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    The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax

    by Arthur Conan Doyle
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    "But why Turkish?" asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at
    my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment,
    and my protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.

    "English," I answered in some surprise. "I got them at
    Latimer's, in Oxford Street."

    Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.

    "The bath!" he said; "the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive
    Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?"

    "Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and
    old. A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine--a
    fresh starting-point, a cleanser of the system.

    "By the way, Holmes," I added, "I have no doubt the connection
    between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident
    one to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you
    would indicate it."

    "The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson," said Holmes
    with a mischievous twinkle. "It belongs to the same elementary
    class of deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you
    who shared your cab in your drive this morning."

    "I don't admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation," said
    I with some asperity.

    "Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let
    me see, what were the points? Take the last one first--the cab.
    You observe that you have some splashes on the left sleeve and
    shoulder of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you
    would probably have had no splashes, and if you had they would
    certainly have been symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that you
    sat at the side. Therefore it is equally clear that you had a
    companion."

    "That is very evident."

    "Absurdly commonplace, is it not?"

    "But the boots and the bath?"

    "Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots
    in a certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an
    elaborate double bow, which is not your usual method of tying
    them. You have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A
    bootmaker--or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the
    bootmaker, since your boots are nearly new. Well, what remains?
    The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for all that, the Turkish
    bath has served a purpose."

    "What is that?"

    "You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me
    suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear
    Watson--first-class tickets and all expenses paid on a princely
    scale?"

    "Splendid! But why?"

    Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his
    pocket.

    "One of the most dangerous classes in the world," said he, "is
    the drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and
    often the most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable
    inciter of crime in others. She is helpless. She is migratory.
    She has sufficient means to take her from country to country and
    from hotel to hotel. She is lost, as often as not, in a maze of
    obscure pensions and boardinghouses. She is a stray chicken in a
    world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she is hardly missed. I
    much fear that some evil has come to the Lady Frances Carfax."

    I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
    particular. Holmes consulted his notes.

    "Lady Frances," he continued, "is the sole survivor of the direct
    family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may
    remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but
    with some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and
    curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly attached--too
    attached, for she refused to leave them with her banker and
    always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic figure,
    the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in fresh middle age,
    and yet, by a strange change, the last derelict of what only
    twenty years ago was a goodly fleet."

    "What has happened to her, then?"

    "Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or
    dead? There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits,
    and for four years it has been her invariable custom to write
    every second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long
    retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has
    consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed without a word. The
    last letter was from the Hotel National at Lausanne. Lady Frances
    seems to have left there and given no address. The family are
    anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum will be
    spared if we can clear the matter up."

    "Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had
    other correspondents?"

    "There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is
    the bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are
    compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have glanced
    over her account. The last check but one paid her bill at
    Lausanne, but it was a large one and probably left her with cash
    in hand. Only one check has been drawn since."

    "To whom, and where?"

    "To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check
    was drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais at Montpellier
    less than three weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds."

    "And who is Miss Marie Devine?"

    "That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was
    the maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her
    this check we have not yet determined. I have no doubt, however,
    that your researches will soon clear the matter up."

    "MY researches!"

    "Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I
    cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal
    terror of his life. Besides, on general principles it is best
    that I should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely
    without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement among the
    criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson, and if my humble
    counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a rate as two pence
    a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the end of the
    Continental wire."

    Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne, where
    I received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-
    known manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there
    for several weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her.
    Her age was not more than forty. She was still handsome and bore
    every sign of having in her youth been a very lovely woman. M.
    Moser knew nothing of any valuable jewellery, but it had been
    remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk in the lady's
    bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie Devine, the maid,
    was as popular as her mistress. She was actually engaged to one
    of the head waiters in the hotel, and there was no difficulty in
    getting her address. It was 11 Rue de Trajan, Montpellier. All
    this I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself could not have
    been more adroit in collecting his facts.

    Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
    possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's sudden
    departure. She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every
    reason to believe that she intended to remain for the season in
    her luxurious rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she had left
    at a single day's notice, which involved her in the useless
    payment of a week's rent. Only Jules Vibart, the lover of the
    maid, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden
    departure with the visit to the hotel a day or two before of a
    tall, dark, bearded man. "Un sauvage--un veritable sauvage!"
    cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He
    had been seen talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the
    lake. Then he had called. She had refused to see him. He was
    English, but of his name there was no record. Madame had left
    the place immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of
    more importance, Jules Vibart's sweetheart, thought that this
    call and the departure were cause and effect. Only one thing
    Jules would not discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left
    her mistress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If I
    wished to know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.

    So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted
    to the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left
    Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which
    confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of
    throwing someone off her track. Otherwise why should not her
    luggage have been openly labelled for Baden? Both she and it
    reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous route. This much I
    gathered from the manager of Cook's local office. So to Baden I
    went, after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my
    proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of half-humorous
    commendation.

    At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had
    stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she
    had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a
    missionary from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady
    Frances found her comfort and occupation in religion. Dr.
    Shlessinger's remarkable personality, his whole hearted devotion,
    and the fact that he was recovering from a disease contracted in
    the exercise of his apostolic duties affected her deeply. She
    had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the convalescent
    saint. He spent his day, as the manager described it to me, upon
    a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon either
    side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with
    special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites, upon which he
    was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much in
    health, he and his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances
    had started thither in their company. This was just three weeks
    before, and the manager had heard nothing since. As to the maid,
    Marie, she had gone off some days beforehand in floods of tears,
    after informing the other maids that she was leaving service
    forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the whole party
    before his departure.

    "By the way," said the landlord in conclusion, "you are not the
    only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her
    just now. Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same
    errand."

    "Did he give a name?" I asked.

    "None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type."

    "A savage?" said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
    illustrious friend.

    "Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
    sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a
    farmers' inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I
    should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend."

    Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow
    clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious
    lady pursued from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting
    figure. She feared him, or she would not have fled from
    Lausanne. He had still followed. Sooner or later he would
    overtake her. Had he already overtaken her? Was THAT the secret
    of her continued silence? Could the good people who were her
    companions not screen her from his violence or his blackmail?
    What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this long
    pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.

    To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down
    to the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for
    a description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's ideas of
    humour are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no
    notice of his ill-timed jest--indeed, I had already reached
    Montpellier in my pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message
    came.

    I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all
    that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only
    left her mistress because she was sure that she was in good
    hands, and because her own approaching marriage made a separation
    inevitable in any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed with
    distress, shown some irritability of temper towards her during
    their stay in Baden, and had even questioned her once as if she
    had suspicions of her honesty, and this had made the parting
    easier than it would otherwise have been. Lady Frances had given
    her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed
    with deep distrust the stranger who had driven her mistress from
    Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize the lady's
    wrist with great violence on the public promenade by the lake.
    He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it was out
    of dread of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the
    Shlessingers to London. She had never spoken to Marie about it,
    but many little signs had convinced the maid that her mistress
    lived in a state of continual nervous apprehension. So far she
    had got in her narrative, when suddenly she sprang from her chair
    and her face was convulsed with surprise and fear. "See!" she
    cried. "The miscreant follows still! There is the very man of
    whom I speak."

    Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man
    with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of
    the street and staring eagerly at he numbers of the houses. It
    was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid.
    Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and accosted
    him.

    "You are an Englishman," I said.

    "What if I am?" he asked with a most villainous scowl.

    "May I ask what your name is?"

    "No, you may not," said he with decision.

    The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the
    best.

    "Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?" I asked.

    He stared at me with amazement.

    "What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I
    insist upon an answer!" said I.

    The fellow gave a below of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger.
    I have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of
    iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my
    senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a
    blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in
    his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp crack over the forearm,
    which made him leave go his hold. He stood for an instant fuming
    with rage and uncertain whether he should not renew his attack.
    Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and entered the cottage
    from which I had just come. I turned to thank my preserver, who
    stood beside me in the roadway.

    "Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made of it!
    I rather think you had better come back with me to London by the
    night express."

    An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style,
    was seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of
    his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for,
    finding that he could get away from London, he determined to head
    me off at the next obvious point of my travels. In the disguise
    of a workingman he had sat in the cabaret waiting for my
    appearance.

    "And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear
    Watson," said he. "I cannot at the moment recall any possible
    blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of your
    proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to
    discover nothing."

    "Perhaps you would have done no better," I answered bitterly.

    "There is no 'perhaps' about it. I HAVE done better. Here is
    the Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this
    hotel, and we may find him the starting-point for a more
    successful investigation."

    A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same
    bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started
    when he saw me.

    "What is this, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "I had your note and I
    have come. But what has this man to do with the matter?"

    "This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping
    us in this affair."

    The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of
    apology.

    "I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I
    lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not responsible in these
    days. My nerves are like live wires. But this situation is
    beyond me. What I want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes,
    is, how in the world you came to hear of my existence at all."

    "I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's governess."

    "Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well."

    "And she remembers you. It was in the days before--before you
    found it better to go to South Africa."

    "Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from
    you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this
    world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than
    I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know--not worse
    than others of my class. But her mind was pure as snow. She
    could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So, when she came to hear
    of things that I had done, she would have no more to say to me.
    And yet she loved me--that is the wonder of it!--loved me well
    enough to remain single all her sainted days just for my sake
    alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at
    Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her.
    I had heard that she was still unmarried, I found her at Lausanne
    and tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her will was
    strong, and when next I called she had left the town. I traced
    her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was here.
    I'm a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson
    spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But
    for God's sake tell me what has become of the Lady Frances."

    "That is for us to find out," said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar
    gravity. "What is your London address, Mr. Green?"

    "The Langham Hotel will find me."

    "Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in
    case I should want you? I have no desire to encourage false
    hopes, but you may rest assured that all that can be done will be
    done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the
    instant. I will leave you this card so that you may be able to
    keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I
    will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her best efforts for two
    hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow."

    A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street
    rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and
    threw across to me. "Jagged or torn," was the message, and the
    place of origin, Baden.

    "What is this?" I asked.

    "It is everything," Holmes answered. "You may remember my
    seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman's
    left ear. You did not answer it."

    "I had left Baden and could not inquire."

    "Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of
    the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here."

    "What does it show?"

    "It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an
    exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr.
    Shlessinger, missionary from South America, is none other than
    Holy Peters, one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia
    has ever evolved--and for a young country it has turned out some
    very finished types. His particular specialty is the beguiling
    of lonely ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and
    his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy
    helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to
    me, and this physical peculiarity--he was badly bitten in a
    saloon-fight at Adelaide in '89--confirmed my suspicion. This
    poor lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will
    stick at nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is a very
    likely supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of
    confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other
    friends. It is always possible that she never reached London, or
    that she has passed through it, but the former is improbable, as,
    with their system of registration, it is not easy for foreigners
    to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter is
    also unlikely, as these rouges could not hope to find any other
    place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint.
    All my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at
    present no possible means of telling where, we can only take the
    obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience.
    Later in the evening I will stroll down and have a word with
    friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard."

    But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but very
    efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid
    the crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were
    as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.
    Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and
    led to nothing. Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might
    frequent was drawn in vain. His old associates were watched, but
    they kept clear of him. And then suddenly, after a week of
    helpless suspense there came a flash of light. A silver-and-
    brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at
    Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large, clean-
    shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address were
    demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the
    description was surely that of Shlessinger.

    Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for
    news--the third time within an hour of this fresh development.
    His clothes were getting looser on his great body. He seemed to
    be wilting away in his anxiety. "If you will only give me
    something to do!" was his constant wail. At last Holmes could
    oblige him.

    "He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now."

    "But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?"

    Holmes shook his head very gravely.

    "Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is
    clear that they cannot let her loose without their own
    destruction. We must prepare for the worst."

    "What can I do?"

    "These people do not know you by sight?"

    "No."

    "It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the
    future. in that case, we must begin again. On the other hand,
    he has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in
    need of ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's. I
    will give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the
    shop. If the fellow comes you will follow him home. But no
    indiscretion, and, above all, no violence. I put you on your
    honour that you will take no step without my knowledge and
    consent."

    For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the
    son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of
    Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the
    evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale,
    trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering with
    excitement.

    "We have him! We have him!" he cried.

    He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a
    few words and thrust him into an armchair.

    "Come, now, give us the order of events," said he.

    "She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the
    pendant she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall,
    pale woman, with ferret eyes."

    "That is the lady," said Holmes.

    "She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the
    Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into
    a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker's."

    My companion started. "Well?" he asked in that vibrant voice
    which told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.

    "She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as
    well. 'It is late,' I heard her say, or words to that effect.
    The woman was excusing herself. 'It should be there before now,'
    she answered. 'It took longer, being out of the ordinary.' They
    both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some questions and then
    left the shop."

    "You did excellently well. What happened next?"

    "The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her
    suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her.
    Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get
    another and so to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36,
    Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the
    corner of the square, and watched the house."

    "Did you see anyone?"

    "The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor.
    The blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing
    there, wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove
    up with two men in it. They descended, took something out of the
    van, and carried it up the steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes,
    it was a coffin."

    "Ah!"

    "For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had
    been opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman
    who had opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of
    me, and I think that she recognized me. I saw her start, and she
    hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here
    I am."

    "You have done excellent work," said Holmes, scribbling a few
    words upon a half-sheet of paper. "We can do nothing legal
    without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking
    this note down to the authorities and getting one. There may be
    some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the
    jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all
    details."

    "But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin
    mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"

    "We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will
    be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now Watson," he added as our
    client hurried away, "he will set the regular forces on the move.
    We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line
    of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate that the
    most extreme measures are justified. Not a moment is to be lost
    in getting to Poultney Square.

    "Let us try to reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove
    swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster
    Bridge. "These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London,
    after first alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has
    written any letters they have been intercepted. Through some
    confederate they have engaged a furnished house. Once inside it,
    they have made her a prisoner, and they have become possessed of
    the valuable jewellery which has been their object from the
    first. Already they have begun to sell part of it, which seems
    safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think that
    anyone is interested in the lady's fate. When she is released
    she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be
    released. But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever.
    So murder is their only solution."

    "That seems very clear."

    "Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
    deparate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
    intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will
    start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue
    backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that
    the lady is dead. It points also to an orthodox burial with
    proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official
    sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would have
    buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open
    and regular. What does this mean? Surely that they have done
    her to death in some way which has deceived the doctor and
    simulated a natural end--poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange
    that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a
    confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition."

    "Could they have forged a medical certificate?"

    "Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing
    that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker's, for
    we have just passed the pawnbroker's. Would go in, Watson? Your
    appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney
    Square funeral takes place to-morrow."

    The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was
    to be at eight o'clock in the morning. "You see, Watson, no
    mystery; everything above-board! In some way the legal forms
    have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they
    have little to fear. Well, there's nothing for it now but a
    direct frontal attack. Are you armed?"

    "My stick!"

    "Well, well, we shall be strong enough. 'Thrice is he armed who
    hath his quarrel just.' We simply can't afford to wait for the
    police or to keep within the four corners of the law. You can
    drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck
    together, as we have occasionally in the past."

    He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the
    centre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the
    figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

    "Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply, peering at us
    through the darkness.

    "I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.

    "There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to close
    the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

    "Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call
    himself," said Holmes firmly.

    She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. "Well, come in!"
    said she. "My husband is not afraid to face any man in the
    world." She closed the door behind us and showed us into a
    sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as
    she left us. "Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant," she
    said.

    Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look
    around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found
    ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-
    headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red
    face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial
    benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.

    "There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in an
    unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy that you have
    been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street-
    -"

    "That will do; we have no time to waste," said my companion
    firmly. "You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr.
    Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as
    that my own name is Sherlock Holmes."

    Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
    formidable pursuer. "I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
    Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man's conscience is easy you
    can't rattle him. What is your business in my house?"

    "I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax,
    whom you brought away with you from Baden."

    "I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,"
    Peters answered coolly. "I've a bill against her for a nearly a
    hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of
    trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She
    attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden--it is a fact
    that I was using another name at the time--and she stuck on to us
    until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once
    in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these out-
    of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and
    I'm your debtor."

    In MEAN to find her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm going through
    this house till I do find her."

    "Where is your warrant?"

    Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. "This will have to
    serve till a better one comes."

    "Why, you're a common burglar."

    "So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My
    companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going
    through your house."

    Our opponent opened the door.

    "Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of
    feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened
    and shut.

    "Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to stop
    us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that
    coffin which was brought into your house?"

    "What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a
    body in it."

    "I must see the body."

    "Never with my consent."

    "Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed the
    fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened
    stood immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-
    room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was
    lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down
    in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare
    from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered face.
    By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease could
    this wornout wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes's
    face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

    "Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."

    "Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
    Peters, who had followed us into the room.

    "Who is the dead woman?"

    "Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's,
    Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse
    Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of
    13 Firbank Villas--mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes--and had
    her carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day
    she died--certificate says senile decay--but that's only the
    doctor's opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her
    funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington
    Road, who will bury her at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Can
    you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You've made a silly
    blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I'd give something
    for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled
    aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only
    found a poor old woman of ninety."

    Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of
    his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute
    annoyance.

    "I am going through your house," said he.

    "Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's voice and heavy
    steps sounded in the passage. "We'll soon see about that. This
    way, officers, if you please. These men have forced their way
    into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them
    out."

    A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his
    card from his case.

    "This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."

    "Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said the sergeant, "but
    you can't stay here without a warrant."

    "Of course not. I quite understand that."

    "Arrest him!" cried Peters.

    "We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is
    wanted," said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll have to go,
    Mr. Holmes."

    "Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."

    A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as
    cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The
    sergeant had followed us.

    "Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."

    "Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."

    "I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If
    there is anything I can do--"

    "It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that
    house. I expect a warrant presently."

    "Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything
    comes along, I will surely let you know."

    It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail
    at once. First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, where
    we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple
    had called some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile
    old woman as a former servant, and that they had obtained
    permission to take her away with them. No surprise was expressed
    at the news that she had since died.

    The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found
    the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass
    away, and had signed the certificate in due form. "I assure you
    that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room for
    foul play in the matter," said he. Nothing in the house had
    struck him as suspicious save that for people of their class it
    was remarkable that they should have no servant. So far and no
    further went the doctor.

    Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been
    difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay
    was inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be obtained
    until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go
    down with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save
    that near midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that
    he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows of
    the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none had
    entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.

    Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too
    restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy,
    dark brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers
    tapping upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind
    every possible solution of the mystery. Several times in the
    course of the night I heard him prowling about the house.
    Finally, just after I had been called in the morning, he rushed
    into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-
    eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.

    "What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?" he asked
    eagerly. "Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has
    become of any brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick!
    It's life or death--a hundred chances on death to one on life.
    I'll never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!"

    Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom
    down Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we
    passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton
    Road. But others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the
    hour the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, and
    even as our foaming horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by
    three men, appeared on the threshold. Holmes darted forward and
    barred their way.

    "Take it back!" he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
    foremost. "Take it back this instant!"

    "What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your
    warrant?" shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring
    over the farther end of the coffin.

    "The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house
    until it comes."

    The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bearers.
    Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed
    these new orders. "Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-
    driver!" he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table.
    "Here's one for you, my man! A sovreign if the lid comes off in
    a minute! Ask no questions--work away! That's good! Another!
    And another! Now pull all together! It's giving! It's giving!
    Ah, that does it at last."

    With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so
    there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of
    chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-
    wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it
    off and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual
    woman of middle age. In an instant he had passed his arm round
    the figure and raised her to a sitting position.

    "Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not
    too late!"

    For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual
    suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform,
    the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall.
    And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected
    ether, and with every device that science could suggest, some
    flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a
    mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life. A cab had driven up,
    and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it. "Here is
    Lestrade with his warrant," said he. "He will find that his
    birds have flown. And here," he added as a heavy step hurried
    along the passage, "is someone who has a better right to nurse
    this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that
    the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile,
    the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies in
    that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."

    "Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,"
    said Holmes that evening, "it can only be as an example of that
    temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be
    exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest
    is he who can recognize and repair them. To this modified credit
    I may, perhaps, make some claim. My night was haunted by the
    thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a curious
    observation, had come under my notice and had been too easily
    dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the morning, the words
    came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker's wife, as
    reported by Philip Green. She had said, 'It should be there
    before now. It took longer, being out of the ordinary.' It was
    the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary.
    That could only mean that it had been made to some special
    measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered the
    deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so
    large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room for another
    body. Both would be buried under the one certificate. It had all
    been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At
    eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to
    stop the coffin before it left the house.

    "It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it
    WAS a chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to
    my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual
    violence at the last. The could bury her with no sign of how she
    met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance for
    them. I hoped that such considerations might prevail with them.
    You can reconstruct the scene well enough. You saw the horrible
    den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so long. They
    rushed in and overpowered her with their chloroform, carried her
    down, poured more into the coffin to insure against her waking,
    and then screwed down the lid. A clever device, Watson. It is
    new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary friends
    escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some
    brilliant incidents in their future career."
    If you're writing a The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax essay and need some advice, post your Arthur Conan Doyle essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

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