Study in the Scarlet

PART I

Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of
John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Army
Medical Department

Chapter 1
Mr. Sherlock Holmes

In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the
course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed
my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland
Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in
India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan
war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my
corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in
the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many other
officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded
in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and
at once entered upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but
for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed
from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I
served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the
shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed
the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the
murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage
shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a pack-
horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships
which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of
wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I
rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk
about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the veranda
when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian
possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at
last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak
and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day
should be lost in sending me back to England. I was despatched
accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later
on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but
with permission from a paternal government to spend the next
nine months in attempting to improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free
as air -- or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a
day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances I natu-
rally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the
loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I
stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a
comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as
I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the
state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must
either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the coun-
try, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of
living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my
mind to leave the hotel, and take up my quarters in some less
pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was
standing at the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped me on the
shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who
had been a dresser under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly
face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed
to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particu-
lar crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he,
in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance
of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we
started off together in a hansom.
"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he
asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded
London streets. "You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a
nut."
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly
concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.
"Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened
to my misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"
"Looking for lodgings," I answered. "Trying to solve the
problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a
reasonable price."
"That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are
the second man today that has used that expression to me."
"And who was the first?" I asked.
"A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the
hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he
could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms
which he had found, and which were too much for his purse."
"By Jove!" I cried; "if he really wants someone to share the
rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should
prefer having a partner to being alone."
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-
glass. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "per-
haps you would not care for him as a constant companion."
"Why, what is there against him?"
"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little
queer in his ideas -- an enthusiast in some branches of science.
As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough."
"A medical student, I suppose?" said I.
"No -- I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he
is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far
as I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical
classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has
amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would aston-
ish his professors."
"Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.
"No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can
be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."
"I should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with
anyone, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am
not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had
enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my
natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?"
"He is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion.
"He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there
from morning till night. If you like, we will drive round together
after luncheon."
"Certainly," I answered, and the conversation drifted away
into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn,
Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman
whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.
"You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he
said; "I know nothing more of him than I have learned from
meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this
arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible."
"If we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I
answered. "It seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at
my companion, "that you have some reason for washing your
hands of the matter. Is this fellow's temper so formidable, or
what is it? Don't be mealymouthed about it."
"It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered
with a laugh. "Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes -- it
approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a
friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of
malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of
inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do
him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same
readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact
knowledge."
"Very right too."
"Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to
beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is
certainly taking rather a bizarre shape."
"Beating the subjects!"
"Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I
saw him at it with my own eyes."
"And yet you say he is not a medical student?"
"No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But
here we are, and you must form your own impressions about
him." As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed
through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of the great
hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding
as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down
the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and dun-
coloured doors. Near the farther end a low arched passage
branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless
bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled
with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue
flickering flames. There was only one student in the room, who
was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the
sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a
cry of pleasure. "I've found it! I've found it," he shouted to my
companion, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. "I
have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and
by nothing else." Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight
could not have shone upon his features.
"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, intro-
ducing us.
"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a
strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You
have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."
"How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.
"Never mind," said he, chuckling to himselfl "The question
now is about haemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of
this discovery of mine?"
"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but
practically
"Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery
for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for
blood stains? Come over here now!" He seized me by the
coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and drew me over to the table at
which he had been working. "Let us have some fresh blood,"
he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and drawing off
the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. "Now, I add
this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that
the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The
proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have
no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the character-
istic reaction." As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few
white crystals, and then added some drops of a transparent fluid.
In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogahy colour, and a
brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.
"Ha! ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted
as a child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"
"It seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.
"Beautiful! beautiful! The old guaiacum test was very clumsy
and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood
corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours
old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the blood is old or
new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now
walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of
their crimes."
"Indeed!" I murmured.
"Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point.
A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been
committed. His linen or clothes are examined and brownish
stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or mud
stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a
question which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because
there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes's
test, and there will no longer be any difficulty."
His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over
his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up
by hls imagination.
"You are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably
surprised at his enthusiasm.
"There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year.
He would certainly have been hung had this test been in exis-
tence. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious
Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Or-
leans. I could name a score of cases in which it would have been
decisive."
_"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford
with a laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the
'Police News of the Past.' "
"Very interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked
Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick
on his finger. "I have to be careful," he continued, turning to
me with a smile, "for I dabble with poisons a good deal." He
held out his hand as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all
mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with
strong acids.
"We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on
a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direc-
tion with his foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings; and
as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves
with you, I thought that I had better bring you together."
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his
rooms with me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he
said, "which would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind
the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"
"I always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.
"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and
occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"
"By no means."
"Let me see -- what are my other shortcomings? I get in the
dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You
must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and
I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It's just as
well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before
they begin to live together."
I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I
said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I
get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I
have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the
principal ones at present."
"Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?" he
asked, anxiously.
"It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played
violin is a treat for the gods -- a badly played one --"
"Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think
we may consider the thing as settled -- that is if the rooms are
agreeable to you."
"When shall we see them?"
"Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together
and settle everything," he answered.
"All right -- noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.
We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked
together towards my hotel.
"By the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon
Stamford, "how the deuce did he know that I had come from
Afghanistan?"
My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his
little peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted
to know how he finds things out."
"Oh! a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is
very piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together.
'The proper study of mankind is man,' you know."
"You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me
good-bye. "You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager
he learns more about you than you about him. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, consid-
erably interested in my new acquaintance.

Chapter 2
The Science of Deduction

We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at
No. 22lB, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting.
They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single
large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by
two broad windows. So desirable in every way were the apart-
ments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided be-
tween us, that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we
at once entered into possession. That very evening I moved my
things round from the hotel, and on the following morning
Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portman-
teaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking
and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we
gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to
our new surroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was
quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him
to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and
gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his
day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-
rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take
him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could exceed
his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and
again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would
lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or
moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I
have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I
might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some
narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life
forbidden such a notion.
As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as
to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very
person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the
most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and
so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His
eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of
torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave
his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin,
too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of
determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and
stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary
delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I
watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I
confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how
often I endeavoured to break through the reticence which he
showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judg-
ment, however, be it remembered how objectless was my life,
and how little there was to engage my attention. My health
forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exception-
ally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and
break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circum-
stances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my
companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to
unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a
question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither
did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which might
fit him for a degree, in science or any other recognized portal
which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet
his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric
limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute
that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man
would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he
had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom
remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens
his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason
for doing so.
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of con-
temporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know
next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired
in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My
surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally
that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the compo-
sition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in
this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth trav-
elled round the sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary
fact that I could hardly realize it.
"You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my ex-
pression of surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best
to forget it."
"To forget it!"
"You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain
originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it
with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber
of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which
might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up
with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his
hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as
to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the
tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has
a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a
mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can
distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when
for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you
knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to
have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."
"But the Solar System!" I protested.
"What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently:
"you say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it
would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my
work."
I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but
something in his manner showed me that the question would be
an unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation
however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He
said that he would acquire no knowledge which did not bear
upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed
was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own
mind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he
was exceptionally well informed. I even took a pencil and jotted
them down. I could not help smiling at the document when I had
completed it. It ran in this way:

Sherlock Holmes -- his limits
1. Knowledge of Literature. -- Nil.
2. " " Philosophy. -- Nil.
3. " " Astronomy. -- Nil.
4. " " Politics. -- Feeble.
5. " " Botany. -- Variable.
Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally.
Knows nothing of practical gardening.
6. Knowledge of Geology. -- Practical, but limited.
Tells at a glance different soils from each other.
After walks has shown me splashes upon his trou-
sers, and told me by their colour and consistence in
what part of London he had received them.
7. Knowledge of Chemistry. -- Profound.
8. " " Anatomy. -- Accurate, but unsystematic
9. " " Sensational Literature. -- Immense.
He appears to know every detail of every horror
perpetrated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in
despair. "If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by
reconciling all these accomplishments, and discovering a calling
which needs them all," I said to myself, "I may as well give up
the attempt at once."
I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin.
These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces,
I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of
Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to him-
self, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt
any recognized air. Leaning back in his armchair of an evening,
he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which
was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sono-
rous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheer-
ful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but
whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing
was simply the result of a whim or fancy, was more than I could
determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos
had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in
quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight
compensation for the trial upon my patience.
During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun
to think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was
myself. Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaint-
ances, and those in the most different classes of society. There
was one little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow, who was
introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four
times in a single week. One morning a young girl called, fash-
ionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same
afternoon brought a gray-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a
Jew peddler, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who
was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another
occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with
my companion; and on another, a railway porter in his velveteen
uniform. When any of these nondescript individuals put in an
appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the
sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom. He always
apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. "I have
to use this room as a place of business," he said, "and these
people are my clients." Again I had an opportunity of asking
him a point-blank question, and again my delicacy prevented me
from forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined at the
time that he had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he
soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject of his
own accord.
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to
remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found
that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast. The
landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits that my
place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unrea-
sonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt
intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from
the table and attempted to while away the time with it, while my
companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles had
a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye
through it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it
attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by
an accurate and systematic examination of all that came in his
way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness
and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but the
deductions appeared to me to be far fetched and exaggerated.
The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a
muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's inmost thoughts.
Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one
trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as
infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would
his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned the
processes by which he had arrived at them they might well
consider him as a necromancer.
"From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could
infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having
seen or heard of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the
nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link
of it. Like all other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis
is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor
is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest
possible perfection in it. Before turning to those moral and
mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest difficul-
ties, let the inquirer begin by mastering more elementary prob-
lems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to
distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to
which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it
sharpens the faculties of observation, and teaches one where to
look and what to look for. By a man's finger-nails, by his
coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by the callosities
of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt-
cuffs -- by each of these things a man's calling is plainly re-
vealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent
inquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."
"What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine
down on the table; "I never read such rubbish in my life."
"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my eggspoon as
I sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since
you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It
irritates me, though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair
lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclu-
sion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him
clapped down in a third-class carriage on the Underground, and
asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a
thousand to one against him."
"You would lose your money," Holmes remarked calmly.
"As for the article, I wrote it myself."
"You!"
"Yes; I have a turn both for observation and for deduction.
The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to
you to be so chimerical, are really extremely practical -- so prac-
tical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese."
"And how?" I asked involuntarily.
"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one
in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand
what that is. Here in London we have lots of government detec-
tives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault,
they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent.
They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by
the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them
straight. There is a strong family resemblance about misdeeds,
and if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger ends,
it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade is a
well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over a
forgery case, and that was what brought him here."
"And these other people?"
"They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They
are all people who are in trouble about something and want a
little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my
comments, and then I pocket my fee."
"But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your
room you can unravel some knot which other men can make
nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?"
"Quite so. l have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again
a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to
bustle about and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a
lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem, and
which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deduction
laid down in that article which aroused your scorn are invaluable
to me in practical work. Observation with me is second nature.
You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our first
meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan."
"You were told, no doubt."
"Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan.
From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my
mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of
intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of
reasoning ran, 'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with
the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has
just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not
the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has
undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly.
His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural
manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have
seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Af-
ghanistan.' The whole train of thought did not occupy a second.
I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were
astonished."
"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You
remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such
individuals did exist outside of stories."
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think
that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he
observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior
fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts
with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is
really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical ge-
nius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as
Poe appeared to imagine."
"Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq
come up to your idea of a detective?"
Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a misera-
ble bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing
to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me
positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown
prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took
six months or so. It might be made a textbook for detectives to
teach them what to avoid."
I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had
admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the
window and stood looking out into the busy street. "This fellow
may be very clever," I said to myself, "but he is certainly very
conceited."
"There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he
said, querulously. "What is the use of having brains in our
profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my name
famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the
same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of
crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no
crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a
motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see
through it."
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I
thought it best to change the topic.
"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing
to a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was walking slowly
down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the
numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was
evidently the bearer of a message.
"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock
Holmes.
"Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I
cannot verify his guess."
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the
man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our
door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud
knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.
"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room
and handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He
little thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I
ask, my lad," I said, in the blandest voice, "what your trade
may be?"
"Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform away for
repairs."
"And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at
my companion.
"A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No an-
swer? Right, sir."
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and
was gone.

Chapter 3
The Lauriston Garden Mystery

I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of
the practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for
his powers of analysis increased wondrously. There still re-
mained some lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the
whole thing was a prearranged episode, intended to dazzle me,
though what earthly object he could have in taking me in was
past my comprehension. When I looked at him, he had finished
reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant, lack-
lustre expression which showed mental abstraction.
"How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.
"Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.
"Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."
"I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely, then
with a smile, "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my
thoughts; but perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able
to see that that man was a sergeant of Marines?"
"No, indeed."
"It was easier to know it than to explain why I know it. If you
were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find
some difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even
across the street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the
back of the fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a
military carriage, however, and regulation side whiskers. There
we have the marine. He was a man with some amount of
self-importance and a certain air of command. You must have
observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane.
A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of
him -- all facts which led me to believe that he had been a
sergeant."
"Wonderful!" I ejaculated.
"Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his
expression that he was pleased at my evident surprise and admi-
ration. "I said just now that there were no criminals. It appears
that I am wrong -- look at this!" He threw me over the note
which the commissionaire had brought.
"Why," I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"
"It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked,
calmly. "Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"
This is the letter which I read to him, --

"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:
"There has been a bad business during the night at 3,
Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the
beat saw a light there about two in the morning, and as the
house was an empty one, suspected that something was
amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room,
which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentle-
man, well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing
the name of 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.'
There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to
how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the
room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a
loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the
whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the
house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I
have left everything in statu quo until I hear from you. If
you are unable to come, I shall give you fuller details, and
would esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me
with your opinions.
"Yours faithfully,
"TOBIAS GREGSON.

"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend
remarked; "he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are
both quick and energetic, but conventional -- shockingly so. They
have their knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a
pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this
case if they are both put upon the scent."
I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely
there is not a moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order
you a cab?"
"I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incura-
bly lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather -- that is, when the
fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times."
"Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."
"My dear fellow, what does it matter to me? Supposing I
unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade,
and Co. will pocket all the credit. That comes of being an
unofficial personage."
"But he begs you to help him."
"Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it
to me; but he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to
any third person. However, we may as well go and have a look.
I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them
if I have nothing else. Come on!"
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that
showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.
"Get your hat," he said.
"You wish me to come?"
"Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we
were both in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung
over the housetops, looking like the reflection of the mud-
coloured streets beneath. My companion was in the best of
spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddles and the differ-
ence between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I was
silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon
which we were engaged depressed my spirits.
"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in
hand," I said at last, interrupting Holmes's musical disquisition.
"No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to
theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with
my finger; "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I
am not very much mistaken."
"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards
or so from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished
our journey upon foot.
Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and mina-
tory look. It was one of four which stood back some little way
from the street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter
looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which
were blank and dreary, save that here and there a "To Let" card
had developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small
garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants
separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed
by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting appar-
ently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was
very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night.
The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe
of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a
stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope
of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have
hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery.
Nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With an air of
nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to me to
border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement,
and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses
and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he pro-
ceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass
which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground.
Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him
utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of
footsteps upon the wet clayey soil; but since the police had been
coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my compan-
ion could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive facul-
ties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was
hidden from me.
At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed
forward and wrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is
indeed kind of you to come," he said, "I have had everything
left untouched."
"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway.
"If a herd of buffaloes had passed along, there could not be a
greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own
conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this."
"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective
said evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had
relied upon him to look after this."
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.
"With two such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground
there will not be much for a third party to find out," he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we
have done all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer
case, though, and I knew your taste for such things."
"You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"No, sir."
"Nor Lestrade?"
"No, sir."
"Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconse-
quent remark he strode on into the house followed by Gregson,
whose features expressed his astonishment.
A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen
and offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the
right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks.
The other belonged to the dining-room, which was the apartment
in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in,
and I followed him with that subdued feeling at my heart which
the presence of death inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the
absence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the
walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here and
there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing
the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy
fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white mar-
ble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax
candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy
and uncertain, giving a dull gray tinge to everything, which was
intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole
apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At present my atten-
tion was centred upon the single, grim, motionless figure which
lay stretched upon the boards, with vacant, sightless eyes staring
up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-
three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad-shouldered,
with crisp curling black hair, and a short, stubbly beard. He was
dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with
light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top
hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the floor beside
him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad,
while his lower limbs were interlocked, as though his death
struggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face there stood
an expression of horror, and, as it seemed to me, of hatred, such
as I have never seen upon human features. This malignant and
terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead, blunt nose,
and prognathous jaw, gave the dead man a singularly simious
and ape-like appearance, which was increased by. his writhing,
unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never
has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that
dark, grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of the main
arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the
doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.
"This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats
anything I have seen, and I am no chicken."
"There is no clue?" said Gregson.
"None at all," chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down,
examined it intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he
asked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which
lay all round.
"Positive!" cried both detectives.
"Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual --
presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It
reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van
Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case,
Gregson?"
"No, sir."
"Read it up -- you really should. There is nothing new under
the sun. It has all been done before."
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while
his eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already
remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination made, that one
would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was
conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then
glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.
"He has not been moved at all?" he asked.
"No more than was necessary for the purpose of our exam-
ination."
"You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is
nothing more to be learned."
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they
entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As
they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.
"There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's
wedding ring."
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all
gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that
that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.
"This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows,
they were complicated enough before."
"You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes.
"There's nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you
find in his pockets?"
"We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of
objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold
watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain,
very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold
pin -- bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather cardcase,
with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with
the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the
extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio's
'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the flyleaf.
Two letters -- one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph
Stangerson."
"At what address?"
"American Exchange, Strand -- to be left till called for. They
are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the
sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortu-
nate man was about to return to New York."
"Have you made any inquiries as to this man Stangerson?"
"I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertise-
ments sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to
the American Exchange, but he has not returned yet."
"Have you sent to Cleveland?"
"We telegraphed this morning."
"How did you word your inquiries?"
"We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we
should be glad of any information which could help us."
"You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared
to you to be crucial?"
"I asked about Stangerson."
"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole
case appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"
"I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended
voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be
about to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the
front room while we were holding this conversation in the hall,
reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and
self-satisfied manner.
"Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the
highest importance, and one which would have been overlooked
had I not made a careful examination of the walls."
The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evi-
dently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point
against his colleague.
"Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the
atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly
inmate. "Now, stand there!"
He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off,
leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare
space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word --

RACHE

"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air
of a showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked be-
cause it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one
thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with his or
her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled down the
wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was that
corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See that candle on
the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this corner
would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of the
wall."
"And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked
Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the
female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time
to finish. You mark my words, when this case comes to be
cleared up, you will find that a woman named Rachel has
something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old
hound is the best, when all is said and done."
"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had
ruffled the little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of
laughter. "You certainly have the credit of being the first of us
to find this out and, as you say, it bears every mark of having
been written by the other participant in last night's mystery. I
have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your
permission I shall do so now."
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round
magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he
trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occa-
sionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So en-
grossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have
forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself under
his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclama-
tions, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encourage-
ment and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded
of a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound, as it dashes backward
and forward through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it
comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he
continued his researches, measuring with the most exact care the
distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and
occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally incom-
prehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a
little pile of gray dust from the floor, and packed it away in an
envelope. Finally he examined with his glass the word upon the
wall, going over every letter of it with the most minute exact-
ness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his
tape and his glass in his pocket.
"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,"
he remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does
apply to detective work."
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their
amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some con-
tempt. They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had
begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes's smallest actions were
all directed towards some definite and practical end.
"What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.
"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I were to
presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so
well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There
was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let
me know how your investigations go," he continued, "I shall be
happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like
to speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me
his name and address?"
Lestrade glanced at his notebook. "John Rance," he said.
"He is off duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court,
Kennington Park Gate."
Holmes took a note of the address.
"Come along, Doctor," he said: "we shall go and look him
up. I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he
continued, turning to the two detectives. "There has been mur-
der done, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six
feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his height,
wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar.
He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was
drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his
off fore-leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and
the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These
are only a few indications, but they may assist you."
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredu-
lous smile.
"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the
former.
"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One
other thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door:
" 'Rache,' is the German for 'revenge'; so don't lose your time
looking for Miss Rachel."
With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two
rivals open mouthed behind him.

Chapter 4
What John Rance Had to Tell

It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens.
Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence
he dispatched a long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered
the driver to take us to the address given us by Lestrade.
"There is nothing like first-hand evidence," he remarked; "as
a matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but
still we may as well learn all that is to be learned."
"You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as
sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars which you
gave."
"There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very
first thing which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had
made two ruts with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last
night, we have had no rain for a week, so that those wheels
which left such a deep impression must have been there during
the night. There were the marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the
outline of one of which was far more clearly cut than that of the
other three, showing that that was a new shoe. Since the cab was
there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during
the morning -- I have Gregson's word for that -- it follows that it
must have been there during the night, and therefore, that it
brought those two individuals to the house."
"That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the
other man's height?"
"Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be
told from the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation
enough, though there is no use my boring you with figures. I had
this fellow's stride both on the clay outside and on the dust
within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation. When a
man writes on a wall, his instinct leads him to write above the
level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just over six feet
from the ground. It was child's play."
"And his age?" I asked.
"Well, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the
smallest effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That
was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had
evidently walked across. Patent-leather boots had gone round,
and Square-toes had hopped over. There is no mystery about it at
all. I am simply applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts
of observation and deduction which I advocated in that article. Is
there anything else that puzzles you?"
"The finger-nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.
"The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger
dipped in blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster
was slightly scratched in doing it, which would not have been
the case if the man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some
scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and flaky --
such an ash is only made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a
special study of cigar ashes -- in fact, I have written a monograph
upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a
glance the ash of any known brand either of cigar or of tobacco.
It is just in such details that the skilled detective differs from the
Gregson and Lestrade type."
"And the florid face?" I asked.
"Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that
I was right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the
affair."
I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I
remarked; "the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it
grows. How came these two men -- if there were two men -- into
an empty house? What has become of the cabman who drove
them? How could one man compel another to take poison?
Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the
murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the wom-
an's ring there? Above all, why should the second man write up
the German word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I
cannot see any possible way of reconciling all these facts."
My companion smiled approvingly.
"You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and
well," he said. "There is much that is still obscure, though I
have quite made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor
Lestrade's discovery, it was simply a blind intended to put the
police upon a wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and secret
societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if you noticed,
was printed somewhat after the German fashion. Now, a real
German invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we may
safely say that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy
imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert
inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not going to tell you much
more of the case, Doctor. You know a conjurer gets no credit
when once he has explained his trick and if I show you too
much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion
that I am a very ordinary individual after all."
"I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought
detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in
this world."
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the
earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that
he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl
could be of her beauty.
"I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent-leathers and
Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the
pathway together as friendly as possible -- arm-in-arm, in all
probability. When they got inside, they walked up and down the
room -- or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes
walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust; and I could
read that as he walked he grew more and more excited. That is
shown by the increased length of his strides. He was talking all
the while, and working himself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then
the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I know myself now, for
the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working
basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want
to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon."
This conversation had occurred while our cab had been thread-
ing its way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary
byways. ln the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly
came to a stand. "That's Audley Court in there," he said,
pointing to a narrow slit in the line of dead-coloured brick.
"You'll find me here when you come back."
Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow pas-
sage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by
sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty
children, and through lines of discoloured linen, until we came
to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small slip
of brass on which the name Rance was engraved. On inquiry we
found that the constable was in bed, and we were shown into a
little front parlour to await his coming.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being dis-
turbed in his slumbers. "I made my report at the office," he
said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with
it pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from
your own lips," he said.
"I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the
constable answered, with his eyes upon the little golden disc.
"Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."
Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows
as though determined not to omit anything in his narrative.
"I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from
ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at
the White Hart; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At
one o'clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher -- him who
has the Holland Grove beat -- and we stood together at the corner
of Henrietta Street a-talkin'. Presently -- maybe about two or a
little after -- I thought I would take a look round and see that all
was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and
lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or
two went past me. I was a-strollin' down, thinkin' between
ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be,
when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window
of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston
Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who
won't have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant what
lived in one of them died o' typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a
heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected
as something was wrong. When I got to the door --"
"You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my
companion interrupted. "What did you do that for?"
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes
with the utmost amazement upon his features.
"Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to
know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see when I got up to the door,
it was so still and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the
worse for someone with me. I ain't afeared of anything on this
side o' the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him that died
o' the typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought
gave me a kind o' turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I
could see Murcher's lantern, but there wasn't no sign of him nor
of anyone else."
"There was no one in the street?"
"Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled
myself together and went back and pushed the door open. All
was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was
a-burnin'. There was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece -- a
red wax one -- and by its light I saw --"
"Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room
several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you
walked through and tried the kitchen door, and then --"
John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and
suspicion in his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he
cried. "It seems to me that you knows a deal more than you
should."
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the
constable. "Don't go arresting me for the murder," he said. "I
am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr.
Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do
next?"
Rance resumed his seat, without, however, losing his mysti-
fied expression. "I went back to the gate and sounded my
whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to the spot."
"Was the street empty then?"
"Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good
goes."
"What do you mean?"
The constable's features broadened into a grin, "I've seen
many a drunk chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so
cryin' drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came out,
a-leanin' up ag'in the railings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his
lungs about Columbine's New-fangled Banner, or some such
stuff. He couldn't stand, far less help."
"What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digres-
sion. "He was an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said.
"He'd ha' found hisself in the station if we hadn't been so took
up."
"His face -- his dress -- didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke
in impatiently.
"I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop
him up -- me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with
a red face, the lower part muffled round --"
"That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"
"We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the police-
man said, in an aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way
home all right."
"How was he dressed?"
"A brown overcoat."
"Had he a whip in his hand?"
"A whip -- no."
"He must have left it behind," muttered my companion.
"You didn't happen to see or hear a cab after that?"
"No."
"There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said,
standing up and taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you
will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be for use
as well as ornament. You might have gained your sergeant's
stripes last night. The man whom you held in your hands is the
man who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are
seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell you that it
is so. Come along, Doctor."
We started off for rhe cab together, leaving our informant
incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
"The blundering fool!" Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove
back to our lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an
incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking advantage of it."
"I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of
this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this
mystery. But why should he come back to the house after
leaving it? That is not the way of criminals."
"The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If
we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait our
line with the ring. I shall have him, Doctor -- I'll lay you two to
one that I have him. I must thank you for it all. I might not have
gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever
came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little
art jargon. There's the scarlet thread of murder running through
the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and
isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And now for lunch, and
then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splen-
did. What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays so magnifi-
cently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled
away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of
the human mind.

Chapter 5
Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor

Our morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health,
and I was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes's departure
for the concert, I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get
a couple of hours' sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had
been too much excited by all that had occurred, and the strangest
fancies and surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed
my eyes I saw before me the distorted, baboon-like countenance
of the murdered man. So sinister was the impression which that
face had produced upon me that I found it difficult to feel
anything but gratitude for him who had removed its owner from
the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most
malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber,
of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and
that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the eyes
of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my
companion's hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, ap-
pear. I remembered how he had sniffed his lips, and had no
doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to the
idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the man's
death, since there was neither wound nor marks of strangulation?
But, on the otner hand, whose blood was that which lay so
thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor
had the victim any weapon with which he might have wounded
an antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved, I
felt that sleep would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or
myself. His quiet, self-confident manner convinced me that he
had already formed a theory which explained all the facts,
though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning -- so late that I knew that the
concert could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on
the table before he appeared.
"It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you
remember what Darwin says about music? He claims that the
power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human
race long before the power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that
is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There are vague
memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world
was in its childhood."
"That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.
"One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to
interpret Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not
looking quite yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."
"To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more
case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own
comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve."
"I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimu-
lates the imagination; where there is no imagination there is no
horror. Have you seen the evening paper?"
"No."
"It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not
mention the fact that when the man was raised up a woman's
wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is just as well it does not."
"Why?"
"Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent
to every paper this morning immediately after the affair."
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place
indicated. It was the first announcement in the "Found" col-
umn. "In Brixton Road, this morning," it ran, "a plain gold
wedding ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart
Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221 B, Baker
Street, between eight and nine this evening."
"Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own,
some of these dunderheads would recognize it, and want to
meddle in the affair."
"That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone ap-
plies, I have no ring."
"Oh, yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do
very well. It is almost a facsimile."
"And who do you expect will answer this advertisement?"
"Why, the man in the brown coat -- our florid friend with the
square toes. If he does not come himself, he will send an
accomplice."
"Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"
"Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every
reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything
than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while
stooping over Drebber's body, and did not miss it at the time.
After leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried back,
but found the police already in possession, owing to his own
folly in leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be
drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have been
aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that
man's place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred
to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road
after leaving the house. What would he do then? He would
eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it
among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon
this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There
would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring
should be connected with the murder. He would come. He will
come. You shall see him within an hour."
"And then?" I asked.
"Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any
arms?"
"I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."
"You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate