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    The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge

    by Arthur Conan Doyle
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    1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles


    I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy
    day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had
    received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had
    scribbled a reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in
    his thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a
    thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional
    glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a
    mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

    "I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,"
    said he. "How do you define the word 'grotesque'?"

    "Strange--remarkable," I suggested.

    He shook his head at my definition.

    "There is surely something more than that," said he; "some
    underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you
    cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you
    have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how
    often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of
    that little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque
    enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at
    robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque affair of the
    five orange pips, which let straight to a murderous conspiracy.
    The word puts me on the alert."

    "Have you it there?" I asked.

    He read the telegram aloud.

    "Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I
    consult you?

    "Scott Eccles,
    "Post Office, Charing Cross."

    "Man or woman?" I asked.

    "Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid
    telegram. She would have come."

    "Will you see him?"

    "My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked
    up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing
    itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for
    which it was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile;
    audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the
    criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look
    into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here,
    unless I am mistaken, is our client."

    A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a
    stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was
    ushered into the room. His life history was written in his heavy
    features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed
    spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,
    orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing
    experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces
    in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his
    flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.

    "I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr.
    Holmes," said he. "Never in my life have I been placed in such a
    situation. It is most improper--most outrageous. I must insist
    upon some explanation." He swelled and puffed in his anger.

    "Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles," said Holmes in a soothing
    voice. "May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at
    all?"

    "Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
    police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit
    that I could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a
    class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less,
    having heard your name--"

    "Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come at
    once?"

    Holmes glanced at his watch.

    "It is a quarter-past two," he said. "Your telegram was
    dispatched about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and
    attire without seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment
    of your waking."

    Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven
    chin.

    "You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet.
    I was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been
    running round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to
    the house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent
    was paid up all right and that everything was in order at
    Wisteria Lodge."

    "Come, come, sir," said Holmes, laughing. "You are like my
    friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories
    wrong end foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me
    know, in their due sequence, exactly what those events are which
    have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and
    waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of advice and assistance."

    Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own
    unconventional appearance.

    "I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware
    that in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But
    will tell you the whole queer business, and when I have done so
    you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse
    me."

    But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle
    outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust
    and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to
    us as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant,
    and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands
    with Holmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of
    the Surrey Constabulary.

    "We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
    direction." He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. "Are
    you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?"

    "I am."

    "We have been following you about all the morning."

    "You traced him through the telegram, no doubt," said Holmes.

    "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
    Post-Office and came on here."

    "But why do you follow me? What do you want?"

    "We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which
    let up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of
    Wisteria Lodge, near Esher."

    Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
    struck from his astonished face.

    "Dead? Did you say he was dead?"

    "Yes, sir, he is dead."

    "But how? An accident?"

    "Murder, if ever there was one upon earth."

    "Good God! This is awful! You don't mean--you don't mean that I
    am suspected?"

    "A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we
    know by it that you had planned to pass last night at his house."

    "So I did."

    "Oh, you did, did you?"

    Out came the official notebook.

    "Wait a bit, Gregson," said Sherlock Holmes. "All you desire is
    a plain statement, is it not?"

    "And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used
    against him."

    "Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the
    room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm.
    Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of this addition to
    your audience, and that you proceed with your narrative exactly
    as you would have done had you never been interrupted."

    Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned
    to his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook,
    he plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.

    "I am a bachelor," said he, "and being of a sociable turn I
    cultivate a large number of friends. Among these are the family
    of a retired brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion,
    Kensington. It was at his table that I met some weeks ago a
    young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish
    descent and connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke
    perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking
    a man as ever I saw in my life.

    "In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow
    and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and
    within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One
    thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to
    spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and
    Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this
    engagement.

    "He had described his household to me before I went there. He
    lived with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who
    looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak English and
    did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook,
    he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who
    could serve an excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked
    what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and
    that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer
    than I thought.

    "I drove to the place--about two miles on the south side of
    Esher. The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the
    road, with a curving drive which was banked with high evergreen
    shrubs. It was an old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of
    disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown drive in
    front of the blotched and weather-stained door, I had doubts as
    to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. He
    opened the door himself, however, and greeted me with a great
    show of cordiality. I was handed over to the manservant, a
    melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag in his
    hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner
    was tete-a-tete, and though my host did his best to be
    entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he
    talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him.
    He continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his
    nails, and gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner
    itself was neither well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy
    presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven us. I
    can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I
    wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back
    to Lee.

    "One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon
    the business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought
    nothing of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was
    handed in by the servant. I noticed that after my host had read
    it he seemed even more distrait and strange than before. He gave
    up all pretence at conversation and sat, smoking endless
    cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, but he made no remark as to
    the contents. About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time
    later Garcia looked in at my door--the room was dark at the time-
    -and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He
    apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was
    nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this and slept soundly
    all night.

    "And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it
    was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was
    nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so
    I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up
    and rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang again
    and again, with the same result. Then I came to the conclusion
    that the bell was out of order. I huddled on my clothes and
    hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to order some hot
    water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was
    no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then
    I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host had shown me
    which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door.
    No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was
    empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the
    rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook,
    all had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to
    Wisteria Lodge."

    Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added
    this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.

    "Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said
    he. "May I ask, sir, what you did then?"

    "I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of
    some absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall
    door behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I
    called at Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village,
    and found that it was from this firm that the villa had been
    rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be
    for the purpose of making a fool of me, and that the main objet
    must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so quarter-
    day is at hand. But this theory would not work. The agent was
    obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent had been
    paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the
    Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went
    to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I
    found that he really knew rather less about him than I did.
    Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since
    I gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult
    cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said
    when you entered the room, that you can carry the story on, and
    that some tragedy had occurred. I can assure you that every word
    I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have told
    you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My
    only desire is to help the law in every possible way."

    "I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles--I am sure of it," said
    Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone. "I am bound to say
    that everything which you have said agrees very closely with the
    facts as they have come to our notice. For example, there was
    that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to observe
    what became of it?"

    "Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."

    "What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?"

    The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was
    only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,
    almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a
    slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from
    his pocket.

    "It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked
    this out unburned from the back of it."

    Holmes smiled his appreciation.

    "You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
    pellet of paper."

    "I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?"

    The Londoner nodded.

    "The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without
    watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two
    snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over
    three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and
    pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr.
    Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:

    "Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main
    stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. D.

    "It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
    address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It
    is thicker and bolder, as you see."

    "A very remarkable note," said Holmes, glancing it over. "I must
    compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
    examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added.
    The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link--what else is of
    such a shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as
    the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve
    in each."

    The country detective chuckled.

    "I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see
    there was a little over," he said. "I'm bound to say that I make
    nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and
    that a woman, as usual was at the bottom of it."

    Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this
    conversation.

    "I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,"
    said he. "But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what
    has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his
    household."

    "As to Garcia," said Gregson, "that is easily answered. He was
    found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from
    his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a
    sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than
    wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within a
    quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently been struck
    down first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him
    long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault. There
    are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals."

    "Robbed?"

    "No, there was no attempt at robbery."

    "This is very painful--very painful and terrible," said Mr. Scott
    Eccles in a querulous voice, "but it is really uncommonly hard on
    me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal
    excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed
    up with the case?"

    "Very simply, sir," Inspector Baynes answered. "The only
    document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from
    you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death.
    It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man's
    name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached
    his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I
    wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examined
    Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and
    here we are."

    "I think now," said Gregson, rising, "we had best put this matter
    into an official shape. You will come round with us to the
    station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in
    writing."

    "Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.
    Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at
    the truth."

    My friend turned to the country inspector.

    "I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with
    you, Mr. Baynes?"

    "Highly honoured, sir, I am sure."

    "You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that
    you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact
    hour that the man met his death?"

    "He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that
    time, and his death had certainly been before the rain."

    "But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes," cried our client.
    "His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he
    who addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour."

    "Remarkable, but by no means impossible," said Holmes, smiling.

    "You have a clue?" asked Gregson.

    "On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it
    certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A
    further knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to
    give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did
    you find anything remarkable besides this note in your
    examination of the house?"

    The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.

    "There were," said he, "one or two VERY remarkable things.
    Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you would care
    to come out and give me your opinion of them."

    In am entirely at your service," said Sherlock Holmes, ringing
    the bell. "You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and
    kindly send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-
    shilling reply."

    We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left.
    Holmes smoked hard, with his browns drawn down over his keen
    eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic
    of the man.

    "Well, Watson," he asked, turning suddenly upon me, "what do you
    make of it?"

    "I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles."

    "But the crime?"

    "Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's companions, I
    should say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and
    had fled from justice."

    "That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it
    you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two
    servants should have been in a conspiracy against him and should
    have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They had
    him alone at their mercy every other night in the week."

    "Then why did they fly?"

    "Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big
    fact is the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles.
    Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity
    to furnish an explanation which would cover both of these big
    facts? If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious
    note with its very curious phraseology, why, then it would be
    worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis. If the fresh facts
    which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme,
    then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution."

    "But what is our hypothesis?"

    Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.

    "You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is
    impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed,
    and the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some
    connection with them."

    "But what possible connection?"

    "Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it,
    something unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship
    between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former
    who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at the other end of
    London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in
    close touch with him until he got him down to Esher. Now, what
    did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply? I see no
    charm in the man. He is not particulary intelligent--not a man
    likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, was he
    picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met as
    particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding
    quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of conventional
    British respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress
    another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors
    dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was."

    "But what was he to witness?"

    "Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone
    another way. That is how I read the matter."

    "I see, he might have proved an alibi."

    "Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will
    suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of Wisteria
    Lodge are confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it
    may be, is to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. By some
    juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that they may have
    got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought, but in any case
    it is likely that when Garcia went out of his way to tell him
    that it was one it was really not more than twelve. If Garcia
    could do whatever he had to do and be back by the hour mentioned
    he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation. Here was
    this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of law
    that the accused was in the house all the time. It was an
    insurance against the worst."

    "Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the
    others?"

    "I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any
    insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in
    front of your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them
    round to fit your theories."

    "And the message?"

    "How did it run? 'Our own colours, green and white.' Sounds
    like racing. 'Green open, white shut.' That is clearly a
    signal. 'Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green
    baize.' This is an assignation. We may find a jealous husband
    at the bottom of it all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She
    would not have said 'Godspeed' had it not been so. 'D'--that
    should be a guide."

    "The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that 'D' stands for Dolores,
    a common female name in Spain."

    "Good, Watson, very good--but quite inadmissable. A Spaniard
    would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is
    certainly English. Well, we can only possess our soul in
    patience until this excellent inspector come back for us.
    Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a
    few short hours from the insufferable fatigues of idleness."

    An answer had arrived to Holmes's telegram before our Surrey
    officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it
    in his notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He
    tossed it across with a laugh.

    "We are moving in exalted circles," said he.

    The telegram was a list of names and addresses:

    Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers;
    Mr. Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams,
    Forton Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone,
    Nether Walsling.

    "This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,"
    said Holmes. "No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has
    already adopted some similar plan."

    "I don't quite understand."

    "Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion
    that the massage received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment
    or an assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct,
    and in order to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and
    seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that
    the house is a very large one. It is equally certain that this
    house cannot be more than a mile or two from Oxshott, since
    Garcia was walking in that direction and hoped, according to my
    reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge in time to
    avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid up to one
    o'clock. As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must be
    limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents
    mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here
    they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled skein
    must lie among them."

    It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the pretty
    Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.

    Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found
    comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the
    company of the detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was
    a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain
    beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over
    which our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us.



    2. The Tiger of San Pedro

    A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a
    high wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts.
    The curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-
    black against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon
    the left of the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.

    "There's a constable in possession," said Baynes. "I'll knock at
    the window." He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with
    his hand on the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man
    spring up from a chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry
    from within the room. An instant later a white-faced, hard-
    breathing policeman had opened the door, the candle wavering in
    his trembling hand.

    "What's the matter, Walters?" asked Baynes sharply.

    The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and agave a
    long sigh of relief.

    "I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I
    don't think my nerve is as good as it was."

    "Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve
    in your body."

    "Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in
    the kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had
    come again."

    "That what had come again?"

    "The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window."

    "What was at the window, and when?"

    "It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I
    was sitting reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look
    up, but there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane.
    Lord, sir, what a face it was! I'll see it in my dreams."

    "Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable."

    "I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there's no use to
    deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour
    that I know but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of
    milk in it. Then there was the size of it--it was twice yours,
    sir. And the look of it--the great staring goggle eyes, and the
    line of white teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I
    couldn't move a finger, nor get my breath, till it whisked away
    and was gone. Out I ran and through the shrubbery, but thank God
    there was no one there."

    "If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a
    black mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a
    constable on duty should never thank God that he could not lay
    his hands upon him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision
    and a touch of nerves?"

    "That, at least, is very easily settled," said Holmes, lighting
    his little pocket lantern. "Yes," he reported, after a short
    examination of the grass bed, "a number twelve shoe, I should
    say. If he was all on the same scale as his foot he must
    certainly have been a giant."

    "What became of him?"

    "He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the
    road."

    "Well," said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face,
    "whoever he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he's
    gone for the present, and we have more immediate things to attend
    to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round
    the house."

    The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a
    careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or
    nothing with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest
    details had been taken over with the house. A good deal of
    clothing with the stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been
    left behind. Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which
    showed that Marx knew nothing of his customer save that he was a
    good payer. Odds and ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them
    in Spanish, and old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were
    among the personal property.

    "Nothing in all this," said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand,
    from room to room. "But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention
    to the kitchen."

    It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house,
    with a straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a
    bed for the cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and
    dirty plates, the debris of last night's dinner.

    "Look at this," said Baynes. "What do you make of it?"

    He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood
    at the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and
    withered that it was difficult to say what it might have been.
    One could but say that it was black and leathery and that it bore
    some resemblance to a dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I
    examined it, I thought that it was a mummified negro baby, and
    then it seemed a very twisted and ancient monkey. Finally I was
    left in doubt as to whether it was animal or human. A double
    band of white shells were strung round the centre of it.

    "Very interesting--very interesting, indeed!" said Holmes,
    peering at this sinister relic. "Anything more?"

    In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his
    candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn
    savagely to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all
    over it. Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.

    "A white cock," said he. "Most interesting! It is really a very
    curious case."

    But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last.
    >From under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a
    quantity of blood. Then from the table he took a platter heaped
    with small pieces of charred bone.

    "Something has been killed and something has been burned. We
    raked all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this
    morning. He says that they are not human."

    Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.

    "I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive
    and instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without
    offence, seem superior to your opportunities."

    Inspector Baynes's small eyes twinkled with pleasure.

    "You're right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case
    of this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take
    it. What do you make of these bones?"

    "A lamb, I should say, or a kid."

    "And the white cock?"

    "Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique."

    "Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with
    some very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did
    his companions follow him and kill him? If they did we should
    have them, for every port is watched. But my own views are
    different. Yes, sir, my own views are very different."

    "You have a theory then?"

    "And I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due to my own
    credit to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make
    mine. I should be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had
    solved it without your help."

    Holmes laughed good-humoredly.

    "Well, well, Inspector," said he. "Do you follow your path and I
    will follow mine. My results are always very much at your
    service if you care to apply to me for them. I think that I have
    seen all that I wish in this house, and that my time may be more
    profitably employed elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!"

    I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost
    upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As
    impassive as ever to the casual observer, there were none the
    less a subdued eagerness and suggestion of tension in his
    brightened eyes and brisker manner which assured me that the game
    was afoot. After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I
    asked no questions. Sufficient for me to share the sport and
    lend my humble help to the capture without distracting that
    intent brain with needless interruption. All would come round to
    me in due time.

    I waited, therefore--but to my ever-deepening disappointment I
    waited in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step
    forward. One morning he spent in town, and I learned from a
    casual reference that he had visited the British Museum. Save
    for this one excursion, he spent his days in long and often
    solitary walks, or in chatting with a number of village gossips
    whose acquaintance he had cultivated.

    "I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to
    you," he remarked. "It is very pleasant to see the first green
    shoots upon the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again.
    With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on botany, there
    are instructive days to be spent." He prowled about with this
    equipment himself, but it was a poor show of plants which he
    would bring back of an evening.

    Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His
    fat, red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes
    glittered as he greeted my companion. He said little about the
    case, but from that little we gathered that he also was not
    dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit, however,
    that I was somewhat surprised when, some five days after the
    crime, I opened my morning paper to find in large letters:

    THE OXSHOTT MYSTERY
    A SOLUTION
    ARREST OF SUPPOSED ASSASSIN

    Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read
    the headlines.

    "By Jove!" he cried. "You don't mean that Baynes has got him?"

    "Apparently," said I as I read the following report:

    "Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring
    district when it was learned late last night that an arrest had
    been effected in connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be
    remembered that Mr. Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on
    Oxshott Common, his body showing signs of extreme violence, and
    that on the same night his servant and his cook fled, which
    appeared to show their participation in the crime. It was
    suggested, but never proved, that the deceased gentleman may have
    had valuables in the house, and that their abstraction was the
    motive of the crime. Every effort was made by Inspector Baynes,
    who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding place of the
    fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they had not
    gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been already
    prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they
    would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of
    one or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through
    the window, was a man of most remarkable appearance--being a huge
    and hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced
    negroid type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was
    detected and pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening,
    when he had the audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector
    Baynes, considering that such a visit must have some purpose in
    view and was likely, therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the
    house but left an ambuscade in the shrubbery. The man walked
    into the trap and was captured last night after a struggle in
    which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage. We
    understand that when the prison is brought before the magistrates
    a remand will be applied for by the police, and that great
    developments are hoped from his capture."

    "Really we must see Baynes at once," cried Holmes, picking up his
    hat. "We will just catch him before he starts." We hurried down
    the village street and found, as we had expected, that the
    inspector was just leaving his lodgings.

    "You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, holding one out to
    us.

    "Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Pray don't think it a liberty if I
    give you a word of friendly warning."

    "Of warning, Mr. Holmes?"

    "I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not
    convinced that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to
    commit yourself too far unless you are sure."

    "You're very kind, Mr. Holmes."

    "I assure you I speak for your good."

    It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an
    instant over one of Mr. Baynes's tiny eyes.

    "We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That's what I
    am doing."

    "Oh, very good," said Holmes. "Don't blame me."

    "No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own
    systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine."

    "Let us say no more about it."

    "You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect
    savage, as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He
    chewed Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master him.
    He hardly speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of
    him but grunts."

    "And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late
    master?"

    "I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn't say so. We all have our
    little ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That's the
    agreement."

    Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. "I
    can't make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well,
    as he says, we must each try our own way and see what comes of
    it. But there's something in Inspector Baynes which I can't
    quite understand."

    "Just sit down in that chair, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes when
    we had returned to our apartment at the Bull. "I want to put you
    in touch with the situation, as I may need your help to-night.
    Let me show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been
    able to follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading
    features, it has none the less presented surprising difficulties
    in the way of an arrest. There are gaps in that direction which
    we have still to fill.

    "We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon
    the evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes's
    that Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter. The proof
    of this lies in the fact that it was HE who had arranged for the
    presence of Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the
    purpose of an alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise,
    and apparently a criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the
    course of which he met his death. I say 'criminal' because only
    a man with a criminal enterprise desires to establish an alibi.
    Who, then, is most likely to have taken his life? Surely the
    person against whom the criminal enterprise was directed. So far
    it seems to me that we are on safe ground.

    "We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's
    household. They were ALL confederates in the same unknown crime.
    If it came off when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would
    be warded off by the Englishman's evidence, and all would be
    well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia did NOT
    return by a certain hour it was probable that his own life had
    been sacrificed. It had been arranged, therefore, that in such a
    case his two subordinates were to make for some prearranged spot
    where they could escape investigation and be in a position
    afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully explain the
    facts, would it not?"

    The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me.
    I wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me
    before.

    "But why should one servant return?"

    "We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something
    precious, something which he could not bear to part with, had
    been left behind. That would explain his persistence, would it
    not?"

    "Well, what is the next step?"

    "The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It
    indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the
    other end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in
    some large house, and that the number of large houses is limited.
    My first days in this village were devoted to a series of walks
    in which in the intervals of my botanical researches I made a
    reconnaissance of all the large houses and an examination of the
    family history of the occupants. One house, and only one,
    riveted my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean grange of
    High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott, and less
    than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy. The other
    mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable people who live far
    aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High Gable, was by all
    accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures might befall.
    I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and his
    household.

    "A singular set of people, Watson--the man himself the most
    singular of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible
    pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes
    that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of
    fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black
    eyebrows, the step of a deer and the air of an emperor--a fierce,
    masterful man, with a red-hot spirit behind his parchment face.
    He is either a foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he
    is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His friend and
    secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate
    brown, wily, suave, and catlike, with a poisonous gentleness of
    speech. You see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of
    foreigners--one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High Gable--so our
    gaps are beginning to close.

    "These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of
    the household; but there is one other person who for our
    immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two
    children--girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a
    Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is
    also one confidential manservant. This little group forms the
    real family, for their travel about together, and Henderson is a
    great traveller, always on the move. It is only within the last
    weeks that he has returned, after a year's absence, to High
    Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his
    whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his
    house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual
    overfed, underworked staff of a large English country house.

    "So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my
    own observation. There are no better instruments than discharged
    servants with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I
    call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I not been
    looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems.
    It was my system which enabled me to find John Warner, late
    gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment of temper by his
    imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the indoor
    servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master. So
    I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.

    "Curious people, Watson! I don't pretend to understand it all
    yet, but very curious people anyway. It's a double-winged house,
    and the servants live on one side, the family on the other.
    There's no link between the two save for Henderson's own servant,
    who serves the family's meals. Everything is carried to a
    certain door, which forms the one connection. Governess and
    children hardly go out at all, except into the garden. Henderson
    never by any chance walks alone. His dark secretary is like his
    shadow. The gossip among the servants is that their master is
    terribly afraid of something. 'Sold his soul to the devil in
    exchange for money,' says Warner, 'and expects his creditor to
    come up and claim his own.' Where they came from, or who they
    are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson
    has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and
    heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.

    "Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new
    information. We may take it that the letter came out of this
    strange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out
    some attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note?
    It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then
    but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our reasoning seems to point
    that way. At any rate, we may take it asa hypothesis and see
    what consequences it would entail. I may add that Miss Burnet's
    age and character make it certain that my first idea that there
    might be a love interest in our story is out of the question.

    "If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and
    confederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do
    if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious
    enterprise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she
    must retain bitterness and hatred against those who had killed
    him and would presumably help so far as she could to have revenge
    upon them. Could we see her, then and try to use her? That was
    my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact. Miss
    Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the
    murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she
    alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the
    friend whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner?
    There is the point which we still have to decide.

    "You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson.
    There is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our
    whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate.
    The woman's disappearance counts for nothing, since in that
    extraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for a
    week. And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of her
    life. All I can do is to watch the house and leave my agent,
    Warner, on guard at the gates. We can't let such a situation
    continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk
    ourselves."

    "What do you suggest?"

    "I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of an
    outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if
    we can strike at the very heart of the mystery."

    It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old
    house with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable
    inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact
    that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all
    combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-
    cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from
    any adventure which he might recommend. One knew that thus, and
    only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his hand in
    silence, and the die was cast.

    But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
    adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the
    shadows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an
    excited rustic rushed into our room.

    "They've gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The
    lady broke away, and I've got her in a cab downstairs."

    "Excellent, Warner!" cried Holmes, springing to his feet.
    "Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly."

    In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion.
    She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some
    recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as
    she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her
    pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She
    was drugged with opium.

    "I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes," said
    our emissary, the discharged gardener. "When the carriage came
    out I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in
    her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came
    to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She
    fought her way out again. I took her part, got her into a cab,
    and here we are. I shan't forget the face at the carriage window
    as I led her away. I'd have a short life if he had his way--the
    black-eyed, scowling, yellow devil."

    We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of
    cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the
    mists of the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the
    situation rapidly explained to him.

    "Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want," said the
    inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. "I was on the
    same scent as you from the first."

    "What! You were after Henderson?"

    "Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High
    Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you
    down below. It was just who would get his evidence first."

    "Then why did you arrest the mulatto?"

    Baynes chuckled.

    "I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was
    suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as
    he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to
    make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be
    likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss
    Burnet."

    Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder.

    "You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and
    intuition," said he.

    Baynes flushed with pleasure.

    "I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the
    week. Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in
    sight. But he must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet
    broke away. However, your man picked her up, and it all ends
    well. We can't arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so
    the sooner we get a statement the better."

    "Every minute she gets stronger," said Holmes, glancing at the
    governess. "But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?"

    "Henderson," the inspector answered, "is Don Murillo, once call
    the Tiger of San Pedro."

    The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back
    to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and
    bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country with a
    pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he
    had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices
    upon a cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a
    terror through all Central America. At the end of that time
    there was a universal rising against him. But he was as cunning
    as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he
    had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was
    manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was
    stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two
    children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them.
    >From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity
    had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.

    "Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro," said Baynes.
    "If you look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are
    green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he
    called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid
    to Barcelona, where his ship came in in '86. They've been
    looking for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only
    now that they have begun to find him out."

    "They discovered him a year ago," said Miss Burnet, who had sat
    up and was now intently following the conversation. "Once
    already his life has been attempted, but some evil spirit
    shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who
    has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come,
    and yet another, until some day justice will be done; that is as
    certain as the rise of to-morrow's sun." Her thin hands
    clenched, and her worn face blanched with the passion of her
    hatred.

    "But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?" asked Holmes.
    "How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?"

    "I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which
    justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the
    rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload
    of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like
    crimes committed in some other planet. But WE know. We have
    learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no
    fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his
    victims still cry for vengeance."

    "No doubt," said Holmes, "he was as you say. I have heard that he
    was atrocious. But how are you affected?"

    "I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was to murder, on
    one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he
    might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband--yes, my
    real name is Signora Victor Durando--was the San Pedro minister
    in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never
    lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence,
    recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a
    premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His
    estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a
    broken heart.

    "Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have
    just described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose
    nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands,
    would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into a
    society which should never be dissolved until the work was done.
    It was my part after we had discovered in the transformed
    Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his household
    and keep the others in touch with his movements. This I was able
    to do by securing the position of governess in his family. He
    little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the
    woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's notice into
    eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and
    bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-
    zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the
    pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken
    upon his first arrival in England.

    "But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing
    that he would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former
    highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty
    companions of humble station, all three fired with the same
    reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for
    Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his
    satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known in the days of his
    greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger
    might find him. On a certain evening, which had been
    prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was
    forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to
    see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white
    light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all
    was safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.

    "But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited
    the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and
    sprang upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his
    master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon me as a
    convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged
    their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the
    consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate, they
    concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they determined
    to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo
    twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that
    he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean
    to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed
    it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant,
    Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was
    Murillo's hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to
    guard me. I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes
    through which the path winds and struck him down as he passed.
    At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to
    kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they were
    mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be
    publicly disclosed and they would be open to further attacks.
    With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since such a
    death might frighten others from the task.

    "All would now have been well for them had it not been for my
    knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were
    times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my
    room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used
    to break my spirit--see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises
    from end to end of my arms--and a gag was thrust into my mouth on
    the one occasion when I tried to call from the window. For five
    days this cruel imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food
    to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good lunch was
    brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been
    drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led, half-
    carried to the carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the
    train. Only then, when the wheels were almost moving, did I
    suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang
    out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the help
    of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never had
    broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever."

    We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It
    was Holmes who broke the silence.

    "Our difficulties are not over," he remarked, shaking his head.
    "Our police work ends, but our legal work begins."

    "Exactly," said I. "A plausible lawyer could make it out as an
    act of self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the
    background, but it is only on this one that they can be tried."

    "Come, come," said Baynes cheerily, "I think better of the law
    than that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold
    blood with the object of murdering him is another, whatever
    danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified
    when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next Guildford
    Assizes."

    It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still
    to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his
    deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer
    off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street
    and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day
    they were seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards
    the Marquess of Montalva and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were
    both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid.
    The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers were never
    arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street with a
    printed description of the dark face of the secretary, and of the
    masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows
    of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had
    come at last.

    "A chaotic case, my dear Watson," said Holmes over an evening
    pipe. "It will not be possible for you to present in that compact
    form which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents,
    concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is further
    complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend,
    Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia
    had a scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-
    preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a
    perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy collaborator,
    the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials and so
    been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any
    point which is not quite clear to you?"

    "The object of the mulatto cook's return?"

    "I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for
    it. The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San
    Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his companion and he had
    fled to some prearranged retreat--already occupied, no doubt by a
    confederate--the companion had persuaded him to leave so
    compromising an article of furniture. But the mulatto's heart
    was with it, and he was driven back to it next day, when, on
    reconnoitering through the window, he found policeman Walters in
    possession. He waited three days longer, and then his piety or
    his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector Baynes,
    who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the incident before
    me, had really recognized its importance and had left a trap into
    which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?"

    "The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the
    mystery of that weird kitchen?"

    Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his note-book.

    "I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and
    other points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann's Voodooism and
    the Negroid Religions:

    "'The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance
    without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his
    unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites take the form of
    human sacrifices followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims
    are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black
    goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.'

    "So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual.
    It is grotesque, Watson," Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his
    notebook, "but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but
    one step from the grotesque to the horrible."
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