III

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way to Baker Street. Two cabs were standing at the door, and as I entered the house I heard voices from above. On entering his room I found Holmes speaking to two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a hat and very respectable coat.

“Ha! Our party is complete. Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in tonight’s adventure,” said Holmes.

“You may have confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent. “He has his own methods, which are a little too theoretical and fantastic, but once or twice he has been more correct than the police.”

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger. “Still, I miss my game of cards. It is the first Saturday night for twenty-seven years that I have not played cards.”

“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that the play tonight will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man on whom you wish to lay your hands.

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, one of the most dangerous in London. He’s a remarkable man. His grandfather was a duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as good as his fingers. I’ve been on his track for years and have never had any evidence against him yet.”

“I’ve met Mr. John Clay once or twice, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and it is time to start.”

We drove through a labyrinth of streets until we found ourselves in Farrington Street.

“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I wished to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute fool in his profession, but he is as brave as a bulldog.”

We had reached the same crowded street in which we had been in the morning. Mr. Merryweather opened a side door for us. We saw a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and we went downstairs to another iron gate. Mr. Merryweather showed us down a dark corridor to a third door, and into a huge cellar with massive boxes.

“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he looked about him.

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick on the floor. “Why, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.

“I must ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes. “Would you sit down on one of those boxes, and be quiet?”

Mr. Merryweather sat down on a box, while Holmes fell on his knees on the floor and, with a lens, began to examine it. A few moments later he sprang to his feet again and put his lens in his pocket.

“We have at least an hour,” he remarked, “for they can hardly do anything until the pawnbroker is in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor, in the cellar of the City branch of one of the biggest London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the director, and he will explain to you why the criminals are interested in this cellar at present.”

“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings.”

“Your French gold?”

“Yes. Some months ago we borrowed 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that the money is still lying in our cellar. The box on which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons. The amount is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had fears on the matter.”

“And they were right about that,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time to put the screen over the lantern.”

“And sit in the dark?”

“I am afraid so. The enemy is very near and we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. I shall stand behind this box, and you will be behind those. If they fire, Watson, shoot them down.”

I put my revolver on the box behind which I hid. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in such an absolute darkness as I had never seen before.

“They have one way of escape,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?”

“l have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”

“Then we must be silent and wait.”

What a time it seemed! We waited for only an hour and a quarter, but it seemed to me that it was all the night.

Suddenly we saw a light. At first it was only a spark on the floor. Then it became a yellow line, and then a hand appeared; a white hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. With a loud noise, one of the broad, white stones turned over on its side and left a hole. I saw a boyish face, which looked about, and then a man drew himself up into the cellar. In another moment he stood at the side of the hole and was helping his companion, small like himself, with a pale face and very red hair.

Sherlock Holmes sprang out and seized the first man by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I saw the first man holding a revolver, but Holmes struck the man’s hand, and the revolver fell on the floor.

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes. “You have no chance at all.”

“So I see,” the other answered. “But I think that my friend is all right.”

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.

“Oh, indeed! You did your work very thoroughly. I must compliment you.”

“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”

“Do not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as Jones clicked the handcuffs. “You may not know that I have royal blood in my veins. When you address me, always say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’”

“All right,” said Jones. “Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry Your Highness to the police station?”

“That is better,” said John Clay. He bowed to the three of us and walked quietly off.

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated one of the most dangerous attempts at bank robbery that I have ever heard of.”

“I am repaid by having defeated Mr. John Clay, and by hearing the very remarkable story of the Red-headed League,” said Holmes.

“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was obvious from the first that the only possible object of this fantastic advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia must be to get this not very clever pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of doing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The 4 pounds a week is a big sum, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one of them takes an office, the other makes the man apply for the position, and together they have him away from home every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant who came for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive to get the position.”

“But how did you know what the motive was?”

“The man’s business was small, and there was nothing in his house worth such preparations. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s interest in photography, and his trick of diving into the cellar. The cellar! I made inquiries about this mysterious assistant and found that he was a well-known criminal in London. He was doing something in the cellar—something which took many hours a day for months. What could it be? I could think of nothing else but that he was digging a tunnel to some other building.

“When we went to visit the scene of action I surprised you by striking on the ground with my stick. I wanted to know whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn and dirty they were. They spoke of those hours of digging. I only wished to know what they were digging for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank next to our client’s house, and felt that I had solved my problem.”

“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt tonight?” I asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices that showed that they did not need Mr. Jabez Wilson’s absence any longer – in other words, that their tunnel was ready. It was important to use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the money might be taken away. It was Saturday, and it gave them two days for their escape. So I expected them to come tonight.”

“Your ideas are brilliant,” I exclaimed in admiration.

“These little problems help me to escape from boredom of life,” he answered.