This is the final Sherlock Holmes book, and while it is enjoyable, I think " Casebook" is the weakest collection of Sherlock stories. Having gone through all nine.
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- List of Sherlock Holmes Short Stories and Novels
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The latter two, "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier" and "The Adventure of the Lion's Mane," are not quite as disorienting, with Holmes speaking directly to us, the readers, in much the same way he usually addresses Watson. Most of the book's other stories, though, are more enjoyable, while still paling in comparison to Doyle's earlier work. Even with a couple elements unpleasant to modern readers -- Holmes' condescending treatment of a black man, and a debt-ridden baronet said to be "in the hands of the Jews" -- it's hard to completely dislike even the least of the Sherlock Holmes books.
As usual some of the short stories were a tad predictable but overall they were all quite entertaining. I liked the more modern setting of the early s compared to the late s of earlier stories, it made things seem a bit more refreshing. One thing that I really disliked about the series was Sherlock's claim that more or less every case was the most complex or most interesting he'd ever come across, it just made me roll my eyes.
Also, the repetition of words throughout was irritating to re As usual some of the short stories were a tad predictable but overall they were all quite entertaining. Also, the repetition of words throughout was irritating to read, the word 'singular' was used way too much.
This is the last collection of Holmes stories before Sir Arthur's death, when he was churning them out for money. Try as he might to kill him off, Holmes dogged him to the last. I found this interesting to read knowing that Sir Arthur absolutely despised Holmes by this time in his career, and also, somehow I missed this collection! So it was a delight to read new-to-me Holmes tales These stories are short and snappy.
Also, Doyle experiments with tales told by Sherlock himself, and t This is the last collection of Holmes stories before Sir Arthur's death, when he was churning them out for money. Also, Doyle experiments with tales told by Sherlock himself, and the third person, which is an interesting departure! On the down side, this collection is, well, weak. A couple "solutions" are transparent from the beginning. The racism is shocking. The cloak of anachronism is slipping off of the misogyny. Doyle's frustration seems to be finding vent in some very dark and vengeful stories and resolutions.
Therefore, not a completely enjoyable escape. I found I couldn't avoid being aware of all the problems, despite the well-oiled story-telling format and form; all the characters reappearing like familiar old friends. With this book I have re-read the entire Sherlock Holmes canon. I loved every minute and will probably do it again several times with whatever amount of time I have left to me. The complete canon would be a great desert island suggestion. A tip--get these books with the original illustrations. Makes them even more fun. After a year, I've read all Sherlock Holmes books, at last.
I loved each one of them and this whole world created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle changed my life. I thought to pay my final homage to this series by listing each book of it by my personal liking. Can't say why I love one more than another: I've always, completely, followed my instincts. And here it is: Well, I've now read the nine books in the Sherlock Holmes canon, and what a ride! After the initial two disappointing novels came three very good short story collections, a great novel, a better-than-average novel and a slightly-better-than-average short story collection.
To finish off the series, "The Case-Book" is On the one hand, Conan Doyle's prose skills have developed considerably from the early days of A Study in Scarlet and his handling of both atmosphere and the Well, I've now read the nine books in the Sherlock Holmes canon, and what a ride! However, there's not really a lot to recommend here. In truth, it's 2 stars for a non-Holmes fan, and 2-and-a-half if you know and love the guy already.
One of the most frustrating elements of this book admittedly a collection of individually-published short stories are how often similar character tropes pop up. There are three - maybe four - fiery foreign ladies whose ethnicity is a key part of the solution. The Adventure of the Creeping Man - the biggest letdown in the canon. This story features the single most arresting, chilling images that Holmes and Watson ever encounter, but is ruined by a gobsmackingly bad denouement.
The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone - adapted from a play, this story not only relies on previously unheard-of architectural features at Baker Street, but fails to capture the reader's interest or render the characters particularly realistically.
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The Illustrious Client - can barely even remember it. The thoroughly average Intriguingly, many of the stories herein are structured less as 'whodunnits' and more as 'howdunnits'. Very few of the stories indeed, only really two feature more than one suspect. Some stories never even attempt to hide the perpetrator, the question is instead "what is going on?
This is not unprecedented in the canon by any means, but is highly concentrated here. Thor Bridge - while it has a clever denouement and some good characterisation, it is another story that doesn't stick in the mind. The Three Gables - this story is noted most for the questionable racial stereotype character who opens the piece. Personally, I'd argue he has at least two dimensions, and he is a bad guy who happens to be black rather than any kind of argument being made, but it's still a bit edgy, I'll concede. The story itself is quite readable, but no great secret or particularly intriguing characters jump out at us.
Indeed, the story has mild echoes of other stories in the canon. The unsatisfying The Lion's Mane - one of two stories in this volume to be narrated by Holmes and not to feature Watson at all , the tone of voice is delightful, and the atmosphere electric. However - as with the much earlier story The Five Orange Pips - it is ultimately unsatisfying. This ISN'T Conan Doyle's fault for once; but as with that story, most modern readers will pick up the solution the minute the clues arrive, as it is no longer something mysterious The odd Perhaps most interesting is to see how public sensibilities changed over the years.
The early works could only hint at impropreity, while the crimes in this and the previous collection are far more wide-ranging. Bodies - when they appear, which is actually quite rare here - are often brutally destroyed; people having affairs are clearly now having sexual ones; alcohol is far more prevalent. A window into a world. The Veiled Lodger is a strange, haunting little piece. It is one of the better stories in the collection, although a bizarre addition.
It isn't really a mystery at all, but a retelling of a "cold case", with a dark and brooding central figure who has spent years following Holmes' career. Unsettling, but also un-Holmesian. The Sussex Vampire - atmospheric and ripe for adaptation, yes. Along with one of our many fiery Latin women, the solution hearkens back to the exotica and melodrama of the early Holmes novels. While the true villain of the piece is deftly handled, the vampirism is a tad overdone. One shouldn't assume this book is a 'write-off', it's just that even the four most typical Holmes stories, as outlined below, are somewhat lacking.
Shoscombe Old Place and The Blanched Soldier - have some intriguing set pieces, but aren't particularly memorable aside from the latter being written by Mr. The Retired Colourman - the most Holmesian story in the collection, but - as mentioned before - lacks suspects. However, it is also possibly the best story in the collection as it features some lovely secondary characters.
The Three Garridebs - well-plotted but, aside from lacking in suspects, is basically a shot-for-shot remake of an early and very memorable Holmes short story. I apologise for the length, but this sums up both the story and the collection: Conan Doyle had tired of Holmes to an extent, and what we get here are stories that focus on the complexity of how the crime was done, rather than making the surrounding elements - suspects, primarily - a mystery. As a result, we generally get a puzzle followed by a chase. Not always unsatisfying, but never as captivating as the earlier works. In closing, if you're new to the wonderful world of Holmes, there are many other better ideas.
If ALL of those suit you, then come crawling to this one. Don't bother with The Sign of Four as no good can come from that. May 13, Evripidis Gousiaris rated it it was amazing Shelves: Dec 09, Shayantani Das rated it liked it. And with this I finish reading the Sherlock Canon. Although some of the stories in this collection have the classical characteristics — Holmes being a prick and using his deductive and acting skills to solve mystery, Watson with his modesty and loyalty and a range of queer cases; yet mostly this novel is rather disappointing.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was rather tired of this character by the time he wrote this book. He had almost killed him off in some previous part and the lack of enthusiasm is r And with this I finish reading the Sherlock Canon. He had almost killed him off in some previous part and the lack of enthusiasm is reflected in some of the cases. Reading them made me realise how fond I am of Watson as a character. Thus for me, the best part of the book was when Watson gets shot and Holmes drops his impersonal facade and for the first time shows his love for his good old pal.
Other than that, the climax of most of the cases will make you stare at the last line for a few seconds, then shake your head and move on to the next chapter. Reading the canon has been an immensely enjoyable experience. I liked Sherlock from the very beginning but it is only on finishing the last novel that I have realised how much I adore Watson too. Thank you Sir Doyle for these memorable characters and such amazing cases. Dec 08, Dahlia added it. You have not read the book yet 2. The collection I have has 10 stories: This is a case from the latter years of Sherlock's career.
Baron Gruner's wife supposedly died in an accident, but it's suspected that the Baron killed her. She admits she was his last mistress. He used her and ruined her and now she wants revenge. Miss Winter tells them about Baron's book with a lock which contains list of women he used. Does this remind anyone of Cruel Intentions?
D He takes the case but soon is beaten by Gruner's henchmen, so Doctor Watson is sent to the Baron disguised as a collector to get some information out of him. However, the Baron realises he's a spy. Luckily, Sherlock appears and Gruner goes after him in rage. When he tries to exit his house, a woman appears and attacks him with something and the Baron ends up screaming with his face burned and mutilated. Sherlock later reveals he stole the diary while the doctor was talking to Gruner. Soon, they find out there will be no marriage and that Kitty Winter will stand trial. Sherlock is prosecuted for burglary.
Doctor Watson is no longer Sherlock's flatmate. He now lives at Queen Anne Street. Sherlock Holmes has an assistant called Shinwell Johnson, an ex-villain, who is working for him as an underground agent. When Sherlock meets Violet he actually shows interest in her. Too late for that now, Sherlock old man. After Sherlock is seriously injured in an assault, Watson goes to him and offers to beat the guys up. It's a beautiful, but also sad: This is very ambiguous, Doyle. This is a very dark and disturbing story. It's different from the other stories by Doyle and I liked it a lot.
Because, as SH, explains: John Watson's accounts are superficial. He needs to stick to facts and figures. Yeah, just admit you're missing Watson, Holmes. The story is set in January Holmes is visited by Mr. Dodd who asks him to help him find his friend, Godfrey Emsworth. They were in the army together and after the war he sent him a letter but got no response. He tried to contact him again, but Emsworth's father replied his son had gone on a voyage round the world. Dodd is suspicious of this and tells Holmes he went to his friend's house and after he spent some time there, got an impression his friend is involved in some scandal.
His suspicion was confirmed when he saw Godfrey's pale face outside the window. He is convinced he is hiding, but does not know the reason. Of course, Sherlock and John help the young man. They discover that after Godfrey was shot, he ended up in a place where everyone was disfigured. He later found out it was a hospital and that he slept in a leper bed.
That is the reason why the young man has been hiding and could not see anyone. However, the story has a happy ending. A doctor informs them it's not leprosy but some other disease and that he is going to be all right. Sherlock admits how important John is to him: When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Although I think this is a sad story, it's also one of the best Doyle's stories about friendship.
Here we have a young man who is determined to find his old friend and we have Sherlock who misses his faithful companion. The only thing I did not like is that the story is short and has ends abruptly. You wait to see the happy reunion of two friends who have not seen each other in a long time, and all you get is a woman fainting. Sherlock is involved in the Case of the Crown Diamond. He confesses to John he expects to be murdered and that is the reason why he has the wax figure in his house again read The Empty House if you want to know why he used it before.
The main suspect is Count Negretto who comes to see him and find out how much Sherlock knows. Sherlock cleverly uses the wax dummy, a gramophone, the curtain and John to get the stone. Sherlock has a page called Billy. Sherlock likes to dress as a workman, and old man etc. And you will, for you have never failed to play the game. I am sure you will play it to the end. Sherlock sounded so bitter, and alone in this story.
I felt sorry for him. A house agent comes to see an old lady to make an offer. He will buy her house and everything in it. Sherlock Holmes concludes that the person who hired the agent wants something she recently obtained. Soon, after she refuses to sell the house, someone brakes into the house and steals something, leaving a torn piece of a paper. It turns out the paper is from a book written by her son. A woman who was involved with her son. She decided to leave him because he wanted to marry her. He did not take it well and wrote a story about her.
In the end, Sherlock makes a deal with the woman and the case is closed. Sherlock likes to gossip. I did like the story, especially the end but I think it was too short. The woman was an intriguing character. I wish Doyle wrote more about her. Gibson was found murdered but before that, her servant girl saw her trying to suck blood of her child. The servant girl is accused because they found a gun in her wardrobe.
Sherlock is not fooled; he is convinced someone placed it there. She explains how Mrs Gibson was jealous of her and hated her. Sherlock works his magic and discovers-it was suicide. No, I did not. This could have been a great story. It started off well, but then you got a crazy, jealous woman who killed herself. I am very disappointed. Trevor Bennett believes his colleague, a well-known professor, is crazy. He has begun acting strangely after his engagement. The things get worse after he comes back from Prague with a box. He starts receiving mysterious letters marked with a cross. He was also attacked by his dog twice.
One night he even saw him crawling in a hallway. Because Sherlock does not want the dog to bite his master again, he goes to solve the case. The love affair gave him the idea he could turn himself into a young man. See what loves does to you? Next time, dear professor, go find someone your age! After Sherlock whines more about his life and how our dear doctor does not visit him anymore, he goes for a walk and meets a man called Harold. Harold was walking to the river when he saw a man dying.
The secret is revealed when a dog dies in the exact same place as its master. The main suspect has also been attacked and Sherlock figures out that, in fact, an animal killed them all! This story has a bad ending. Jun 29, Jolanda rated it liked it Shelves: By finishing this book, I not only finish "just a book", I have also arrived at the final stop of a journey.
The journey of mr. So I would like to recap for just a moment on that journey through over fifty short stories and four novels. It's been a fun journey, I've seen a writer grow and employ his skills better and better. I've seen the stories grow more and more interesting, more exciting. I'm actually quite sad knowing there's nothing new in store for me, the journey h By finishing this book, I not only finish "just a book", I have also arrived at the final stop of a journey.
I'm actually quite sad knowing there's nothing new in store for me, the journey has been a fascinating one. Sadly, the last set of stories disappoints. If you'd ask me, Doyle should have stopped writing these stories the second he finished "His Last Bow", the return and his last bow being my favourite set of stories.
These stories were excellent, fun, inventive and up to the "Holmes standard". The stories included in the Case-Book, are often far-fetched and uninspiring. Also, the cases don't seem to focus on criminal issues anymore. Instead, in a couple of stories, Holmes gets called in in, well, seemingly domestic problems of course, in the end the problems always turn out to be well within the criminal spectrum, or at least bordering on it. I could feel the writer getting tired of the character of Sherlock Holmes. Most stories are shorter than the standard short story, which is about thirty pages and the writing seems..
I occasionally lost track of where the plot was going in these books, because the writing felt rushed. I've never experienced that with the earlier stories. The stories are repetitive, some cover similar, if not the same, storylines or details that earlier stories have featured. But, of course there are interesting aspects to these stories. This collection features two stories that are narrated by Holmes himself, which is quite refreshing. The reader also is treated to an inside look in the place where the detective has decided to retire. I had grown fond of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's adventures and now I know that my previous reviews were not much useful to understand my real feeling toward their stories, however I can swear that I truly love them.
I began this last book with a heavy heart knowing that everything would soon be all over. This collection starts with an introduction written by A. Doyle, that really made me come to tears. It was beautiful, and sad, and I still cannot realize tha That's it. It was beautiful, and sad, and I still cannot realize that I will not read anything new about those two. It was a pleasure to read their adventures, because it was my opportunity to prove my intelligence, to see if I would have been able to solve the mystery like Sherlock did, or if I would have stared in amazement the final revelation.
Sometimes I was able to solve it, sometimes not, sometimes I did both. Anyway, it was an amazing thrill. It was a great ending, tho. Not only for the stories themselves, probably among the strangest cases Holmes and Watson had ever followed, but also for the writing style: Anyway, I really enjoyed these short stories, I really had great times with them. Oh, I feel so sad. The ninth and final volume of the Sherlock Holmes canon is once again a collection of short stories; the fifth collection.
Although some of the stories are actually really good, by this stage Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has become formulaic in his approach and there is a distinct much-of-a-muchness about the stories; which is a shame. The short story that gave the previous collection its title — His Last Bow — is the last of all the stories in terms of chronology and would have made a fitting finale The ninth and final volume of the Sherlock Holmes canon is once again a collection of short stories; the fifth collection.
The short story that gave the previous collection its title — His Last Bow — is the last of all the stories in terms of chronology and would have made a fitting finale to the phenomenon that is Sherlock Holmes. Conan Doyle recognises that this must be the end in the preface to this collection by begging the Sherlockians to allow him to let his creation fade away!
Although there are some great short stories in the later volumes, they tend to be concentrated in the earlier volumes, and the four novels are even better still. My least favorite of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes story collections. Still here and there I found the Case-Book enjoyable, the rest of the stories seemed phoned in. Doyle wasn't carving new channels here, but his craft was still formidable. I thought that the final Holmes short story collection was the weakest of the lot - perhaps one as a reader is a bit satiated even with these great stories when one has gotten this far, or it may be true that the author was thoroughly fed up with his hero by here.
Anyway, does not matter much, the rating is still a possibly rounded up 4-star and this is well worth your time. My thoughts on each of the Case view spoiler [ The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone This one was short and dumb like he literally sat in the room pretending to be his life like replica, it was stupid. The Problem of Thor Bridge That's messed up that Maria tried to frame this poor young governess, for her murder because her asshole husband had the hots for her. Also, how can a girl be so pretty that she can only have good intentions? Like she using Mr. Gibson's to manipulate for the good of the world My thoughts on each of the Case view spoiler [ The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone This one was short and dumb like he literally sat in the room pretending to be his life like replica, it was stupid.
Gibson's to manipulate for the good of the world, what? The Adventure of the Creeping Man This is the stupidest case so far!! It's like a s viagra that made the guy like a rabid dog all so he could marry a younger woman, this is so stupid!!!!! The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire This one was interesting because it started out trying to make you believe that there was really a vampire and many of the other stories do that.
But what a messed up kid, who would poison a baby?!? The Adventure of the Three Garridebs This one had a stupid premise, being that a man made up a stupid story of needed to find 3 men with the exact same name to inherit a fortune only to get into some old dudes apartment to get printing press to make counterfeit banknotes. Even though this was stupid this had a great moment between Sherlock and Watson that showed how much Sherlock truly cares for his partner The Adventure of the Illustrious Client This one was also stupid, a young and supposedly intelligent young woman falls in love with a horrible criminal and it is up Sherlock and Watson to save her from him.
I found this one really distasteful because the crook was disfigured at the end and it implies that might have been apart of the young woman finally seeing the light. The Adventure of the Three Gables This was bittersweet, this poor woman lost her son because he was heartbroken and the woman who did try to buy all of her things and breaks into house to try and get back a manuscript the man wrote that shows her in a negative light, but at least Sherlock made that self-centered Isadora Klein pay for Mrs.
Maberley to travel the world!! The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier This one was really interesting because it was the first case ever told from Sherlock's perspective.
It was weird the still have the big reveal at the end even though we were in Sherlock's head, but it was a sweet story, to see how much Mr. Dodd cared about his friend. The Adventure of the Lion's Mane This one was also from Sherlock's perspective and apparently from after he retired. This was stupid, the killed was a jellyfish call the lion's mane a kind of jellyfish that isn't supposed to be in England. And it is only a patient who has an object in deceiving his surgeon who would conceal the facts of his case.
Holmes, that most men would shy off a bit when they are asked point-blank what their relations with a woman may be—if there is really some serious feeling in the case. I guess most men have a little private reserve of their own in some corner of their souls where they don't welcome intruders. And you burst suddenly into it. But the object excuses you, since it was to try and save her. Well, the stakes are down and the reserve open, and you can explore where you will. What is it you want? The Gold King paused for a moment as one who marshals his thoughts.
His grim, deep-lined face had become even sadder and more grave. Holmes," said he at last. I met my wife when I was gold-hunting in Brazil. Maria Pinto was the daughter of a government official at Manaos, and she was very beautiful. I was young and ardent in those days, but even now, as I look back with colder blood and a more critical eye, I can see that she was rare and wonderful in her beauty.
It was a deep rich nature, too, passionate, whole-hearted, tropical, ill-balanced, very different from the American women whom I had known. Well, to make a long story short, I loved her and I married her. It was only when the romance had passed—and it lingered for years—that I realised that we had nothing—absolutely nothing—in common. If hers had faded also it might have been easier. But you know the wonderful way of women! Do what I might, nothing could turn her from me.
If I have been harsh to her, even brutal as some have said, it has been because I knew that if I could kill her love, or if it turned to hate, it would be easier for both of us. But nothing changed her. She adored me in those English woods as she had adored me twenty years ago on the banks of the Amazon.
Do what I might, she was as devoted as ever. She answered our advertisement and became governess to our two children. Perhaps you have seen her portrait in the papers. The whole world has proclaimed that she also is a very beautiful woman. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral than my neighbours, and I will admit to you that I could not live under the same roof with such a woman and in daily contact with her without feeling a passionate regard for her.
Do you blame me, Mr. I should blame you if you expressed it, since this young lady was in a sense under your protection. I guess all my life I've been a man that reached out his hand for what he wanted, and I never wanted anything more than the love and possession of that woman. I told her so. I said that money was no object and that all I could do to make her happy and comfortable would be done. I came to you on a question of evidence, not on a question of morals. I'm not asking for your criticism. Some of you rich men have to be taught that all the world cannot be bribed into condoning your offences.
I thank God that my plans did not work out as I intended. She would have none of it, and she wanted to leave the house instantly. When I had sworn—as I did—that she should never be molested again, she consented to remain. But there was another reason. She knew the influence she had over me, and that it was stronger than any other influence in the world. She wanted to use it for good. They are large, Mr. Holmes —large beyond the belief of an ordinary man.
I can make or break —and it is usually break. It wasn't individuals only. It was communities, cities, even nations. Business is a hard game, and the weak go to the wall. I played the game for all it was worth. I never squealed myself, and I never cared if the other fellow squealed. But she saw it different. I guess she was right. She believed and said that a fortune for one man that was more than he needed should not be built on ten thousand ruined men who were left without the means of life.
That was how she saw it, and I guess she could see past the dollars to something that was more lasting. She found that I listened to what she said, and she believed she was serving the world by influencing my actions. So she stayed—and then this came along. I can't deny that. And women lead an inward life and may do things beyond the judgement of a man. At first I was so rattled and taken aback that I was ready to think she had been led away in some extraordinary fashion that was clean against her usual nature.
One explanation came into my head. I give it to you, Mr. Holmes, for what it is worth. There is no doubt that my wife was bitterly jealous. There is a soul-jealousy that can be as frantic as any body-jealousy, and though my wife had no cause—and I think she understood this—for the latter, she was aware that this English girl exerted an influence upon my mind and my acts that she herself never had.
It was an influence for good, but that did not mend the matter. She was crazy with hatred and the heat of the Amazon was always in her blood. She might have planned to murder Miss Dunbar—or we will say to threaten her with a gun and so frighten her into leaving us. Then there might have been a scuffle and the gun gone off and shot the woman who held it.
One can understand that a woman placed in so awful a position might hurry home still in her bewilderment holding the revolver. She might even throw it down among her clothes, hardly knowing what she was doing, and when it was found she might try to lie her way out by a total denial, since all explanation was impossible. What is against such a supposition?
List of Sherlock Holmes Short Stories and Novels
Holmes looked at his watch. When I have seen this young lady it is very possible that I may be of more use to you in the matter, though I cannot promise that my conclusions will necessarily be such as you desire. There was some delay in the official pass, and instead of reaching Winchester that day we went down to Thor Place, the Hampshire estate of Mr.
He did not accompany us himself, but we had the address of Sergeant Coventry, of the local police, who had first examined into the affair. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a secretive and mysterious manner which conveyed the idea that he knew or suspected a very great deal more than he dared say. He had a trick, too, of suddenly sinking his voice to a whisper as if he had come upon something of vital importance, though the information was usually commonplace enough. Behind these tricks of manner he soon showed himself to be a decent, honest fellow who was not too proud to admit that he was out of his depth and would welcome any help.
Now, you play straight, so I've heard. And your friend, Dr. Watson, can be trusted, I know. Holmes, as we walk down to the place there is one question I should like to ask you. I'd breathe it to no soul but you. She is a wonderful fine woman in every way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his pistol, you know. We never quite matched that particular pistol—but the box was made for two.
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I think we will walk down together and have a look at the scene of the tragedy. This conversation had taken place in the little front room of Sergeant Coventry's humble cottage which served as the local police-station. A walk of half a mile or so across a wind-swept heath, all gold and bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor Place estate.
A path led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from a clearing we saw the widespread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was a long, reedy pool, constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive passed over a stone bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either side. Our guide paused at the mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to the ground.
The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be moved until the police should arrive. I gathered from the newspaper report that the shot was fired from close quarters. No trace of a struggle. The short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand. It excludes the idea that anyone could have placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false clue.
The note, as I remember, was quite short:. The point of the letter is very obscure, is it not? Why, then, was this lady still clasping it in her left hand? Why should she carry it so carefully? She did not need to refer to it in the interview. Does it not seem remarkable? Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to the opposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began to examine the stonework. The stonework was grey, but at this one point it showed white for a space not larger than a sixpence.
When examined closely one could see that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow. With his cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark. In a curious place, too. It was not from above but from below, for you see that it is on the lower edge of the parapet. It may have nothing to do with the matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that we have anything more to learn here.
There were no footsteps, you say? We will go up to the house first and look over these weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house the neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning.
He showed us with a sinister relish the formidable array of firearms of various shapes and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the course of an adventurous life. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knew him and his methods," said he. He is a man of violence, sir, and there are times when all of us are afraid of him. I am sure that the poor lady who has passed was often terrified. But I have heard words which were nearly as bad —words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants.
In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr. Bates has to his employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came he was undoubtedly in his library. Dinner was over at 8: It is true that the alarm was somewhat late in the evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named in the note. There is no evidence at all that Mr. Gibson had been out of doors since his return from town at five o'clock.
On the other hand, Miss Dunbar, as I understand it, admits that she had made an appointment to meet Mrs. Gibson at the bridge. Beyond this she would say nothing, as her lawyer had advised her to reserve her defence. We have several very vital questions to ask that young lady, and my mind will not be easy until we have seen her.
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I must confess that the case would seem to me to be very black against her if it were not for one thing. It had struck me even at my first perfunctory reading as very strange, and now that I am in closer touch with the case it is my only firm ground for hope. We must look for consistency. Where there is a want of it we must suspect deception. You have planned it. A note has been written. The victim has come. You have your weapon.
The crime is done. It has been workmanlike and complete. Do you tell me that after carrying out so crafty a crime you would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by forgetting to fling your weapon into those adjacent reed-beds which would forever cover it, but you must needs carry it carefully home and put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place that would be searched?
Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, Watson, and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that. Where a crime is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly premeditated also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of a serious misconception. When once your point of view is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the truth. For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all knowledge of it.
On our new theory she is speaking truth when she says so. Therefore, it was placed in her wardrobe. Who placed it there? Someone who wished to incriminate her. Was not that person the actual criminal? You see how we come at once upon a most fruitful line of inquiry. We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the formalities had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the company of Mr. Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted with the defence, we were allowed to see the young lady in her cell.
I had expected from all that we had heard to see a beautiful woman, but I can never forget the effect which Miss Dunbar produced upon me. It was no wonder that even the masterful millionaire had found in her something more powerful than himself—something which could control and guide him.
One felt, too, as one looked at the strong, clear-cut, and yet sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some impetuous deed, none the less there was an innate nobility of character which would make her influence always for the good. She was a brunette, tall, with a noble figure and commanding presence, but her dark eyes had in them the appealing, helpless expression of the hunted creature who feels the nets around it, but can see no way out from the toils.
Now, as she realised the presence and the help of my famous friend, there came a touch of colour in her wan cheeks and a light of hope began to glimmer in the glance which she turned upon us. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred between us? After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr. Gibson's statement both as to the influence which you had over him and as to the innocence of your relations with him.
But why was the whole situation not brought out in court? I thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up without our being compelled to enter into painful details of the inner life of the family. But I understand that far from clearing it has become even more serious. Cummings here would assure you that all the cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything that is possible if we are to win clear. It would be a cruel deception to pretend that you are not in very great danger.
Give me all the help you can, then, to get at the truth. She hated me with all the fervour of her tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and the measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her hatred for me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations. I would not wish to wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical sense that she could hardly understand the mental, and even spiritual, tie which held her husband to me, or imagine that it was only my desire to influence his power to good ends which kept me under his roof.
I can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could justify me in remaining where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left the house. Holmes, but I am in a position to prove nothing, and there are points—the most vital points —which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any explanation.
Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table of the schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand. It implored me to see her there after dinner, said she had something important to say to me, and asked me to leave an answer on the sundial in the garden, as she desired no one to be in our confidence. I saw no reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked, accepting the appointment. She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it in the schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of her husband, who treated her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him, and I could only imagine that she acted in this way because she did not wish him to know of our interview.
When I reached the bridge she was waiting for me. Never did I realise till that moment how this poor creature hated me. She was like a mad woman—indeed, I think she was a mad woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane people may have. How else could she have met me with unconcern every day and yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart? I will not say what she said. She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and horrible words. I did not even answer—I could not.
It was dreadful to see her. I put my hands to my ears and rushed away. When I left her she was standing, still shrieking out her curses at me, in the mouth of the bridge. Holmes, I was so agitated and horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the peace of my own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which happened. He had sent for the doctor and the police. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that he would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him so well, could see that he was deeply concerned.
This pistol that was found in your room. Had you ever seen it before? Then someone came into your room and placed the pistol there in order to inculpate you. Could you suggest any possible explanation of that? Why should it appear at the very time of the tragedy, and why at the very place? Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in his mind that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister, prisoner, and myself, watching him in a concentrated and absorbed silence.
Suddenly he sprang from his chair, vibrating with nervous energy and the pressing need for action. You will hear from me, Mr. With the help of the god of justice I will give you a case which will make England ring. You will get news by to-morrow, Miss Dunbar, and meanwhile take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through. It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it seemed endless; for, in his nervous restlessness he could not sit still, but paced the carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive fingers upon the cushions beside him.
Suddenly, however, as we neared our destination he seated himself opposite to me—we had a first-class carriage to ourselves—and laying a hand upon each of my knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze which was characteristic of his more imp-like moods. It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem so that more than once my revolver had been a good friend in need.
I reminded him of the fact. I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but very serviceable little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out the cartridges, and examined it with care. There is a test before us. If the test comes off, all will be clear. And the test will depend upon the conduct of this little weapon. Now we will replace the other five and put on the safety-catch. That increases the weight and makes it a better reproduction. I had no glimmer of what was in his mind, nor did he enlighten me, but sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire station.
We secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour were at the house of our confidential friend, the sergeant. Watson's revolver," said my friend. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of string? The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with many critical and incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my companion, lurched along beside us. As we approached the scene of the crime I could see that my friend under all his habitual coolness was in truth deeply agitated.
I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it flashed across my mind in the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of an active mind is that one can always conceive alternative explanations which would make our scent a false one. And yet—and yet—Well, Watson, we can but try. As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle of the revolver.
We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With great care he marked out under the guidance of the policeman the exact spot where the body had been stretched. He then hunted among the heather and the ferns until he found a considerable stone. This he secured to the other end of his line of string, and he hung it over the parapet of the bridge so that it swung clear above the water. He then stood on the fatal spot, some distance from the edge of the bridge, with my revolver in his hand, the string being taut between the weapon and the heavy stone on the farther side.
At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his grip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had vanished over the side into the water. It had hardly gone before Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cry showed that he had found what he expected.
You will also find beside it the revolver, string and weight with which this vindictive woman attempted to disguise her own crime and to fasten a charge of murder upon an innocent victim. You can let Mr. Gibson know that I will see him in the morning, when steps can be taken for Miss Dunbar's vindication.
Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the village inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed. I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in that mixture of imagination and reality which is the basis of my art. I confess that the chip in the stonework was a sufficient clue to suggest the true solution, and that I blame myself for not having attained it sooner.
I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come across a stranger example of what perverted love can bring about. Whether Miss Dunbar was her rival in a physical or in a merely mental sense seems to have been equally unforgivable in her eyes. No doubt she blamed this innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind words with which her husband tried to repel her too demonstrative affection.
Her first resolution was to end her own life. Her second was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which was worse far than any sudden death could be. A note was extracted very cleverly from Miss Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene of the crime. In her anxiety that it should be discovered she somewhat overdid it by holding it in her hand to the last. This alone should have excited my suspicions earlier than it did. A similar one she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after discharging one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods without attracting attention.
She then went down to the bridge where she had contrived this exceedingly ingenious method for getting rid of her weapon. When Miss Dunbar appeared she used her last breath in pouring out her hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing, carried out her terrible purpose. Every link is now in its place and the chain is complete. The papers may ask why the mere was not dragged in the first instance, but it is easy to be wise after the event, and in any case the expanse of a reed-filled lake is no easy matter to drag unless you have a clear perception of what you are looking for and where.
Well, Watson, we have helped a remarkable woman, and also a formidable man. Should they in the future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial world may find that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that schoolroom of sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught. There were, however, certain obstacles in the way, and the true history of this curious case remained entombed in the tin box which contains so many records of my friend's adventures.
Now we have at last obtained permission to ventilate the facts which formed one of the very last cases handled by Holmes before his retirement from practice. Even now a certain reticence and discretion have to be observed in laying the matter before the public. It was one Sunday evening early in September of the year that I received one of Holmes's laconic messages:.
The relations between us in those latter days were peculiar. He was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less excusable. When it was a case of active work and a comrade was needed upon whose nerve he could place some reliance, my role was obvious. But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks could hardly be said to be made to me—many of them would have been as appropriately addressed to his bedstead—but none the less, having formed the habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should register and interject.
If I irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble role in our alliance. When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his armchair with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious problem. With a wave of his hand he indicated my old armchair, but otherwise for half an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my presence.
Then with a start he seemed to come from his reverie, and with his usual whimsical smile he greeted me back to what had once been my home. I have serious thoughts of writing a small monograph upon the uses of dogs in the work of the detective. But there is another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in the case which you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper Beeches, I was able, by watching the mind of the child, to form a deduction as to the criminal habits of the very smug and respectable father.
A dog reflects the family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people have dangerous ones. And their passing moods may reflect the passing moods of others. It is a tangled skein, you understand. One possible loose end lies in the question: Why does Professor Presbury's wolfhound, Roy, endeavour to bite him?
I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial a question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes glanced across at me. But is it not on the face of it strange that a staid, elderly philosopher—you've heard of Presbury, of course, the famous Camford physiologist? What do you make of it? But he attacks no one else, nor does he apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions. Curious, Watson —very curious. Bennett is before his time if that is his ring.
I had hoped to have a longer chat with you before he came. There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door and a moment later the new client presented himself. He was a tall, handsome youth about thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with something in his bearing which suggested the shyness of the student rather than the self-possession of the man of the world.
He shook hands with Holmes, and then looked with some surprise at me. I really can hardly justify myself if I speak before any third person. Watson is the very soul of discretion, and I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am very likely to need an assistant. You will, I am sure, understand my having some reserves in the matter. Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist, lives under his roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly we must agree that the professor has every claim upon his loyalty and devotion.
But it may best be shown by taking the necessary steps to clear up this strange mystery. The professor, Watson, is a man of European reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been a breath of scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is, I gather, a man of very virile and positive, one might almost say combative, character. So the matter stood until a very few months ago. He is sixty-one years of age, but he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his colleague in the chair of comparative anatomy.
It was not, as I understand, the reasoned courting of an elderly man but rather the passionate frenzy of youth, for no one could have shown himself a more devoted lover. The lady, Alice Morphy, was a very perfect girl both in mind and body, so that there was every excuse for the professor's infatuation. None the less, it did not meet with full approval in his own family.
Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor Presbury was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part of the father. The daughter, however, had other views, and there were already several candidates for her hand, who, if they were less eligible from a worldly point of view, were at least more of an age. The girl seemed to like the professor in spite of his eccentricities. It was only age which stood in the way. He did what he had never done before. He left home and gave no indication where he was going.
He was away a fortnight and returned looking rather travel-worn. He made no allusion to where he had been, although he was usually the frankest of men. It chanced, however, that our client here, Mr. Bennett, received a letter from a fellowstudent in Prague, who said that he was glad to have seen Professor Presbury there, although he had not been able to talk to him. Only in this way did his own household learn where he had been.
From that time onward a curious change came over the professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had always the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but that he was under some shadow which had darkened his higher qualities. His intellect was not affected. His lectures were as brilliant as ever. But always there was something new, something sinister and unexpected. His daughter, who was devoted to him, tried again and again to resume the old relations and to penetrate this mask which her father seemed to have put on. You, sir, as I understand, did the same—but all was in vain.
Bennett, tell in your own words the incident of the letters. Watson, that the professor had no secrets from me. If I were his son or his younger brother I could not have more completely enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled every paper which came to him, and I opened and subdivided his letters. Shortly after his return all this was changed. He told me that certain letters might come to him from London which would be marked by a cross under the stamp. These were to be set aside for his own eyes only.
I may say that several of these did pass through my hands, that they had the E. If he answered them at all the answers did not pass through my hands nor into the letter-basket in which our correspondence was collected. The professor brought back a little wooden box from his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental tour, for it was one of those quaint carved things which one associates with Germany. This he placed in his instrument cupboard. One day, in looking for a canula, I took up the box.
To my surprise he was very angry, and reproved me in words which were quite savage for my curiosity. It was the first time such a thing had happened, and I was deeply hurt. I endeavoured to explain that it was a mere accident that I had touched the box, but all the evening I was conscious that he looked at me harshly and that the incident was rankling in his mind.
Bennett drew a little diary book from his pocket. From the time that I observed abnormality in his behaviour I felt that it was my duty to study his case. Thus I have it here that it was on that very day, July 2d, that Roy attacked the professor as he came from his study into the hall. Again, on July 11th, there was a scene of the same sort, and then I have a note of yet another upon July 20th. After that we had to banish Roy to the stables. He was a dear, affectionate animal—but I fear I weary you. Bennett spoke in a tone of reproach, for it was very clear that Holmes was not listening.
His face was rigid and his eyes gazed abstractedly at the ceiling. With an effort he recovered himself. I think we have now fairly gone over the old ground, have we not? But you spoke of some fresh developments. The pleasant, open face of our visitor clouded over, shadowed by some grim remembrance. I opened my door and peeped out. I should explain that the professor sleeps at the end of the passage—".
It was a really terrifying experience, Mr. I think that I am as strong-nerved as my neighbours, but I was shaken by what I saw. The passage was dark save that one window halfway along it threw a patch of light. I could see that something was coming along the passage, something dark and crouching. Then suddenly it emerged into the light, and I saw that it was he. He was crawling, Mr. He was not quite on his hands and knees. I should rather say on his hands and feet, with his face sunk between his hands. Yet he seemed to move with ease. I was so paralyzed by the sight that it was not until he had reached my door that I was able to step forward and ask if I could assist him.
His answer was extraordinary. He sprang up, spat out some atrocious word at me, and hurried on past me, and down the staircase. I waited about for an hour, but he did not come back. It must have been daylight before he regained his room. I have known a severe attack make a man walk in just such a way, and nothing would be more trying to the temper. You always keep us flat-footed on the ground.
But we can hardly accept lumbago, since he was able to stand erect in a moment. But there are the facts, Mr. It is not a case in which we can consult the police, and yet we are utterly at our wit's end as to what to do, and we feel in some strange way that we are drifting towards disaster. Edith—Miss Presbury—feels as I do, that we cannot wait passively any longer. The old gentleman's cerebral processes were disturbed by the love affair.
He made a journey abroad in the hope of breaking himself of the passion. His letters and the box may be connected with some other private transaction—a loan, perhaps, or share certificates, which are in the box. No, no, Watson, there is more in it than this. Now, I can only suggest—". What Sherlock Holmes was about to suggest will never be known, for at this moment the door opened and a young lady was shown into the room. As she appeared Mr. Bennett sprang up with a cry and ran forward with his hands out to meet those which she had herself outstretched.
Oh, Jack, I have been so dreadfully frightened! It is awful to be there alone. Our new visitor, a bright, handsome girl of a conventional English type, smiled back at Holmes as she seated herself beside Mr. Bennett had left his hotel I thought I should probably find him here. Of course, he had told me that he would consult you.
Holmes, can you do nothing for my poor father? Perhaps what you have to say may throw some fresh light upon it. He had been very strange all day. I am sure that there are times when he has no recollection of what he does. He lives as in a strange dream. Yesterday was such a day. It was not my father with whom I lived. His outward shell was there, but it was not really he. Poor Roy, he is chained now near the stable. I may say that I always sleep with my door locked; for, as Jack—as Mr.
Bennett—will tell you, we all have a feeling of impending danger. My room is on the second floor. It happened that the blind was up in my window, and there was bright moonlight outside. As I lay with my eyes fixed upon the square of light, listening to the frenzied barkings of the dog, I was amazed to see my father's face looking in at me. Holmes, I nearly died of surprise and horror. There it was pressed against the windowpane, and one hand seemed to be raised as if to push up the window.
If that window had opened, I think I should have gone mad. It was no delusion, Mr. Don't deceive yourself by thinking so. I dare say it was twenty seconds or so that I lay paralyzed and watched the face. Then it vanished, but I could not—I could not spring out of bed and look out after it. I lay cold and shivering till morning.
At breakfast he was sharp and fierce in manner, and made no allusion to the adventure of the night. Neither did I, but I gave an excuse for coming to town—and here I am. Is there a long ladder in the garden? Holmes, that is the amazing part of it. There is no possible way of reaching the window—and yet he was there. It was the young lady's turn to look surprised. It was quite a different line of thought. Possibly you can leave your notebook with me, and I will check the dates.
Now I think, Watson, that our line of action is perfectly clear. This young lady has informed us—and I have the greatest confidence in her intuition —that her father remembers little or nothing which occurs upon certain dates. We will therefore call upon him as if he had given us an appointment upon such a date. He will put it down to his own lack of memory.
Thus we will open our campaign by having a good close view of him. Bennett, will certainly see us in Camford. There is, if I remember right, an inn called the Chequers where the port used to be above mediocrity and the linen was above reproach. I think, Watson, that our lot for the next few days might lie in less pleasant places. Monday morning found us on our way to the famous university town—an easy effort on the part of Holmes, who had no roots to pull up, but one which involved frantic planning and hurrying on my part, as my practice was by this time not inconsiderable.
Holmes made no allusion to the case until after we had deposited our suitcases at the ancient hostel of which he had spoken. He lectures at eleven and should have an interval at home. We will assume that he is a little hazy as to what he does at such times. If we insist that we are there by appointment I think he will hardly venture to contradict us.
Have you the effrontery necessary to put it through? Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior. We can but try —the motto of the firm. A friendly native will surely guide us. Such a one on the back of a smart hansom swept us past a row of ancient colleges and, finally turning into a tree-lined drive, pulled up at the door of a charming house, girt round with lawns and covered with purple wistaria.
Professor Presbury was certainly surrounded with every sign not only of comfort but of luxury. Even as we pulled up, a grizzled head appeared at the front window, and we were aware of a pair of keen eyes from under shaggy brows which surveyed us through large horn glasses. A moment later we were actually in his sanctum, and the mysterious scientist, whose vagaries had brought us from London, was standing before us. There was certainly no sign of eccentricity either in his manner or appearance, for he was a portly, large-featured man, grave, tall, and frock-coated, with the dignity of bearing which a lecturer needs.
His eyes were his most remarkable feature, keen, observant, and clever to the verge of cunning. I heard through a second person that Professor Presbury of Camford had need of my services. May I ask the name of your informant? If I have made a mistake there is no harm done. I can only express my regret. I should wish to go further into this matter.
Have you any scrap of writing, any letter or telegram, to bear out your assertion? These two gentlemen have come from London under the impression that they have been summoned. You handle all my correspondence. Have you a note of anything going to a person named Holmes? He got between us and the door as he spoke, and he shook his two hands at us with furious passion. I am convinced that we should have had to fight our way out of the room if Mr.
Bennett had not intervened. Consider the scandal at the university! Holmes is a well-known man. You cannot possibly treat him with such discourtesy. Sulkily our host—if I may call him so—cleared the path to the door. We were glad to find ourselves outside the house and in the quiet of the tree-lined drive. Holmes seemed greatly amused by the episode. But, dear me, Watson, he is surely at our heels.
The villain still pursues us. There were the sounds of running feet behind, but it was, to my relief, not the formidable professor but his assistant who appeared round the curve of the drive. He came panting up to us. But he grows more sinister. You can understand now why his daughter and I are alarmed. And yet his mind is perfectly clear. It is evident that his memory is much more reliable than I had thought. By the way, can we, before we go, see the window of Miss Presbury's room?
And yet you will observe that there is a creeper below and a water-pipe above which give some foothold. I have the address of the man in London to whom the professor writes. He seems to have written this morning, and I got it from his blotting-paper. It is an ignoble position for a trusted secretary, but what else can I do? Well, it is an important link in the chain.
We return to London this afternoon, Mr. I see no good purpose to be served by our remaining. We cannot arrest the professor because he has done no crime, nor can we place him under constraint, for he cannot be proved to be mad. No action is as yet possible. Things will soon develop. Unless I am mistaken, next Tuesday may mark a crisis. Certainly we shall be in Camford on that day. Meanwhile, the general position is undeniably unpleasant, and if Miss Presbury can prolong her visit". Meanwhile, let him have his way and do not cross him. So long as he is in a good humour all is well.
Looking between the branches we saw the tall, erect figure emerge from the hall door and look around him. He stood leaning forward, his hands swinging straight before him, his head turning from side to side. The secretary with a last wave slipped off among the trees, and we saw him presently rejoin his employer, the two entering the house together in what seemed to be animated and even excited conversation.