that I may place
implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have determined,
therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful
event which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees
no objection to your cooperation, and that he even thinks that it might be of
some assistance. I will call at four o'clock in the afternoon, and, should you
have any other engagement at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as
this matter is of paramount importance. Yours faithfully, ST. SIMON.'
"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the
noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer side of
his right little finger," remarked Holmes as he folded up the epistle.
"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour."
"Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the
subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order of time,
while I take a glance as to who our client is." He picked a red-covered volume
from a line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he,
sitting down and flattening it out upon his knee. "Lord Robert Walsingham de
Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral. Hum! Arms: Azure, three
caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846. He's forty-one years of age,
which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late
administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign
Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the
distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think
that I must turn to you Watson, for something more solid."
"I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I, "for the
facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to
refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand and that
you disliked the intrusion of other matters."
"Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van.
That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it was obvious from the first.
Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections."
"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column of
the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back: 'A marriage has been
arranged,' it says, 'and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take place,
between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss
Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal.,
U.S.A.' That is all."
"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs
towards the fire.
"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of the
same week. Ah, here it is: 'There will soon be a call for protection in the
marriage market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily
against our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great
Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic.
An important addition has been made during the last week to the list of the
prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon,
who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little god's
arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty
Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran, whose
graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House
festivities, is an only child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will