"She is there," said Holmes, and he pointed to a high
bookcase in the corner of the room.
I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion
passed over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair.
At the same instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed
swung round upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out into the
room. "You are right!" she cried, in a strange foreign
voice. "You are right! I am here."
She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs
which had come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her
face, too, was streaked with grime, and at the best she
could never have been handsome, for she had the exact
physical characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in
addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural
blindness, and what with the change from dark to light, she
stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see where and who
we were. And yet, in spite of all these disadvantages,
there was a certain nobility in the woman's bearing, a
gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head,
which compelled something of respect and admiration.
Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed
her as his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet
with an overmastering dignity which compelled obedience.
The old man lay back in his chair, with a twitching face,
and stared at her with brooding eyes.
"Yes, sir, I am your prisoner," she said. "From where I
stood I could hear everything, and I know that you have
learned the truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed
the young man. But you are right, you who say it was an
accident. I did not even know that it was a knife which I
held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything from
the table and struck at him to make him let me go. It is
the truth that I tell."
"Madam," said Holmes, "I am sure that it is the truth. I
fear that you are far from well."
She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the
dark dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the
side of the bed; then she resumed.
"I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have
you to know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not
an Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell."
For the first time the old man stirred. "God bless you,
Anna!" he cried. "God bless you!"
She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction.
"Why should you cling so hard to that wretched life of
yours, Sergius?" said she. "It has done harm to many and
good to none -- not even to yourself. However, it is not
for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped before God's
time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed
the threshold of this cursed house. But I must speak or I
shall be too late.
"I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife.
He was fifty and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married.
It was in a city of Russia, a University -- I will not name
the place."
"God bless you, Anna!" murmured the old man again.
"We were reformers -- revolutionists -- Nihilists, you
understand. He and I and many more. Then there came a time
of trouble, a police officer was killed, many were arrested,
evidence was wanted, and in order to save his own life and
to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his own wife and
his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his
confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows and
some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was
not for life. My husband came to England with his
ill-gotten gains, and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing
well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a week
would pass before justice would be done."
The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself
to a cigarette. "I am in your hands, Anna," said he. "You
were always good to me."
"I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said
she. "Among our comrades of the Order there was one who was
the friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving --
all that my husband was not. He hated violence. We were
all guilty -- if that is guilt -- but he was not. He wrote
for ever dissuading us from such a course. These letters
would have saved him. So would my diary, in which from day
to day I had entered both my feelings towards him and the
view which each of us had taken. My husband found and kept
both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to
swear away the young man's life. In this he failed, but
Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this
moment, he works in a salt mine. Think of that, you
villain, you villain; now, now, at this very moment, Alexis,
a man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works and
lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands and
I let you go."
"You were always a noble woman, Anna," said the old man,
puffing at his cigarette.
She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of
pain.
"I must finish," she said. "When my term was over I set
myself to get the diary and letters which, if sent to the
Russian Government, would procure my friend's release. I
knew that my husband had come to England. After months of
searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he still
had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter from
him once reproaching me and quoting some passages from its
pages. Yet I was sure that with his revengeful nature he
would never give it to me of his own free will. I must get
it for myself. With this object I engaged an agent from a
private detective firm, who entered my husband's house as
secretary -- it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one
who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept
in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key. He
would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was
always empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at
last I took my courage in both hands and I came down to get
the papers for myself. I succeeded, but at what a cost!
"I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard
when the young man seized me. I had seen him already that
morning. He had met me in the road and I had asked him to
tell me where Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was
in his employ."
"Exactly! exactly!" said Holmes. "The secretary came back
and told his employer of the woman he had met. Then in his
last breath he tried to send a message that it was she --
the she whom he had just discussed with him."
"You must let me speak," said the woman, in an imperative
voice, and her face co
ntracted as if in pain. "When he had
fallen I rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and
found myself in my husband's room. He spoke of giving me
up. I showed him that if he did so his life was in my
hands. If he gave me to the law I could give him to the
Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my own
sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose.
He knew that I would do what I said -- that his own fate was
involved in mine. For that reason and for no other he
shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place, a
relic of old days, known only to himself. He took his meals
in his own room, and so was able to give me part of his
food. It was agreed that when the police left the house I
should slip away by night and come back no more. But in
some way you have read our plans." She tore from the bosom
of her dress a small packet. "These are my last words,"
said she; "here is the packet which will save Alexis.
I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy.
Now I have done my duty, and ----"
"Stop her!" cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room
and had wrenched a small phial from her hand.
"Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed. "Too late!
I took the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims!
I am going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet."
"A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one,"
Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged
from the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate
chance of the dying man having seized these I am not sure
that we could ever have reached our solution. It was clear
to me from the strength of the glasses that the wearer must
have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them.
When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow
strip of grass without once making a false step I remarked,
as you may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance.
In my mind I set it down as an impossible performance, save
in the unlikely case that she had a second pair of glasses.
I was forced, therefore, to seriously consider the
hypothesis that she had remained within the house. On
perceiving the similarity of the two corridors it became
clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake,
and in that case it was evident that she must have entered
the Professor's room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore,
for whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined
the room narrowly for anything in the shape of a
hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuous and firmly
nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There might
well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such
devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books
were piled on the floor at all other points, but that one
bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I
could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun
colour, which lends itself very well to examination. I
therefore smoked a great number of those excellent
cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in
front of the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but
exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs and I
ascertained, in your presence, Watson, without your quite
perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram's
consumption of food had increased -- as one would expect
when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to
the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I
obtained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to
see quite clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash,
that the prisoner had, in our absence, come out from her
retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I
congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful
conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I think,
Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy."
{------------------------------------}
{---------- End of Text -------------}
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{MISS, Rev 4, 1/17/96 rms, 4th proofing}
{The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter, Arthur Conan Doyle}
{Source: The Strand Magazine, 28 (Aug. 1904)}
{Etext prepared by Roger Squires
[email protected]}
{Braces({}) in the text indicate textual end-notes}
{Underscores (_) in the text indicate italics}
XI. -- The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter.
WE were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams
at Baker Street, but I have a particular recollection
of one which reached us on a gloomy February morning
some seven or eight years ago and gave Mr. Sherlock
Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed
to him, and ran thus:--
"Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing
three-quarter missing; indispensable to morrow. -- OVERTON."
"Strand post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six," said
Holmes, reading it over and over. "Mr. Overton was
evidently considerably excited when he sent it, and
somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he
will be here, I dare say, by the time I have looked
through the _Times_, and then we shall know all about
it. Even the most insignificant problem would be
welcome in these stagnant days."
Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had
learned to dread such periods of inaction, for I knew
by experience that my companion's brain was so
abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it
without material upon which to work. For years I had
gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had
threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I
knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer
craved for this artificial stimulus, but I was well
aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping; and I
have known that the sleep was a light one and the
waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen
the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the
brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes.
Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might
be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to
break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to
my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by
its sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of
Trinity College, Cambridge, announced the arrival of
an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and
muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
shoulders and looked from one of us to the other with
a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
My companion bowed.
"I'v
e been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw
Inspector Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to
you. He said the case, so far as he could see, was
more in your line than in that of the regular police."
"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."
"It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my
hair isn't grey. Godfrey Staunton -- you've heard of
him, of course? He's simply the hinge that the whole
team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the pack and
have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's
passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to
touch him; and then, he's got the head and can hold us
all together. What am I to do? That's what I ask
you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first reserve,
but he is trained as a half, and he always edges right
in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the
touch-line. He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but,
then, he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for
nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers,
could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but
he couldn't drop from the twenty-five line, and a
three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't
worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are
done unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."
My friend had listened with amused surprise to this
long speech, which was poured forth with extraordinary
vigour and earnestness, every point being driven home
by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker's
knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched
out his hand and took down letter "S" of his
commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that
mine of varied information.
"There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young
forger," said he, "and there was Henry Staunton, whom
I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is a new name
to me."
It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.
"Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he.
"I suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey
Staunton you don't know Cyril Overton either?"
Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.
"Great Scot!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first
reserve for England against Wales, and I've skippered
the 'Varsity {1} all this year. But that's nothing!
I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't
know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge,
Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes,
where _have_ you lived?"
Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.
"You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a
sweeter and healthier one. My ramifications stretch
out into many sections of society, but never, I am
happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the best
and soundest thing in England. However, your
unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in
that world of fresh air and fair play there may be
work for me to do; so now, my good sir, I beg you to
sit down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly
what it is that has occurred, and how you desire that
I should help you."
Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the
man who is more accustomed to using his muscles than
his wits; but by degrees, with many repetitions and
obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he
laid his strange story before us.
"It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the
skipper of the Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and
Godfrey Staunton is my best man. To-morrow we play
Oxford. Yesterday we all came up and we settled at
Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round
and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I
believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep
a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before
he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and
bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He said
he was all right -- just a touch of headache. I bade
him good-night and left him. Half an hour later the
porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard