                          THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

     Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of
     the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium.
     The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak
     when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of
     his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum
     in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more
     have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of,
     and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object
     of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see
     him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point
     pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

     One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about
     the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I
     sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap
     and made a little face of disappointment.

     "A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

     I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

     We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps
     upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
     dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

     "You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly
     losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
     wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!"
     she cried; "I do so want a little help."

     "Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.  How
     you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came
     in."

     "I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was
     always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to
     a light-house.

     "It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
     water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should
     you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

     "Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about
     Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about
     him!"

     It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's
     trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
     companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could
     find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we
     could bring him back to her?

     It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he
     had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the
     farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
     confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered,
     in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty
     hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks,
     breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to
     be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam
     Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman,
     make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among
     the ruffians who surrounded him?

     There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
     Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
     why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and
     as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
     alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab
     within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given
     me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
     sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
     strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future
     only could show how strange it was to be.

     But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
     Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
     which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
     Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
     steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found
     the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed
     down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of
     drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the
     door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick
     and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden
     berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

     Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
     strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
     back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
     lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
     there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint,
     as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.
     The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others
     talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their
     conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into
     silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to
     the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of
     burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there
     sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists,
     and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

     As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for
     me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

     "Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of
     mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

     There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
     through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
     out at me.

     "My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
     reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock
     is it?"

     "Nearly eleven."

     "Of what day?"

     "Of Friday, June 19th."

     "Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What
     d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms
     and began to sob in a high treble key.

     "I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this
     two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

     "So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a
     few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go
     home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me
     your hand! Have you a cab?"

     "Yes, I have one waiting."

     "Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,
     Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

     I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
     holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
     and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat
     by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
     whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell
     quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have
     come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as
     ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling
     down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
     lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back.
     It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a
     cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see
     him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull
     eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and
     grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made
     a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned
     his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a
     doddering, loose-lipped senility.

     "Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

     "As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you
     would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of
     yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."

     "I have a cab outside."

     "Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
     appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend
     you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you
     have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be
     with you in five minutes."

           It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests,
     for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with
     such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was
     once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and
     for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated
     with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the
     normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my
     note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him
     driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure
     had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street
     with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
     back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he
     straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

     "I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added
     opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
     weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."

     "I was certainly surprised to find you there."

     "But not more so than I to find you."

     "I came to find a friend."

     "And I to find an enemy."

     "An enemy?"

     "Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.
     Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and
     I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these
     sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my
     life would not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it
     before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it
     has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back
     of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell
     some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
     nights."

     "What! You do not mean bodies?"

     "Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every
     poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest
     murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair
     has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here."
     He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly--a
     signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance,
     followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses'
     hoofs.

     "Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the
     gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side
     lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

     "If I can be of use."

     "Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more
     so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

     "The Cedars?"

     "Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I
     conduct the inquiry."

     "Where is it, then?"

     "Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

     "But I am all in the dark."

     "Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here.
     All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out
     for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!"

     He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the
     endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened
     gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge,
     with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay
     another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only
     by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and
     shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting
     slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and
     there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with
     his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in
     thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest
     might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to
     break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several
     miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of
     suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and
     lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that
     he is acting for the best.

     "You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes you
     quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great thing
     for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not
     over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little
     woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

     "You forget that I know nothing about it."

     "I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we
     get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get
     nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't
     get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and
     concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is
     dark to me."

     "Proceed, then."

     "Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee a
     gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of
     money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and
     lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the
     neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer,
     by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was
     interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the
     morning, returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr.
     St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate
     habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is
     popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the
     present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to
     £88 10s., while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and
     Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money
     troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

     "Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than
     usual, remarking before he started that he had two important
     commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a
     box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a
     telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to
     the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had
     been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen
     Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will
     know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which
     branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs.
     St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping,
     proceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found herself
     at exactly 4.35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the
     station. Have you followed me so far?"

     "It is very clear."

     "If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.
     Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as
     she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While
     she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an
     ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking
     down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a
     second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his
     face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his
     hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so
     suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some
     irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her
     quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as
     he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

     "Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
     steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which you
     found me to-night--and running through the front room she attempted
     to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the
     stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken,
     who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant
     there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening
     doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune,
     met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on
     their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her
     back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor,
     they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been
     seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that
     floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous
     aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar
     stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the
     afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was
     staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had
     been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which
     lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade
     of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring
     home.

     "This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed,
     made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms
     were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable
     crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led
     into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the
     wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip,
     which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least
     four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and
     opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen
     upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon
     the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the
     front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the
     exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his
     watch--all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of
     these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.
     Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other
     exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill
     gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the
     tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

     "And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated
     in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest
     antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have
     been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her
     husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more
     than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute
     ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings
     of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way
     for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes.

     "So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who
     lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly
     the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His
     name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to
     every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar,
     though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a
     small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle
     Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked,
     a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his
     daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap,
     and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends
     into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him.
     I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of
     making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at
     the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you
     see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him.
     A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar,
     which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper
     lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which
     present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him
     out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his
     wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which
     may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now
     learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the
     last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

     "But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed
     against a man in the prime of life?"

     "He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other
     respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely
     your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one
     limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others."

     "Pray continue your narrative."

     "Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
     window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
     presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
     Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful
     examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw
     any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting
     Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he
     might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault
     was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything
     being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some
     blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his
     ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the
     bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not
     long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came
     doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever
     seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes
     in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs.
     St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the
     window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming.
     He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the
     inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide
     might afford some fresh clue.

     "And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had
     feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St.
     Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think
     they found in the pockets?"

     "I cannot imagine."

     "No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies
     and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder
     that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a
     different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the
     house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained
     when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river."

     "But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.
     Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

     "No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that
     this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there
     is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do
     then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of
     the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the
     act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim
     and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle
     downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he
     has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are
     hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes
     to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his
     beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands
     into the pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it
     out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he
     heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
     window when the police appeared."

     "It certainly sounds feasible."

     "Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better.
     Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but
     it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything
     against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar,
     but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.
     There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to
     be solved--what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what
     happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had
     to do with his disappearance--are all as far from a solution as ever.
     I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which
     looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such
     difficulties."

     While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of
     events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town
     until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled
     along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he
     finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a
     few lights still glimmered in the windows.

     "We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We have touched
     on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex,
     passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light
     among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a
     woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught
     the clink of our horse's feet."

     "But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I asked.

     "Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs.
     St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may
     rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend
     and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her
     husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

     We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own
     grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and springing
     down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led
     to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little
     blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light
     mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck
     and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of
     light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her
     body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and
     parted lips, a standing question.

     "Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two of
     us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my
     companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

     "No good news?"

     "None."

     "No bad?"

     "No."

     "Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had
     a long day."

     "This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me
     in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for
     me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation."

     "I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. "You
     will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
     arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly
     upon us."

     "My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I
     can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any
     assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed
     happy."

     "Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a well-lit
     dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out,
     "I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
     which I beg that you will give a plain answer."

     "Certainly, madam."

     "Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to
     fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

     "Upon what point?"

     "In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

     Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. "Frankly,
     now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at
     him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

     "Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

     "You think that he is dead?"

     "I do."

     "Murdered?"

     "I don't say that. Perhaps."

     "And on what day did he meet his death?"

     "On Monday."

     "Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it
     is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

     Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.

     "What!" he roared.

     "Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper
     in the air.

     "May I see it?"

     "Certainly."

     He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon
     the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left
     my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a
     very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with
     the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was
     considerably after midnight.

     "Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your husband's
     writing, madam."

     "No, but the enclosure is."

     "I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and
     inquire as to the address."

     "How can you tell that?"

     "The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried
     itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that
     blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off,
     and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has
     written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the
     address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is,
     of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.
     Let us now see the letter. Ha!  there has been an enclosure here!"

     "Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

     "And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

     "One of his hands."

     "One?"

     "His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
     writing, and yet I know it well."

     "Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge
     error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in
     patience.
     "Neville.

     Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no
     water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty
     thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in
     error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no
     doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"

     "None. Neville wrote those words."

     "And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the
     clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is
     over."

     "But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

     "Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The
     ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him."

     "No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

     "Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
     posted to-day."

     "That is possible."

     "If so, much may have happened between."

     "Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well
     with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know
     if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut
     himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs
     instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do
     you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant
     of his death?"

     "I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may
     be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And
     in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
     corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
     letters, why should he remain away from you?"

     "I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

     "And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

     "No."

     "And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

     "Very much so."

     "Was the window open?"

     "Yes."

     "Then he might have called to you?"

     "He might."

     "He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

     "Yes."

     "A call for help, you thought?"

     "Yes. He waved his hands."

     "But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
     unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

     "It is possible."

     "And you thought he was pulled back?"

     "He disappeared so suddenly."

     "He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?"

     "No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
     Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

     "Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
     clothes on?"

     "But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."

     "Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

     "Never."

     "Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

     "Never."

     "Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about
     which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little
     supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow."

     A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
     disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
     my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when
     he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even
     for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts,
     looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed
     it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon
     evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
     took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown,
     and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
     cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a
     sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged,
     with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front
     of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old
     briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner
     of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
     motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline
     features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a
     sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun
     shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the
     smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco
     haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon
     the previous night.

     "Awake, Watson?" he asked.

     "Yes."

     "Game for a morning drive?"

     "Certainly."

     "Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
     sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He chuckled to himself
     as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
     sombre thinker of the previous night.

     As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
     stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
     when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
     horse.

     "I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
     boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
     one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
     here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now."

     "And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

     "In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he
     continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there,
     and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.
     Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."

     We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
     bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with
     the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and
     away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were
     stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of
     villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a
     dream.

     "It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking
     the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a
     mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at
     all."

     In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
     their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
     Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
     dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
     ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
     and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
     horse's head while the other led us in.

     "Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

     "Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

     "Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down
     the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I
     wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr.
     Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, office-like room,
     with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from
     the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

     "What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged with
     being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
     Lee."

     "Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

     "So I heard. You have him here?"

     "In the cells."

     "Is he quiet?"

     "Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

     "Dirty?"

     "Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is
     as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been settled, he
     will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you
     would agree with me that he needed it."

     "I should like to see him very much."

     "Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your
     bag."

     "No, I think that I'll take it."

     "Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a passage,
     opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to
     a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

     "The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it is!" He
     quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced
     through.

     "He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

     We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face
     towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He
     was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a
     coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He
     was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
     covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
     wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by
     its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that
     three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright
     red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

     "He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

     "He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea that he
     might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me." He
     opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my
     astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

     "He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

     "Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
     quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure."

     "Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't look a
     credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his key into the
     lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half
     turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes
     stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it
     twice vigorously across and down the prisoner's face.

     "Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
     Lee, in the county of Kent."

     Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled off
     under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown
     tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and
     the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A
     twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in
     his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and
     smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy
     bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a
     scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

     "Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing
     man. I know him from the photograph."

     The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons
     himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am I
     charged with?"

     "With making away with Mr. Neville St.--Oh, come, you can't be
     charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of
     it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been twenty-seven
     years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

     "If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has
     been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."

     "No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes.
     "You would have done better to have trusted your wife."

     "It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner.
     "God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God!
     What an exposure! What can I do?"

     Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him
     kindly on the shoulder.

     "If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said he,
     "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you
     convince the police authorities that there is no possible case
     against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details
     should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I
     am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit
     it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court
     at all."

     "God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would have
     endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my
     miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

     "You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
     schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
     education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally
     became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor
     wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis,
     and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all
     my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur
     that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an
     actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had
     been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of
     my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
     possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist
     by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red
     head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
     business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as
     a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home
     in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less
     than 26s. 4d.

     "I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until,
     some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served
     upon me for £25. I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a
     sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the
     creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time
     in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money
     and had paid the debt.

     "Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work
     at £2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by
     smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground,
     and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the
     money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat
     day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity
     by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man
     knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to
     lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a
     squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a
     well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by
     me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his
     possession.

     "Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of
     money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could
     earn £700 a year--which is less than my average takings--but I had
     exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a
     facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a
     recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied
     by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I
     failed to take £2.

     "As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,
     and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my
     real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City.
     She little knew what.

     "Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room
     above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my
     horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street,
     with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up
     my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar,
     entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her
     voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I
     threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my
     pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a
     disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in
     the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the
     window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted
     upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which
     was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
     the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the
     window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would
     have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up
     the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my
     relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I
     was arrested as his murderer.

     "I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was
     determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my
     preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
     anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a
     moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried
     scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear."

     "That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

     "Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

     "The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet,
     "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a
     letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of
     his, who forgot all about it for some days."

     "That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt of
     it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

     "Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

     "It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are to
     hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

     "I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."

     "In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may
     be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am
     sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having
     cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results."

     "I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows
     and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to
     Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."

