                              THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

     I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
     autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
     stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
     apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled
     me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

     "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,"
     he said cordially.

     "I was afraid that you were engaged."

     "So I am. Very much so."

     "Then I can wait in the next room."

     "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and
     helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that
     he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

     The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
     greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
     fat-encircled eyes.

     "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
     putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial
     moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is
     bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday
     life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has
     prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so,
     somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures."

     "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I
     observed.

     "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
     into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
     for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
     itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
     imagination."

     "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

     "You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view,
     for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
     reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now,
     Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this
     morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the
     most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard
     me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often
     connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
     occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any
     positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is
     impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of
     crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most
     singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would
     have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not
     merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part
     but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to
     have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have
     heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to
     guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to
     my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
     facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

     The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
     little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
     inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement
     column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon
     his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the
     fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be
     presented by his dress or appearance.

     I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
     every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
     pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's check
     trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front,
     and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square
     pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat
     and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a
     chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing
     remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the
     expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

     Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his
     head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond the
     obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he
     takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and
     that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can
     deduce nothing else."

     Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon
     the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

     "How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
     Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual
     labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter."

     "Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
     your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
     developed."

     "Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

     "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
     especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
     an arc-and-compass breastpin."

     "Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

     "What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
     inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where
     you rest it upon the desk?"

     "Well, but China?"

     "The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist
     could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of
     tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the
     subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink
     is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin
     hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple."

     Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I
     thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that
     there was nothing in it, after all."

     "I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in
     explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor
     little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so
     candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

     "Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger
     planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began it
     all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

     I took the paper from him and read as follows:

     "To the Red-headed League: On account of the bequest of the late
     Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now
     another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a
     salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men
     who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years,
     are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan
     Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street."

     "What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice read
     over the extraordinary announcement.

     Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in
     high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said
     he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about
     yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
     upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
     and the date."

     "It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago."

     "Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

     "Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
     said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small pawnbroker's
     business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a very large
     affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a
     living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep
     one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come
     for half wages so as to learn the business."

     "What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     "His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either.
     It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr.
     Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn
     twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied,
     why should I put ideas in his head?"

     "Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes
     under the full market price. It is not a common experience among
     employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is not as
     remarkable as your advertisement."

     "Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a
     fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to
     be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a
     rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault,
     but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice in him."

     "He is still with you, I presume?"

     "Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple
     cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the house,
     for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly,
     sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our
     debts, if we do nothing more.

     "The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding,
     he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this
     very paper in his hand, and he says:

     "'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

     "'Why that?' I asks.

     "'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the
     Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
     it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are
     men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the
     money. If my hair would only change colour, here's a nice little crib
     all ready for me to step into.'

     "'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
     stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having
     to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over
     the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was going on
     outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

     "'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked
     with his eyes open.

     "'Never.'

     "'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
     vacancies.'

     "'And what are they worth?' I asked.

     "'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and
     it need not interfere very much with one's other occupations.'

     "Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for
     the business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra
     couple of hundred would have been very handy.

     "'Tell me all about it,' said I.

     "'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for
     yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address
     where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the
     League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who
     was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had
     a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found
     that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with
     instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
     men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay
     and very little to do.'

     "'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would
     apply.'

     "'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really
     confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started
     from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a
     good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if
     your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright,
     blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would
     just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put
     yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'

     "Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
     hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if
     there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a
     chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to
     know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just
     ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away
     with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the
     business up and started off for the address that was given us in the
     advertisement.

     "I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
     north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his
     hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
     Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like
     a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so
     many in the whole country as were brought together by that single
     advertisement. Every shade of colour they were--straw, lemon, orange,
     brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
     not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
     many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
     would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he
     pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and
     right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double
     stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back
     dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
     ourselves in the office."

     "Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes
     as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of
     snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

     "There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a
     deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even
     redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came
     up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would
     disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very
     easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man
     was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he
     closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word
     with us.

     "'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to
     fill a vacancy in the League.'

     "'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has
     every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so
     fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and
     gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged
     forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.

     "'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, I
     am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With that he
     seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the
     pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as he released me. 'I
     perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for
     we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell
     you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust you with human
     nature.' He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the
     top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of
     disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in
     different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except
     my own and that of the manager.

     "'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
     pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a
     married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

     "I answered that I had not.

     "His face fell immediately.

     "'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am sorry
     to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation
     and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
     exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.'

     "My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not
     to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few
     minutes he said that it would be all right.

     "'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be fatal,
     but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of
     hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?'

     "'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' said
     I.

     "'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding. 'I
     should be able to look after that for you.'

     "'What would be the hours?' I asked.

     "'Ten to two.'

     "Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.
     Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before
     pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the
     mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that
     he would see to anything that turned up.

     "'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

     "'Is £4 a week.'

     "'And the work?'

     "'Is purely nominal.'

     "'What do you call purely nominal?'

     "'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building,
     the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position
     forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't comply
     with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.'

     "'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,'
     said I.

     "'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness nor
     business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your
     billet.'

     "'And the work?'

     "'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There is the first
     volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
     blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be
     ready to-morrow?'

     "'Certainly,' I answered.

     "'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once
     more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough
     to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my
     assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my
     own good fortune.

     "Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low
     spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair
     must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I
     could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could
     make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing
     anything so simple as copying out the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica.'
     Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I
     had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I
     determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
     ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
     started off for Pope's Court.

     "Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
     possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was
     there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the
     letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time
     to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he bade me
     good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and
     locked the door of the office after me.

     "This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
     came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work.
     It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning
     I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
     Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after
     a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
     leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
     and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I
     would not risk the loss of it.

     "Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots
     and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
     diligence that I might get on to the B's before very long. It cost me
     something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my
     writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end."

     "To an end?"

     "Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
     at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little
     square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a
     tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

     He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
     note-paper. It read in this fashion:

                              The Red-headed League
                                       is
                                    Dissolved
                                October 9, 1890.

     Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
     face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
     overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a
     roar of laughter.

     "I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our client,
     flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do nothing
     better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

     "No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
     had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It
     is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my
     saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps
     did you take when you found the card upon the door?"

     "I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at
     the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
     Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
     ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
     the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
     body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
     name was new to him.

     "'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

     "'What, the red-headed man?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and
     was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
     were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

     "'Where could I find him?'

     "'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
     Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

     "I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
     manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard
     of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

     "And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

     "I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
     assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say
     that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good
     enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a
     struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice
     to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you."

     "And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly
     remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
     have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
     it than might at first sight appear."

     "Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four pound a
     week."

     "As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not
     see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On
     the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £30, to say
     nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every
     subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by
     them."

     "No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and
     what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a prank--upon
     me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and
     thirty pounds."

     "We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one
     or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first
     called your attention to the advertisement--how long had he been with
     you?"

     "About a month then."

     "How did he come?"

     "In answer to an advertisement."

     "Was he the only applicant?"

     "No, I had a dozen."

     "Why did you pick him?"

     "Because he was handy and would come cheap."

     "At half-wages, in fact."

     "Yes."

     "What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

     "Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
     though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
     forehead."

     Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought as
     much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
     earrings?"

     "Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a
     lad."

     "Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still with
     you?"

     "Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

     "And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

     "Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a
     morning."

     "That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion
     upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday,
     and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

     "Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what do
     you make of it all?"

     "I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most mysterious
     business."

     "As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less
     mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless
     crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the
     most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter."

     "What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

     "To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg
     that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled himself up
     in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
     there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting
     out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion
     that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he
     suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has
     made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

     "Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he remarked.
     "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
     hours?"

     "I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing."

     "Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first,
     and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good
     deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my
     taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to
     introspect. Come along!"

     We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
     walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story
     which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little,
     shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick
     houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of
     weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight
     against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls
     and a brown board with "Jabez Wilson" in white letters, upon a corner
     house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his
     business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one
     side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
     puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
     again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he
     returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the
     pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door
     and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,
     clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.

     "Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go
     from here to the Strand."

     "Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly, closing
     the door.

     "Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is, in
     my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am
     not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something
     of him before."

     "Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal
     in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired
     your way merely in order that you might see him."

     "Not him."

     "What then?"

     "The knees of his trousers."

     "And what did you see?"

     "What I expected to see."

     "Why did you beat the pavement?"

     "My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
     spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
     Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

     The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner
     from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to
     it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
     arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and
     west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce
     flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were
     black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to
     realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business
     premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded
     and stagnant square which we had just quitted.

     "Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along
     the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses
     here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.
     There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the
     Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian
     Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us
     right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so
     it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then
     off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony,
     and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

     My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
     capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
     afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
     gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
     gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
     of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
     ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
     singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and
     his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
     thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
     occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him
     from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
     never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
     lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter
     editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come
     upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the
     level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his
     methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not
     that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in
     the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might be
     coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.

     "You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we emerged.

     "Yes, it would be as well."

     "And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
     business at Coburg Square is serious."

     "Why serious?"

     "A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
     believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being
     Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
     to-night."

     "At what time?"

     "Ten will be early enough."

     "I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

     "Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so
     kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand,
     turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

     I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always
     oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with
     Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what
     he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw
     clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen,
     while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I
     drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the
     extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the "Encyclopaedia"
     down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with
     which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and
     why should I go armed?  Where were we going, and what were we to do?
     I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's
     assistant was a formidable man--a man who might play a deep game. I
     tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter
     aside until night should bring an explanation.

     It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
     across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
     hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I
     heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found
     Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I
     recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other
     was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and
     oppressively respectable frock-coat.

     "Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
     and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you
     know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
     Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night's adventure."

     "We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his
     consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
     chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running
     down."

     "I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,"
     observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

     "You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the
     police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which are, if
     he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and
     fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not
     too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto
     murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than
     the official force."

     "Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger
     with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the
     first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had
     my rubber."

     "I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play
     for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the
     play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will
     be some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you
     wish to lay your hands."

     "John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young
     man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I
     would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London.
     He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a
     royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is
     as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every
     turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib
     in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in
     Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years and have never
     set eyes on him yet."

     "I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.
     I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree
     with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten,
     however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the
     first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second."

     Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and
     lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
     afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
     until we emerged into Farrington Street.

     "We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow
     Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
     matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a
     bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one
     positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a
     lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are
     waiting for us."

     We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
     ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
     guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
     through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
     corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
     opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which
     terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to
     light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling
     passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or
     cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

     "You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held
     up the lantern and gazed about him.

     "Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
     flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!"
     he remarked, looking up in surprise.

     "I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes
     severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
     expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
     upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

     The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
     injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees
     upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to
     examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds
     sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his
     glass in his pocket.

     "We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can
     hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
     Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work
     the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present,
     Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of the City
     branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the
     chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are
     reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a
     considerable interest in this cellar at present."

     "It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several
     warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

     "Your French gold?"

     "Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and
     borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France.
     It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the
     money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which
     I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil.
     Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept
     in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon
     the subject."

     "Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is
     time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour
     matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we
     must put the screen over that dark lantern."

     "And sit in the dark?"

     "I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
     thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your rubber
     after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far
     that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we
     must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall
     take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are
     careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal
     yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close
     in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting
     them down."

     I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
     which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his
     lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute darkness as I
     have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to
     assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a
     moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of
     expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden
     gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.

     "They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through
     the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
     asked you, Jones?"

     "I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

     "Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
     wait."

     What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
     hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
     almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary
     and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were
     worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so
     acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my
     companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of
     the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
     From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the
     floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.

     At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
     lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
     warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,
     almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little
     area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing
     fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as
     suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid
     spark which marked a chink between the stones.

     Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,
     tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its
     side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light
     of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face,
     which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of
     the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one
     knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of
     the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
     himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

     "It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags?
     Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

     Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
     The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
     as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of
     a revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came down on the man's wrist,
     and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

     "It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at
     all."

     "So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy
     that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

     "There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

     "Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
     compliment you."

     "And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and
     effective."

     "You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker at
     climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the
     derbies."

     "I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked
     our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You may not
     be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness,
     also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.'"

     "All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would you
     please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
     Highness to the police-station?"

     "That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to
     the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the
     detective.

     "Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from
     the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
     There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most
     complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery
     that have ever come within my experience."

     "I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
     John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this
     matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am
     amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways
     unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the
     Red-headed League."

     "You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning as
     we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it was
     perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of
     this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League,
     and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get this not
     over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every
     day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be
     difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to
     Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice's hair. The £4
     a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who
     were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue
     has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply
     for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning
     in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come
     for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
     for securing the situation."

     "But how could you guess what the motive was?"

     "Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere
     vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's
     business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which
     could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an
     expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the
     house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for
     photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar!
     There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to
     this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of
     the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing
     something in the cellar--something which took many hours a day for
     months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing
     save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.

     "So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
     surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
     ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It
     was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
     assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never
     set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His
     knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how
     worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
     burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for.
     I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on
     our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When
     you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon
     the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have
     seen."

     "And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?"
     I asked.

     "Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that
     they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other
     words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
     that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
     bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any
     other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all
     these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

     "You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
     admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

     "It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel
     it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
     from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to
     do so."

     "And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

     He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
     little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,'
     as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."

