"My
dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in
his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely stranger than anything which
the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which
are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window
hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep
in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings,
the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generation,
and leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with
its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."
"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered.
"The cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and
vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme
limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor
artistic."
"A certain selection and discretion must be
used in producing a realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in
the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes
of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital
essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural
as the commonplace."
I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand
your thinking so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser
and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents,
you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here"—I
picked up the morning paper from the ground—"let us put it to a practical
test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to
his wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that
it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the
drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady.
The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."
"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one
for your argument," said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down
it. "This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged
in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler,
there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted
into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling
them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to
the imagination of the average storyteller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor,
and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example."
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a
great amethyst in the center of the lid. Its splendor was in such contrast
to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.
"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen
you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return
for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."
"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable
brilliant which sparkled upon his finger.
"It was from the reigning family of Holland,
though the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot
confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of
my little problems."
"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked
with interest.
"Some ten or twelve, but none which present
any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being
interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters
that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause
and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are
apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule,
is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has
been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features
of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before
very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."
He had risen from his chair and was standing
between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood
a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red
feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of
Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up
in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated
backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly,
with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the
road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell.
"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes,
throwing his cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always
means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the
matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate.
When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates,
and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there
is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or
grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and
the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady
herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchantman
behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy
for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into
an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which
was peculiar to him.
"Do you not find," he said, "That with your
short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?"
"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know
where the letters are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full purport
of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment
upon her broad, good-humored face. "You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she
cried, "Else how could you know all that?"
"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "It is
my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others
overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"
"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you
from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone
had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for
me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides
the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what
has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."
"Why did you come away to consult me in such
a hurry?" asked Sherlock Holmes, with his fingertips together and his eyes
to the ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat
vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she
said, "for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank—that
is, my father—took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would
not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that
there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came
right away to you."
"Your father," said Holmes, "Your stepfather,
surely, since the name is different."
"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though
it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself."
"And your mother is alive?"
"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't
best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death,
and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber
in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which
mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came
he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveler in
wines. They got 4700 pounds for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't near
as much as father could have got if he had been alive."
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient
under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary he
had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.
"Your own little income," he asked, "does it
come out of the business?"
"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left
me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4-1/2 per
cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch
the interest."
"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And
since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into
the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way.
I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about
60 pounds."
"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes,
but you understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden
to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with
them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest
every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well
with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often
do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a-day."
"You have made your position very clear to me,"
said Holmes. "This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely
as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer
Angel."
A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and
she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket.
"I met him first at the gasfitters' ball," she
said. "They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards
they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us
to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted
so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on going,
and I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not
fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said
that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never
so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he
went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I,
with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer
Angel."
"I suppose," said Holmes, "That when Mr. Windibank
came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."
"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed,
I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything
to a woman, for she would have her way."
"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met,
as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."
"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called
next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that
is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came
back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more."
"No?"
"Well, you know father didn't like anything
of the sort. He wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used
to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as
I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I
had not got mine yet."
"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make
no attempt to see you?"
"Well, father was going off to France again
in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not
to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he
used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was
no need for father to know."
"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after
the first walk that we took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an
office in Leadenhall Street—and—"
"What office?"
"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't
know."
"Where did he live, then?"
"He slept on the premises."
"And you don't know his address?"
"No—except that it was Leadenhall Street."
"Where did you address your letters, then?"
"To the Leadenhall Street Post-Office, to be
left till called for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would
be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered
to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for he said
that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were typewritten
he always felt that the machine had come between us. That will just show you
how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think
of."
"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has
long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.
Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"
"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would
rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he
hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice
was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he told
me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion
of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were
weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."
"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank,
your stepfather, returned to France?"
"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and
proposed that we should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest
and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I
would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear,
and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favor from the
first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying
within the week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind
about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make
it all right with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny
that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but
I didn't want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux,
where the company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on
the very morning of the wedding."
"It missed him, then?"
"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just
before it arrived."
"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was
arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?"
"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at
St. Saviour's, near King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards
at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were
two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which
happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first,
and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never
did, and when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one
there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for
he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes,
and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon
what became of him."
"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully
treated," said Holmes.
"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave
me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I
was to be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate
us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim
his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but
what has happened since gives a meaning to it."
"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is,
then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"
"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger,
or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw
happened."
"But you have no notion as to what it could
have been?"
"None."
"One more question. How did your mother take
the matter?"
"She was angry, and said that I was never to
speak of the matter again."
"And your father? Did you tell him?"
"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that
something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said,
what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church,
and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married
me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer
was very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine.
And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives
me half-mad to think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She pulled
a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob heavily into it.
"I shall glance into the case for you," said
Holmes, rising, "And I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result.
Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell
upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory,
as he has done from your life."
"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"
"I fear not."
"Then what has happened to him?"
"You will leave that question in my hands. I
should like an accurate description of him and any letters of his which you
can spare."
"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle,"
said she. "Here is the slip and here are four letters from him."
"Thank you. And your address?"
"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."
"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand.
Where is your father's place of business?"
"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great
claret importers of Fenchurch Street."
"Thank you. You have made your statement very
clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have
given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to
affect your life."
"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot
do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous
face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled
our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her
way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned. Sherlock
Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together,
his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the
ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which
was to him as a counselor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair,
with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite
languor in his face.
"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he
observed. "I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by
the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult
my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague
last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which
were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive."
"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which
was quite invisible to me," I remarked.
"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did
not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never
bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumbnails,
or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you gather
from that woman's appearance? Describe it."
"Well, she had a slate-colored, broad-brimmed
straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black
beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was
brown, rather darker than coffee color, with a little purple plush at the neck
and sleeves. Her gloves were grayish and were worn through at the right forefinger.
Her boots I didn't observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and
a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easygoing
way."
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together
and chuckled. "'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You
have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything
of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for
color. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself
upon details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is
perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this
woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing
traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the typist's wrist
presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of
the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the
side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest
part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a
pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight
and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her."
"It surprised me."
"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much
surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots
which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones;
the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One
was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the
first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly
dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great
deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."
"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested,
as I always was, by my friend's incisive reasoning.
"I noted, in passing, that she had written a
note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her
right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that
both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry
and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would
not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary,
but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised
description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"
I held the little printed slip to the light.
"Missing [it said] on the morning of the fourteenth,
a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly
built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the center, bushy, black
side-whiskers and mustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was
dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat,
gold Albert chain, and gray Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over
elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall
Street. Anybody bringing—"
"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters,"
he continued, glancing over them, "They are very commonplace. Absolutely no
clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable
point, however, which will no doubt strike you."
"They are typewritten," I remarked.
"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten.
Look at the neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you
see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague.
The point about the signature is very suggestive —in fact, we may call
it conclusive."
"Of what?"
"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see
how strongly it bears upon the case?"
"I cannot say that I do unless it were that
he wished to be able to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise
were instituted."
"No, that was not the point. However, I shall
write two letters, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the
City, the other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him
whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is just as
well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we
can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little
problem upon the shelf for the interim."
I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's
subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that
he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanor with which
he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once
only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the
Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of 'The
Sign of Four', and the extraordinary circumstances connected with 'A Study
in Scarlet', I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could
not unravel. I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he
held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the
disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging
my own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside
of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself
free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid
that I might be too late to assist at the denouement of the little mystery.
I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form
curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and
test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that
he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.
"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.
"Yes. It was the bisulfate of baryta."
"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.
"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have
been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I
said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that
there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."
"Who was he, then, and what was his object in
deserting Miss Sutherland?"
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and
Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall
in the passage and a tap at the door.
"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,"
said Holmes. "He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come
in!"
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized
fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a
bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating
gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat
upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.
"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes.
"I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment
with me for six o'clock?"
"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late,
but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland
has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not
to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she
came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed,
and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point.
Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official
police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised
abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this
Hosmer Angel?"
"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have
every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped
his gloves. "I am delighted to hear it," he said.
"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "That
a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting.
Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters
get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark
in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little
slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight defect in the tail of the 'r.' There
are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious."
"We do all our correspondence with this machine
at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing
keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.
"And now I will show you what is really a very
interesting study, Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another
little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime.
It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here
four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten.
In each case, not only are the 'e's' slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you
will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other
characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."
Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked
up his hat. "I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,"
he said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have
done it."
"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and
turning the key in the door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"
"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning
white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.
"Oh, it won't do—really it won't," said
Holmes suavely. "There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It
is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that
it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right! Sit down
and let us talk it over." Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly
face and a glitter of moisture on his brow.
"It—it's not actionable," he stammered.
"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between
ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in
a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of
events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his
head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed.
Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the
mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking,
rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us. "The man married a woman very
much older than himself for her money," said he, "And he enjoyed the use of
the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable
sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious
difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good,
amiable disposition, but affectionate and warmhearted in her ways, so that
it was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little income,
she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean,
of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to
prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding
her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that
would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and
finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does
her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his
head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised
himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with
a mustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating
whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears
as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself."
"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor.
"We never thought that she would have been so carried away."
"Very likely not. However that may be, the young
lady was very decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that
her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant
entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's attentions, and the
effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then
Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed
as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings,
and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from turning
towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These
pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly
to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave
a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind and prevent her from looking
upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted
upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something
happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss Sutherland
to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten
years to come, at any rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as
the church door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently
vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler
and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"
Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance
while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer
upon his pale face.
"It may be so, or it may not. Mr. Holmes," said
he, "but if you are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that
it is you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable
from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself open
to an action for assault and illegal constraint."
"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said
Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who
deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought
to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued, flushing up at
the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "It is not part of my duties
to my client, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat
myself to—" He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp
it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged,
and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of
his speed down the road.
"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes,
laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will
rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows.
The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest."
"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of
your reasoning," I remarked.
"Well, of course it was obvious from the first
that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct,
and it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident,
as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men
were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away,
was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which
both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all
confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course,
inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognize
even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together
with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction."
"And how did you verify them?"
"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to
get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken
the printed description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the
result of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent
it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered
to the description of any of their travelers. I had already noticed the peculiarities
of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business address asking
him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed
the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter
from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description
tallied in every respect with that of their employee, James Windibank. Voilà
tout!"
"And Miss Sutherland?"
"If I tell her she will not believe me. You
may remember the old Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the
tiger cub, and danger also for whosoever snatches a delusion from a woman.'
There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the
world."