"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side of
the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of man can invent. We would
not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces
of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand,
hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at
the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the
plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events,
working through generations, and leading to the most outre results,
it would make all fiction, with its conventionalities and foreseen
conclusions, most stale and unprofitable."
"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which
come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar
enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its
extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,
neither fascinating nor artistic."
"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police
report, where more stress is laid perhaps upon the platitudes of
the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain
the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is
nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."
I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking
so," I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser
and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three
continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and
bizarre. But here,"—I picked up the morning paper from the
ground—"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first
heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.'
There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that
it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other
woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the unsympathetic
sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing
more crude."
"Indeed your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said
Holmes, taking the paper, and glancing his eye down it. "This is
the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in
clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband
was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct
complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up
every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his
wife, which you will allow is not an action likely to occur to the
imagination of the average story teller. Take a pinch of snuff,
doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your
example."
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the
center of the lid. Its splendor was in such contrast to his homely
ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.
"Ah!" said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks.
It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia, in return for my
assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."
"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.
"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of
my little problems."
"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.
"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any features of
interest. They are important, you understand, without being
interesting. Indeed I have found that it is usually in unimportant
matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the
quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an
investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for
the bigger the crime, the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive.
In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been
referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any
features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have
something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one
of my clients, or I am much mistaken."
He had risen from his chair, and was standing between the parted
blinds, gazing down into the dull, neutral-tinted London street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite
there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and
a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted
in a coquettish Duchess-of-Devonshire fashion over her ear.
From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,
hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated
backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove
buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the
bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of
the bell.
"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his
cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always
means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure
that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet
even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously
wronged by a man, she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom
is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love
matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed or
grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."
As he spoke, there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons
entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself
loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchantman
behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the
easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and having closed the
door, and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the
minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.
"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a
little trying to do so much typewriting?"
"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters
are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full purport of
his words, she gave a violent start, and looked up with fear and
astonishment upon her broad, good-humored face. "You've heard
about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know all
that?"
"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing, "it is my business to know
things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook.
If not, why should you come to consult me?"
"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege,
whose husband you found so easily when the police and everyone had
given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much
for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own
right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would
give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."
"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked
Sherlock Holmes, with his finger tips together, and his eyes to the
ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss
Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said,
"for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank—
that is, my father—took it all. He would not go to the police,
and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing,
and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and
I just on with my things and came right away to you."
"Your father?" said Holmes. "Your stepfather, surely, since the
name is different."
"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny,
too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself."
"And your mother is alive?"
"Oh, yes; mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.
Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a
man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was
a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business
behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman;
but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he
was very superior, being a traveler in wines. They got four
thousand seven hundred for the good-will and interest, which wasn't
near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling
and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had
listened with the greatest concentration of attention.
"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the
business?"
"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate, and was left me by my Uncle
Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying four and half
per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I
can only touch the interest."
"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so
large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the
bargain, you no doubt travel a little, and indulge yourself in
every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely
upon an income of about sixty pounds."
"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you
understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a
burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I
am staying with them. Of course that is only just for the time.
Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter, and pays it over to
mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at
typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do
from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."
"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. "This
is my friend, Doctor Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as
before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with
Mr. Hosmer Angel."
A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously
at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the gasfitters'
ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he was
alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to
mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us
to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to
join a Sunday School treat. But this time I was set on going, and
I would go, for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk
were not fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to be
there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my
purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer.
At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the
business of the firm; but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy,
who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer
Angel."
"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from
France, he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball?"
"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything
to a woman, for she would have her way."
"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel?"
"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if
we had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to
say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father
came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house
any more."
"No?"
"Well, you know, father didn't like anything of the sort. He
wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say
that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then,
as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin
with, and I had not got mine yet."
"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see
you?"
"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer
wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each
other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he
used to write every day. I took the letters in the morning, so
there was no need for father to know."
"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we
took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall
Street—and—"
"What office?"
"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes; I don't know."
"Where did he live, then?"
"He slept on the premises."
"And you don't know his address?"
"No—except that it was Leadenhall Street."
"Where did you address your letters, then?"
"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for.
He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by
all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered
to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for
he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but
when they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come
between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr.
Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."
"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom
of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.
Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"
"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me
in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to
be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his
voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he
was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat and a
hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well
dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine
are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."
"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,
returned to France?"
"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again, and proposed that we
should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest,
and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever
happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite
right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion.
Mother was all in his favor from the first, and was even fonder of
him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the
week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind
about father, but just to tell him afterwards and mother said she
would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr.
Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was
only a few years older than me; but I didn't want to do anything on
the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has
its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the very
morning of the wedding."
"It missed him, then?"
"Yes, sir, for he had started to England just before it arrived."
"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for
the Friday. Was it to be in church?"
"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near
King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.
Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were
two of us, he put us both into it, and stepped himself into a four-
wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We
got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we
waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman
got down from the box and looked, there was no one there! The
cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for
he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday,
Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to
throw any light upon what became of him."
"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said
Holmes.
"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all
the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to
be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to
separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him,
and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed
strange talk for a wedding morning, but what has happened since
gives a meaning to it."
"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some
unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"
"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would
not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw
happened."
"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"
"None."
"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"
"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter
again."
"And your father? Did you tell him?"
"Yes, and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened,
and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest
could anyone have in bringing me to the door of the church, and
then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had
married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some
reason; but Hosmer was very independent about money, and never
would look at a shilling of mine. And yet what could have
happened? And why could he not write? Oh! it drives me half mad
to think of, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She pulled a
little handkerchief out of her muff, and began to sob heavily into
it.
"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and I
have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the
weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind
dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel
vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."
"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"
"I fear not."
"Then what has happened to him?"
"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an
accurate description of him, and any letters of his which you can
spare."
"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she.
"Here is the slip, and here are four letters from him."
"Thank you. And your address?"
"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."
"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your
father's place of business?"
"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of
Fenchurch Street."
"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will
leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given
you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it
to affect your life."
"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be
true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was
something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled
our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table,
and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might
be summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger tips
still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and
his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from
the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a
counselor, and, having lighted it, he leaned back in his chair,
with thick blue cloud wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of
infinite languor in his face.
"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found
her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is
rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult
my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort at
The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one
or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was
most instructive."
"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite
invisible to me," I remarked.
"Not invisible, but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to
look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring
you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of
thumb nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot lace.
Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe
it."
"Well, she had a slate-colored, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads
sewed upon it and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her
dress was brown, rather darker than coffee color, with a little
purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were grayish, and
were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't
observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general
air of being fairly well-to-do, in a vulgar, comfortable, easygoing
way."
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.
"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you
have a quick eye for color. Never trust to general impressions, my
boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is
always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to
take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush
upon her sleeve, which is a most useful material for showing
traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the
typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined.
The sewing machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but
only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the
thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this
was. I then glanced at her face, and observing the dint of a
pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon
short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her."
"It surprised me."
"But, surely, it was very obvious. I was then much surprised and
interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which
she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd
ones, the one having a slightly decorated toe cap and the other a
plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of
five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you
see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from
home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say
that she came away in a hurry."
"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my
friend's incisive reasoning.
"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving
home, but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right
glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not, apparently, see
that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had
written in a hurry, and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been
this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger.
All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back
to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised
description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"
I held the little printed slip to the light. "Missing," it said,
"on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel.
About five feet seven inches in height; strongly built, sallow
complexion, black hair, a little bald in the center, bushy black
side-whiskers and mustache; tinted glasses; slight infirmity of
speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced
with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray Harris
tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known
to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody
bringing," etc., etc.
"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued,
glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clew
in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is
one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you."
"They are typewritten," I remarked.
"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat
little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but
no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague.
The point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may
call it conclusive."
"Of what?"
"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it
bears upon the case?"
"I cannot say that I do, unless it were that he wished to be able
to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were
instituted."
"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters
which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the
other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him
whether he could meet us here at six o'clock to-morrow evening. It
is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives.
And now, doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those
letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for
the interim."
I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers
of reasoning, and extraordinary energy in action, that I felt that
he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanor
with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been called
upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of
the King of Bohemia and the Irene Adler photograph, but when I
looked back to the weird business of the "Sign of the Four," and
the extraordinary circumstances connected with the "Study in
Scarlet," I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he
could not unravel.
I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find
that he held in his hands all the clews which would lead up to the
identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention
at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of
the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found
myself free, and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to
Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the
denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone,
however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the
recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-
tubes, with the pungent, cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told
me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear
to him.
"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.
"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."
"No, no; the mystery!" I cried.
"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon.
There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said
yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback
is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."
"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
Sutherland?"
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet
opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the
passage, and a tap at the door.
"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes.
"He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come
in!"
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty
years of age, clean shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland,
insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating
gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his
shiny top hat upon the sideboard, and, with a slight bow, sidled
down into the nearest chair.
"Good evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think this
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment
with me for six o'clock?"
"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite
my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has
troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better
not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my
wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl,
as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she
has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so
much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is
not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad.
Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find
this Hosmer Angel?"
"On the contrary," said Holmes, quietly, "I have every reason to
believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start, and dropped his gloves. "I am
delighted to hear it," he said.
"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has
really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless
they are quite new no two of them write exactly alike. Some
letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side.
Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every
case there is some little slurring over the e, and a slight defect
in the tail of the r. There are fourteen other characteristics,
but those are the more obvious."
"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and
no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing
keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.
"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study,
Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another
little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its
relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some
little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come
from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not
only are the e's slurred and the r's tailless, but you will
observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen
other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."
Mr. Windibank sprung out of his chair, and picked up his hat. "I
cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he
said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when
you have done it."
"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the
door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"
"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips,
and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.
"Oh, it won't do—really it won't," said Holmes, suavely. "There
is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too
transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it
was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right!
Sit down, and let us talk it over."
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face, and a
glitter of moisture on his brow. "It—it's not actionable," he
stammered.
"I am very much afraid that it is not; but between ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel, and selfish, and heartless a trick in a
petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the
course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up
on the corner of the mantelpiece, and, leaning back with his hands
in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed,
than to us.
"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her
money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the
daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable
sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have
made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it.
The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate
and warmhearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her
fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be
allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean, of
course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her stepfather
do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at
home, and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own
age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She
became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her
positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her
clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to
his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of
his wife, he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted
glasses, masked the face with a mustache and a pair of bushy
whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and
doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears as
Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love
himself."
"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never
thought that she would have been so carried away."
"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
decidedly carried away, and having quite made up her mind that her
stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an
instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed
admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was
obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as if would go, if
a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from
turning toward anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up
forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous.
The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such
a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon
the young lady's mind, and prevent her from looking upon any other
suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted
upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of
something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James
Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel,
and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any
rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the church
door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he
conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one
door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that that was
the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"
Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes
had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer
upon his pale face.
"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he; "but if you are
so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you
who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing
actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked
you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal
constraint."
"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking and
throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he
ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued,
flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face,
"it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting
crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to—" He took
two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was
a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door
banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank
running at the top of his speed down the road.
"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing as he
threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will
rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad and ends
on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely
devoid of interest."
"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I
remarked.
"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer
Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it
was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the
incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the
fact that the two men were never together, but that the one always
appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the
tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a
disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all
confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature,
which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to
her that she would recognize even the smallest sample of it. You
see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all
pointed in the same direction."
"And how did you verify them?"
"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I
knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description, I eliminated everything from it which could be the
result of a disguise,—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice,—and I
sent it to the firm with a request that they would inform me
whether it answered to the description of any of their travelers.
I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I
wrote to the man himself at his business address, asking him if he
would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten, and
revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same
post brought me a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch
Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect with
that of their employee, James Windibank. Voila tout!"
"And Miss Sutherland?"
"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub,
and danger also for whoso snatcheth a delusion from a woman.'
There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge
of the world."