The Return of Sherlock Holmes
very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something
rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could
have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was
burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with
tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow,
and then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton’s
study, and a _portière_ at the farther side showed the entrance
to his bedroom.
It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the
door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was
unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side
of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay window
we had seen from outside. On the other side was the door which
communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a
turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a large
bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner,
between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall, green
safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs
upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he
crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head
listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither
locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his
masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was
evidently as surprised as I.
“I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear.
“I can’t quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other
way, we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide
behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”
I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had
passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had
ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of its
defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness that
it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of our
opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure.
Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dangers.
With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of
instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific
accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew
that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I
understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this
green and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the
reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his
dress-coat—he had placed his overcoat on a chair—Holmes laid out
two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready
for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague
as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour,
Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool,
picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy
of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green
door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper
packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out,
but it was as hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew
out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with
Milverton in the next room, to switch on the electric light.
Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant
he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed
his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window curtain,
motioning me to do the same.
It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had
alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within
the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull
murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps
rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside the room.
They paused at the door. The door opened. There was a sharp snick
as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once more,
and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils.
Then the footsteps continued backward and forward, backward and
forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a creak from
a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock,
and I heard the rustle of papers.
So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From
the pressure of Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he
was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost
within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It
was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,
that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been
sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing
of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,
grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in
the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar
projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military
smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In
his hand he held a long, legal document which he was reading in
an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips
as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his
composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.
I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring
shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers, and
that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen
what was only too obvious from my position, that the door of the
safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any
moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were
sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye,
I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his head,
pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never
looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand,
and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of the
lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document
and the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had reached
the end of either, there came a remarkable development, which
turned our thoughts into quite another channel.
Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch,
and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of
impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment
at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound
reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his
papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated, and
then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose and
opened it.
“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”
So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the
nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a
woman’s dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as
Milverton’s face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured
very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the
cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of
his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric
light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her
face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and
fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with
strong emotion.
“Well,” said Milverton, “you made me lose a good night’s rest, my
dear. I hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other
time—eh?”
The woman shook her head.
“Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard
mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless
the girl, what are you shivering about? That’s right. Pull
yourself together. Now, let us get down to business.” He took a
notebook from the drawer of his desk. “You say that you have five
letters which compromise the Countess d’Albert. You want to sell
them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix
a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they
are really good specimens—Great heavens, is it you?”
The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the
mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face
which confronted Milverton—a face with a curved nose, strong,
dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,
thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.
“It is I,” she said, “the woman whose life you have ruined.”
Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so
very obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such
extremities? I assure you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord,
but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I put the
price well within your means. You would not pay.”
“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he—the noblest
gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy
to lace—he broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that
last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed
you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to
laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from
twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it
was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to face,
and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”
“Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his
feet. “I have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants
and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural
anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I will say no
more.”
The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
deadly smile on her thin lips.
“You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will
wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of
a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound—and that!—and that!—and
that!”
She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel
after barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of
his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the
table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he
staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the