It was half-past five before
Holmes returned. He was bright,
eager, and in excellent spirits, a mood which in his case alter-
nated with fits of the blackest depression.
"There is no great mystery
in this matter," he said, taking
the cup of tea which I had poured
out for him; "the facts appear
to admit of only one explanation."
"What!
you have solved
it already?"
"Well,
that would
be too much
to say. I have discovered a suggestive
fact, that is all. It is, however,
very suggestive. The details
are still to be added. I have
just found, on consulting the
back files of the Times, that
Major Sholto, of Upper Norwood,
late of the Thirty-fourth Bombay
Infantry, died upon the twenty-
eighth of April, 1882."
"I
may be very
obtuse, Holmes,
but I fail to see what this suggests."
"No?
You surprise
me. Look at
it in this
way, then.
Captain
Morstan disappears. The only
person in London whom he could
have visited is Major Sholto.
Major Sholto denies having heard
that he was in London. Four years
later Sholto dies. Within a week
of his death Captain Morstan's
daughter receives a valuable
present, which is repeated from
year to year and now culminates
in a letter which describes her
as a wronged woman. What wrong
can it refer to except this deprivation
of her father? And why should
the presents begin immediately
after Sholto's death unless it
is that Sholto's heir knows something
of the mystery and desires to
make compensation? Have you any
alternative theory which will
meet the facts?"
"But
what a strange
compensation!
And how strangely made! Why,
too, should he write a letter
now, rather than six years ago?
Again, the letter speaks of giving
her justice. What justice can
she have? It is too much to suppose
that her father is still alive.
There is no other injustice in
her case that you know of."
"There are difficulties; there
are certainly difficulties," said
Sherlock Holmes pensively; "but
our expedition of to-night will
solve them all. Ah, here is a
four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan
is inside. Are you all ready?
Then we had better go down, for
it is a little past the hour."
I picked up my hat and my heaviest
stick, but I observed that Holmes
took his revolver from his drawer
and slipped it into his pocket.
It was clear that he thought
that our night's work might be
a serious one.
Miss Morstan was muffled in
a dark cloak, and her sensitive
face was composed but pale. She
must have been more than woman
if she did not feel some uneasiness
at the strange enter- prise upon
which we were embarking, yet
her self-control was perfect,
and she readily answered the
few additional questions which
Sherlock Holmes put to her.
"Major Sholto was a very particular
friend of Papa's," she said. "His
letters were full of allusions
to the major. He and Papa were
in command of the troops at the
Andaman Islands, so they were
thrown a great deal together.
By the way, a curious paper was
found in Papa's desk which no
one could understand. I don't
suppose that it is of the slightest
importance, but I thought you
might care to see it, so I brought
it with me. It is here."
Holmes unfolded the paper carefully
and smoothed it out upon his
knee. He then very methodically
examined it all over with his
double lens.
"It is paper of native Indian
manufacture," he remarked. "It
has at some time been pinned
to a board. The diagram upon
it appears to be a plan of part
of a large building with numerous
halls, corridors, and passages.
At one point is a small cross
done in red ink, and above it
is '3.37 from left,' in faded
pencil- writing. In the left-hand
corner is a curious hieroglyphic
like four crosses in a line with
their arms touching. Beside it
is written, in very rough and
coarse characters, 'The sign
of the four -- Jonathan Small,
Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan,
Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that
I do not see how this bears upon
the matter. Yet it is evidently
a document of importance. It
has been kept carefully in a
pocketbook, for the one side
is as clean as the other."
"It
was in his
pocketbook
that we found
it."
"Preserve
it carefully,
then, Miss
Morstan, for
it may prove
to be of use to us. I begin to
suspect that this matter may
turn out to be much deeper and
more subtle than I at first supposed.
I must reconsider my ideas."
He leaned back in the cab,
and I could see by his drawn
brow and his vacant eye that
he was thinking intently. Miss
Morstan and I chatted in an undertone
about our present expedition
and its possible outcome, but
our companion maintained his
impenetra- ble reserve until
the end of our journey.
It was a September evening
and not yet seven o'clock, but
the day had been a dreary one,
and a dense drizzly fog lay low
upon the great city. Mud-coloured
clouds drooped sadly over the
muddy streets. Down the Strand
the lamps were but misty splotches
of diffused light which threw
a feeble circular glimmer upon
the slimy pavement. The yellow
glare from the shop-windows streamed
out into the steamy, vaporous
air and threw a murky, shifting
radiance across the crowded thoroughfare.
There was, to my mind, something
eerie and ghostlike in the endless
procession of faces which flitted
across these narrow bars of light
-- sad faces and glad, haggard
and merry. Like all humankind,
they flitted from the gloom into
the light and so back into the
gloom once more. I am not subject
to impressions, but the dull,
heavy evening, with the strange
business upon which we were engaged,
combined to make me nervous and
depressed. I could see from Miss
Morstan's manner that she was
suffering from the same feeling.
Holmes alone could rise superior
to petty influences. He held
his open notebook upon his knee,
and from time to time he jotted
down figures and memoranda in
the light of his pocket- lantern.
At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds
were already thick at the side-entrances.
In front a continuous stream
of hansoms and four-wheelers
were rattling up, discharging
their cargoes of shirt- fronted
men and beshawled, bediamonded
women. We had hardly reached
the third pillar, which was our
rendezvous, before a small, dark,
brisk man in the dress of a coachman
accosted us.
"Are you the parties who come
with Miss Morstan?" he asked.
"I am Miss Morstan, and these
two gentlemen are my friends," said
she.
He bent a pair of wonderfully
penetrating and questioning eyes
upon us.
"You will excuse me, miss," he
said with a certain dogged manner, "but
I was to ask you to give me your
word that neither of your companions
is a police-officer."
"I give you my word on that," she
answered.
He gave a shrill whistle, on
which a street Arab led across
a four-wheeler and opened the
door. The man who had addressed
us mounted to the box, while
we took our places inside. We
had hardly done so before the
driver whipped up his horse,
and we plunged away at a furious
pace through the foggy streets.
The situation was a curious
one. We were driving to an unknown
place, on an unknown errand.
Yet our invitation was either
a complete hoax -- which was
an inconceivable hypothesis --
or else we had good reason to
think that important issues might
hang upon our journey. Miss Morstan's
demeanour was as reso- lute and
collected as ever. I endeavoured
to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences
of my adventures in Afghanistan;
but, to tell the truth, I was
myself so excited at our situation
and so curious as to our destination
that my stories were slightly
involved. To this day she declares
that I told her one moving anecdote
as to how a musket looked into
my tent at the dead of night,
and how I fired a double-barrelled
tiger cub at it. At first I had
some idea as to the direction
in which we were driving; but
soon, what with our pace, the
fog, and my own limited knowledge
of London, I lost my bearings
and knew nothing save that we
seemed to be going a very long
way. Sherlock Holmes was never
at fault, however, and he muttered
the names as the cab rattled
through squares and in and out
by tortuous by-streets.
"Rochester Row," said he. "Now
Vincent Square. Now we come out
on the Vauxhall Bridge Road.
We are making for the Surrey
side apparently. Yes, I thought
so. Now we are on the bridge.
You can catch glimpses of the
river."
We did indeed get a fleeting
view of a stretch of the Thames,
with the lamps shining upon the
broad, silent water; but our
cab dashed on and was soon involved
in a labyrinth of streets upon
the other side.
"Wordsworth Road," said my
companion. "Priory Road. Lark
Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert
Street. Cold Harbour Lane. Our
quest does not appear to take
us to very fashionable regions."
We had indeed reached a questionable
and forbidding neigh- bourhood.
Long lines of dull brick houses
were only relieved by the coarse
glare and tawdry brilliancy of
public-houses at the corner.
Then came rows of two-storied
villas, each with a front- ing
of miniature garden, and then
again interminable lines of new,
staring brick buildings -- the
monster tentacles which the giant
city was throwing out into the
country. At last the cab drew
up at the third house in a new
terrace. None of the other houses
were inhabited, and that at which
we stopped was as dark as its
neighbours, save for a single
glimmer in the kitchen-window.
On our knocking, however, the
door was instantly thrown open
by a Hindoo servant, clad in
a yellow turban, white loose-fitting
clothes, and a yellow sash. There
was something strangely in- congruous
in this Oriental figure framed
in the commonplace doorway of
a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.
"The sahib awaits you," said
he, and even as he spoke, there
came a high, piping voice from
some inner room.
"Show them in to-me, khitmutgar," it
said. "Show them straight in
to me." |