Sherlock Holmes complete collection by sir arthur conan doyle

The Return of Sherlock Holmes THE EMPTY HOUSE

IT WAS in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested, andthe fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable RonaldAdair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances. The public hasalready learned those particulars of the crime which came out in thepolice investigation, but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion,since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that itwas not necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end ofnearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links which makeup the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was of interest in itself,but that interest was as nothing to me compared to the inconceivablesequel, which afforded me the greatest shock and surprise of any event inmy adventurous life. Even now, after this long interval, I find myselfthrilling as I think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let mesay to that public, which has shown some interest in those glimpses whichI have occasionally given them of the thoughts and actions of a veryremarkable man, that they are not to blame me if I have not shared myknowledge with them, for I should have considered it my first duty to doso, had I not been barred by a positive prohibition from his own lips,which was only withdrawn upon the third of last month.It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes hadinterested me deeply in crime, and that after his disappearance I neverfailed to read with care the various problems which came before thepublic. And I even attempted, more than once, for my own privatesatisfaction, to employ his methods in their solution, though withindifferent success. There was none, however, which appealed to me likethis tragedy of Ronald Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, whichled up to a verdict of wilful murder against some person or personsunknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss which thecommunity had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There werepoints about this strange business which would, I was sure, have speciallyappealed to him, and the efforts of the police would have beensupplemented, or more probably anticipated, by the trained observationand the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day, as I droveupon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found noexplanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling atwice-told tale, I will recapitulate the facts as they were known to thepublic at the conclusion of the inquest.The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl ofMaynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian colonies.Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were livingtogether at 427 Park Lane. The youth moved in the best society-had, sofar as was known, no enemies and no particular vices. He had beenengaged to Miss Edith Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement hadbeen broken off by mutual consent some months before, and there was nosign that it had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest of theman's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his habits werequiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going youngaristocrat that death came, in [484] most strange and unexpected form,between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30,1894.Ronald Adair was fond of cards-playing continually, but never for suchstakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, theCavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that, after dinneron the day of his death, he had played a rubber of whist at the latter club.He had also played there in the afternoon. The evidence of those who hadplayed with him-Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and ColonelMoran-showed that the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equalfall of the cards. Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. Hisfortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any wayaffect him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but hewas a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in evidencethat, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually won as much asfour hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some weeks before, fromGodfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent history as itcame out at the inquest.On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at ten.His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation. Theservant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the secondfloor, generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire there, and as itsmoked she had opened the window. No sound was heard from the roomuntil eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and herdaughter. Desiring to say good-night, she attempted to enter her son'sroom. The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got totheir cries and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. Theunfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head had beenhorribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of anysort was to be found in the room. On the table lay two banknotes for tenpounds each and seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the moneyarranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some figures alsoupon a sheet of paper, with the names of some club friends opposite tothem, from which it was conjectured that before his death he wasendeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make thecase more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given why theyoung man should have fastened the door upon the inside. There was thepossibility that the murderer had done this, and had afterwards escaped bythe window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a bed ofcrocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks uponthe narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road.Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened thedoor. But how did he come by his death? No one could have climbed upto the window without leaving traces. Suppose a man had fired throughthe window, he would indeed be a remarkable shot who could with arevolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequentedthoroughfare; there is a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house. Noone had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man, and there therevolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will,and so inflicted a wound which must have caused instantaneous death.Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which werefurther complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said,young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had beenmade to remove the money or valuables in the room.All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit uponsome [485] theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that line ofleast resistance which my poor friend had declared to be the starting-pointof every investigation. I confess that I made little progress. In the eveningI strolled across the Park, and found myself about six o'clock at theOxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements,all staring up at a particular window, directed me to the house which I hadcome to see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I stronglysuspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out some theoryof his own, while the others crowded round to listen to what he said. I gotas near him as I could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, soI withdrew again in some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly,deformed man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down severalbooks which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, Iobserved the title of one of them, The Origin of Tree Worship, and itstruck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile, who, either as atrade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured toapologize for the accident, but it was evident that these books which I hadso unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of theirowner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw hiscurved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little to clear up the problemin which I was interested. The house was separated from the street by alow wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet high. It wasperfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but thewindow was entirely inaccessible, since there was no waterpipe oranything which could help the most active man to climb it. More puzzledthan ever, I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my studyfive minutes when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me.To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book collector,his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair, and hisprecious volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged under his right arm."You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking voice.I acknowledged that I was."Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go intothis house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just stepin and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in mymanner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to himfor picking up my books.""You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how you knew whoI was?""Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, foryou'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and veryhappy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here'sBritish Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War-a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf.It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turnedagain, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my studytable. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utteramazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first andthe last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, andwhen it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-tasteof brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask inhis hand."My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you athousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."[486] I gripped him by the arms."Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive?Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?""Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit todiscuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarilydramatic reappearance.""I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Goodheavens! to think that you-you of all men-should be standing in mystudy." Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy armbeneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow," said I. "My dear chap, I'moverjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out ofthat dreadful chasm."He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book merchant, but the restof that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books upon the table.Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but there was a deadwhite tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his life recently had notbeen a healthy one."I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he. "It is no joke when a tallman has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end. Now, mydear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I may ask foryour cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front of us.Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole situationwhen that work is finished.""I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now.""You'll come with me to-night?""When you like and where you like.""This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful ofdinner before we need go. Well, then, about that chasm. I had no seriousdifficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that I never wasin it.""You never were in it?""No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine.I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I perceivedthe somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty standing uponthe narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an inexorable purpose inhis gray eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, andobtained his courteous permission to write the short note which youafterwards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and Iwalked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached theend I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw hislong arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and was onlyanxious to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon the brinkof the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanesesystem of wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. Islipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked madly for afew seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands. But for all his effortshe could not get his balance, and over he went. With my face over thebrink, I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded off,and splashed into the water."I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes deliveredbetween the puffs of his cigarette."But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw, with my own eyes, that two wentdown the path and none returned."It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor haddisappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky chance Fatehad placed in my way. I [487] knew that Moriarty was not the only manwho had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desirefor vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of theirleader. They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainlyget me. On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was deadthey would take liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselvesopen, and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time forme to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So rapidly doesthe brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before ProfessorMoriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall."I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In yourpicturesque account of the matter, which I read with great interest somemonths later, you assert that the wall was sheer. That was not literallytrue. A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was someindication of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was anobvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to make my wayalong the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, havereversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight ofthree sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have suggested adeception. On the whole, then, it was best that I should risk the climb. Itwas not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall roared beneath me. I am nota fanciful person, but I give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal.More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot slippedin the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone. But I struggledupward, and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered withsoft green moss, where I could lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort.There I was stretched, when you, my dear Watson, and all your followingwere investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner thecircumstances of my death."At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneousconclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left alone. I hadimagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a veryunexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in storefor me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the path,and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant I thought that it was anaccident, but a moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head against thedarkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which I wasstretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning of this wasobvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A confederate-and even that oneglance had told me how dangerous a man that confederate was-had keptguard while the Professor had attacked me. From a distance, unseen byme, he had been a witness of his friend's death and of my escape. He hadwaited, and then making his way round to the top of the cliff, he hadendeavoured to succeed where his comrade had failed."I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that grimface look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor of anotherstone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could have done itin cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than getting up. But Ihad no time to think of the danger, for another stone sang past me as Ihung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped,but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path. Itook to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and aweek later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no one in theworld knew what had become of me."I had only one confidant-my brother Mycroft. I owe you manyapologies, my [488] dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should bethought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have writtenso convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourselfthought that it was true. Several times during the last three years I havetaken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionateregard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betraymy secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when youupset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of surpriseand emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my identityand led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. As to Mycroft, Ihad to confide in him in order to obtain the money which I needed. Thecourse of events in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trialof the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my ownmost vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in Tibet,therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations ofa Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to youthat you were receiving news of your friend. I then passed through Persia,looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa atKhartoum, the results of which I have communicated to the ForeignOffice. Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into thecoal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, inthe south of France. Having concluded this to my satisfaction andlearning that only one of my enemies was now left in London, I was aboutto return when my movements were hastened by the news of this veryremarkable Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its ownmerits, but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personalopportunities. I came over at once to London, called in my own person atBaker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found thatMycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they hadalways been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock to-day Ifound myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishingthat I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which hehas so often adorned."Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that Aprilevening -a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me hadit not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure and thekeen, eager face, which I had never thought to see again. In some mannerhe had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shownin his manner rather than in his words. "Work is the best antidote tosorrow, my dear Watson," said he; "and I have a piece of work for us bothto-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itselfjustify a man's life on this planet." In vain I begged him to tell me more."You will hear and see enough before morning," he answered. "We havethree years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine,when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seatedbeside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the thrill ofadventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and silent. As thegleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features, I saw that hisbrows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I knewnot what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle ofcriminal London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this masterhuntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one-while the sardonicsmile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded littlegood for the object of our quest.[489] I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmesstopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as hestepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at everysubsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was notfollowed. Our route was certainly a singular one. Holmes's knowledge ofthe byways of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passedrapidly and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us into ManchesterStreet, and so to Blandford Street. Here he turned swiftly down a narrowpassage, passed through a wooden gate into a deserted yard, and thenopened with a key the back door of a house. We entered together, and heclosed it behind us.The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an emptyhouse. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and myoutstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was hanging inribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led meforward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over thedoor. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right, and we found ourselvesin a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, butfaintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was nolamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only justdiscern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand upon myshoulder and his lips close to my ear."Do you know where we are?" he whispered."Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the dimwindow."Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our ownold quarters.""But why are we here?""Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile.Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to thewindow, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to lookup at our old rooms-the starting-point of so many of your little fairytales? We will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken awaymy power to surprise you."I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyesfell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down,and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man whowas seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon theluminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of thehead, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. Theface was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those blacksilhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a perfectreproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my hand tomake sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He wasquivering with silent laughter."Well?" said he."Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous.""I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety,"said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and pride which the artisttakes in his own creation. "It really is rather like me, is it not?""I should be prepared to swear that it was you.""The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, ofGrenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in wax.The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon."[490] "But why?""Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason forwishing certain people to think that I was there when I was reallyelsewhere." "And you thought the rooms were watched?""I knew that they were watched.""By whom?""By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leaderlies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew, andonly they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that Ishould come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously, andthis morning they saw me arrive.""How do you know?""Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my window.He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade, anda remarkable performer upon the jew's-harp. I cared nothing for him. ButI cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behindhim, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks overthe cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is theman who is after me to-night, Watson, and that is the man who is quiteunaware that we are after him."My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves. From thisconvenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the trackerstracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and we were thehunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched thehurrying figures who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes wassilent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and that hiseyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by. It was a bleak andboisterous night, and the wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Manypeople were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats andcravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same figurebefore, and I especially noticed two men who appeared to be shelteringthemselves from the wind in the doorway of a house some distance up thestreet. I tried to draw my companion's attention to them; but he gave alittle ejaculation of impatience, and continued to stare into the street.More than once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with hisfingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy,and that his plans were not working out altogether as he had hoped. Atlast, as midnight approached and the street gradually cleared, he paced upand down the room in uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make someremark to him, when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and againexperienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's arm,and pointed upward."The shadow has moved!" I cried.It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was turnedtowards us.Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper orhis impatience with a less active intelligence than his own."Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical bungler,Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that some ofthe sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been inthis room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in thatfigure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!" He drew in hisbreath with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrownforward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street wasabsolutely deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in thedoorway, but I [491] could no longer see them. All was still and dark, saveonly that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figureoutlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that thin,sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instantlater he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I felt hiswarning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me werequivering. Never had I known my friend more moved, and yet the darkstreet still stretched lonely and motionless before us.But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had alreadydistinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from thedirection of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which welay concealed. A door opened and shut. An instant later steps crept downthe passage-steps which were meant to be silent, but which reverberatedharshly through the empty house. Holmes crouched back against the wall,and I did the same, my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver.Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shadeblacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for an instant, andthen he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was withinthree yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced myself to meet hisspring, before I realized that he had no idea of our presence. He passedclose beside us, stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light ofthe street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his face.The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His two eyesshone like stars, and his features were working convulsively. He was anelderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and ahuge grizzled moustache. An opera hat was pushed to the back of hishead, and an evening dress shirt-front gleamed out through his openovercoat. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines.In his hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it downupon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the pocket of hisovercoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied himself in some taskwhich ended with a loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen intoits place. Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw all hisweight and strength upon some lever, with the result that there came along, whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click. Hestraightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was asort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the breech,put something in, and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching down, herested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I sawhis long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peeredalong the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the buttinto his shoulder, and saw that amazing target, the black man on theyellow ground, standing clear at the end of his foresight. For an instant hewas rigid and motionless. Then his finger tightened on the trigger. Therewas a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At thatinstant Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurledhim flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with convulsivestrength he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck him on the head withthe butt of my revolver, and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell uponhim, and as I held him my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle.There was the clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and twopolicemen in uniform, with one plain-clothes detective, rushed throughthe front entrance and into the room."That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.[492] "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you backin London, sir.""I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders inone year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery withless than your usual-that's to say, you handled it fairly well."We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a stalwartconstable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers had begun tocollect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the window, closed it, anddropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles, and thepolicemen had uncovered their lanterns. I was able at last to have a goodlook at our prisoner.It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turnedtowards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of asensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities for goodor for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with theirdrooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and thethreatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's plainest dangersignals. He took no heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed uponHolmes's face with an expression in which hatred and amazement wereequally blended. "You fiend!" he kept on muttering. "You clever, cleverfiend!""Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar. "'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think I have had thepleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those attentions as Ilay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall."The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. "Youcunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say."I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes. "This, gentlemen, isColonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and thebest heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. Ibelieve I am correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers stillremains unrivalled?"The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my companion. Withhis savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tigerhimself."I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old ashikari," said Holmes. "It must be very familiar to you. Have you nottethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waitedfor the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree, and youare my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case thereshould be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aimfailing you. These," he pointed around, "are my other guns. The parallelis exact."Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the constablesdragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look at."I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said Holmes. "I didnot anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house andthis convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating from thestreet, where my friend Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.With that exception, all has gone as I expected." Colonel Moran turned to the official detective."You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he, "but atleast there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of thisperson. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal way.""Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade. "Nothing further youhave to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"[493] Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, andwas examining its mechanism."An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and oftremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, whoconstructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I havebeen aware of its existence, though I have never before had theopportunity of handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention,Lestrade, and also the bullets which fit it.""You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, as thewhole party moved towards the door. "Anything further to say?""Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?""What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr.Sherlock Holmes.""Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. Toyou, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest whichyou have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usualhappy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him.""Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?""The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain-ColonelSebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with anexpanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the secondfloor front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month. That'sthe charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can endure the draughtfrom a broken window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigarmay afford you some profitable amusement."Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision ofMycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered Isaw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all intheir place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained, dealtopped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrap-booksand books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens would havebeen so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the piperack-even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco-all met myeyes as I glanced round me. There were two occupants of the room-one,Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we entered-the other, thestrange dummy which had played so important a part in the evening'sadventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so admirably donethat it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal table with anold dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion fromthe street was absolutely perfect."I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said Holmes."I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me." "Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe wherethe bullet went?""Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it passed rightthrough the head and flattened itself on the wall. I picked it up from thecarpet. Here it is!"Holmes held it out to me. "A soft revolver bullet, as you perceive,Watson. There's genius in that, for who would expect to find such a thingfired from an air-gun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I am much obliged foryour assistance. And now, Watson, let me see you in your old seat oncemore, for there are several points which I should like to discuss with you."[494] He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was theHolmes of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took fromhis effigy."The old shikari's nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor his eyestheir keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shatteredforehead of his bust."Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through thebrain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there are few betterin London. Have you heard the name?""No, I have not.""Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right, you had notheard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one of the greatbrains of the century. Just give me down my index of biographies fromthe shelf."He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and blowinggreat clouds from his cigar."My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself isenough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner,and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked outmy left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here isour friend of to-night."He handed over the book, and I read:Moran, Sebastian, Colonel. Unemployed. Formerly 1stBangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir AugustusMoran, C. B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton andOxford. Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign,Charasiab (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of HeavyGame of the Western Himalayas (1881); Three Months in theJungle (1884). Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian,the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise hand:The second most dangerous man in London."This is astonishing," said I, as I handed back the volume. "The man'scareer is that of an honourable soldier.""It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain point he did well. Hewas always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told in India how hecrawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger. There are sometrees, Watson, which grow to a certain height, and then suddenly developsome unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have atheory that the individual represents in his development the wholeprocession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or evilstands for some strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree.The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history of his ownfamily.""It is surely rather fanciful.""Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran beganto go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India too hot tohold him. He retired, came to London, and again acquired an evil name. Itwas at this time that he was sought out by Professor Moriarty, to whomfor a time he was chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally withmoney, and used him only in one or two very high-class jobs, which noordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have somerecollection of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, Iam sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved. Socleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the Moriarty gangwas broken up, we could not incriminate him. You remember at that date,when I called upon [495] you in your rooms, how I put up the shutters forfear of air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew exactly what Iwas doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable gun, and I knewalso that one of the best shots in the world would be behind it. When we were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it wasundoubtedly he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbachledge."You may think that I read the papers with some attention during mysojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying him by theheels. So long as he was free in London, my life would really not havebeen worth living. Night and day the shadow would have been over me,and sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I do? I couldnot shoot him at sight, or I should myself be in the dock. There was nouse appealing to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength ofwhat would appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing.But I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I should gethim. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My chance had come atlast. Knowing what I did, was it not certain that Colonel Moran had doneit? He had played cards with the lad, he had followed him home from theclub, he had shot him through the open window. There was not a doubt ofit. The bullets alone are enough to put his head in a noose. I came over atonce. I was seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the colonel'sattention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden returnwith his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure that he would makean attempt to get me out of the way at once, and would bring round hismurderous weapon for that purpose. I left him an excellent mark in thewindow, and, having warned the police that they might be needed-by theway, Watson, you spotted their presence in that doorway with unerringaccuracy-I took up what seemed to me to be a judicious post forobservation, never dreaming that he would choose the same spot for hisattack. Now, my dear Watson, does anything remain for me to explain?""Yes," said I. "You have not made it clear what was Colonel Moran'smotive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?""Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of conjecture,where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may form his ownhypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is as likely to be correctas mine.""You have formed one, then?""I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came out inevidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between them, won aconsiderable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly played foul-ofthat I have long been aware. I believe that on the day of the murder Adairhad discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had spoken tohim privately, and had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarilyresigned his membership of the club, and promised not to play cardsagain. It is unlikely that a youngster like Adair would at once make ahideous scandal by exposing a well known man so much older thanhimself. Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubswould mean ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains. Hetherefore murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work outhow much money he should himself return, since he could not profit byhis partner's foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies should surprisehim and insist upon knowing what he was doing with these names and coins. Will it pass?""I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth."[496] "It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, comewhat may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous air-gun ofVon Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once againMr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining thoseinteresting little problems which the complex life of London so plentifullypresents."