The Sign of the Four
head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. “Don’t mind that, sir:
it’s only a slow-worm. It hain’t got no fangs, so I gives it the run o’
the room, for it keeps the beetles down. You must not mind my bein’
just a little short wi’ you at first, for I’m guyed at by the children,
and there’s many a one just comes down this lane to knock me up. What
was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?”
“He wanted a dog of yours.”
“Ah! that would be Toby.”
“Yes, Toby was the name.”
“Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here.” He moved slowly forward with
his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round
him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were
glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and
corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls,
who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices
disturbed their slumbers.
Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half
spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in colour, with a very clumsy
waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which
the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance,
it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying
me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself
back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had,
I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had
been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow
gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the
detective’s name.
Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets,
smoking his pipe.
“Ah, you have him there!” said he. “Good dog, then! Athelney Jones has
gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has
arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper,
and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a
sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up.”
We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room
was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner.
“Lend me your bull’s-eye, sergeant,” said my companion. “Now tie this
bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you.
Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.—Just you carry them down
with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my
handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the
garret with me for a moment.”
We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more
upon the footsteps in the dust.
“I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks,” he said. “Do you
observe anything noteworthy about them?”
“They belong,” I said, “to a child or a small woman.”
“Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?”
“They appear to be much as other footmarks.”
“Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust.
Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief
difference?”
“Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe
distinctly divided.”
“Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly
step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I
shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand.”
I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
smell.
“That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him,
I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs,
loose the dog, and look out for Blondin.”
By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the
roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very
slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys,
but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the
opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one
of the corner eaves.
“That you, Watson?” he cried.
“Yes.”
“This is the place. What is that black thing down there?”
“A water-barrel.”
“Top on it?”
“Yes.”
“No sign of a ladder?”
“No.”
“Confound the fellow! It’s a most break-neck place. I ought to be able
to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm.
Here goes, anyhow.”
There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily
down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the
barrel, and from there to the earth.
“It was easy to follow him,” he said, drawing on his stockings and
boots. “Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it.”
The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out
of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In
shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a
dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other,
like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.
“They are hellish things,” said he. “Look out that you don’t prick
yourself. I’m delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are
all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin
before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are you game
for a six-mile trudge, Watson?”
“Certainly,” I answered.
“Your leg will stand it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!” He
pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog’s nose, while the
creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical
cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the _bouquet_ of a famous
vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a
stout cord to the mongrel’s collar, and led him to the foot of the
water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession of high,
tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in the
air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and
kept us at the top of our speed.
The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
distance in the cold grey light. The square, massive house, with its
black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn,
behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among
the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected. The
whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a
blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy which
hung over it.
On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder. Holmes
clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over upon the
other side.
“There’s the print of wooden-leg’s hand,” he remarked, as I mounted up
beside him. “You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster.
What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain since
yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their
eight-and-twenty hours’ start.”
I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My
fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved, but
waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent smell
of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents.
“Do not imagine,” said Holmes, “that I depend for my success in this
case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and, since
fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected
it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty little
intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There might
have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too palpable
clue.”
“There is credit, and to spare,” said I. “I assure you, Holmes, that I
marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even
more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to
be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe
with such confidence the wooden-legged man?”
“Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don’t wish to be
theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in
command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
Morstan’s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
associates,—the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
it. Aided by this chart, the officers—or one of them—gets the treasure
and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition
under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan
Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is
dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with
convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his
associates were themselves convicts and could not get away.”
“But that is mere speculation,” said I.
“It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the
facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains
at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then
he receives a letter from India which gives him a great fright. What
was that?”
“A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free.”
“Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known what
their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise to
him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a wooden-legged
man,—a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white tradesman for him,
and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one white man’s name is
on the chart. The others are Hindoos or Mohammedans. There is no other
white man. Therefore we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged
man is identical with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike you as
being faulty?”
“No: it is clear and concise.”
“Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let us
look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the double
idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and of having
his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out where Sholto
lived, and very possibly he established communications with some one
inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not seen.
Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could not
find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever knew,
save the major and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly Small
learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the secret
of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the guards, makes
his way to the dying man’s window, and is only deterred from entering
by the presence of his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the
dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his private papers in
the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and
finally leaves a momento of his visit in the short inscription upon the