The Return of Sherlock Holmes

  "I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am

  aware of your profession, one of which I by no means

  approve."

  "In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement

  with every criminal in the country," said my friend,

  quietly.

  "So far as your efforts are directed towards the

  suppression of crime, sir, they must have the support

  of every reasonable member of the community, though I

  cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply

  sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is

  more open to criticism is when you pry into the

  secrets of private individuals, when you rake up

  family matters which are better hidden, and when you

  incidentally waste the time of men who are more busy

  than yourself. At the present moment, for example,

  I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing

  with you."

  "No doubt, doctor; and yet the conversation may prove

  more important than the treatise. Incidentally I may

  tell you that we are doing the reverse of what you

  very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring to

  prevent anything like public exposure of private

  matters which must necessarily follow when once the

  case is fairly in the hands of the official police.

  You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer

  who goes in front of the regular forces of the

  country. I have come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey

  Staunton."

  "What about him?"

  "You know him, do you not?"

  "He is an intimate friend of mine."

  "You are aware that he has disappeared?"

  "Ah, indeed!" There was no change of expression in

  the rugged features of the doctor.

  "He left his hotel last night. He has not been heard

  of."

  "No doubt he will return."

  "To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."

  "I have no sympathy with these childish games. The

  young man's fate interests me deeply, since I know him

  and like him. The football match does not come within

  my horizon at all."

  "I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of

  Mr. Staunton's fate. Do you know where he is?"

  "Certainly not."

  "You have not seen him since yesterday?"

  "No, I have not."

  "Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Did you ever know him ill?"

  "Never."

  Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's

  eyes. "Then perhaps you will explain this receipted

  bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey

  Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong of

  Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers upon

  his desk."

  The doctor flushed with anger.

  "I do not feel that there is any reason why I should

  render an explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."

  Holmes replaced the bill in his note-book. "If you

  prefer a public explanation it must come sooner or

  later," said he. "I have already told you that I can

  hush up that which others will be bound to publish,

  and you would really be wiser to take me into your

  complete confidence."

  "I know nothing about it."

  "Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Dear me, dear me; the post-office again!" Holmes

  sighed, wearily. "A most urgent telegram was

  dispatched to you from London by Godfrey Staunton at

  six-fifteen yesterday evening -- a telegram which is

  undoubtedly associated with his disappearance -- and

  yet you have not had it. It is most culpable.

  I shall certainly go down to the office here and

  register a complaint."

  Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk,

  and his dark face was crimson with fury.

  "I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir," said

  he. "You can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James,

  that I do not wish to have anything to do either with

  him or with his agents. No, sir, not another word!"

  He rang the bell furiously. "John, show these

  gentlemen out!" A pompous butler ushered us severely

  to the door, and we found ourselves in the street.

  Holmes burst out laughing.

  "Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and

  character," said he. "I have not seen a man who, if

  he turned his talents that way, was more calculated to

  fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty. And

  now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and

  friendless in this inhospitable town, which we cannot

  leave without abandoning our case. This little inn

  just opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted

  to our needs. If you would engage a front room and

  purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have

  time to make a few inquiries."

  These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more

  lengthy proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he

  did not return to the inn until nearly nine o'clock.

  He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and

  exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was

  ready upon the table, and when his needs were

  satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take

  that half comic and wholly philosophic view which was

  natural to him when his affairs were going awry. The

  sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and glance

  out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys under

  the glare of a gas-lamp stood before the doctor's

  door.

  "It's been out three hours," said Holmes; "started at

  half-past six, and here it is back again. That gives

  a radius of ten or twelve miles, and he does it once,

  or sometimes twice, a day."

  "No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."

  "But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice.

  He is a lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care

  for general practice, which distracts him from his

  literary work. Why, then, does he make these long

  journeys, which must be exceedingly irksome to him,

  and who is it that he visits?"

  "His coachman ----"

  "My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that

  I first applied? I do not know whether it came from

  his own innate depravity or from the promptings of his

  master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me.

  Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick,

  however, and the matter fell through. Relations were

  strained after that, and further inquiries out of the

  question. All that I have learned I got from a

  friendly native in the yard of our own inn. It was he

  who told me of the doctor's habits and of his daily

  journey. At that instant, to give point to his words,

  the carriage came round to the door."

  "Could you not follow it?"

  "Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this

  evening. The idea did cross my mind. There is, as

  you may have obse
rved, a bicycle shop next to our inn.

  Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to

  get started before the carriage was quite out of

  sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a

  discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed

  its lights until we were clear of the town. We had

  got well out on the country road when a somewhat

  mortifying incident occurred. The carriage stopped,

  the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I

  had also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic

  fashion that he feared the road was narrow, and that

  he hoped his carriage did not impede the passage of my

  bicycle. Nothing could have been more admirable than

  his way of putting it. I at once rode past the

  carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for

  a few miles, and then halted in a convenient place to

  see if the carriage passed. There was no sign of it,

  however, and so it became evident that it had turned

  down one of several side roads which I had observed.

  I rode back, but again saw nothing of the carriage,

  and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me.

  Of course, I had at the outset no particular reason to

  connect these journeys with the disappearance of

  Godfrey Staunton, and was only inclined to investigate

  them on the general grounds that everything which

  concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to

  us; but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out

  upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions,

  the affair appears more important, and I shall not be

  satisfied until I have made the matter clear."

  "We can follow him to-morrow."

  "Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You

  are not familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you?

  It does not lend itself to concealment. All this

  country that I passed over to-night is as flat and

  clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are

  following is no fool, as he very clearly showed

  to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any

  fresh London developments at this address, and in the

  meantime we can only concentrate our attention upon

  Dr. Armstrong, whose name the obliging young lady at

  the office allowed me to read upon the counterfoil of

  Staunton's urgent message. He knows where the young

  man is -- to that I'll swear -- and if he knows, then

  it must be our own fault if we cannot manage to know

  also. At present it must be admitted that the odd

  trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware,

  Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in that

  condition."

  And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the

  solution of the mystery. A note was handed in after

  breakfast, which Holmes passed across to me with a smile.

  "Sir," it ran, "I can assure you that you are wasting

  your time in dogging my movements. I have, as you

  discovered last night, a window at the back of my

  brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which

  will lead you to the spot from which you started, you

  have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you

  that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey

  Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service you

  can do to that gentleman is to return at once to

  London and to report to your employer that you are

  unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge will

  certainly be wasted.

  "Yours faithfully,

  "LESLIE ARMSTRONG."

  "An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor," said

  Holmes. "Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I

  must really know more before I leave him."

  "His carriage is at his door now," said I. "There he

  is stepping into it. I saw him glance up at our

  window as he did so. Suppose I try my luck upon the

  bicycle?"

  "No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your

  natural acumen I do not think that you are quite a

  match for the worthy doctor. I think that possibly I

  can attain our end by some independent explorations of

  my own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own

  devices, as the appearance of _two_ inquiring

  strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more

  gossip than I care for. No doubt you will find some

  sights to amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope

  to bring back a more favourable report to you before

  evening."

  Once more, however, my friend was destined to be

  disappointed. He came back at night weary and

  unsuccessful.

  "I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the

  doctor's general direction, I spent the day in

  visiting all the villages upon that side of Cambridge,

  and comparing notes with publicans and other local

  news agencies. I have covered some ground:

  Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have

  each been explored and have each proved disappointing.

  The daily appearance of a brougham and pair could

  hardly have been overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows.

  The doctor has scored once more. Is there a telegram

  for me?"

  "Yes; I opened it. Here it is: 'Ask for Pompey from

  Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.' I don't understand

  it."

  "Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend

  Overton, and is in answer to a question from me.

  I'll just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon,

  and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.

  By the way, is there any news of the match?"

  "Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account

  in its last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two

  tries. The last sentences of the description say:

  'The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely

  attributed to the unfortunate absence of the crack

  International, Godfrey Staunton, whose want was felt

  at every instant of the game. The lack of combination

  in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in

  attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts

  of a heavy and hard-working pack.'"

  "Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been

  justified," said Holmes. "Personally I am in

  agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football does not

  come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,

  Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an

  eventful day."

  I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next

  morning, for he sat by the fire holding his tiny

  hypodermic syringe. I associated that instrument with

  the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the

  worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He

  laughed at my expression of dismay, and laid it upon

  the table.

  "No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm.

  It is not upon this occasion the instrument of evil,

  but it will rather prove to be the key
which will

  unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my

  hopes. I have just returned from a small scouting

  expedition and everything is favourable. Eat a good

  breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr.

  Armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it I will not

  stop for rest or food until I run him to his burrow."

  "In that case," said I, "we had best carry our

  breakfast with us, for he is making an early start.

  His carriage is at the door."

  "Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can

  drive where I cannot follow him. When you have

  finished come downstairs with me, and I will introduce

  you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in

  the work that lies before us."

  When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable

  yard, where he opened the door of a loose-box and led

  out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something

  between a beagle and a foxhound.

  "Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he. "Pompey is

  the pride of the local draghounds, no very great

  flier, as his build will show, but a staunch hound on

  a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but I

  expect you will be too fast for a couple of

  middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the

  liberty of fastening this leather leash to your

  collar. Now, boy, come along, and show what you can

  do." He led him across to the doctor's door. The dog

  sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill

  whine of excitement started off down the street,

  tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In

  half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening

  down a country road.

  "What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.

  "A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon

  occasion. I walked into the doctor's yard this

  morning and shot my syringe full of aniseed over the

  hind wheel. A draghound will follow aniseed from here

  to John o' Groat's, and our friend Armstrong would

  have to drive through the Cam before he would shake

  Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This

  is how he gave me the slip the other night."

  The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into

  a grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened

  into another broad road, and the trail turned hard to

  the right in the direction of the town, which we had

  just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of

  the town and continued in the opposite direction to

  that in which we started.

  "This _detour_ {2} has been entirely for our benefit,

  then?" said Holmes. "No wonder that my inquiries

  among those villages led to nothing. The doctor has

  certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one

  would like to know the reason for such elaborate

  deception. This should be the village of Trumpington

  to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the

  brougham coming round the corner. Quick, Watson,

  quick, or we are done!"

  He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the

  reluctant Pompey after him. We had hardly got under

  the shelter of the hedge when the carriage rattled

  past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his

  shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very

  image of distress. I could tell by my companion's

  graver face that he also had seen.

  "I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said

  he. "It cannot be long before we know it. Come,

  Pompey! Ah, it is the cottage in the field!"

  There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of

  our journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly

  outside the gate where the marks of the brougham's

  wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across

  to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the

  hedge, and we hastened onwards. My friend knocked at

  the little rustic door, and knocked again without

  response. And yet the cottage was not deserted,

  for a low sound came to our ears -- a kind of drone

  of misery and despair, which was indescribably

  melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he

  glanced back at the road which we had just traversed.

  A brougham was coming down it, and there could be no

  mistaking those grey horses.

  "By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes.