                              THE RESIDENT PATIENT

     Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which I
     have endeavored to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my
     friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty
     which I have experienced in picking out examples which shall in every
     way answer my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes has
     performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning, and has
     demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the
     facts themselves have often been so slight or so commonplace that I
     could not feel justified in laying them before the public. On the
     other hand, it has frequently happened that he has been concerned in
     some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and
     dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself taken in
     determining their causes has been less pronounced than I, as his
     biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled
     under the heading of "A Study in Scarlet," and that other later one
     connected with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as examples of
     this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever threatening the
     historian. It may be that in the business of which I am now about to
     write the part which my friend played is not sufficiently
     accentuated; and yet the whole train of circumstances is so
     remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this
     series.

     It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds were
     half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and
     re-reading a letter which he had received by the morning post. For
     myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat
     better than cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But the
     paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of
     town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle
     of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
     holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea
     presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie in the
     very centre of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching
     out and running through them, responsive to every little rumor or
     suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature found no place
     among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind
     from the evil-doer of the town to track down his brother of the
     country.

     I cannot be sure of the exact date, for some of my memoranda upon the
     matter have been mislaid, but it must have been towards the end of
     the first year during which Holmes and I shared chambers in Baker
     Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had both remained
     indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken health to face the
     keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of those abstruse
     chemical investigations which absorbed him utterly as long as he was
     engaged upon them. Towards evening, however, the breaking of a
     test-tube brought his research to a premature ending, and he sprang
     up from his chair with an exclamation of impatience and a clouded
     brow.

     "A day's work ruined, Watson," said he, striding across to the
     window. "Ha! The stars are out and he wind has fallen. What do you
     say to a ramble through London?"

     I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For
     three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing
     kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and
     the Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of
     detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and enthralled.
     It was ten o'clock before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham
     was waiting at our door.

     "Hum! A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive," said Holmes.
     "Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come to
     consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!"

     I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to be able to
     follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the
     various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the
     lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data for his swift
     deduction. The light in our window above showed that this late visit
     was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to what could have
     sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into
     our sanctum.

     A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by
     the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than three or
     four and thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of
     a life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth. His
     manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and
     the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was
     that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and
     sombre--a black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about
     his necktie.

     "Good-evening, doctor," said Holmes, cheerily. "I am glad to see that
     you have only been waiting a very few minutes."

     "You spoke to my coachman, then?"

     "No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray resume
     your seat and let me know how I can serve you."

     "My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor, "and I live at
     403 Brook Street."

     "Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?"
     I asked.

     His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was
     known to me.

     "I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead," said
     he. "My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale.
     You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?"

     "A retired army surgeon."

     "My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to make
     it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take what he can
     get at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact is
     that a very singular train of events has occurred recently at my
     house in Brook Street, and to-night they came to such a head that I
     felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another hour before
     asking for your advice and assistance."

     Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. "You are very welcome to
     both," said he. "Pray let me have a detailed account of what the
     circumstances are which have disturbed you."

     "One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr. Trevelyan, "that really
     I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so
     inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate,
     that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what is
     essential and what is not.

     "I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own college
     career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure that
     you will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say
     that my student career was considered by my professors to be a very
     promising one. After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to
     research, occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital, and
     I was fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my research
     into the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce
     Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to
     which your friend has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were
     to say that there was a general impression at that time that a
     distinguished career lay before me.

     "But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As you
     will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to
     start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all
     of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this
     preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some
     years, and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was
     quite beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might
     in ten years' time save enough to enable me to put up my plate.
     Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new
     prospect to me.

     "This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who
     was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one morning, and
     plunged into business in an instant.

     "'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a
     career and won a great prize lately?' said he.

     "I bowed.

     "'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find it to your
     interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a
     successful man. Have you the tact?'

     "I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.

     "'I trust that I have my share,' I said.

     "'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'

     "'Really, sir!' I cried.

     "'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound to ask. With all
     these qualities, why are you not in practice?'

     "I shrugged my shoulders.

     "'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way. 'It's the old story.
     More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say if I
     were to start you in Brook Street?'

     "I stared at him in astonishment.

     "'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried.  'I'll be perfectly
     frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me very well. I have
     a few thousands to invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in
     you.'

     "'But why?' I gasped.

     "'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and safer than most.'

     "'What am I to do, then?'

     "'I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and
     run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out your
     chair in the consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and
     everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what you earn,
     and you keep the other quarter for yourself.'

     "This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man
     Blessington approached me. I won't weary you with the account of how
     we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house
     next Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the same
     conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in
     the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears,
     and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned the two best
     rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for himself.
     He was a man of singular habits, shunning company and very seldom
     going out. His life was irregular, but in one respect he was
     regularity itself. Every evening, at the same hour, he walked into
     the consulting-room, examined the books, put down five and
     three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest
     off to the strong-box in his own room.

     "I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his
     speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and
     the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to
     the front, and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.

     "So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr.
     Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred
     to bring me here to-night.

     "Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to
     me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary
     which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and he appeared,
     I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring
     that a day should not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our
     windows and doors. For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state
     of restlessness, peering continually out of the windows, and ceasing
     to take the short walk which had usually been the prelude to his
     dinner. From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of
     something or somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he
     became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject.
     Gradually, as time passed, his fears appeared to die away, and he had
     renewed his former habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the
     pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies.

     "What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which I
     now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

     "'A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,' it runs, 'would
     be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr. Percy
     Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks,
     on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He
     proposes to call at about quarter past six to-morrow evening, if Dr.
     Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home.'

     "This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in
     the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may
     believe, than, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the
     appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.

     He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and common-place--by no means
     the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more
     struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man,
     surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and
     chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they
     entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would
     hardly have expected from his appearance.

     "'You will excuse my coming in, doctor,' said he to me, speaking
     English with a slight lisp. 'This is my father, and his health is a
     matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.'

     "I was touched by this filial anxiety. 'You would, perhaps, care to
     remain during the consultation?' said I.

     "'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of horror. 'It is more
     painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one
     of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive
     it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With
     your permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into
     my father's case.'

     "To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The
     patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I
     took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and
     his answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his
     limited acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat
     writing, he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on
     my turning towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt
     upright in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid
     face. He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady.

     "My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror.
     My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I
     made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity
     of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly
     abnormal in any of these conditions, which harmonized with my former
     experiences. I had obtained good results in such cases by the
     inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable
     opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my
     laboratory, so leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to
     get it. There was some little delay in finding it--five minutes, let
     us say--and then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room
     empty and the patient gone.

     "Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The son
     had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page
     who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits
     downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring the
     consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a
     complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly
     afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for,
     to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as little
     communication with him as possible.

     "Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian
     and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very same
     hour this evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room,
     just as they had done before.

     "'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt
     departure yesterday, doctor,' said my patient.

     "'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,' said I.

     "'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I recover from these
     attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone
     before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my
     way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.'

     "'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass the door of the
     waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an
     end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the
     true state of affairs.'

     "'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done except that you
     puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
     waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was
     brought to so abrupt an ending.'

     "For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's symptoms
     with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon
     the arm of his son.

     "I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of
     the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed
     upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst
     into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.

     "'Who has been in my room?' he cried.

     "'No one,' said I.

     "'It's a lie!' He yelled. 'Come up and look!'

     "I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out
     of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed to
     several footprints upon the light carpet.

     "'D'you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.

     "They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have
     made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon,
     as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must
     have been the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for
     some unknown reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the
     room of my resident patient. Nothing has been touched or taken, but
     there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an
     undoubted fact.

     "Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should
     have thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb
     anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and
     I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion
     that I should come round to you, and of course I at once saw the
     propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one,
     though he appears to completely overrate its importance. If you would
     only come back with me in my brougham, you would at least be able to
     soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able to explain
     this remarkable occurrence."

     Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an
     intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His
     face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily
     over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe
     to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor's tale. As our
     visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my hat,
     picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the
     door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped at the door of
     the physician's residence in Brook Street, one of those sombre,
     flat-faced houses which one associates with a West-End practice. A
     small page admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad,
     well-carpeted stair.

     But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at
     the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy,
     quivering voice.

     "I have a pistol," it cried. "I give you my word that I'll fire if
     you come any nearer."

     "This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried Dr. Trevelyan.

     "Oh, then it is you, doctor," said the voice, with a great heave of
     relief. "But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to
     be?"

     We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

     "Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last. "You can come up,
     and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you."

     He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a
     singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice,
     testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently
     at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face
     in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of a
     sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the
     intensity of his emotion. In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust
     it into his pocket as we advanced.

     "Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am sure I am very much
     obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more
     than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most
     unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms."

     "Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are these two men Mr. Blessington, and
     why do they wish to molest you?"

     "Well, well," said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion, "of
     course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer
     that, Mr. Holmes."

     "Do you mean that you don't know?"

     "Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in
     here."

     He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
     furnished.

     "You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of
     his bed. "I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes--never made
     but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I
     don't believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes.
     Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can
     understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves
     into my rooms."

     Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his
     head.

     "I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me," said he.

     "But I have told you everything."

     Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. "Good-night, Dr.
     Trevelyan," said he.

     "And no advice for me?" cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

     "My advice to your, sir, is to speak the truth."

     A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had
     crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before I
     could get a word from my companion.

     "Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson," he said at
     last. "It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it."

     "I can make little of it," I confessed.

     "Well, it is quite evident that there are two men--more, perhaps, but
     at least two--who are determined for some reason to get at this
     fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first
     and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's
     room, while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor
     from interfering."

     "And the catalepsy?"

     "A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint
     as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I
     have done it myself."

     "And then?"

     "By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their
     reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was
     obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the
     waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided
     with Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show that they were
     not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they
     had been merely after plunder they would at least have made some
     attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it
     is his own skin that he is frightened for. It is inconceivable that
     this fellow could have made two such vindictive enemies as these
     appear to be without knowing of it. I hold it, therefore, to be
     certain that he does know who these men are, and that for reasons of
     his own he suppresses it. It is just possible that to-morrow may find
     him in a more communicative mood."

     "Is there not one alternative," I suggested, "grotesquely improbably,
     no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the
     cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's,
     who has, for his own purposes, been in Blessington's rooms?"

     I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this
     brilliant departure of mine.

     "My dear fellow," said he, "it was one of the first solutions which
     occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale.
     This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it
     quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the
     room. When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of
     being pointed like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third
     longer than the doctor's, you will acknowledge that there can be no
     doubt as to his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I
     shall be surprised if we do not hear something further from Brook
     Street in the morning."

     Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic
     fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of
     daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

     "There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.

     "What's the matter, then?"

     "The Brook Street business."

     "Any fresh news?"

     "Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the blind.  "Look at
     this--a sheet from a note-book, with 'For God's sake come at once--P.
     T.,' scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard put
     to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an
     urgent call."

     In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician's house.
     He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

     "Oh, such a business!" he cried, with his hands to his temples.

     "What then?"

     "Blessington has committed suicide!"

     Holmes whistled.

     "Yes, he hanged himself during the night."

     We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was
     evidently his waiting-room.

     "I really hardly know what I am doing," he cried. "The police are
     already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully."

     "When did you find it out?"

     "He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When the
     maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging
     in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which
     the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of
     the very box that he showed us yesterday."

     Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

     "With your permission," said he at last, "I should like to go
     upstairs and look into the matter."

     We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

     It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door.
     I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man
     Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated
     and intensified until he was scarce human in his appearance. The neck
     was drawn out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem
     the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his
     long night-dress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded
     starkly from beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking
     police-inspector, who was taking notes in a pocket-book.

     "Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he, heartily, as my friend entered, "I am
     delighted to see you."

     "Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't think me an
     intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to
     this affair?"

     "Yes, I heard something of them."

     "Have you formed any opinion?"

     "As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by
     fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his
     impression deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know,
     that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for
     hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair."

     "I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by the
     rigidity of the muscles," said I.

     "Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked Holmes.

     "Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems
     to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four
     cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace."

     "Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"

     "No, I have seen none."

     "His cigar-case, then?"

     "Yes, it was in his coat-pocket."

     Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

     "Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar
     sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies.
     They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for
     their length than any other brand." He picked up the four ends and
     examined them with his pocket-lens.

     "Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without," said
     he. "Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had
     the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide,
     Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder."

     "Impossible!" cried the inspector.

     "And why?"

     "Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging
     him?"

     "That is what we have to find out."

     "How could they get in?"

     "Through the front door."

     "It was barred in the morning."

     "Then it was barred after them."

     "How do you know?"

     "I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give
     you some further information about it."

     He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his
     methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the inside,
     and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the
     mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined,
     until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and
     that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and laid it
     reverently under a sheet.

     "How about this rope?" he asked.

     "It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from
     under the bed. "He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept this
     beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs
     were burning."

     "That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes, thoughtfully. "Yes,
     the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the
     afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take
     this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as
     it may help me in my inquiries."

     "But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.

     "Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events," said
     Holmes. "There were three of them in it: the young man, the old man,
     and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need
     hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and
     his son, so we can give a very full description of them. They were
     admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a
     word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I
     understand, has only recently come into your service, Doctor."

     "The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan; "the maid and
     the cook have just been searching for him."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "He has played a not unimportant part in this drama," said he. "The
     three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the
     elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the
     rear--"

     "My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.

     "Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the
     footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last
     night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of
     which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they
     forced round the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by the
     scratches on this ward, where the pressure was applied.

     "On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag
     Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so
     paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls
     are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to
     utter one, was unheard.

     "Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some
     sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial
     proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
     these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair; it
     was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder; he
     knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow
     paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but
     of that I cannot be absolutely certain.

     "Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The
     matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with
     them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows.
     That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it
     up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved themselves the
     trouble. Having finished their work they made off, and the door was
     barred behind them by their confederate."

     We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the
     night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and
     minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we could
     scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on
     the instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I
     returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

     "I'll be back by three," said he, when we had finished our meal.
     "Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour,
     and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which
     the case may still present."

     Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to
     four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he
     entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

     "Any news, Inspector?"

     "We have got the boy, sir."

     "Excellent, and I have got the men."

     "You have got them!" we cried, all three.

     "Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington
     is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his
     assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."

     "The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.

     "Precisely," said Holmes.

     "Then Blessington must have been Sutton."

     "Exactly," said Holmes.

     "Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said the inspector.

     But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

     "You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business," said
     Holmes. "Five men were in it--these four and a fifth called
     Cartwright. Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got
     away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five
     arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive.
     This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned
     informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and the other three
     got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was
     some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you
     perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their
     comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third
     time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can
     explain, Dr. Trevelyan?"

     "I think you have made it all remarkable clear," said the doctor. "No
     doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he had seen
     of their release in the newspapers."

     "Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind."

     "But why could he not tell you this?"

     "Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old
     associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as
     long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not
     bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still
     living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt,
     Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to
     guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge."

     Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident
     Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing has been
     seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at
     Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated
     steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all hands
     upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The
     proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the
     Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been
     fully dealt with in any public print.
