The Return of Sherlock Holmes
himself under another name. I have not traced these checks yet,
but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some
provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double
existence. He intended to change his name altogether, draw this
money, and vanish, starting life again elsewhere.”
“Well, that’s likely enough.”
“It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all
pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an ample and
crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the
impression that he had been murdered by her only child. It was a
masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master. The
idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the
crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the retention
of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains and buttons in
the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from which it
seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible escape.
But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of
when to stop. He wished to improve that which was already
perfect—to draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his
unfortunate victim—and so he ruined all. Let us descend,
Lestrade. There are just one or two questions that I would ask
him.”
The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a
policeman upon each side of him.
“It was a joke, my good sir—a practical joke, nothing more,” he
whined incessantly. “I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed
myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am
sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would
have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane.”
“That’s for a jury to decide,” said Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall
have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder.”
“And you’ll probably find that your creditors will impound the
banking account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes.
The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my
friend.
“I have to thank you for a good deal,” said he. “Perhaps I’ll pay
my debt some day.”
Holmes smiled indulgently.
“I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very
fully occupied,” said he. “By the way, what was it you put into
the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits,
or what? You won’t tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well,
well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account both for
the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an
account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long,
thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a
particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his
breast, and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank
bird, with dull grey plumage and a black top-knot.
“So, Watson,” said he, suddenly, “you do not propose to invest in
South African securities?”
I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes’s
curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate
thoughts was utterly inexplicable.
“How on earth do you know that?” I asked.
He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his
hand, and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.
“Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback,” said he.
“I am.”
“I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect.”
“Why?”
“Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly
simple.”
“I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind.”
“You see, my dear Watson,”—he propped his test-tube in the rack,
and began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his
class—“it is not really difficult to construct a series of
inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple
in itself. If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the
central inferences and presents one’s audience with the
starting-point and the conclusion, one may produce a startling,
though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really
difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left
forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did _not_ propose to
invest your small capital in the gold fields.”
“I see no connection.”
“Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection.
Here are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had
chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned from
the club last night. 2. You put chalk there when you play
billiards, to steady the cue. 3. You never play billiards except
with Thurston. 4. You told me, four weeks ago, that Thurston had
an option on some South African property which would expire in a
month, and which he desired you to share with him. 5. Your check
book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key.
6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner.”
“How absurdly simple!” I cried.
“Quite so!” said he, a little nettled. “Every problem becomes
very childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an
unexplained one. See what you can make of that, friend Watson.”
He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table, and turned once more
to his chemical analysis.
I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the
paper.
“Why, Holmes, it is a child’s drawing,” I cried.
“Oh, that’s your idea!”
“What else should it be?”
“That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, Norfolk,
is very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by the first
post, and he was to follow by the next train. There’s a ring at
the bell, Watson. I should not be very much surprised if this
were he.”
A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later
there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear
eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of
Baker Street. He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh,
bracing, east-coast air with him as he entered. Having shaken
hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye
rested upon the paper with the curious markings, which I had just
examined and left upon the table.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?” he cried. “They
told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don’t think
you can find a queerer one than that. I sent the paper on ahead,
so that you might have time to study it before I came.”
“It is certainly rather a curious production,” said Holmes. “At
first sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It
consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing across the
paper upon which they are drawn. Why should you attribute any
importance to so grotesque an object?”
“I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frightening
her to death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes.
That’s why I want to sift the matter to the bottom.”
Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it.
It was a page torn from a notebook. The markings were done in
pencil, and ran in this way:
AM-HERE-ABE-SLANEY
Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully
up, he placed it in his pocketbook.
“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,” said
he. “You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton
Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you would kindly go
over it all again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”
“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervously
clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands. “You’ll just ask
me anything that I don’t make clear. I’ll begin at the time of my
marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that, though
I’m not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a
matter of five centuries, and there is no better known family in
the County of Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the
Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in Russell Square,
because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it. There
was an American young lady there—Patrick was the name—Elsie
Patrick. In some way we became friends, until before my month was
up I was as much in love as a man could be. We were quietly
married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded
couple. You’ll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a
good old family should marry a wife in this fashion, knowing
nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her and knew
her, it would help you to understand.
“She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can’t say that she
did not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to
do so. ‘I have had some very disagreeable associations in my
life,’ said she, ‘I wish to forget all about them. I would rather
never allude to the past, for it is very painful to me. If you
take me, Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing that she
need be personally ashamed of, but you will have to be content
with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to all that
passed up to the time when I became yours. If these conditions
are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely
life in which you found me.’ It was only the day before our
wedding that she said those very words to me. I told her that I
was content to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good
as my word.
“Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have
been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the
first time signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter
from America. I saw the American stamp. She turned deadly white,
read the letter, and threw it into the fire. She made no allusion
to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a promise,
but she has never known an easy hour from that moment. There is
always a look of fear upon her face—a look as if she were waiting
and expecting. She would do better to trust me. She would find
that I was her best friend. But until she speaks, I can say
nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and
whatever trouble there may have been in her past life it has been
no fault of hers. I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is
not a man in England who ranks his family honour more highly than
I do. She knows it well, and she knew it well before she married
me. She would never bring any stain upon it—of that I am sure.
“Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week
ago—it was the Tuesday of last week—I found on one of the
window-sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like these
upon the paper. They were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it
was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore he knew