“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes
as we sat on either side of the fire in his
lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of man
could invent. We would not dare to conceive
the things which are really mere commonplaces
of existence. If we could fly out of that
window hand in hand, hover over this great
city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in
at the queer things which are going on, the
strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes,
the wonderful chains of events, working through
generations, and leading to the most outré
results, it would make all fiction with its
conventionalities and foreseen conclusions
most stale and unprofitable.”
“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I
answered. “The cases which come to light
in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough,
and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports
realism pushed to its extreme limits, and
yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither
fascinating nor artistic.”
“A certain selection and discretion must
be used in producing a realistic effect,”
remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the
police report, where more stress is laid,
perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate
than upon the details, which to an observer
contain the vital essence of the whole matter.
Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural
as the commonplace.”
I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite
understand your thinking so,” I said. “Of
course, in your position of unofficial adviser
and helper to everybody who is absolutely
puzzled, throughout three continents, you
are brought in contact with all that is strange
and bizarre. But here”—I picked up the
morning paper from the ground—“let us
put it to a practical test. Here is the first
heading upon which I come. ‘A husband’s
cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a column
of print, but I know without reading it that
it is all perfectly familiar to me. There
is, of course, the other woman, the drink,
the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic
sister or landlady. The crudest of writers
could invent nothing more crude.”
“Indeed, your example is an unfortunate
one for your argument,” said Holmes, taking
the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This
is the Dundas separation case, and, as it
happens, I was engaged in clearing up some
small points in connection with it. The husband
was a teetotaler, there was no other woman,
and the conduct complained of was that he
had drifted into the habit of winding up every
meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling
them at his wife, which, you will allow, is
not an action likely to occur to the imagination
of the average story-teller. Take a pinch
of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have
scored over you in your example.”
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with
a great amethyst in the centre of the lid.
Its splendour was in such contrast to his
homely ways and simple life that I could not
help commenting upon it.
“Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had
not seen you for some weeks. It is a little
souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return
for my assistance in the case of the Irene
Adler papers.”
“And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a
remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his
finger.
“It was from the reigning family of Holland,
though the matter in which I served them was
of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
even to you, who have been good enough to
chronicle one or two of my little problems.”
“And have you any on hand just now?” I
asked with interest.
“Some ten or twelve, but none which present
any feature of interest. They are important,
you understand, without being interesting.
Indeed, I have found that it is usually in
unimportant matters that there is a field
for the observation, and for the quick analysis
of cause and effect which gives the charm
to an investigation. The larger crimes are
apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the
crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the
motive. In these cases, save for one rather
intricate matter which has been referred to
me from Marseilles, there is nothing which
presents any features of interest. It is possible,
however, that I may have something better
before very many minutes are over, for this
is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.”
He had risen from his chair and was standing
between the parted blinds gazing down into
the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking
over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement
opposite there stood a large woman with a
heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large
curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat
which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of
Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under
this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,
hesitating fashion at our windows, while her
body oscillated backward and forward, and
her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons.
Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer
who leaves the bank, she hurried across the
road, and we heard the sharp clang of the
bell.
“I have seen those symptoms before,” said
Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire.
“Oscillation upon the pavement always means
an affaire de coeur. She would like advice,
but is not sure that the matter is not too
delicate for communication. And yet even here
we may discriminate. When a woman has been
seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates,
and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire.
Here we may take it that there is a love matter,
but that the maiden is not so much angry as
perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes
in person to resolve our doubts.”
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and
the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss
Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed
behind his small black figure like a full-sailed
merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock
Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy
for which he was remarkable, and, having closed
the door and bowed her into an armchair, he
looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted
fashion which was peculiar to him.
“Do you not find,” he said, “that with
your short sight it is a little trying to
do so much typewriting?”
“I did at first,” she answered, “but
now I know where the letters are without looking.”
Then, suddenly realising the full purport
of his words, she gave a violent start and
looked up, with fear and astonishment upon
her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve
heard about me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried,
“else how could you know all that?”
“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it
is my business to know things. Perhaps I have
trained myself to see what others overlook.
If not, why should you come to consult me?”
“I came to you, sir, because I heard of
you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you
found so easy when the police and everyone
had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes,
I wish you would do as much for me. I’m
not rich, but still I have a hundred a year
in my own right, besides the little that I
make by the machine, and I would give it all
to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“Why did you come away to consult me in
such a hurry?” asked Sherlock Holmes, with
his finger-tips together and his eyes to the
ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat
vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. “Yes,
I did bang out of the house,” she said,
“for it made me angry to see the easy way
in which Mr. Windibank—that is, my father—took
it all. He would not go to the police, and
he would not go to you, and so at last, as
he would do nothing and kept on saying that
there was no harm done, it made me mad, and
I just on with my things and came right away
to you.”
“Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather,
surely, since the name is different.”
“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father,
though it sounds funny, too, for he is only
five years and two months older than myself.”
“And your mother is alive?”
“Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t
best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married
again so soon after father’s death, and
a man who was nearly fifteen years younger
than herself. Father was a plumber in the
Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business
behind him, which mother carried on with Mr.
Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank
came he made her sell the business, for he
was very superior, being a traveller in wines.
They got £4700 for the goodwill and interest,
which wasn’t near as much as father could
have got if he had been alive.”
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient
under this rambling and inconsequential narrative,
but, on the contrary, he had listened with
the greatest concentration of attention.
“Your own little income,” he asked, “does
it come out of the business?”
“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was
left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is
in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent.
Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount,
but I can only touch the interest.”
“You interest me extremely,” said Holmes.
“And since you draw so large a sum as a
hundred a year, with what you earn into the
bargain, you no doubt travel a little and
indulge yourself in every way. I believe that
a single lady can get on very nicely upon
an income of about £60.”
“I could do with much less than that, Mr.
Holmes, but you understand that as long as
I live at home I don’t wish to be a burden
to them, and so they have the use of the money
just while I am staying with them. Of course,
that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank
draws my interest every quarter and pays it
over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty
well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings
me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from
fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.”
“You have made your position very clear
to me,” said Holmes. “This is my friend,
Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely
as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about
your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face,
and she picked nervously at the fringe of
her jacket. “I met him first at the gasfitters’
ball,” she said. “They used to send father
tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards
they remembered us, and sent them to mother.
Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never
did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite
mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school
treat. But this time I was set on going, and
I would go; for what right had he to prevent?
He said the folk were not fit for us to know,
when all father’s friends were to be there.
And he said that I had nothing fit to wear,
when I had my purple plush that I had never
so much as taken out of the drawer. At last,
when nothing else would do, he went off to
France upon the business of the firm, but
we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who
used to be our foreman, and it was there I
met Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when
Mr. Windibank came back from France he was
very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.”
“Oh, well, he was very good about it. He
laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders,
and said there was no use denying anything
to a woman, for she would have her way.”
“I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you
met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr.
Hosmer Angel.”
“Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he
called next day to ask if we had got home
all safe, and after that we met him—that
is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for
walks, but after that father came back again,
and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the
house any more.”
“No?”
“Well, you know father didn’t like anything
of the sort. He wouldn’t have any visitors
if he could help it, and he used to say that
a woman should be happy in her own family
circle. But then, as I used to say to mother,
a woman wants her own circle to begin with,
and I had not got mine yet.”
“But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he
make no attempt to see you?”
“Well, father was going off to France again
in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that
it would be safer and better not to see each
other until he had gone. We could write in
the meantime, and he used to write every day.
I took the letters in in the morning, so there
was no need for father to know.”
“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this
time?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after
the first walk that we took. Hosmer—Mr.
Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall
Street—and—”
“What office?”
“That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I
don’t know.”
“Where did he live, then?”
“He slept on the premises.”
“And you don’t know his address?”
“No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.”
“Where did you address your letters, then?”
“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to
be left till called for. He said that if they
were sent to the office he would be chaffed
by all the other clerks about having letters
from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them,
like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that,
for he said that when I wrote them they seemed
to come from me, but when they were typewritten
he always felt that the machine had come between
us. That will just show you how fond he was
of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that
he would think of.”
“It was most suggestive,” said Holmes.
“It has long been an axiom of mine that
the little things are infinitely the most
important. Can you remember any other little
things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
“He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would
rather walk with me in the evening than in
the daylight, for he said that he hated to
be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly
he was. Even his voice was gentle. He’d
had the quinsy and swollen glands when he
was young, he told me, and it had left him
with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering
fashion of speech. He was always well dressed,
very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak,
just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses
against the glare.”
“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank,
your stepfather, returned to France?”
“Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again
and proposed that we should marry before father
came back. He was in dreadful earnest and
made me swear, with my hands on the Testament,
that whatever happened I would always be true
to him. Mother said he was quite right to
make me swear, and that it was a sign of his
passion. Mother was all in his favour from
the first and was even fonder of him than
I was. Then, when they talked of marrying
within the week, I began to ask about father;
but they both said never to mind about father,
but just to tell him afterwards, and mother
said she would make it all right with him.
I didn’t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It
seemed funny that I should ask his leave,
as he was only a few years older than me;
but I didn’t want to do anything on the
sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where
the company has its French offices, but the
letter came back to me on the very morning
of the wedding.”
“It missed him, then?”
“Yes, sir; for he had started to England
just before it arrived.”
“Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding
was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it
to be in church?”
“Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be
at St. Saviour’s, near King’s Cross, and
we were to have breakfast afterwards at the
St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a
hansom, but as there were two of us he put
us both into it and stepped himself into a
four-wheeler, which happened to be the only
other cab in the street. We got to the church
first, and when the four-wheeler drove up
we waited for him to step out, but he never
did, and when the cabman got down from the
box and looked there was no one there! The
cabman said that he could not imagine what
had become of him, for he had seen him get
in with his own eyes. That was last Friday,
Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard
anything since then to throw any light upon
what became of him.”
“It seems to me that you have been very
shamefully treated,” said Holmes.
“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to
leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying
to me that, whatever happened, I was to be
true; and that even if something quite unforeseen
occurred to separate us, I was always to remember
that I was pledged to him, and that he would
claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed
strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what
has happened since gives a meaning to it.”
“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion
is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe
has occurred to him?”
“Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some
danger, or else he would not have talked so.
And then I think that what he foresaw happened.”
“But you have no notion as to what it could
have been?”
“None.”
“One more question. How did your mother
take the matter?”
“She was angry, and said that I was never
to speak of the matter again.”
“And your father? Did you tell him?”
“Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that
something had happened, and that I should
hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest
could anyone have in bringing me to the doors
of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if
he had borrowed my money, or if he had married
me and got my money settled on him, there
might be some reason, but Hosmer was very
independent about money and never would look
at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could
have happened? And why could he not write?
Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it,
and I can’t sleep a wink at night.” She
pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff
and began to sob heavily into it.
“I shall glance into the case for you,”
said Holmes, rising, “and I have no doubt
that we shall reach some definite result.
Let the weight of the matter rest upon me
now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it
further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer
Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done
from your life.”
“Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”
“I fear not.”
“Then what has happened to him?”
“You will leave that question in my hands.
I should like an accurate description of him
and any letters of his which you can spare.”
“I advertised for him in last Saturday’s
Chronicle,” said she. “Here is the slip
and here are four letters from him.”
“Thank you. And your address?”
“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”
“Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I
understand. Where is your father’s place
of business?”
“He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the
great claret importers of Fenchurch Street.”
“Thank you. You have made your statement
very clearly. You will leave the papers here,
and remember the advice which I have given
you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book,
and do not allow it to affect your life.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot
do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall
find me ready when he comes back.”
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous
face, there was something noble in the simple
faith of our visitor which compelled our respect.
She laid her little bundle of papers upon
the table and went her way, with a promise
to come again whenever she might be summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes
with his fingertips still pressed together,
his legs stretched out in front of him, and
his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then
he took down from the rack the old and oily
clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor,
and, having lit it, he leaned back in his
chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning
up from him, and a look of infinite languor
in his face.
“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,”
he observed. “I found her more interesting
than her little problem, which, by the way,
is rather a trite one. You will find parallel
cases, if you consult my index, in Andover
in ’77, and there was something of the sort
at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea,
however, there were one or two details which
were new to me. But the maiden herself was
most instructive.”
“You appeared to read a good deal upon her
which was quite invisible to me,” I remarked.
“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You
did not know where to look, and so you missed
all that was important. I can never bring
you to realise the importance of sleeves,
the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the
great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.
Now, what did you gather from that woman’s
appearance? Describe it.”
“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed
straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red.
Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn
upon it, and a fringe of little black jet
ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker
than coffee colour, with a little purple plush
at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish
and were worn through at the right forefinger.
Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small
round, hanging gold earrings, and a general
air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar,
comfortable, easy-going way.”
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together
and chuckled.
“ ’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming
along wonderfully. You have really done very
well indeed. It is true that you have missed
everything of importance, but you have hit
upon the method, and you have a quick eye
for colour. Never trust to general impressions,
my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details.
My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve.
In a man it is perhaps better first to take
the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this
woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is
a most useful material for showing traces.
The double line a little above the wrist,
where the typewritist presses against the
table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine,
of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but
only on the left arm, and on the side of it
farthest from the thumb, instead of being
right across the broadest part, as this was.
I then glanced at her face, and, observing
the dint of a pince-nez at either side of
her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight
and typewriting, which seemed to surprise
her.”
“It surprised me.”
“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then
much surprised and interested on glancing
down to observe that, though the boots which
she was wearing were not unlike each other,
they were really odd ones; the one having
a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other
a plain one. One was buttoned only in the
two lower buttons out of five, and the other
at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when
you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly
dressed, has come away from home with odd
boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction
to say that she came away in a hurry.”
“And what else?” I asked, keenly interested,
as I always was, by my friend’s incisive
reasoning.
“I noted, in passing, that she had written
a note before leaving home but after being
fully dressed. You observed that her right
glove was torn at the forefinger, but you
did not apparently see that both glove and
finger were stained with violet ink. She had
written in a hurry and dipped her pen too
deep. It must have been this morning, or the
mark would not remain clear upon the finger.
All this is amusing, though rather elementary,
but I must go back to business, Watson. Would
you mind reading me the advertised description
of Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
I held the little printed slip to the light.
“Missing,” it said, “on the morning
of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer
Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height;
strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair,
a little bald in the centre, bushy, black
side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses,
slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when
last seen, in black frock-coat faced with
silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain,
and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown
gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to
have been employed in an office in Leadenhall
Street. Anybody bringing—”
“That will do,” said Holmes. “As to
the letters,” he continued, glancing over
them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely
no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he
quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable
point, however, which will no doubt strike
you.”
“They are typewritten,” I remarked.
“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten.
Look at the neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’
at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but
no superscription except Leadenhall Street,
which is rather vague. The point about the
signature is very suggestive—in fact, we
may call it conclusive.”
“Of what?”
“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not
see how strongly it bears upon the case?”
“I cannot say that I do unless it were that
he wished to be able to deny his signature
if an action for breach of promise were instituted.”
“No, that was not the point. However, I
shall write two letters, which should settle
the matter. One is to a firm in the City,
the other is to the young lady’s stepfather,
Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could
meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow evening.
It is just as well that we should do business
with the male relatives. And now, Doctor,
we can do nothing until the answers to those
letters come, so we may put our little problem
upon the shelf for the interim.”
I had had so many reasons to believe in my
friend’s subtle powers of reasoning and
extraordinary energy in action that I felt
that he must have some solid grounds for the
assured and easy demeanour with which he treated
the singular mystery which he had been called
upon to fathom. Once only had I known him
to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia
and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when
I looked back to the weird business of the
Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances
connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt
that it would be a strange tangle indeed which
he could not unravel.
I left him then, still puffing at his black
clay pipe, with the conviction that when I
came again on the next evening I would find
that he held in his hands all the clues which
would lead up to the identity of the disappearing
bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging
my own attention at the time, and the whole
of next day I was busy at the bedside of the
sufferer. It was not until close upon six
o’clock that I found myself free and was
able to spring into a hansom and drive to
Baker Street, half afraid that I might be
too late to assist at the dénouement of the
little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone,
however, half asleep, with his long, thin
form curled up in the recesses of his armchair.
A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes,
with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric
acid, told me that he had spent his day in
the chemical work which was so dear to him.
“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as
I entered.
“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”
“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.
“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I
have been working upon. There was never any
mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday,
some of the details are of interest. The only
drawback is that there is no law, I fear,
that can touch the scoundrel.”
“Who was he, then, and what was his object
in deserting Miss Sutherland?”
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and
Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply,
when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage
and a tap at the door.
“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James
Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has written
to me to say that he would be here at six.
Come in!”
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized
fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven,
and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating
manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and
penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning
glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat
upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow
sidled down into the nearest chair.
“Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said
Holmes. “I think that this typewritten letter
is from you, in which you made an appointment
with me for six o’clock?”
“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little
late, but I am not quite my own master, you
know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has
troubled you about this little matter, for
I think it is far better not to wash linen
of the sort in public. It was quite against
my wishes that she came, but she is a very
excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have
noticed, and she is not easily controlled
when she has made up her mind on a point.
Of course, I did not mind you so much, as
you are not connected with the official police,
but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune
like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a
useless expense, for how could you possibly
find this Hosmer Angel?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly;
“I have every reason to believe that I will
succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped
his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,”
he said.
“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes,
“that a typewriter has really quite as much
individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless
they are quite new, no two of them write exactly
alike. Some letters get more worn than others,
and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark
in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that
in every case there is some little slurring
over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in
the tail of the ‘r.’ There are fourteen
other characteristics, but those are the more
obvious.”
“We do all our correspondence with this
machine at the office, and no doubt it is
a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing
keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.
“And now I will show you what is really
a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank,”
Holmes continued. “I think of writing another
little monograph some of these days on the
typewriter and its relation to crime. It is
a subject to which I have devoted some little
attention. I have here four letters which
purport to come from the missing man. They
are all typewritten. In each case, not only
are the ‘e’s’ slurred and the ‘r’s’
tailless, but you will observe, if you care
to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen
other characteristics to which I have alluded
are there as well.”
Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and
picked up his hat. “I cannot waste time
over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,”
he said. “If you can catch the man, catch
him, and let me know when you have done it.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over
and turning the key in the door. “I let
you know, then, that I have caught him!”
“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank,
turning white to his lips and glancing about
him like a rat in a trap.
“Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,”
said Holmes suavely. “There is no possible
getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite
too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment
when you said that it was impossible for me
to solve so simple a question. That’s right!
Sit down and let us talk it over.”
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a
ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on
his brow. “It—it’s not actionable,”
he stammered.
“I am very much afraid that it is not. But
between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel
and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty
way as ever came before me. Now, let me just
run over the course of events, and you will
contradict me if I go wrong.”
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with
his head sunk upon his breast, like one who
is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet
up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning
back with his hands in his pockets, began
talking, rather to himself, as it seemed,
than to us.
“The man married a woman very much older
than himself for her money,” said he, “and
he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter
as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable
sum, for people in their position, and the
loss of it would have made a serious difference.
It was worth an effort to preserve it. The
daughter was of a good, amiable disposition,
but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways,
so that it was evident that with her fair
personal advantages, and her little income,
she would not be allowed to remain single
long. Now her marriage would mean, of course,
the loss of a hundred a year, so what does
her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes
the obvious course of keeping her at home
and forbidding her to seek the company of
people of her own age. But soon he found that
that would not answer forever. She became
restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally
announced her positive intention of going
to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather
do then? He conceives an idea more creditable
to his head than to his heart. With the connivance
and assistance of his wife he disguised himself,
covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses,
masked the face with a moustache and a pair
of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into
an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure
on account of the girl’s short sight, he
appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off
other lovers by making love himself.”
“It was only a joke at first,” groaned
our visitor. “We never thought that she
would have been so carried away.”
“Very likely not. However that may be, the
young lady was very decidedly carried away,
and, having quite made up her mind that her
stepfather was in France, the suspicion of
treachery never for an instant entered her
mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s
attentions, and the effect was increased by
the loudly expressed admiration of her mother.
Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious
that the matter should be pushed as far as
it would go if a real effect were to be produced.
There were meetings, and an engagement, which
would finally secure the girl’s affections
from turning towards anyone else. But the
deception could not be kept up forever. These
pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous.
The thing to do was clearly to bring the business
to an end in such a dramatic manner that it
would leave a permanent impression upon the
young lady’s mind and prevent her from looking
upon any other suitor for some time to come.
Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon
a Testament, and hence also the allusions
to a possibility of something happening on
the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank
wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer
Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that
for ten years to come, at any rate, she would
not listen to another man. As far as the church
door he brought her, and then, as he could
go no farther, he conveniently vanished away
by the old trick of stepping in at one door
of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I
think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!”
Our visitor had recovered something of his
assurance while Holmes had been talking, and
he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer
upon his pale face.
“It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,”
said he, “but if you are so very sharp you
ought to be sharp enough to know that it is
you who are breaking the law now, and not
me. I have done nothing actionable from the
first, but as long as you keep that door locked
you lay yourself open to an action for assault
and illegal constraint.”
“The law cannot, as you say, touch you,”
said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the
door, “yet there never was a man who deserved
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother
or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across
your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued,
flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer
upon the man’s face, “it is not part of
my duties to my client, but here’s a hunting
crop handy, and I think I shall just treat
myself to—” He took two swift steps to
the whip, but before he could grasp it there
was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs,
the heavy hall door banged, and from the window
we could see Mr. James Windibank running at
the top of his speed down the road.
“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!”
said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself
down into his chair once more. “That fellow
will rise from crime to crime until he does
something very bad, and ends on a gallows.
The case has, in some respects, been not entirely
devoid of interest.”
“I cannot now entirely see all the steps
of your reasoning,” I remarked.
“Well, of course it was obvious from the
first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have
some strong object for his curious conduct,
and it was equally clear that the only man
who really profited by the incident, as far
as we could see, was the stepfather. Then
the fact that the two men were never together,
but that the one always appeared when the
other was away, was suggestive. So were the
tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which
both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy
whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed
by his peculiar action in typewriting his
signature, which, of course, inferred that
his handwriting was so familiar to her that
she would recognise even the smallest sample
of it. You see all these isolated facts, together
with many minor ones, all pointed in the same
direction.”
“And how did you verify them?”
“Having once spotted my man, it was easy
to get corroboration. I knew the firm for
which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description. I eliminated everything from
it which could be the result of a disguise—the
whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent
it to the firm, with a request that they would
inform me whether it answered to the description
of any of their travellers. I had already
noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter,
and I wrote to the man himself at his business
address asking him if he would come here.
As I expected, his reply was typewritten and
revealed the same trivial but characteristic
defects. The same post brought me a letter
from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street,
to say that the description tallied in every
respect with that of their employé, James
Windibank. Voilà tout!”
“And Miss Sutherland?”
“If I tell her she will not believe me.
You may remember the old Persian saying, ‘There
is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub,
and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion
from a woman.’ There is as much sense in
Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge
of the world.”
