THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE 10 page

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branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,

Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was

used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of

the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country

of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually

preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic

but generally recognised shape--a sprig of oak-leaves in some

parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this

the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might

fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would

unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and

unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the

society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a

case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with

impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the

perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite

of the efforts of the United States government and of the better

classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year

1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have

been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.'

"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that

the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the

disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may

well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his

family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track.

You can understand that this register and diary may implicate

some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many

who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered."

"Then the page we have seen--"

"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent

the pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to

them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or

left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a

sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let

some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only

chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have

told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done

to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for

half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable

ways of our fellow-men."

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a

subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the

great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came

down.

"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I

foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of

young Openshaw's."

"What steps will you take?" I asked.

"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries.

I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

"You will not go there first?"

"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the

maid will bring up your coffee."

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and

glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a

chill to my heart.

"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it

done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy

Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H

Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and

a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and

stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it

was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was

given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was

eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman

whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his

pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham.

It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch

the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and

the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge

of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body

exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that

the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident,

which should have the effect of calling the attention of the

authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages."

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and

shaken than I had ever seen him.

"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty

feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal

matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my

hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that

I should send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair

and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a

flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and

unclasping of his long thin hands.

"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could

they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the

direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too

crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson,

we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"

"To the police?"

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may

take the flies, but not before."

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in

the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes

had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he

entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,

and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously,

washing it down with a long draught of water.

"You are hungry," I remarked.

"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since

breakfast."

"Nothing?"

"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

"And how have you succeeded?"

"Well."

"You have a clue?"

"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not

long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish

trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

"What do you mean?"

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he

squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and

thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote

"S. H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain

James Calhoun, Barque 'Lone Star,' Savannah, Georgia."

"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling.

"It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a

precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

"How did you trace it, then?"

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with

dates and names.

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers

and files of the old papers, following the future career of every

vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in

'83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were

reported there during those months. Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,'

instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported

as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to

one of the states of the Union."

"Texas, I think."

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must

have an American origin."

"What then?"

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque

'Lone Star' was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a

certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present

in the port of London."

"Yes?"

"The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last week. I went down to the

Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by

the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired

to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and

as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the

Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."

"What will you do, then?"

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I

learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are

Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away

from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has

been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship

reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and

the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these

three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans,

and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the

orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as

resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very

severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for

news of the "Lone Star" of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We

did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a

shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough

of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is

all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone Star."

ADVENTURE VI. 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 effects. 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 huddled 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 Whitney.

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 I 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 frightened 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 Wednesday. What

d'you want to frighten a 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' 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 practically

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 Whitney'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

recognised 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

beneath 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 10s., 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