The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from

  America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by

  considering the formidable letters which were received by himself

  and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those

  letters?"

  "The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the

  third from London."

  "From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

  "They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."

  "Excellent. We have already a clew. There can be no doubt that

  the probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was

  on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the

  case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and

  its fulfillment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days.

  Does that suggest anything?"

  "A greater distance to travel."

  "But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

  "Then I do not see the point."

  "There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man

  or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send

  their singular warning or token before them when starting upon

  their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign

  when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a

  steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter.

  But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those

  seven weeks represented the difference between the mailboat which

  brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the

  writer."

  "It is possible."

  "More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly

  urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to

  caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which

  it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one

  comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay."

  "Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless

  persecution?"

  "The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital

  importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think

  that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them.

  A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way

  as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in

  it, and they must have been men of resource and determination.

  Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may.

  In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an

  individual and becomes the badge of a society."

  "But of what society?"

  "Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and

  sinking his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

  "I never have."

  Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it

  is," said he presently:

  "Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to

  the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret

  society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the

  Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local

  branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,

  Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was

  used for political purposes, principally for the terrorizing of

  the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country

  of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually

  preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic

  but generally recognized shape--a sprig of oak-leaves in some

  parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this

  the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might

  fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would

  unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and

  unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organization of the

  society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a

  case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with

  impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the

  perpetrators. For some years the organization flourished in spite

  of the efforts of the United States government and of the better

  classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year

  1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have

  been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.

  "You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that

  the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the

  disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may

  well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his

  family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track.

  You can understand that this register and diary may implicate

  some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many

  who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered."

  "Then the page we have seen--"

  "Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent

  the pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to

  them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or

  left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a

  sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let

  some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only

  chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have

  told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done

  to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for

  half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable

  ways of our fellow-men."

  It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a

  subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the

  great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came

  down.

  "You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I

  foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of

  young Openshaw's."

  "What steps will you take?" I asked.

  "It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries.

  I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

  "You will not go there first?"

  "No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the

  maid will bring up your coffee."

  As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and

  glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a

  chill to my heart.

  "Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

  "Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it

  done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

  "My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy

  Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

  "Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H

  Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and

  a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and

  stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it

  was
quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was

  given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was

  eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman

  whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his

  pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham.

  It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch

  the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and

  the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge

  of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body

  exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that

  the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident,

  which should have the effect of calling the attention of the

  authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages."

  We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and

  shaken than I had ever seen him.

  "That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty

  feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal

  matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my

  hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that

  I should send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair

  and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a

  flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and

  unclasping of his long thin hands.

  "They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could

  they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the

  direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too

  crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson,

  we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"

  "To the police?"

  "No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may

  take the flies, but not before."

  All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in

  the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes

  had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he

  entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,

  and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously,

  washing it down with a long draught of water.

  "You are hungry," I remarked.

  "Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since

  breakfast."

  "Nothing?"

  "Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

  "And how have you succeeded?"

  "Well."

  "You have a clew?"

  "I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not

  long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish

  trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

  "What do you mean?"

  He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he

  squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and

  thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote

  "S. H. for J. 0." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain

  James Calhoun, Bark Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia."

  "That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling.

  "It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a

  precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

  "And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

  "The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

  "How did you trace it, then?"

  He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with

  dates and names.

  "I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers

  and files of the old papers, following the future career of every

  vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in

  '83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were

  reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star,

  instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported

  as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to

  one of the states of the Union."

  "Texas, I think."

  "I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must

  have an American origin."

  "What then?"

  "I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the bark

  Lone Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a

  certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present

  in the port of London."

  "Yes?"

  "The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the

  Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by

  the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired

  to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and

  as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the

  Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."

  "What will you do, then?"

  "Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I

  learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are

  Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away

  from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has

  been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship

  reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and

  the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these

  three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."

  There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans,

  and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the

  orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as

  resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very

  severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for

  news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We

  did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a

  shattered stern-post of the boat was seen swinging in the trough

  of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is

  all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.

  ADVENTURE VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

  Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal

  of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to

  opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some

  foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De

  Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had

  drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the

  same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the

  practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many

  years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of

  mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see

  him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point

  pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble

  man.

  One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell,

  about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the

  clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work

  down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

  "A pa
tient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

  I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

  We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps

  upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in

  some dark-colored stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

  "You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then,

  suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms

  about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in

  such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."

  "Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.

  How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when

  you came in."

  "I didn't know what to do, so l came straight to you." That was

  always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds

  to a light-house.

  "It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine

  and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or

  should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

  "Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about

  Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about

  him!"

  It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her

  husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend

  and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words

  as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it

  possible that we could bring him back to her?

  It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late

  he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the

  farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been

  confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and

  shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him

  eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the

  dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the

  effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar

  of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could

  she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and

  pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

  There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of

  it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second

  thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical

  adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it

  better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would

  send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the

  address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left

  my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding

  eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at

  the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to

  be.

  But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my

  adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the

  high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east

  of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached

  by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the

  mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.

  Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in

  the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the

  light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch

  and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the

  brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the

  forecastle of an emigrant ship.

  Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying

  in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads

  thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a

  dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black

  shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright,