The Man with the Twisted Lip

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal
of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted
to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some
foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's
description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his
tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same ef-
fects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is
easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he
continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror
and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with
yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all hud-
dled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night -- it was in June, '89 -- there came a ring to my bell,
about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at
the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work
down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.
"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick
steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady,
clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the
room.
"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then,
suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms
about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm
in such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."
"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whit-
ney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were
when you came in."
"I didn't know what to do, so l came straight to you." That
was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife
like birds to a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have
some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all
about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's
about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so fright-
ened about him!"
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her
husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend
and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such
words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was?
Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late
he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in
the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and
shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him
eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the
dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the
effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar
of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How
could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a
place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who
surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out
of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second
thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's
medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could
manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that
I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were
indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten
minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind
me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand,
as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could
show how strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my
adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind
the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the
east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop,
approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap
like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in
search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn
hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and
by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the
latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy
with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths,
like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies
lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees,
heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and
there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of
the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light,
now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in
the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some
muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange,
low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes,
and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out
his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his
neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning
charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat
a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and
his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a
pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty
berth.
"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a
friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with
him."
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and
peering through the gloom I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and
unkempt, staring out at me.
"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what
o'clock is it?"
"Nearly eleven."
"Of what day?"
"Of Friday, June 19th."
"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednes-
day. What d'you want to frighten the chap for?" He sank his
face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.
"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting
this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only
been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes -- I forget how
many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate --
poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"
"Yes, I have one waiting."
"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I
owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of
sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying
fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I
passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at
my skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then
look back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I
glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at
my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very
wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from
between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude
from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It
took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a
cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could
see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone,
the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire
and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock
Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and
instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once
more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.
"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this
den?"
"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If
you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend
of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with
you.'
"I have a cab outside."
"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him,
for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should
recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife
to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait
outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes's requests,
for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward
with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when
Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practi-
cally accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything
better than to be associated with my friend in one of those
singular adventures which were the normal condition of his
existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whit-
ney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through
the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged
from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with
Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he
straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have
added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical
views."
"I was certainly surprised to find you there."
"But not more so than I to find you."
"I came to find a friend."
"And I to find an enemy."
"An enemy?"
"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural
prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable
inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent
ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been
recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an
hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own
purposes, and the rascally lascar who runs it has sworn to have
vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that
building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
nights."
"What! You do not mean bodies?"
"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had
1000 pounds for every poor devil who has been done to death in that
den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear
that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But
our trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his
teeth and whistled shrilly -- a signal which was answered by a
similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle
of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.
"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up
through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow
light from its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?
"If I can be of use."
"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still
more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."
"The Cedars?"
"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I
conduct the inquiry."
"Where is it, then?"
"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."
"But I am all in the dark."
"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump
up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a
crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her
head. So long, then!"
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away
through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets,
which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad
balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly be-
neath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and
mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of
the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of
revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a
star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the
clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat
beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which
seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in
upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles,
and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban
villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit
up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that
he is acting for the best.
"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It
makes you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is
a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own
thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should
say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the
door."
"You forget that I know nothing about it."
"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before
we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I
can get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt,
but I can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case
clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a
spark where all is dark to me."
"Proceed, then."
"Some years ago -- to be definite, in May, 1884 -- there came
to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to
have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds
very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he
made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the
daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children.
He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies
and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the
5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now
thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good
husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular
with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the
present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain
amount to 88 pounds lOs., while he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in
the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to
think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.
"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather
earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two
important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his
little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his
wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly
after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of consider-
able value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at
the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are
well up in your London, you will know that the office of the
company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper
Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair
had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, pro-
ceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found
herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her
way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?"
"It is very clear."
"lf you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and
Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of
seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she
found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam
Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck
cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to
her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window
was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as
being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her,
and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to
her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from
behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye
was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started
to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.
"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed
down the steps -- for the house was none other than the opium den
in which you found me to-night -- and running through the front
room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first
floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this lascar
scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and,
aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into
the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she
rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno
Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way
to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back,
and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they
made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been
seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of
that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of
hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he
and the lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front
room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that
the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that
Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at
a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from
it. Out there fell a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy
which he had promised to bring home.
"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple
showed, made the inspector realize that the matter was serious.
The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an
abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a
sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out
upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the
bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but
is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water.
The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below.
On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the window-
sill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden
floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front
room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the
exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his
watch -- all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any
of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville
St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for
no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains
upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by
swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of
the tragedy.
"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immedlately
implicated in the matter. The lascar was known to be a man of
the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was
known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few
seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could
hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His
defense was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he
had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger,
and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the
missing gentleman's clothes.
"So much for the lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple
who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was
certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville
St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one
which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is
a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regula-
tions he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little
distance down Threadneedle Street. upon the left-hand side,
there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall.
Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged
with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous
spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather
cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched
the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his
professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the har-
vest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you
see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing
him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible
scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of
his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark
eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair,
all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants
and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any
piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.
This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at
the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the
gentleman of whom we are in quest."
"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-
handed against a man in the prime of life?"
"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in
other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured
man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson,
that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by excep-
tional strength in the others."
"Pray continue your narrative."
"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as
her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very
careful examination of the premises, but without finding any-
thing which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had
been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed
some few minutes during which he might have communicated
with his friend the lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and
he was seized and searched, without anything being found which
could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains
upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger,
which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding
came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long
before, and that the stains which had been observed there came
doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having
ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of
the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the
police. As to Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen
her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been
either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to
the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the prem-
ises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh
clue.
"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank
what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and
not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded.
And what do you think they found in the pockets?"
"I cannot imagine."
"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed
with pennies and half-pennies -- 421 pennies and 270 half-pennies.
It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide.
But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy
between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that
the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been
sucked away into the river."
"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the
room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"
"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough.
Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through
the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the
deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike
him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize
the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it
would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little
time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried
to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his
lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret
hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and
he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the
pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and
would have done the same with the other garments had not he
heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
window when the police appeared."
"It certainly sounds feasible."
"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a
better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the
station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been
anything against him. He had for years been known as a profes-
sional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and
innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the ques-
tions which have to be solved -- what Neville St. Clair was doing
in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he
now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance --
are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot
recall any case within my experience which looked at the first
glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."
While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular se-
ries of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the
great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind,
and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.
Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered
villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.
"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We
have touched on three English counties in our short drive. start-
ing 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 whose anxious ears have already,
I have little doubt, caught 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 rest assured that she will have nothing but
a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her,
Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are.
Whoa, there, whoa!"
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within
its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head,
and springing down I followed Holmes up the small, winding
gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door
flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad
in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy
pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure
outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one
half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and
face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing
question.
"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were
two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she
saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"No good news?"
"None."
"No bad?"
"No."
"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for
you have had a long day."
"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use
to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it
possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this
investigation."
"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand
warmly. "You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be
wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which
has come so suddenly upon us."
"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I
were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can
be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be
indeed happy."
"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a
well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had
been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two
plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain
answer."
"Certainly, madam."
"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor
given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."
"Upon what point?"
"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"
Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.
"Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and look-
ing keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.
"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 to-day."
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been
galvanized.
"What!" he roared.
"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of
paper in the air.
"May I see it?"
"Certainly."
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out
upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I
had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The
envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the
Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather
of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.
"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not
your husband's writing, madam."
"No, but the enclosure is."
"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to
go and inquire as to 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 grayish colour, which shows that blotting-
paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then
blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has
written the name, and there has then been a pause before he
wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar
with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important
as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an
enclosure here!"
"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."
"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"
"One of his hands."
"One?"
"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
writing, and yet I know it well."
"Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There
is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.
Wait in patience.
"NEVILLE.
Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no
water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a
dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not
very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco.
And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"
"None. Neville wrote those words."
"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St.
Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to 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 very own writing!"
"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday
and only posted to-day."
"That is possible."
"If so, much may have happened between."
"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that
all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that
I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw
him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-
room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that
something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to
such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"
"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a
woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analyti-
cal reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong
piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband
is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away
from you?"
"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."
"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"
"No."
"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"
"Very much so."
"Was the window open?"
"Yes."
"Then he might have called to you?"
"He might."
"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. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"
"It is possible."
"And you thought he was pulled back?"
"He disappeared so suddenly."
"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in
the room?"
"No, but this horrible man confessed to having 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 distinctly saw his bare throat."
"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 principal points
about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have
a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day
to-morrow."
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed
at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was
weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man,
however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his
mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest,
turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every
point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced
himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me
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
wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed
a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-
legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid
out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting
there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly
upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from
him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set
aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he
sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I
found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was
still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the
room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of
the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.
"Awake, Watson?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Game for a morning drive?"
"Certainly."
"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the
stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He
chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he
seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous
night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no
one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had
hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy
was putting in the horse.
"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the
presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve
to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the
key of the affair now."
"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.
"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not jok-
ing," he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just
been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this
Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall 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
trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both
sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few
country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropo-
lis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless
as some city in a dream.
"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes,
flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as
blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never
to learn it at all."
In town the earliest risers 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 dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to
the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes
was well known to the force, 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 stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged
jacket. "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet."
"Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here."
It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the
table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector
sat down at his desk.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"
"I called about that beggarman, Boone -- the one who was
charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville
St. Clair, of Lee."
"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."
"So I heard. You have him here?"
"In the cells."
"Is he quiet?"
"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."
"Dirty?"
"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his
face is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once 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 should 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, passed down a winding stair, 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 shot back a panel in the upper part of the door
and glanced through.
"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his
face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and
heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his
calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his
tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty,
but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its
repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right
across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up
one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a
perpetual snarl. A shock of 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 took the liberty of bringing the tools
with me." He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took
out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.
"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.
"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door
very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respect-
able figure."
"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He
doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He
slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the
cell. The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more
into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the waterjug, moistened
his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down
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 such a sight. The man's face
peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was
the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had
seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repul-
sive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red
hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced,
refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing
his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then
suddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a scream 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 reckless air of a man who aban-
dons himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray
what am I charged with?"
"With making away with Mr. Neville St. Oh, come, you
can't be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted
suicide of it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been
twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake."
"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime
has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."
"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said
Holmes. "You would have done better to have trusted you
wife."
"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the
prisoner. "God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their
father. My God! What an exposure! 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 convince the police authorities that there is no
possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reasoa
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 submit it to the proper authorities. The case
would then never go into court at all."
"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would
have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than
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 excel-:
lent education. I travelled in my youth, took to 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
the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the
point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying
begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to
base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the
secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for
my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. 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 by the aid of a small
slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and
an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the
city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For
seven hours I plied my trade, 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 thought little more of the matter
until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ
served upon me for 25 pounds. I was at my wit's end where to get the
money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's
grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,
and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In
ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.
"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to
arduous work at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as
much in a day by smearing 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 threw
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 coppers. 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 emerge as a squalid beggar and in the
evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town.
This fellow, a lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that
I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.
"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable 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 my average takings --
but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and
also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and
made me quite 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 failed to take 2 pounds.
"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the
country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspi-
cion as to 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 and astonishment, that my wife was
standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a
cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing
to my confidant, the lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone
from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew
that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled
on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a
wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it
occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that
the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopen-
ing by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself
in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was
weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of
the window, and it disappered into the Thames. The other
clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a
rush 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
was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and
hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife
would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it
to the lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me,
together with a hurried scrawl, 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 Brad-
street, "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult
to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor
customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days."
"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "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, there must be no more of Hugh
Boone."
"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can
take."
"In that case 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 moch 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 consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if
we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."