The sign of Four - Chapter 6 Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have
half an hour to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case
is, as I have told you, almost complete; but we must not err on
the side of overconfidence. Simple as the case seems now, there
may be something deeper underlying it."
"Simple!" I ejaculated.
"Surely," said he with something of the air of a clinical
professor expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there,
that your footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work!
In the first place, how did these folk come and how did they go?
The door has not been opened since last night. How of the
window?" He carried the lamp across to it, muttering his obser-
vations aloud the while but addressing them to himself rather
than to me. "Window is snibbed on the inner side. Frame-work is
solid. No hinges at the side. Let us open it. No water-pipe near.
Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has mounted by the window.
It rained a little last night. Here is the print of a foot in mould
upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy mark, and here again
upon the floor, and here again by the table. See bere, Watson!
This is really a very pretty demonstration."
I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs.
"That is not a foot-mark," said I.
"It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impres-
sion of a wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-
mark, a heavy boot with a broad metal heel, and beside it is the
mark of the timber-toe."
"It is the wooden-legged man."
"Quite so. But there has been someone else -- a very able and
efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, Doctor?"
I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone
brightiy on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet
from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no
foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brickwork.
"It is absolutely impossible," I answered.
"Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here
who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner,
securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I
think, if you were an active man, you might swarm up, wooden
leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and
your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut
the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that
he originally came. As a minor point, it may be noted," he
continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend,
though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands
were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-
mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I
gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the
skin off his hands."
"This is all very well," said I; "but the thing becomes more
unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How
came he into the room?"
"Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes pensively. "There are fea-
tures of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions
of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in
the annals of crime in this country -- though parallel cases sug-
gest themselves from India and, if my memory serves me, from
Senegambia."
"How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked; the
window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?"
"The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already
considered that possibility."
"How, then?" I persisted.
"You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head.
"How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated
the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be
the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the
window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have
been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible.
When, then, did he come?"
"He came through the hole in the roof!" I cried.
"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the
kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our
researches to the room above -- the secret room in which the
treasure was found."
He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand,
he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he
reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him.
The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet
one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters,
with thin lath and plaster between, so that in walking one had to
step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex and was
evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was
no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay
thick upon the floor.
"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his
hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trapdoor which leads
out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself,
sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which
Number One entered. Let us see if we can find some other traces
of his individuality?"
He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for
the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over
his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze, my skin was cold
under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints
of a naked foot -- clear, well-defined, perfectly formed, but scarce
half the size of those of an ordinary man.
"Holmes," I said in a whisper, "a child has done this horrid
thing."
He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.
"I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is
quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able
to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go
down."
"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked
eagerly when we had regained the lower room once more.
"My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he with
a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them,
and it will be instructive to compare results."
"I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I
answered.
"It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an offhand
way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I
will look."
He whipped out his lens and a tape measure and hurried about
the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with
his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks and his
beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift,
silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained
bloodhound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a
terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy
and sagacity against the law instead of exerting them in its
defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and
finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight.
"We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very
little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread
in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small
foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has
been cracked, you see, and the stuff has leaked out."
"What then?" I asked.
"Why, we have got him, that's all," said he.
"I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world's end.
If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a
specially trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It
sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us
the -- But hallo! here are the accredited representatives of the
law."
Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from
below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash.
"Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here
on this poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you
feel?"
The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.
"Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far
exceeding the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of
the face, this Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old
writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your
mind?"
"Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,
"some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."
"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the
drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once
looked for the means by which the poison had entered the
system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven
or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the
part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in
the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine this
thorn."
I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It
was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as
though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end
had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife.
"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.
"No, it certainly is not."
"With all these data you should be able to draw some just
inference. But here are the regulars, so the auxiliary forces may
beat a retreat."
As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded
loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit
strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly, and
plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked
keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was
closely followed by an inspector in uniform and by the still
palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.
"Here's a business!" he cried in a muffled, husky voice.
"Here's a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the
house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!"
"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said
Holmes quietly.
"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you
lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the
Bishopgate jewel case. It's true you set us on the right track; but
you'll own now that it was more by good luck than good
guidance."
"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."
"Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But
what is all this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here -- no
room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at
Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the
message arrived. What d'you think the man died of?"
"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said
Holmes dryly.
"No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth
half a million missing. How was the window?"
"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."
"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to
do with the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died
in a fit; but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory.
These flashes come upon me at times. -- Just step outside, Ser-
geant, and you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain. -- What do
you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession,
with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which
Sholto walked off with the treasure? How's that?"
"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked
the door on the inside."
"Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to
the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was
a quarrel: so much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels
are gone. So much also we know. No one saw the brother from
the time Thaddeus left him. His bed had not been slept in.
Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state of mind. His
appearance is -- well, not attractive. You see that I am weaving
my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him."
"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said
Holmes. "This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to
believe to be poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still
see the mark; this card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table,
and beside it lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument.
How does all that fit into your theory?"
"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective pom-
pously. "House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought
this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well
have made murderous use of it as any other man. The card is
some hocus-pocus -- a blind, as like as not. The only question is,
how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof."
With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the
steps and squeezed through into the garret, and immediately
afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he had
found the trapdoor.
"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his
shoulders; "he has occasional glimmerings of reason. ll n'y a
pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"
"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps
again; "facts are better than theories, after all. My view of the
case is confirmed. There is a trapdoor communicating with the
roof, and it is partly open."
"It was I who opened it."
"Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little
crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows
how our gentleman got away. Inspector!"
"Yes, sir," from the passage.
"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way. -- Mr. Sholto, it is my duty
to inform you that anything which you may say will be used
against you. I arrest you in the Queen's name as being concerned
in the death of your brother."
"There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man
throwing out his hands and looking from one to the other of us.
"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes;
"I think that I can engage to clear you of the charge."
"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist, don't promise too
much!" snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter
than you think."
"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a
free present of the name and description of one of the two people
who were in this room last night. His name, I have every reason
to believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly educated man,
small, active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden
stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His left boot has
a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron band round the heel. He
is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict.
These few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled
with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the
palm of his hand. The other man --"
"Ah! the other man?" asked Athelney Jones in a sneering
voice, but impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the
precision of the other's manner.
"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning
upon his heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce
you to the pair of them. A word with you, Watson."
He led me out to the head of the stair.
"This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather
to lose sight of the original purpose of our journey."
"I have just been thinking so," I answered; "it is not right
that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."
"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil
Forrester in Lower Camberwell, so it is not very far. I will wait
for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too
tired?"
"By no means. I don't think I could rest until I know more of
this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side
of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of
strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I
should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now
that I have got so far."
"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered.
"We shall work the case out independently and leave this fellow
Jones to exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to
construct. When you have dropped Miss Morstan, I wish you to
go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down near the water's edge at
Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is a bird-
stuffer's; Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel holding a
young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up and tell
him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will
bring Toby back in the cab with you."
"A dog, I suppose."
"Yes, a queer mongrel with a most amazing power of scent. I
would rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective
force of London."
"I shall bring him then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be
back before three if I can get a fresh horse."
"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs.
Bernstone and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tells
me, sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's
methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms.

" 'Wir sind gewohnt dass die Menschen verhohnen was sie
nicht verstehen.'

"Goethe is always pithy."

The sign of Four-Chapter 5 The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge

It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of
our night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great
city behind us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew
from the westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the
sky, with half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts. It
was clear enough to see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto
took down one of the sidelamps from the carriage to give us a
better light upon our way.
Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds and was girt
round with a very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A
single narrow iron-clamped door formed the only means of
entrance. On this our guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like
rat-tat.
"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.
"It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."
There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of
keys. The door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested
man stood in the opening, with the yellow light of the lantern
shining upon his protruded face and twinkling, distrustful eyes.
"That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no
orders about them from the master."
"No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night
that I should bring some friends."
"He hain't been out o' his rooms to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I
have no orders. You know very well that I must stick to regula-
tions. I can let you in, but your friends they must just stop where
they are."
This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked
about him in a perplexed and helpless manner.
"This is too bad of you, McMurdo!" he said. "If I guarantee
them, that is enough for you. There is the young lady, too. She
cannot wait on the pubiic road at this hour."
"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter inexorably.
"Folk may be friends o' yours, and yet no friend o' the master's.
He pays me well to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't
know none o' your friends."
"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes ge-
nially. "I don't think you can have forgotten me. Don't you
remember that amateur who fought three rounds with you at
Alison's rooms on the night of your benefit four years back?"
"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's
truth! how could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there
so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of
yours under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah,
you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have
aimed high, if you had joined the fancy."
"You see, Watson, if all else fails me, I have still one of the
scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our
friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."
"In you come, sir, in you come -- you and your friends," he
answered. "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very
strict. Had to be certain of your friends before I let them in."
Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a
huge clump of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in
shadow save where a moonbeam struck one corner and glim-
mered in a garret window. The vast size of the building, with its
gloom and its deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even
Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered and
rattled in his hand.
"I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some
mistake. I distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here,
and yet there is no light in his window. I do not know what to
make of it."
"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked
Holmes.
"Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the fa-
vourite son you know, and I sometimes think that my father may
have told him more than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's
window up there where the moonshine strikes. It is quite bright,
but there is no light from within, I think."
"None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that
little window beside the door."
"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs.
Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you
would not mind waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go
in together, and she has had no word of our coming, she may be
alarmed. But, hush! what is that?"
He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of
light flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized
my wrist, and we all stood, with thumping hearts, straining our
ears. From the great black house there sounded through the silent
night the saddest and most pitiful of sounds -- the shrill, broken
whimpering of a frightened woman.
"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman
in the house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment."
He hurried, for the door and knocked in his peculiar way. We
could see a tall old woman admit him and sway with pleasure at
the very sight of him.
"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am
so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!"
We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the door was closed
and her voice died away into a muffled monotone.
Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly
round and peered keenly at the house and at the great rubbish-
heaps which cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood
together, and her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is
love, for here were we two, who had never seen each other
before that day, between whom no word or even look of affec-
tion had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our
hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marvelled at it
since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I
should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was
in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection.
So we stood hand in hand like two children, and there was peace
in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.
"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.
"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let
loose in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill
near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."
"And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the
traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were
six years looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a
gravel-pit. "
At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thad-
deus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward
and terror in his eyes.
"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I
am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it."
He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching,
feeble face peeping out from the great astrakhan collar had the
helpless, appealing expression of a terrified child.
"Come into the house," said Holmes in his crisp, firm way.
"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel
equal to giving directions."
We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which
stood upon the lefthand side of the passage. The old woman was
pacing up and down with a scared look and restless, picking
fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a sooth-
ing effect upon her.
"God bless your sweet, calm face!" she cried with a hysteri-
cal sob. "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely
tried this day!"
Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand and mur-
mured some few words of kindly, womanly comfort which
brought the colour back into the other's bloodless cheeks.
"Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she
explained. "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often
likes to be alone- but an hour ago I feared that something was
amiss, so I went up and peeped through the keyhole. You must
go up, Mr. Thaddeus -- you must go up and look for yourself. I
have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten
long years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as
that."
Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus
Sholto's teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that
I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for
his knees were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended,
Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully exam-
ined marks which appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges
of dust upon the cocoanut-matting which served as a stair-carpet.
He walked slowly from step to step, holding the lamp low, and
shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had re-
mained behind with the frightened housekeeper.
The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some
length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it
and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the
same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels,
with our long black shadows streaming backward down the
corridor. The third door was that which we were seeking. Holmes
knocked without receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the
handle and force it open. It was locked on the inside, however,
and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when we set
our lamp up against it. The key being turned, however, the hole
was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it and
instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath.
"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more
moved than I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of
it?"
I stooped to the hole and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was
streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and
shifty radiance. Looking straight at me and suspended, as it
were, in the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a
face -- the very face of our companion Thaddeus. There was the
same high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red hair, the
same bloodless countenance. The features were set, however, in
a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural grin, which in that still
and moonlit room was more jarring to the nerves than any scowl
or contortion. So like was the face to that of our little friend that
I looked round at him to make sure that he was indeed with us.
Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us that his
brother and he were twins.
"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"
"The door must come down," he answered, and springing
against it, he put all his weight upon the lock.
It creaked and groaned but did not yield. Together we flung
ourselves upon it once more, and this time it gave way with a
sudden snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto's
chamber.
It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A
double line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the
wall opposite the door, and the table was littered over with
Bunsen burners, test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood
carboys of acid in wicker baskets. One of these appeared to
leak or to have been broken, for a stream of dark-coloured liquid
had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly
pungent, tarlike odour. A set of steps stood at one side of the
room in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and above them
there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man to
pass through. At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was
thrown carelessly together.
By the table in a wooden armchair the master of the house was
seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder
and that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff
and cold and had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me
that not only his features but all his limbs were twisted and
turned in the most fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table
there lay a peculiar instrument -- a brown, close-grained stick,
with a stone head like a hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse
twine. Beside it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words
scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it and then handed it to me.
''You see," he said with a significant raising of the eyebrows.
In the light of the lantern I read with a thrill of horror, "The
sign of the four."
"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.
"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man.
"Ah! I expected it. Look here!"
He pointed to what looked like a long dark thorn stuck in the
skin just above the ear.
"It looks like a thorn," said I.
"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is
poisoned."
I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from
the skin so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One
tiny speck of blood showed where the puncture had been.
"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows
darker instead of clearer."
"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I
only require a few missing links to have an entirely connected
case."
We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we
entered the chamber. He was still standing in the doorway, the
very picture of terror, wringing his hands and moaning to him-
self. Suddenly, however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous
cry.
"The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of
the treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I
helped him to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left
him here last night, and I heard him lock the door as I came
downstairs."
"What time was that?"
"It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will
be called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it.
Oh, yes, I am sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen?
Surely you don't think that it was l? Is it likely that I would have
brought you here if it were l? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I
shall go mad!"
He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convul-
sive frenzy.
"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes
kindly, putting his hand upon his shoulder; "take my advice and
drive down to the station to report the matter to the police. Offer
to assist them in every way. We shall wait here until your
return."
The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we
heard him stumbling down the stairs in the dark.

The Sign of Four -Chapter 4 The Story of the Bald-Headed Man

We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage,
ill-lit and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the
right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out
upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man
with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of
it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a
mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as
he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk -- now smiling,
now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had
given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and
irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly
passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his
obtrusive baldness he gave the impression of youth. In point of
fact, he had just turned his thirtieth year.
"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating in a thin,
high voice. "Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little
sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking.
An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."
We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment
into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of
place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The
richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls,
looped back here and there to expose some richly mounted
painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber and black, so
soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a
bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased
the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which
stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver
dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre
of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and
aromatic odour.
"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course.
And these gentlemen --"
"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this Dr. Watson."
"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your
stethoscope? Might I ask you -- would you have the kindness? I
have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very
good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your
opinion upon the mitral."
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
anything amiss, save, indeed, that he was in an ecstasy of fear,
for he shivered from head to foot.
"It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no cause for
uneasiness."
"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked
airily. "I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as
to that valve. I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted.
Had your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain
upon his heart, he might have been alive now."
I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at
this callous and offhand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss
Morstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips.
"I knew in my heart that he was dead," said she.
"I can give you every information," said he; "and, what is
more, I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother
Bartholomew may say. I am so glad to have your friends here
not only as an escort to you but also as witnesses to what I am
about to do and say. The three of us can show a bold front to
Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no outsiders -- no police or
officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily among ourselves
without any interference. Nothing would annoy Brother Bart-
holomew more than any publicity."
He sat down upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with
his weak, watery blue eyes.
"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to
say will go no further."
I nodded to show my agreement.
"That is well! That is well" said he. "May I offer you a
glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other
wines. Shall I open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have
no objection to tobacco-smoke, to the balsamic odour of the
Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my hookah an
invaluable sedative."
He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled
merrily through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle,
with our heads advanced and our chins upon our hands, while
the strange, jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head,
puffed uneasily in the centre.
"When I first determined to make this communication to
you," said he, "I might have given you my address; but I feared
that you might disregard my request and bring unpleasant people
with you. I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment
in such a way that my man Williams might be able to see you
first. I have complete confidence in his discretion, and he had
orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the
matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am a man of
somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and
there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman. I have a
natural shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom
come in contact with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with
some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may call myself
a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is a
genuine Corot, and though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question
about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."
"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but
I am here at your request to learn something which you desire to
tell me. It is very late, and I should desire the interview to be as
short as possible."
"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we
shall certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Barth-
olomew. We shall all go and try if we can get the better of
Brother Bartholomew. He is very angry with me for taking the
course which has seemed right to me. I had quite high words
with him last night. You cannot imagine what a terrible fellow
he is when he is angry."
"If we are to go to Norwood, it would perhaps be as well to
start at once," I ventured to remark.
He laughed until his ears were quite red.
"That would hardly do," he cried. "I don't know what he
would say if I brought you in that sudden way. No, I must
prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each other. In
the first place, I must tell you that there are several points in the
story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the facts
before you as far as I know them myself.
"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John
Sholto, once of the Indian Army. He retired some eleven years
ago and came to live at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood.
He had prospered in India and brought back with him a con-
siderable sum of money, a large collection of valuable curiosi-
ties, and a staff of native servants. With these advantages he
bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My twin-
brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.
"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the
papers, and knowing that he had been a friend of our father's we
discussed the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our
speculations as to what could have happened. Never for an
instant did we suspect that he had the whole secret hidden in his
own breast, that of all men he alone knew the fate of Arthur
Morstan.
"We did know, however, that some mystery, some positive
danger, overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out
alone, and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as
porters at Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you tonight,
was one of them. He was once lightweight champion of En-
gland. Our father would never tell us what it was he feared, but
he had a most marked aversion to men with wooden legs. On
one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a wooden-legged
man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for
orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My
brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's, but
events have since led us to change our opinion.
"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which
was a great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table
when he opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death.
What was in the letter we could never discover, but I could see
as he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He
had suffered for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now
became rapidly worse, and towards the end of April we were
informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he wished to
make a last communication to us.
"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows
and breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to
come upon either side of the bed. Then grasping our hands he
made a remarkable statement to us in a voice which was broken
as much by emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in
his own very words.
" 'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my
mind at this supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's
orphan. The cursed greed which has been my besetting sin
through life has withheld from her the treasure, half at least of
which should have been hers. And yet I have made no use of it
myself, so blind and foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling
of possession has been so dear to me that I could not bear to
share it with another. See that chaplet tipped with pearls beside
the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to part with,
although I had got it out with the design of sending it to her.
You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure.
But send her nothing -- not even the chaplet -- until I am gone.
After all, men have been as bad as this and have recovered.
" 'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had
suffered for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from
every one. I alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a
remarkable chain of circumstances, came into possession of a
considerable treasure. I brought it over to England, and on the
night of Morstan's arrival he came straight over here to claim his
share. He walked over from the station and was admitted by my
faithful old Lal Chowdar, who is now dead. Morstan and I had a
difference of opinion as to the division of the treasure, and we
came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of his chair in a
paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his
side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backward, cutting
his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I stooped
over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.
" 'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I
should do. My first impulse was, of course, to call for assis-
tance; but I could not but recognize that there was every chance
that I would be accused of his murder. His death at the moment
of a quarrel, and the gash in his head, would be black against
me. Again, an official inquiry could not be made without bring-
ing out some facts about the treasure, which I was particularly
anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no soul upon earth
knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no necessity why
any soul ever should know.
" 'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I
saw my servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and
bolted the door behind him. "Do not fear, sahib," he said; "no
one need know that you have killed him. Let us hide him away,
and who is the wiser?" "I did not kill him," said I. Lal
Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I heard it all, sahib," said
he; "l heard you quarrel, and I heard the blow. But my lips are
sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put him away to-
gether." That was enough to decide me. If my own servant
could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it
good before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar
and I disposed of the body that night, and within a few days the
London papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of
Captain Morstan. You will see from what I say that l can hardly
be blamed in the matter. My fault lies in the fact that we
concealed not only the body but also the treasure and that I have
clung to Morstan's share as well as to my own. I wish you,
therefore, to make restitution. Put your ears down to my mouth.
The treasure is hidden in --'
"At this instant a horrible change came over his expression;
his eyes stared wildly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled in a voice
which I can never forget, 'Keep him out! For Christ's sake keep
him out!' We both stared round at the window behind us upon
which his gaze was fixed. A face was looking in at us out of the
darkness. We could see the whitening of the nose where it was
pressed against the glass. It was a bearded, hairy face, with wild
cruel eyes and an expression of concentrated malevolence. My
brother and I rushed towards the window, but the man was gone.
When we returned to my father his head had dropped and his
pulse had ceased to beat.
"We searched the garden that night but found no sign of the
intruder save that just under the window a single footmark was
visible in the flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have
thought that our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce
face. We soon, however, had another and a more striking proof
that there were secret agencies at work all round us. The window
of my father's room was found open in the morning, his cup-
boards and boxes had been rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a
torn piece of paper with the words 'The sign of the four'
scrawled across it. What the phrase meant or who our secret
visitor may have been, we never knew. As far as we can judge,
none of my father's property had been actually stolen, though
everything had been turned out. My brother and I naturally
associated this peculiar incident with the fear which haunted my
father during his life, but it is still a complete mystery to us."
The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thought-
fully for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to
his extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's
death Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I
feared that she was about to faint. She rallied, however, on
drinking a glass of water which I quietly poured out for her from
a Venetian carafe upon the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned
back in his chair with an abstracted expression and the lids
drawn low over his glittering eyes. As I glanced at him I could
not but think how on that very day he had complained bitterly of
the commonplaceness of life. Here at least was a problem which
would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr. Thaddeus Sholto
looked from one to the other of us with an obvious pride at the
effect which his story had produced and then continued between
the puffs of his overgrown pipe.
"My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine,
much excited as to the treasure which my father had spoken of.
For weeks and for months we dug and delved in every part of the
garden without discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to
think that the hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment
that he died. We could judge the splendour of the missing riches
by the chaplet which he had taken out. Over this chaplet my
brother Bartholomew and I had some little discussion. The pearls
were evidently of great value, and he was averse to part with
them, for, between friends, my brother was himself a little
inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, that if we parted
with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and finally bring us
into trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade him to let me
find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached pearl at
fixed intervals so that at least she might never feel destitute."
"It was a kindly thought," said our companion earnestly; "it
was extremely good of you."
The little man waved his hand deprecatingly.
"We were your trustees," he said; "that was the view which I
took of it, though Brother Bartholomew could not altogether see
it in that light. We had plenty of money ourselves. I desired no
more. Besides, it would have been such bad taste to have treated
a young lady in so scurvy a fashion. 'Le mauvais godt mene au
crime.' The French have a very neat way of putting these things.
Our difference of opinion on this subject went so far that I
thought it best to set up rooms for myself; so I left Pondicherry
Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me. Yester-
day, however, I learned that an event of extreme importance has
occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I instantly commu-
nicated with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive
out to Norwood and demand our share. I explained my views last
night to Brother Bartholomew, so we shall be expected, if not
welcome, visitors."
Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased and sat twitching on his luxurious
settee. We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new
development which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes
was the first to spring to his feet.
"You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he. "It is
possible that we may be able to make you some small return by
throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as
Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put
the matter through without delay."
Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of
his hookah and produced from behind a curtain a very long
befrogged topcoat with astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he but-
toned tightly up in spite of the extreme closeness of the night and
finished his attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging
lappets which covered the ears, so that no part of him was visible
save his mobile and peaky face.
"My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked as he led the
way down the passage. "I am compelled to be a valetudinarian."
Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was
evidently prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid
pace. Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly in a voice which rose
high above the rattle of the wheels.
"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he. "How do you
think he found out where the treasure was? He had come to the
conclusion that it was somewhere indoors, so he worked out all
the cubic space of the house and made measurements everywhere
so that not one inch should be unaccounted for. Among other
things, he found that the height of the building was seventy-four
feet, but on adding together the heights of all the separate rooms
and making every allowance for the space between, which he
ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total to more than
seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted for. These could
only be at the top of the building. He knocked a hole, therefore,
in the lath and plaster ceiling of the highest room, and there, sure
enough, he came upon another little garret above it, which had
been sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood the
treasure-chest resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through the
hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at not
less than half a million sterling."
At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one
another open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights,
would change from a needy governess to the richest heiress in
England. Surely it was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at
such news, yet I am ashamed to say that selfishness took me by
the soul and that my heart turned as heavy as lead within me. I
stammered out some few halting words of congratulation and
then sat downcast, with my head drooped, deaf to the babble of
our new acquaintance. He was clearly a confirmed hypochondriac,
and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth intermi-
nable trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the
composition and action of innumerable quack nostrums, some of
which he bore about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that he
may not remember any of the answers which I gave him that
night. Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him against
the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor-oil,
while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative.
However that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab
pulled up with a jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the
door.
"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thad-
deus Sholto as he handed her out.

The Sign of Four - Chapter 3 In Quest of a Solution

It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright,
eager, and in excellent spirits, a mood which in his case alter-
nated with fits of the blackest depression.
"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the
cup of tea which I had poured out for him; "the facts appear to
admit of only one explanation."
"What! you have solved it already?"
"Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a
suggestive fact, that is all. It is, however, very suggestive. The
details are still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the
back files of the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norwood,
late of the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry, died upon the twenty-
eighth of April, 1882."
"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this
suggests."
"No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain
Morstan disappears. The only person in London whom he could
have visited is Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard
that he was in London. Four years later Sholto dies. Within a
week of his death Captain Morstan's daughter receives a valuable
present, which is repeated from year to year and now culminates
in a letter which describes her as a wronged woman. What
wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of her father? And
why should the presents begin immediately after Sholto's death
unless it is that Sholto's heir knows something of the mystery
and desires to make compensation? Have you any alternative
theory which will meet the facts?"
"But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made!
Why, too, should he write a letter now, rather than six years
ago? Again, the letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice
can she have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still
alive. There is no other injustice in her case that you know of."
"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
Sherlock Holmes pensively; "but our expedition of to-night will
solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is
inside. Are you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is
a little past the hour."
I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that
Holmes took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his
pocket. It was clear that he thought that our night's work might
be a serious one.
Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive
face was composed but pale. She must have been more than
woman if she did not feel some uneasiness at the strange enter-
prise upon which we were embarking, yet her self-control was
perfect, and she readily answered the few additional questions
which Sherlock Holmes put to her.
"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of Papa's," she
said. "His letters were full of allusions to the major. He and
Papa were in command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so
they were thrown a great deal together. By the way, a curious
paper was found in Papa's desk which no one could understand.
I don't suppose that it is of the slightest importance, but I
thought you might care to see it, so I brought it with me. It is
here."
Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon
his knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his
double lens.
"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked. "It
has at some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it
appears to be a plan of part of a large building with numerous
halls, corridors, and passages. At one point is a small cross done
in red ink, and above it is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-
writing. In the left-hand corner is a curious hieroglyphic like four
crosses in a line with their arms touching. Beside it is written, in
very rough and coarse characters, 'The sign of the four -- Jonathan
Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.' No, I
confess that I do not see how this bears upon the matter. Yet it is
evidently a document of importance. It has been kept carefully in
a pocketbook, for the one side is as clean as the other."
"It was in his pocketbook that we found it."
"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to
be of use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to
be much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must
reconsider my ideas."
He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn brow
and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss Morstan
and I chatted in an undertone about our present expedition and its
possible outcome, but our companion maintained his impenetra-
ble reserve until the end of our journey.
It was a September evening and not yet seven o'clock, but the
day had been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon
the great city. Mud-coloured clouds drooped sadly over the
muddy streets. Down the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches
of diffused light which threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the
slimy pavement. The yellow glare from the shop-windows streamed
out into the steamy, vaporous air and threw a murky, shifting
radiance across the crowded thoroughfare. There was, to my
mind, something eerie and ghostlike in the endless procession of
faces which flitted across these narrow bars of light -- sad faces
and glad, haggard and merry. Like all humankind, they flitted
from the gloom into the light and so back into the gloom once
more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy
evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged,
combined to make me nervous and depressed. I could see from
Miss Morstan's manner that she was suffering from the same
feeling. Holmes alone could rise superior to petty influences. He
held his open notebook upon his knee, and from time to time he
jotted down figures and memoranda in the light of his pocket-
lantern.
At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the
side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and
four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of shirt-
fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a
small, dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.
"Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he
asked.
"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends,"
said she.
He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes
upon us.
"You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged
manner, "but I was to ask you to give me your word that neither
of your companions is a police-officer."
"I give you my word on that," she answered.
He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed
us mounted to the box, while we took our places inside. We had
hardly done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we
plunged away at a furious pace through the foggy streets.
The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an
unknown place, on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was
either a complete hoax -- which was an inconceivable hypothesis --
or else we had good reason to think that important issues might
hang upon our journey. Miss Morstan's demeanour was as reso-
lute and collected as ever. I endeavoured to cheer and amuse her
by reminiscences of my adventures in Afghanistan; but, to tell
the truth, I was myself so excited at our situation and so curious
as to our destination that my stories were slightly involved. To
this day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to
how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night, and how
I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I had some idea
as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what with
our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I
lost my bearings and knew nothing save that we seemed to be
going a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault,
however, and he muttered the names as the cab rattled through
squares and in and out by tortuous by-streets.
"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we
come out on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the
Surrey side apparently. Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the
bridge. You can catch glimpses of the river."
We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames,
with the lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab
dashed on and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon
the other side.
"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road.
Lark Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbour
Lane. Our quest does not appear to take us to very fashionable
regions."
We had indeed reached a questionable and forbidding neigh-
bourhood. Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by
the coarse glare and tawdry brilliancy of public-houses at the
corner. Then came rows of two-storied villas, each with a front-
ing of miniature garden, and then again interminable lines of
new, staring brick buildings -- the monster tentacles which the
giant city was throwing out into the country. At last the cab drew
up at the third house in a new terrace. None of the other houses
were inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as dark as its
neighbours, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen-window. On
our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open by a
Hindoo servant, clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting
clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely in-
congruous in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace
doorway of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.
"The sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke, there
came a high, piping voice from some inner room.
"Show them in to-me, khitmutgar," it said. "Show them
straight in to me."

(The sign of four)Chapter 2 The Statement of the Case

Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small,
dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There
was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume
which bore with it a suggestion of limited means. The dress was
a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore
a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion
of white feather in the side. Her face had neither regularity of
feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet
and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual
and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over
many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked
upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and
sensitive nature. I could not but observe that as she took the seat
which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her
hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward
agitation.
"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said,"because you
once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a
little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your
kindness and skill."
"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe
that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I
remember it, was a very simple one."
"She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of
mine. I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly
inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."
Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned
forward in his chair with an expression of extraordinary concen-
tration upon his clear-cut, hawklike features.
"State your case," said he in brisk business tones.
I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.
"You will, I am sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my
chair.
To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to
detain me.
"If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop,
he might be of inestimable service to me."
I relapsed into my chair.
"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was
an officer in an Indian regiment, who sent me home when I was
quite a child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in
England. I was placed, however, in a comfortable boarding
establishment at Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was
seventeen years of age. In the year 1878 my father, who was
senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve months' leave
and came home. He telegraphed to me from London that he had
arrived all safe and directed me to come down at once, giving
the Langham Hotel as his address. His message, as I remember,
was full of kindness and love. On reaching London I drove to the
Langham and was informed that Captain Morstan was staying
there, but that he had gone out the night before and had not
returned. I waited all day without news of him. That night, on
the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the
police, and next morning we advertised in all the papers. Our
inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no word has
ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with
his heart full of hope to find some peace, some comfort, and
instead --"
She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the
sentence.
"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his notebook.
"He disappeared upon the third of December, 1878 -- nearly
ten years ago."
"His luggage?"
"Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a
clue -- some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the
officers in charge of the convict-guard there."
"Had he any friends in town?"
"Only one that we know of -- Major Sholto, of his own regi-
ment, the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry. The major had retired
some little time before and lived at Upper Norwood. We com-
municated with him, of course, but he did not even know that his
brother officer was in England."
"A singular case," remarked Holmes.
"I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About
six years ago -- to be exact, upon the fourth of May, 1882 -- an
advertisement appeared in the Times asking for the address of
Miss Mary Morstan, and stating that it would be to her advan-
tage to come forward. There was no name or address appended.
I had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester
in the capacity of governess. By her advice I published my
address in the advertisement column. The same day there arrived
through the post a small cardboard box addressed to me, which I
found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word of
writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same date
there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar
pearl, without any clue as to the sender. They have been pro-
nounced by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable
value. You can see for yourself that they are very hanasome."
She opened a flat box as she spoke and showed me six of the
finest pearls that I had ever seen.
"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.
"Has anything else occurred to you?"
"Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come to
you. This morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps
read for yourself."
"Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope, too, please.
Post-mark, London, S. W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man's thumb-
mark on corner -- probably postman. Best quality paper. Enve-
lopes at sixpence a packet. Particular man in his stationery. No
address.

"Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum
Theatre to-night at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful
bring two friends. You are a wronged woman and shall
have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in
vain. Your unknown friend.

Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery! What do you
intend to do, Miss Morstan?"
That is exactly what I want to ask you."
"Then we shall most certainly go -- you and I and -- yes. why
Dr. Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two
friends. He and I have worked together before."
"But would he come?" she asked with something appealing
in her voice and expression.
"I shall be proud and happy," said I fervently, "if I can be of
any service."
"You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a
retired life and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am
here at six it will do, I suppose?"
"You must not be later," said Holmes. "There. is one other
point, however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the
pearl-box addresses?"
"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen
pieces of paper.
"You are certainly a model client. You have the correct
intuition. Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the
table and gave little darting glances from one to the other. "They
are disguised hands, except the letter," he said presently; "but
there can be no question as to the authorship. See how the
irrepressible Greek e will break out, and see the twirl of the final
s. They are undoubtedly by the same person. I should not like to
suggest false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is there any resemblance
between this hand and that of your father?"
"Nothing could be more unlike."
"I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you,
then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into
the matter before then. It is only half-past three. Au revoir
then."
"Au revoir," said our visitor; and with a bright, kindly glance
from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her
bosom and hurried away.
Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down
the street until the gray turban and white feather were but a speck
in the sombre crowd.
"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my
companion.
He had lit his pipe again and was leaning back with drooping
eyelids. "Is she?" he said languidly; "I did not observe."
"You really are an automaton -- a calculating machine," I
cried. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times."
He smiled gently.
"It is of the first importance," he cried, "not to allow your
judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a
mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are
antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most win-
ning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little
children for their insurance-money, and the most repellent man
of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a
quarter of a million upon the London poor."
"In this case, however --"
"I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule.
Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting?
What do you make of this fellow's scribble?"
"It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business
habits and some force of character."
Holmes shook his head.
"Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above
the common herd. That d might be an a, and that I an e. Men of
character always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly
they may write. There is vacillation in his k's and self-esteem in
his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to
make. Let me recommend this book -- one of the most remark-
able ever penned. It is Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man. I
shall be back in an hour."
I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my
thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My
mind ran upon our late visitor -- her smiles, the deep rich tones of
her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she
were seventeen at the time of her father's disappearance she must
be seven-and-twenty now -- a sweet age, when youth has lost its
self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So
I sat and mused until such dangerous thoughts came into my
head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into
the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army surgeon
with a weak leg and a weaker banking account, that I should
dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a factor -- nothing
more. If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like
a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of
the imagination.

Chapter 1 The Science of Deduction(The Sign Of Four)

The Sign of Four

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-
piece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case.
With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate
needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his
eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all
dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he
thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and
sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of
satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this
performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On
the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the
sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought
that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had
registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject;
but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion
which made him the last man with whom one would care to take
anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly
manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraor-
dinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing
him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I
had taken with my lunch or the additional exasperation produced
by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I
could hold out no longer.
"Which is it to-day," I asked, "morphine or cocaine?"
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume
which he had opened.
"It is cocaine," he said, "a seven-per-cent solution. Would
you care to try it?"
"No, indeed," I answered brusquely. "My constitution has
not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw
any extra strain upon it."
He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Wat-
son," he said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad
one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarify-
ing to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small
moment."
"But consider!" I said earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain
may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological
and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and
may at least leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what
a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly
worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure,
risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been
endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to
another but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is
to some extent answerable."
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-
tips together, and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like
one who has a relish for conversation.
"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me prob-
lems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or
the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmo-
sphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor
the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That
is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather
created it, for I am the only one in the world."
"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.
"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I
am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Greg-
son, or Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths --
which, by the way, is their normal state -- the matter is laid
before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a
specialist's opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name
figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding
a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you
have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the
Jefferson Hope case."
"Yes, indeed," said I cordially. "I was never so struck by
anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure, with
the somewhat fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.' "
He shook his head sadly.
"I glanced over it," said he. "Honestly, I cannot congratulate
you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and
should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You
have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces
much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."
"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not
tamper with the facts."
"Some facts should be suppressed, or, at least, a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point
in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical
reasoning from effects to causes, by which I succeeded in unrav-
elling it."
I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been
specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was
irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line
of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings.
More than once during the years that I had lived with him in
Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my
companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark
however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had had a Jezaii
bullet through it some time before, and though it did not prevent
me from walking it ached wearily at every change of the weather.
"My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said
Holmes after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was
consulted last week by Francois le Villard, who, as you
probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French
detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition
but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which is
essential to the higher developments of his art. The case was
concerned with a will and possessed some features of interest. I
was able to refer him to two parallel cases, the one at Riga in
1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested
to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had this
morning acknowledging my assistance."
He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign
notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of
notes of admiration, with stray magnifiques, coup-de-maitres and
tours-de-force, all testifying to the ardent admiration of the
Frenchman.
"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.
"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes
lightly. "He has coosiderable gifts himself. He possesses two
out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has
the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only
wanting in knowledge, and that may come in time. He is now
translating my small works into French."
"Your works?"
"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have
been guilty of several monographs. They are all upon technical
subjects. Here, for example, is one 'Upon the Distinction be-
tween the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.' In it I enumerate a
hundred and forty forms of cigar, cigarette, and pipe tobacco,
with coloured plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a
point which is continually turning up in criminal trials, and
which is sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If you can
say definitely, for example, that some murder had been done by
a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows
your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much differ-
ence between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff
of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."
"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.
"I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon
the tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of
plaster of Paris as a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a
curious little work upon the influence of a trade upon the form of
the hand, with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, cork-
cutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers. That is a
matter of great practical interest to the scientific detective --
especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in discovering the
antecedents of criminals. But I weary you with my hobby."
"Not at all," I answered earnestly. "It is of the greatest
interest to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of
observing your practical application of it. But you spoke just
now of observation and deduction. Surely the one to some extent
implies the other."
"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his
armchair and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For
example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore
Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that
when there you dispatched a telegram."
"Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I
don't see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon
my part, and I have mentioned it to no one."
"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my
surprise -- "so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous;
and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of
deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish
mould adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Wigmore Street
Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up some
earth, which lies in such a way that it is difficult to avoid
treading in it in entering. The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint
which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the neigh-
bourhood. So much is observation. The rest is deduction."
"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"
"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter,
since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open
desk there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of
postcards. What could you go into the post-office for, then, but
to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which
remains must be the truth."
"In this case it certainly is so," I replied after a little thought.
"The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you
think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more
severe test?"
"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from
taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look
into any problem which you might submit to me."
"I have heard you say it is difficult for a man to have any
object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individual-
ity upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it.
Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my
possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion
upon the character or habits of the late owner?"
I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of
amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an
impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the some-
what dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced
the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back,
and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with
a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his
crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it
back.
"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has
been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive
facts. "
"You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being
sent to me."
In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a
most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data
could he expect from an uncleaned watch?
"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely
barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy,
lack-lustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that
the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from
your father."
"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"
"Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the
watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the
watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewellery usually
descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same
name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been
dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your
eldest brother."
"Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"
"He was a man of untidy habits -- very untidy and careless.
He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances,
lived for some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of
prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can
gather."
I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room
with considerable bitterness in my heart.
"This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have
believed that you would have descended to this. You have made
inquiries into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now
pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You
cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this from his
old watch! It is unkind and, to speak plainly, has a touch of
charlatanism in it."
"My dear doctor," said he kindly, "pray accept my apolo-
gies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten
how personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure
you, however, that I never even knew that you had a brother
until you handed me the watch."
"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get
these facts? They are absolutely correct in every particular."
"Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance
of probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate."
"But it was not mere guesswork?"
"No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit -- destructive to
the logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because
you do not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts
upon which large inferences may depend. For example, I began
by stating that your brother was careless. When you observe the
lower part of that watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted
in two places but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of
keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same
pocket. Surely it is no great feat to assume that a man who treats
a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a careless man. Nei-
ther is it a very far-fetched inference that a man who inherits one
article of such value is pretty well provided for in other respects."
I nodded to show that I followed his reasoning.
"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they
take a watch, to scratch the numbers of the ticket with a pin-
point upon the inside of the case. It is more handy than a label as
there is no risk of the number being lost or transposed. There are
no less than four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside
of this case. Inference -- that your brother was often at low water.
Secondary inference -- that he had occasional bursts of prosper-
ity, or he could not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you
to look at the inner plate, which contains the keyhole. Look at
the thousands of scratches all round the hole -- marks where the
key has slipped. What sober man's key could have scored those
grooves? But you will never see a drunkard's watch without
them. He winds it at night, and he leaves these traces of his
unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all this?"
"It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I regret the injustice
which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvellous
faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on
foot at present?"
"None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without brainwork.
What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was
ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the
yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-
coloured houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and
material? What is the use of having powers, Doctor, when one
has no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplacc,
existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those which are
commonplace have any function upon earth."
I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade when, with a
crisp knock, our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass
salver.
"A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my
companion.
"Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Hum! I have no recollec-
tion of the name. Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson.
Don't go, Doctor. I should prefer that you remain."