The Return of Sherlock Holmes
one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear
upon our future inquiry.”
“One moment—one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked
up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the
doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed
top-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of
a very rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of
his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp
crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded
attention.
“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman’s papers?” he asked.
“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance.”
“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”
“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by
Scotland Yard.”
“Who are you, sir?”
“I am Cyril Overton.”
“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would
bring me. So you have instructed a detective?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”
“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,
will be prepared to do that.”
“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”
“In that case, no doubt his family——”
“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look
to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I
tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it
is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not
propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you
are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be
anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to
account for what you do with them.”
“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, in the
meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
this young man’s disappearance?”
“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I
entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”
“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite
understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has
gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a
gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from
him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
treasure.”
The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.
“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine
lad—a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle
away. I’ll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In
the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no
stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so
far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can always look to me.”
Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give
us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the
private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to
find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.
There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
We halted outside it.
“It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a
warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not
reached that stage yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so
busy a place. Let us venture it.”
“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to
the young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake
about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I
very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the
end. Could you tell me if this was so?”
The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.
“What o’clock was it?” she asked.
“A little after six.”
“Whom was it to?”
Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last
words in it were ‘For God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially;
“I am very anxious at getting no answer.”
The young woman separated one of the forms.
“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon
the counter.
“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said
Holmes. “Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind.”
He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the
street once more.
“Well?” I asked.
“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different
schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could
hardly hope to succeed the very first time.”
“And what have you gained?”
“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab.
“King’s Cross Station,” said he.
“We have a journey, then?”
“Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction.”
“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you
any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t
think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives
are more obscure. Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be
kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy
uncle?”
“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a
very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the
one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant
old person.”
“It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?”
“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
important match, and should involve the only man whose presence
seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be
a coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone’s while
to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one
is that this young man really is the heir of a great property,
however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be
concocted.”
“These theories take no account of the telegram.”
“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it.”
It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were
shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
table.
It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession
that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am
aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school
of the university, but a thinker of European reputation in more
than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his
brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere
glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes
under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert
mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr.
Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend’s card in his hand, and he
looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.
“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of
your profession—one of which I by no means approve.”
“In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.
“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member
of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official
machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling
is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of
private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are
better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men
who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for
example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
with you.”
“No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we
are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we
are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case
is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon
me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton.”
“What about him?”
“You know him, do you not?”
“He is an intimate friend of mine.”
“You are aware that he has disappeared?”
“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged
features of the doctor.
“He left his hotel last night—he has not been heard of.”
“No doubt he will return.”
“To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.”
“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s
fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The
football match does not come within my horizon at all.”
“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
Staunton’s fate. Do you know where he is?”
“Certainly not.”
“You have not seen him since yesterday?”
“No, I have not.”
“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did you ever know him ill?”
“Never.”