The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I cried out that it

  was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed

  from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making

  my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to

  attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had

  come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to

  wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all."

  "And now?" I asked.

  "Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King

  to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be

  shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady; but it is

  probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the

  photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain

  it with his own hands."

  "And when will you call?"

  "At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall

  have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage

  may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to

  the King without delay."

  We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was

  searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

  "Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

  There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the

  greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had

  hurried by.

  "I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the

  dimly lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have

  been."

  III.

  I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our

  toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed

  into the room.

  "You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by

  either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

  "Not yet."

  "But you have hopes?"

  "I have hopes."

  "Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

  "We must have a cab."

  "No, my brougham is waiting."

  "Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off

  once more for Briony Lodge.

  "Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

  "Married! When?"

  "Yesterday."

  "But to whom?"

  "To an English lawyer named Norton."

  "But she could not love him."

  "I am in hopes that she does."

  "And why in hopes?"

  "Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future

  annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your

  Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason

  why she should interfere with your Majesty's plan."

  "It is true. And yet--Well! I wish she had been of my own

  station! What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a

  moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in

  Serpentine Avenue.

  The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood

  upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped

  from the brougham.

  "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

  "I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a

  questioning and rather startled gaze.

  "Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She

  left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing

  Cross for the Continent."

  "What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and

  surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"

  "Never to return."

  "And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."

  "We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the

  drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was

  scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and

  open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before

  her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small

  sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a

  photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler

  herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to

  "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for." My friend

  tore it open and we all three read it together. It was dated at

  midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:

  MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--You really did it very well. You

  took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a

  suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I

  began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had

  been told that if the King employed an agent it would certainly

  be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this,

  you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became

  suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind

  old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress

  myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage

  of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to

  watch you, ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call

  them, and came down just as you departed.

  Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was

  really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock

  Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and

  started for the Temple to see my husband. We both thought the

  best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an

  antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call

  to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I

  love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what

  he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I

  keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which

  will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the

  future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and

  I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

  Very truly yours,

  IRENE NORTON, nee ADLER.

  "What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when

  we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick

  and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen?

  Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?"

  "From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a

  very different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am

  sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business

  to a more successful conclusion."

  "On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be

  more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The

  photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire."

  "I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

  "I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can

  reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from

  his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

  "Your Majesty has something which I should value even more

  highly," said Holmes.

  "You have but to name it."

  "This photograph!"

>   The King stared at him in amazement.

  "Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."

  "I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the

  matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning." He

  bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the

  King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his

  chambers.

  And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom

  of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were

  beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the

  cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And

  when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her

  photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman.

  ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

  I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the

  autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a

  very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.

  With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when

  Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door

  behind me.

  "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear

  Watson," he said cordially.

  "I was afraid that you were engaged."

  "So I am. Very much so."

  "Then I can wait in the next room."

  "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and

  helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no

  doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

  The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of

  greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small

  fat-encircled eyes.

  "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and

  putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in

  judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love

  of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum

  routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by

  the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you

  will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own

  little adventures."

  "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I

  observed.

  "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we

  went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary

  Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary

  combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more

  daring than any effort of the imagination."

  "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

  "You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my

  view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you

  until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to

  be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call

  upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to

  be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some

  time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique

  things are very often connected not with the larger but with the

  smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for

  doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I

  have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present

  case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is

  certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.

  Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to

  recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend

  Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the

  peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every

  possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some

  slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide

  myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my

  memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the

  facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

  The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some

  little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the

  inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the

  advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper

  flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and

  endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the

  indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

  I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor

  bore every mark of being an average commonplace British

  tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy gray

  shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat,

  unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy

  Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as

  an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a

  wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether,

  look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save

  his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and

  discontent upon his features.

  Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook

  his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.

  "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual

  labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has

  been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of

  writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

  Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger

  upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

  "How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.

  Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did

  manual labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's

  carpenter."

  "Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger

  than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more

  developed."

  "Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

  "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,

  especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you

  use an arc-and-compass breastpin."

  "Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

  "What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for

  five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the

  elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"

  "Well, but China?"

  "The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right

  wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small

  study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature

  of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a

  delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I

  see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter

  becomes even more simple."

  Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I

  thought at first that you had done
something clever, but I see

  that there was nothing in it, after all."

  "I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake

  in explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my

  poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I

  am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

  "Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger

  planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began

  it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

  I took the paper from him and read as follows.

  TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late

  Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now

  another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a

  salary of 4 pounds a week for purely nominal services. All

  red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age

  of twenty-one years, are eligible. Appiy in person on Monday, at

  eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7

  Pope's Court, Fleet Street.

  "What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice

  read over the extraordinary announcement.

  Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when

  in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?"

  said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us

  all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this

  advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note,

  Doctor, of the paper and the date."

  "It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months

  ago."

  "Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

  "Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock

  Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small

  pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a

  very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than

  just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants,

  but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but

  that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the

  business."

  "What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

  "His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth,

  either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter

  assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better

  himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after

  all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

  "Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who

  comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience

  among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is

  not as remarkable as your advertisement."

  "Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a

  fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought

  to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar

  like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his

  main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice

  in him."

  "He is still with you, I presume?"

  "Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple

  cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the

  house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very

  quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads

  and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

  "The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.

  Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight

  weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

  "'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

  "'Why that?' I asks.

  "'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the

  Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who