III

While Sherlock Holmes had been telling the details of event, we had been driving through the outskirts of the great town until the last houses had been left behind, and we rode across the countryside. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two villages, where there were still a few lights in the windows.

“We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my friend. “We have visited three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman and I’m sure her anxious ears have already heard the clink of our horse’s feet.”

“But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” I asked.

“Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal , and you may stay and be sure that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I don’t want to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are.”

We had stopped in front of a large villa which was surrounded by its own garden. A servant had taken the horses away, and I followed Holmes up the small path which led to the house. As we came closer, the door opened, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, dressed in some sort of light mousseline de soie . She stood with her figure outlined against the light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her impatience, with bright eyes and her mouth open she was a standing question.

“Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope. But Holmes shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“No good news?”

“None.”

“No bad?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be tired, for you have had a long day.”

“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has helped me a lot in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him here and involve him in this investigation.”

“I am glad to see you,” said she, shaking my hand warmly. “Sorry for the inconvenience you may feel here, the trouble has come so suddenly upon us.”

“My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old soldier. Besides I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can help, either you or my friend here, I will be indeed happy.”

“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which was a cold supper, “I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions. Please give me plain answers to them.”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Do not worry about my feelings. I am not hysterical. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”

“About what?”

“In your heart of hearts , do you think that Neville is alive?”

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be confused by the question. “Frankly, now!” she repeated.

“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”

“You think that he is dead?”

“I do.”

“Murdered?”

“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”

“And on what day did he meet his death?”

“On Monday.”

“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him today.”

Sherlock Holmes jumped out of his chair.

“What!” he cried.

“Yes, today.” She stood smiling, holding up a little sheet of paper.

“May I see it?”

“Certainly.”

He took it from her impatiently, laid it on the table and examined it carefully in the lamplight. I had left my chair and was looking at it over his shoulder. The envelope was very cheap and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, because it was after midnight.

“Surely this is not your husband’s writing, madam,” said Holmes.

“No, but the enclosure is.”

“I can also see that the man who addressed the envelope had to go and ask about the address.”

“How can you tell that?”

“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the gray colour, which shows that blotting-paper  has been used. If it had been written at once, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black colour. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he didn’t know it. It is, of course, a detail, but there is nothing so important as details. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been some object here!”

“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring .”

“And you are sure that this is your husband’s writing?”

“One of them.”

“One?”

“His writing when he wrote in a hurry. It is very unlike his usual writing, but I know it well.”

“‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge mistake which it may take some little time to put right. Wait in patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the leaf of a book, no water-mark. Hum! Posted today in Gravesend by a man with a dirty finger. Ha! And the envelope has been sealed by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And are you sure that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”

“Absolutely. Neville wrote those words.”

“And they were posted today at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I can’t say that the danger is over.”

“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”

“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent . The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”

“No, no; it is, it is his own writing!”

“Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted today.”

“That is possible.”

“If so, something may have happened between.”

“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is such strong sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him . On the last day that I saw him he cut himself in the bedroom. I was in the dining-room, but I rushed upstairs immediately, because I was sure that something had happened. Do you think that I would react on such a trifle, but wouldn’t feel his death?”

“I have seen too much and I know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the logical conclusion. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to prove your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why would he be away from you?”

“I cannot imagine. It is unexplainable.”

“And on Monday he said nothing before leaving you?”

“No.”

“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”

“Very much so.”

“Was the window open?”

“Yes.”

“Then, maybe, he called you?”

“Maybe.”

“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”

“Yes.”

“A call for help, you thought?”

“Yes. He waved his hands.”

“But it might have been a cry of surprise. He didn’t expect to see you, and it might have caused him to throw up his hands?”

“It is possible.”

“And you thought somebody pulled him back?”

“He disappeared so suddenly.”

“He might have jumped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”

“No, but this horrible man confessed he had been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.”

“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?”

“But without his collar or tie. I certainly saw it.”

“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”

“Never.”

“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”

“Never.”

“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the main points about which I wanted to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then go to sleep, because we may have a very busy day tomorrow.”

A large and comfortable double-bedded room was prepared for us, and I went quickly to bed, because I was tired after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would work for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, looking at it from every point of view until he had either solved it or understood that he had not had enough facts. Soon I realized that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then walked about the room taking pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he sat cross-legged, with some tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed indifferently upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his aquiline features.

IV

When a sudden exclamation woke me up, Holmes was still sitting in the same position, and the summer sun was already shining into the room. The pipe was still between his lips, and the room was full of smoke, but nothing remained of the tobacco which I had seen at night.

“Awake, Watson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Ready for a morning drive?”

“Certainly.”

“Then dress. No one is awake yet, but I know where the servant sleeps, and we shall soon have the cart out.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the gloomy thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was awake. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had just finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse .

“I want to test a little theory,” said he, pulling on his boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now talking to one of the most absolute fools in Europe. But I think I have the key of the case now.”

“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.

“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my doubtful look. “I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this bag. Come on, my friend, and we’ll see whether it will not fit the lock.”

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and cart, with the half-dressed servant waiting for us. We both got in and drove away down the London Road. A few country carts were moving, carrying vegetables to the capital, but the villas on both sides were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.

“It has been in some points an exceptional case,” said Holmes. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole , but it is better to learn the truth late than never to learn it at all.”

In town people were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and riding up Wellington Street turned sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the police, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.

“Who is on duty? ” asked Holmes.

“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”

“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the passage. “I wish to talk to you, Bradstreet.” “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Come into my room here.” It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone on the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I called about that beggarman, Boone, who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”

“Yes. He was brought up and kept for further inquiries.”

“So I heard. You have him here?”

“In the cells.”

“Is he quiet?”

“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is dirty.”

“Dirty?”

“Yes, all we can do is to make him wash his hands, and his face is almost black. Well, when his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it.”

“I would like to see him very much.”

“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag.”

“No, I think that I’ll take it.”

“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage, opened a barred door and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly glanced through the door.

“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”

We both looked in. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely dressed accordingly to his occupation, with a coloured shirt protruding through the hole in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the dirt which covered his face could not hide its horrible ugliness. An old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and the upper lip was turned up, so that three teeth were seen. Very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.

“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he might, and I brought the tools with me.” He opened the bag as he spoke, and took out, to my surprise, a very large bath-sponge.

“He! he! You are a funny one,” laughed the inspector.

“Now, if you will be so kind to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him look much more respectable.”

“Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look good enough for the Bow Street cells, does he?” He unlocked the door, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned, but didn’t wake up. Holmes took the waterjug, moistened his sponge, and then washed the prisoner’s face.

“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent.”

Never in my life have I seen thing like that. The man’s face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. The brown dirt was gone! Gone, too, was the horrible scar which had ran across the face, and the twisted lip which had given it such terrible look! A twitch brought away the red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, looking around with sleepy confusion. Then suddenly realizing what had happened, he screamed and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

“Great heavens! ” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the photograph.”

The prisoner turned with the careless look of a man who obeys his destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And tell me please, what am I charged with?”

“With making away with Mr. Neville St. – Oh, well, you can’t be charged with that,” said the inspector with a smile. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the police, but this really takes the cake .”

“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then no crime has been committed, and so I am detained illegally.”

“No crime, but a very great mistake has been committed,” said Holmes. “You’d better have trusted you wife.”

“It was not the wife; it was the children,” cried the prisoner. “God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What can I do?”

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.

“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you prove to the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know the reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and give it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.”

“God bless you !” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would be ready for the prison, yes, even for the execution, but I’d never have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a school-master in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, worked on the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in London, and I decided to write them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. I could get the facts for my articles only by trying begging myself. When I was an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the greenroom for my skill. So I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist with a help of a small piece of plaster. Then with the red wig, and suitable dress, I chose my place in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I sat there, and when I returned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26s. 4d .

“I wrote my articles and forgot about this matter until, some time later, I had to pay 25 pounds to back a friend. I had no idea where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the City. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

“Well, you can imagine how difficult it was to get back to hard work at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by changing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I gave up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coins. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning appear as a dirty beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe.

“Well, very soon I found that I was saving big sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn 700 pounds a year—which is less than I got—but my power of making up and also my wit, improved by practice, made me a recognized character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I couldn’t take 2 pounds.

“As I became richer I became more ambitious, took a house in the country and married, without anyone knowing about my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what.

“Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, running to the Lascar, asked him to stop anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not pass. Quickly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my paints and wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not recognize me. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I opened the window, reopening by my force a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I took my coat, which was weighted by the coins, threw it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment I heard the steps of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

“I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I wanted to remain in my costume as long as possible, and that’s why I preferred to keep a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I took off my ring and gave it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried note, telling her that she had no cause to fear.”

“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.

“Good God!  What a week she must have spent!”

“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to one of his customers, who forgot all about it for some days.”

“That was it,” said Holmes, “I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”

“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”

“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this thing up , Hugh Boone should disappear.”

“I swear it!”

“Then I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.”

“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and smoking tobacco. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we’ll just be in time for breakfast.”