                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

     I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
     after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
     the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown,
     a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
     morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the
     couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very
     seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and
     cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat
     of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner
     for the purpose of examination.

     "You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

     "Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
     results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his thumb
     in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in connection
     with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of
     instruction."

     I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
     crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
     thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely
     as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it--that
     it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery
     and the punishment of some crime."

     "No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of
     those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four
     million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a
     few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of
     humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to
     take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be
     striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had
     experience of such."

     "So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have
     added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime."

     "Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler
     papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the
     adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that
     this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know
     Peterson, the commissionaire?"

     "Yes."

     "It is to him that this trophy belongs."

     "It is his hat."

     "No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
     upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
     And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas
     morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,
     roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are
     these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you
     know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small
     jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court
     Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking
     with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his
     shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out
     between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter
     knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend
     himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
     behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from
     his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and
     seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,
     dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth
     of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The
     roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was
     left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of
     victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable
     Christmas goose."

     "Which surely he restored to their owner?"

     "My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs.
     Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the
     bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are
     legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands
     of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it
     is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

     "What, then, did Peterson do?"

     "He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
     knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
     goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
     spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
     without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,
     to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain
     the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

     "Did he not advertise?"

     "No."

     "Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

     "Only as much as we can deduce."

     "From his hat?"

     "Precisely."

     "But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
     felt?"

     "Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself
     as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

     I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
     ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
     hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk,
     but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as
     Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one
     side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic
     was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and
     spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some
     attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

     "I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

     "On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,
     to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
     inferences."

     "Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

     He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
     which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than
     it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences
     which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
     strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual
     is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
     well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen
     upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,
     pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline
     of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably
     drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact
     that his wife has ceased to love him."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
     continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
     sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
     middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last
     few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more
     patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way,
     that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his
     house."

     "You are certainly joking, Holmes."

     "Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
     these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

     "I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
     unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man
     was intellectual?"

     For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over
     the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a
     question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain
     must have something in it."

     "The decline of his fortunes, then?"

     "This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
     came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band
     of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to
     buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since,
     then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

     "Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight
     and the moral retrogression?"

     Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting his
     finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.  "They are
     never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
     certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take
     this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken
     the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he
     has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
     weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal
     some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is
     a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."

     "Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

     "The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
     grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream,
     are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of
     the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut
     by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and
     there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe,
     is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust
     of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the
     time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive
     that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be
     in the best of training."

     "But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

     "This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
     Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when
     your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you
     also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."

     "But he might be a bachelor."

     "Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
     Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

     "You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
     that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

     "One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see
     no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
     individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
     tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and
     a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains
     from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

     "Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as you
     said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done
     save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of
     energy."

     Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
     open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment
     with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with
     astonishment.

     "The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

     "Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off
     through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the
     sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

     "See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his
     hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
     scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
     such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in
     the dark hollow of his hand.

     Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said he,
     "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have
     got?"

     "A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it
     were putty."

     "It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

     "Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

     "Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
     read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is
     absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
     reward offered of £1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
     the market price."

     "A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire plumped
     down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

     "That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
     sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
     Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
     gem."

     "It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I
     remarked.

     "Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a
     plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's
     jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
     been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here,
     I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
     until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
     following paragraph:

     "Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
     brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst. abstracted
     from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known
     as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel,
     gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the
     dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery
     in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was
     loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally
     been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
     that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
     casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
     accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the
     dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was
     arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either
     upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the
     Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on
     discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where
     she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
     Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
     struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
     terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been
     given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily
     with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had
     shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away
     at the conclusion and was carried out of court."

     "Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,
     tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the
     sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the
     crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see,
     Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more
     important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came
     from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
     gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with
     which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously
     to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in
     this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means
     first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the
     evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other
     methods."

     "What will you say?"

     "Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at the
     corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry
     Baker can have the same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 221b,
     Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

     "Very. But will he see it?"

     "Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,
     the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance
     in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he
     thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly
     regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again,
     the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone
     who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are,
     Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the
     evening papers."

     "In which, sir?"

     "Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News,
     Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

     "Very well, sir. And this stone?"

     "Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson,
     just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we
     must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which
     your family is now devouring."

     When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held
     it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it
     glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
     Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger
     and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone
     is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy
     River in southern China and is remarkable in having every
     characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade
     instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister
     history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide,
     and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain
     weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy
     would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in
     my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have
     it."

     "Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

     "I cannot tell."

     "Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
     anything to do with the matter?"

     "It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
     innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was
     of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
     however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
     to our advertisement."

     "And you can do nothing until then?"

     "Nothing."

     "In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall
     come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should
     like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

     "Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
     believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought
     to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

     I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six
     when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
     house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
     buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle
     which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was
     opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes' room.

     "Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair and
     greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so
     readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
     cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
     summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right
     time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

     "Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

     He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a
     broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled
     brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his
     extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his habits. His rusty
     black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar
     turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a
     sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing
     his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of
     learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

     "We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because
     we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I
     am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

     Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not been
     so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt
     that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat
     and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless
     attempt at recovering them."

     "Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat
     it."

     "To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

     "Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But
     I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about
     the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
     well?"

     "Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

     "Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your
     own bird, so if you wish--"

     The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as
     relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see
     what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be
     to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my
     attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the
     sideboard."

     Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of
     his shoulders.

     "There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the way,
     would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am
     somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
     goose."

     "Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly
     gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequent
     the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in the Museum
     itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host,
     Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on
     consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a
     bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar
     to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted
     neither to my years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity of
     manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.

     "So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the
     door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever
     about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

     "Not particularly."

     "Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up
     this clue while it is still hot."

     "By all means."

     It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
     about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
     cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
     like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly
     as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley
     Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a
     quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a
     small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs
     down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and
     ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned
     landlord.

     "Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said
     he.

     "My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

     "Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who
     was a member of your goose club."

     "Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

     "Indeed! Whose, then?"

     "Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

     "Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

     "Breckinridge is his name."

     "Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord, and
     prosperity to your house. Good-night."

     "Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
     came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though we have
     so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
     other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude
     unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our
     inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line
     of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a
     singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the
     bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"

     We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
     of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
     name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking
     man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to
     put up the shutters.

     "Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

     The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

     "Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
     slabs of marble.

     "Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

     "That's no good."

     "Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

     "Ah, but I was recommended to you."

     "Who by?"

     "The landlord of the Alpha."

     "Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

     "Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

     To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
     salesman.

     "Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms
     akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

     "It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
     which you supplied to the Alpha."

     "Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

     "Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should
     be so warm over such a trifle."

     "Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When
     I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
     business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the
     geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think
     they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made
     over them."

     "Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been
     making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us the
     bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a
     matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is
     country bred."

     "Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the
     salesman.

     "It's nothing of the kind."

     "I say it is."

     "I don't believe it."

     "D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them
     ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to
     the Alpha were town bred."

     "You'll never persuade me to believe that."

     "Will you bet, then?"

     "It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll
     have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."

     The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he.

     The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
     greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

     "Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was
     out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still one
     left in my shop. You see this little book?"

     "Well?"

     "That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then,
     here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
     names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
     see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
     suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me."

     "Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

     "Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

     Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs. Oakshott,
     117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

     "Now, then, what's the last entry?"

     "'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

     "Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

     "'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

     "What have you to say now?"

     Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
     pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of
     a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
     under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
     was peculiar to him.

     "When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'
     protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet," said
     he. "I daresay that if I had put £100 down in front of him, that man
     would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from
     him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we
     are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which
     remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs.
     Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It
     is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others
     besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

     His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
     from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
     rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
     which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
     salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
     fiercely at the cringing figure.

     "I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you were
     all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with
     your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here
     and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the
     geese off you?"

     "No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little man.

     "Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

     "She told me to ask you."

     "Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had
     enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the
     inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

     "Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.
     "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow."
     Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the
     flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and
     touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in
     the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his
     face.

     "Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering voice.

     "You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help
     overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
     think that I could be of assistance to you."

     "You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

     "My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
     people don't know."

     "But you can know nothing of this?"

     "Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace
     some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a
     salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the
     Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."

     "Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the
     little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can
     hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

     Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that
     case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this
     wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go
     farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

     The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he
     answered with a sidelong glance.

     "No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward
     doing business with an alias."

     A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then," said
     he, "my real name is James Ryder."

     "Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step
     into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which
     you would wish to know."

     The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
     half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
     is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped
     into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at
     Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high,
     thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and
     unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

     "Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. "The
     fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
     Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
     settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
     became of those geese?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in
     which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the tail."

     Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me
     where it went to?"

     "It came here."

     "Here?"

     "Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you
     should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead--the
     bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it
     here in my museum."

     Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with
     his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue
     carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
     many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face,
     uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

     "The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll
     be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's
     not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a
     dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp
     it is, to be sure!"

     For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy
     brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with
     frightened eyes at his accuser.

     "I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I
     could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me.
     Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case
     complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of
     Morcar's?"

     "It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a crackling
     voice.

     "I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
     wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
     better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
     you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
     pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber,
     had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion
     would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made
     some small job in my lady's room--you and your confederate
     Cusack--and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then,
     when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and
     had this unfortunate man arrested. You then--"

     Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
     companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think
     of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went
     wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a
     Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"

     "Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well to
     cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor
     Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

     "I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the
     charge against him will break down."

     "Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
     the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the
     goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your
     only hope of safety."

     Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it
     just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been arrested,
     it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the
     stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not
     take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place
     about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some
     commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man
     named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls
     for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be
     a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night,
     the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road.
     My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I
     told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel.
     Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it
     would be best to do.

     "I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has
     just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and
     fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid
     of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew
     one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to
     Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would
     show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in
     safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from
     the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there
     would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the
     wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about
     round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me
     how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.

     "My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick
     of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always
     as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would
     carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and
     behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big one, white, with a
     barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the
     stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave
     a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its
     crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister
     to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute
     broke loose and fluttered off among the others.

     "'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

     "'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was
     feeling which was the fattest.'

     "'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we call
     it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them,
     which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the
     market.'

     "'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you, I'd
     rather have that one I was handling just now.'

     "'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we
     fattened it expressly for you.'

     "'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

     "'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it you
     want, then?'

     "'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
     flock.'

     "'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

     "Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all
     the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man
     that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he
     choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to
     water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some
     terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my
     sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be
     seen there.

     "'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

     "'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

     "'Which dealer's?'

     "'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

     "'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same as
     the one I chose?'

     "'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell
     them apart.'

     "Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet
     would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at
     once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone.
     You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me
     like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think
     that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself a branded thief,
     without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character.
     God help me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his
     face buried in his hands.

     There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by
     the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the edge of
     the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

     "Get out!" said he.

     "What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

     "No more words. Get out!"

     And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the
     stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls
     from the street.

     "After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay
     pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies.
     If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow
     will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose
     that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am
     saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too
     terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a
     jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance
     has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its
     solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch
     the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also
     a bird will be the chief feature."

