'Fire!'? Now, then; one, two, three ----"
"Fire!" we all yelled.
"Thank you. I will trouble you once again."
"Fire!"
"Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."
"Fire!" The shout must have rung over Norwood.
It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened.
A door suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid
wall at the end of the corridor, and a little, wizened man
darted out of it, like a rabbit out of its burrow.
"Capital!" said Holmes, calmly. "Watson, a bucket of water
over the straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to
present you with your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas
Oldacre."
The detective stared at the new-comer with blank amazement.
The latter was blinking in the bright light of the
corridor, and peering at us and at the smouldering fire.
It was an odious face -- crafty, vicious, malignant, with
shifty, light-grey eyes and white eyelashes.
"What's this, then?" said Lestrade at last. "What have you
been doing all this time, eh?"
Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the
furious red face of the angry detective.
"I have done no harm."
"No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man
hanged. If it wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not
sure that you would not have succeeded."
The wretched creature began to whimper.
"I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."
"Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your
side, I promise you. Take him down and keep him in the
sitting-room until I come. Mr. Holmes," he continued, when
they had gone, "I could not speak before the constables,
but I don't mind saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson,
that this is the brightest thing that you have done yet,
though it is a mystery to me how you did it. You have
saved an innocent man's life, and you have prevented a very
grave scandal, which would have ruined my reputation in the
Force."
Holmes smiled and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.
"Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that
your reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a
few alterations in that report which you were writing, and
they will understand how hard it is to throw dust in the
eyes of Inspector Lestrade."
"And you don't want your name to appear?"
"Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall
get the credit also at some distant day when I permit my
zealous historian to lay out his foolscap once more -- eh,
Watson? Well, now, let us see where this rat has been
lurking."
A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the
passage six feet from the end, with a door cunningly
concealed in it. It was lit within by slits under the
eaves. A few articles of furniture and a supply of food
and water were within, together with a number of books and
papers.
"There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes,
as we came out. "He was able to fix up his own little
hiding-place without any confederate -- save, of course,
that precious housekeeper of his, whom I should lose no
time in adding to your bag, Lestrade."
"I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this
place, Mr. Holmes?"
"I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the
house. When I paced one corridor and found it six feet
shorter than the corresponding one below, it was pretty
clear where he was. I thought he had not the nerve to lie
quiet before an alarm of fire. We could, of course, have
gone in and taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal
himself; besides, I owed you a little mystification,
Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning."
"Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how
in the world did you know that he was in the house at all?"
"The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so
it was, in a very different sense. I knew it had not been
there the day before. I pay a good deal of attention to
matters of detail, as you may have observed, and I had
examined the hall and was sure that the wall was clear.
Therefore, it had been put on during the night."
"But how?"
"Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas
Oldacre got McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting
his thumb upon the soft wax. It would be done so quickly
and so naturally that I dare say the young man himself has
no recollection of it. Very likely it just so happened,
and Oldacre had himself no notion of the use he would put
it to. Brooding over the case in that den of his, it
suddenly struck him what absolutely damning evidence he
could make against McFarlane by using that thumb-mark. It
was the simplest thing in the world for him to take a wax
impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much blood as
he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon the
wall during the night, either with his own hand or with
that of his housekeeper. If you examine among those
documents which he took with him into his retreat I will
lay you a wager that you find the seal with the thumb-mark
upon it."
"Wonderful!" said Lestrade. "Wonderful! It's all as clear
as crystal, as you put it. But what is the object of this
deep deception, Mr. Holmes?"
It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing
manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking
questions of its teacher.
"Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very
deep, malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is
now awaiting us downstairs. You know that he was once
refused by McFarlane's mother? You don't! I told you that
you should go to Blackheath first and Norwood afterwards.
Well, this injury, as he would consider it, has rankled in
his wicked, scheming brain, and all his life he has longed
for vengeance, but never seen his chance. During the last
year or two things have gone against him -- secret
speculation, I think -- and he finds himself in a bad way.
He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this
purpose he pays large cheques to a certain Mr. Cornelius,
who is, I imagine, himself under another name. I have not
traced these cheques yet, but I have no doubt that they
were banked under that name at some provincial town where
Oldacre from time to time led a double existence. He
intended to change his name altogether, draw this money,
and vanish, starting life again elsewhere."
"Well, that's likely enough."
"It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw
all pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an
ample and crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he
could give the impression that he had been murdered by her
&nbs
p; only child. It was a masterpiece of villainy, and he
carried it out like a master. The idea of the will, which
would give an obvious motive for the crime, the secret
visit unknown to his own parents, the retention of the
stick, the blood, and the animal remains and buttons in the
wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from which it
seemed to me a few hours ago that there was no possible
escape. But he had not that supreme gift of the artist,
the knowledge of when to stop. He wished to improve that
which was already perfect -- to draw the rope tighter yet
round the neck of his unfortunate victim -- and so he
ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There are just one
or two questions that I would ask him."
The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour with a
policeman upon each side of him.
"It was a joke, my good sir, a practical joke, nothing
more," he whined incessantly. "I assure you, sir, that I
simply concealed myself in order to see the effect of my
disappearance, and I am sure that you would not be so
unjust as to imagine that I would have allowed any harm to
befall poor young Mr. McFarlane."
"That's for a jury to decide," said Lestrade. "Anyhow, we
shall have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for
attempted murder."
"And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound
the banking account of Mr. Cornelius," said Holmes.
The little man started and turned his malignant eyes upon
my friend.
"I have to thank you for a good deal," said he. "Perhaps
I'll pay my debt some day."
Holmes smiled indulgently.
"I fancy that for some few years you will find your time
very fully occupied," said he. "By the way, what was it
you put into the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A
dead dog, or rabbits, or what? You won't tell? Dear me,
how very unkind of you! Well, well, I dare say that a
couple of rabbits would account both for the blood and for
the charred ashes. If ever you write an account, Watson,
you can make rabbits serve your turn."
{--------------------------------------------------------}
{----------------- End of Text --------------------------}
{--------------------------------------------------------}
{---------------- Textual Notes -------------------------}
{Source: The Strand Magazine 26 (Nov. 1903)}
{1} {the entire newspaper article is in a smaller type-face,}
{while the letters "ATER" in "LATER" are in small caps}
{2} {Lestrade's telegram is in small caps}
{--------------------------------------------------------}
{-------------- End Textual Notes -----------------------}
{--------------------------------------------------------}
{DANC, Rev 4, 1/17/96 rms, 3rd proofing}
{The Adventure of the Dancing Men, Arthur Conan Doyle}
{Source: The Strand Magazine, 26 (Dec. 1903)}
{Etext prepared by Roger Squires
[email protected]}
{Braces({}) in the text indicate textual end-notes}
{Underscores (_) in the text indicate italics}
III. -- The Adventure of the Dancing Men.
HOLMES had been seated for some hours in silence with his
long, thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he
was brewing a particularly malodorous product. His head
was sunk upon his breast, and he looked from my point of
view like a strange, lank bird, with dull grey plumage and
a black top-knot.
"So, Watson," said he, suddenly, "you do not propose to
invest in South African securities?"
I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to
Holmes's curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my
most intimate thoughts was utterly inexplicable.
"How on earth do you know that?" I asked.
He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube
in his hand and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.
"Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback," said
he.
"I am."
"I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect."
"Why?"
"Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so
absurdly simple."
"I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind."
"You see, my dear Watson" -- he propped his test-tube in
the rack and began to lecture with the air of a professor
addressing his class -- "it is not really difficult to
construct a series of inferences, each dependent upon its
predecessor and each simple in itself. If, after doing so,
one simply knocks out all the central inferences and
presents one's audience with the starting-point and the
conclusion, one may produce a startling, though possibly a
meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really difficult, by
an inspection of the groove between your left forefinger
and thumb, to feel sure that you did _not_ propose to
invest your small capital in the goldfields."
"I see no connection."
"Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close
connection. Here are the missing links of the very simple
chain: 1. You had chalk between your left finger and thumb
when you returned from the club last night. 2. You put
chalk there when you play billiards to steady the cue. 3.
You never play billiards except with Thurston. 4. You told
me four weeks ago that Thurston had an option on some South
African property which would expire in a month, and which
he desired you to share with him. 5. Your cheque-book is
locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key.
6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner."
"How absurdly simple!" I cried.
"Quite so!" said he, a little nettled. "Every problem
becomes very childish when once it is explained to you.
Here is an unexplained one. See what you can make of that,
friend Watson." He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table
and turned once more to his chemical analysis.
I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon
the paper.
"Why, Holmes, it is a child's drawing," I cried.
"Oh, that's your idea!"
"What else should it be?"
"That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor,
Norfolk, is very anxious to know. This little conundrum
came by the first post, and he was to follow by the next
train. There's a ring at the bell, Watson. I should not
be very much surprised if this were he."
A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant
later there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman,
whose clear eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far
from the fogs of Baker Street. He seemed to bring a whiff
of his strong, fresh, bracing, east-coast air with him as
he entered. Having shaken hands with each of us, he was
about to sit down when his eye rested upon the paper with
the curious markings, which I had just examined and left
upon the table.
&n
bsp; "Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?" he cried.
"They told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I
don't think you can find a queerer one than that. I sent
the paper on ahead so that you might have time to study it
before I came."
"It is certainly rather a curious production," said Holmes.
"At first sight it would appear to be some childish prank.
It consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing
across the paper upon which they are drawn. Why should you
attribute any importance to so grotesque an object?"
"I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is
frightening her to death. She says nothing, but I can see
terror in her eyes. That's why I want to sift the matter
to the bottom."
Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full
upon it. It was a page torn from a note-book. The
markings were done in pencil, and ran in this way:--
{GRAPHIC}
Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it
carefully up, he placed it in his pocket-book.
"This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,"
said he. "You gave me a few particulars in your letter,
Mr. Hilton Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you
would kindly go over it all again for the benefit of my
friend, Dr. Watson."
"I'm not much of a story-teller," said our visitor,
nervously clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands.
"You'll just ask me anything that I don't make clear. I'll
begin at the time of my marriage last year; but I want to
say first of all that, though I'm not a rich man, my people
have been at Ridling Thorpe for a matter of five centuries,
and there is no better known family in the County of
Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the Jubilee,
and I stopped at a boarding-house in Russell Square,
because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it.
There was an American young lady there -- Patrick was the
name -- Elsie Patrick. In some way we became friends,
until before my month was up I was as much in love as a man
could be. We were quietly married at a registry office,
and we returned to Norfolk a wedded couple. You'll think
it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a good old family
should marry a wife in this fashion, knowing nothing of her
past or of her people; but if you saw her and knew her it
would help you to understand.
"She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can't say
that she did not give me every chance of getting out of it
if I wished to do so. 'I have had some very disagreeable
associations in my life,' said she; 'I wish to forget all
about them. I would rather never allude to the past, for
it is very painful to me. If you take me, Hilton, you will
take a woman who has nothing that she need be personally
ashamed of; but you will have to be content with my word
for it, and to allow me to be silent as to all that passed
up to the time when I became yours. If these conditions
are too hard, then go back to Norfolk and leave me to the
lonely life in which you found me.' It was only the day
before our wedding that she said those very words to me. I
told her that I was content to take her on her own terms,
and I have been as good as my word.
"Well, we have been married now for a year, and very happy
we have been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I
saw for the first time signs of trouble. One day my wife
received a letter from America. I saw the American stamp.
She turned deadly white, read the letter, and threw it into
the fire. She made no allusion to it afterwards, and I
made none, for a promise is a promise; but she has never
known an easy hour from that moment. There is always a
look of fear upon her face -- a look as if she were waiting
and expecting. She would do better to trust me. She would
find that I was her best friend. But until she speaks I