It was nearly eleven o'clock
when we reached this final stage
of our night's adventures. We
had left the damp fog of the
great
city behind us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew
from the westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the
sky, with half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts. It
was clear enough to see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto
took down one of the sidelamps from the carriage to give us a
better light upon our way.
Pondicherry Lodge stood in
its own grounds and was girt
round with a very high stone
wall topped with broken glass.
A single narrow iron-clamped
door formed the only means of
entrance. On this our guide knocked
with a peculiar postman-like
rat-tat.
"Who is there?" cried
a gruff voice
from within.
"It
is I, McMurdo.
You surely
know my knock
by this time."
There was a grumbling sound
and a clanking and jarring of
keys. The door swung heavily
back, and a short, deep-chested
man stood in the opening, with
the yellow light of the lantern
shining upon his protruded face
and twinkling, distrustful eyes.
"That
you, Mr. Thaddeus?
But who are
the others?
I had no
orders about them from the master."
"No,
McMurdo? You
surprise me!
I told my brother
last night
that I should bring some friends."
"He
hain't been
out o' his
rooms to-day,
Mr. Thaddeus,
and
I have no orders. You know very
well that I must stick to regula-
tions. I can let you in, but
your friends they must just stop
where they are."
This was an unexpected obstacle.
Thaddeus Sholto looked about
him in a perplexed and helpless
manner.
"This is too bad of you, McMurdo!" he
said. "If I guarantee them, that
is enough for you. There is the
young lady, too. She cannot wait
on the pubiic road at this hour."
"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said
the porter inexorably. "Folk
may be friends o' yours, and
yet no friend o' the master's.
He pays me well to do my duty,
and my duty I'll do. I don't
know none o' your friends."
"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried
Sherlock Holmes ge- nially. "I
don't think you can have forgotten
me. Don't you remember that amateur
who fought three rounds with
you at Alison's rooms on the
night of your benefit four years
back?"
"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared
the prize-fighter. "God's truth!
how could I have mistook you?
If instead o' standin' there
so quiet you had just stepped
up and given me that cross-hit
of yours under the jaw, I'd ha'
known you without a question.
Ah, you're one that has wasted
your gifts, you have! You might
have aimed high, if you had joined
the fancy."
"You see, Watson, if all else
fails me, I have still one of
the scientific professions open
to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our
friend won't keep us out in the
cold now, I am sure."
"In you come, sir, in you come
-- you and your friends," he
answered. "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus,
but orders are very strict. Had
to be certain of your friends
before I let them in."
Inside, a gravel path wound
through desolate grounds to a
huge clump of a house, square
and prosaic, all plunged in shadow
save where a moonbeam struck
one corner and glim- mered in
a garret window. The vast size
of the building, with its gloom
and its deathly silence, struck
a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus
Sholto seemed ill at ease, and
the lantern quivered and rattled
in his hand.
"I cannot understand it," he
said. "There must be some mistake.
I distinctly told Bartholomew
that we should be here, and yet
there is no light in his window.
I do not know what to make of
it."
"Does he always guard the premises
in this way?" asked Holmes.
"Yes;
he has followed
my father's
custom. He was the fa- vourite
son you know, and I sometimes
think that my father may have
told him more than he ever told
me. That is Bartholomew's window
up there where the moonshine
strikes. It is quite bright,
but there is no light from within,
I think."
"None," said Holmes. "But
I see the glint
of a light
in that
little window beside the door."
"Ah,
that is the
housekeeper's
room. That is where old Mrs.
Bernstone sits. She can tell
us all about it. But perhaps
you would not mind waiting here
for a minute or two, for if we
all go in together, and she has
had no word of our coming, she
may be alarmed. But, hush! what
is that?"
He held up the lantern, and
his hand shook until the circles
of light flickered and wavered
all round us. Miss Morstan seized
my wrist, and we all stood, with
thumping hearts, straining our
ears. From the great black house
there sounded through the silent
night the saddest and most pitiful
of sounds -- the shrill, broken
whimpering of a frightened woman.
"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said
Sholto. "She is the only woman
in the house. Wait here. I shall
be back in a moment."
He hurried, for the door and
knocked in his peculiar way.
We could see a tall old woman
admit him and sway with pleasure
at the very sight of him.
"Oh,
Mr. Thaddeus,
sir, I am so
glad you have
come! I am
so
glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus,
sir!"
We heard her reiterated rejoicings
until the door was closed and
her voice died away into a muffled
monotone.
Our guide had left us the lantern.
Holmes swung it slowly round
and peered keenly at the house
and at the great rubbish- heaps
which cumbered the grounds. Miss
Morstan and I stood together,
and her hand was in mine. A wondrous
subtle thing is love, for here
were we two, who had never seen
each other before that day, between
whom no word or even look of
affec- tion had ever passed,
and yet now in an hour of trouble
our hands instinctively sought
for each other. I have marvelled
at it since, but at the time
it seemed the most natural thing
that I should go out to her so,
and, as she has often told me,
there was in her also the instinct
to turn to me for comfort and
protection. So we stood hand
in hand like two children, and
there was peace in our hearts
for all the dark things that
surrounded us.
"What a strange place!" she
said, looking round.
"It
looks as though
all the moles
in England
had been let
loose in it. I have seen something
of the sort on the side of a
hill near Ballarat, where the
prospectors had been at work."
"And from the same cause," said
Holmes. "These are the traces
of the treasure-seekers. You
must remember that they were
six years looking for it. No
wonder that the grounds look
like a gravel-pit. "
At that moment the door of
the house burst open, and Thad-
deus Sholto came running out,
with his hands thrown forward
and terror in his eyes.
"There is something amiss with
Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am
frightened! My nerves cannot
stand it."
He was, indeed, half blubbering
with fear, and his twitching,
feeble face peeping out from
the great astrakhan collar had
the helpless, appealing expression
of a terrified child.
"Come into the house," said
Holmes in his crisp, firm way.
"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus
Sholto. "I really do not feel
equal to giving directions."
We all followed him into the
housekeeper's room, which stood
upon the lefthand side of the
passage. The old woman was pacing
up and down with a scared look
and restless, picking fingers,
but the sight of Miss Morstan
appeared to have a sooth- ing
effect upon her.
"God bless your sweet, calm
face!" she cried with a hysteri-
cal sob. "It does me good to
see you. Oh, but I have been
sorely tried this day!"
Our companion patted her thin,
work-worn hand and mur- mured
some few words of kindly, womanly
comfort which brought the colour
back into the other's bloodless
cheeks.
"Master has locked himself
in and will not answer me," she
explained. "All day I have waited
to hear from him, for he often
likes to be alone- but an hour
ago I feared that something was
amiss, so I went up and peeped
through the keyhole. You must
go up, Mr. Thaddeus -- you must
go up and look for yourself.
I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto
in joy and in sorrow for ten
long years, but I never saw him
with such a face on him as that."
Sherlock Holmes took the lamp
and led the way, for Thaddeus
Sholto's teeth were chattering
in his head. So shaken was he
that I had to pass my hand under
his arm as we went up the stairs,
for his knees were trembling
under him. Twice as we ascended,
Holmes whipped his lens out of
his pocket and carefully exam-
ined marks which appeared to
me to be mere shapeless smudges
of dust upon the cocoanut-matting
which served as a stair-carpet.
He walked slowly from step to
step, holding the lamp low, and
shooting keen glances to right
and left. Miss Morstan had re-
mained behind with the frightened
housekeeper.
The third flight of stairs
ended in a straight passage of
some length, with a great picture
in Indian tapestry upon the right
of it and three doors upon the
left. Holmes advanced along it
in the same slow and methodical
way, while we kept close at his
heels, with our long black shadows
streaming backward down the corridor.
The third door was that which
we were seeking. Holmes knocked
without receiving any answer,
and then tried to turn the handle
and force it open. It was locked
on the inside, however, and by
a broad and powerful bolt, as
we could see when we set our
lamp up against it. The key being
turned, however, the hole was
not entirely closed. Sherlock
Holmes bent down to it and instantly
rose again with a sharp intaking
of the breath.
"There is something devilish
in this, Watson," said he, more
moved than I had ever before
seen him. "What do you make of
it?"
I stooped to the hole and recoiled
in horror. Moonlight was streaming
into the room, and it was bright
with a vague and shifty radiance.
Looking straight at me and suspended,
as it were, in the air, for all
beneath was in shadow, there
hung a face -- the very face
of our companion Thaddeus. There
was the same high, shining head,
the same circular bristle of
red hair, the same bloodless
countenance. The features were
set, however, in a horrible smile,
a fixed and unnatural grin, which
in that still and moonlit room
was more jarring to the nerves
than any scowl or contortion.
So like was the face to that
of our little friend that I looked
round at him to make sure that
he was indeed with us. Then I
recalled to mind that he had
mentioned to us that his brother
and he were twins.
"This is terrible!" I said
to Holmes. "What is to be done?"
"The door must come down," he
answered, and springing against
it, he put all his weight upon
the lock.
It creaked and groaned but
did not yield. Together we flung
ourselves upon it once more,
and this time it gave way with
a sudden snap, and we found ourselves
within Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.
It appeared to have been fitted
up as a chemical laboratory.
A double line of glass-stoppered
bottles was drawn up upon the
wall opposite the door, and the
table was littered over with
Bunsen burners, test-tubes, and
retorts. In the corners stood
carboys of acid in wicker baskets.
One of these appeared to leak
or to have been broken, for a
stream of dark-coloured liquid
had trickled out from it, and
the air was heavy with a peculiarly
pungent, tarlike odour. A set
of steps stood at one side of
the room in the midst of a litter
of lath and plaster, and above
them there was an opening in
the ceiling large enough for
a man to pass through. At the
foot of the steps a long coil
of rope was thrown carelessly
together.
By the table in a wooden armchair
the master of the house was seated
all in a heap, with his head
sunk upon his left shoulder and
that ghastly, inscrutable smile
upon his face. He was stiff and
cold and had clearly been dead
many hours. It seemed to me that
not only his features but all
his limbs were twisted and turned
in the most fantastic fashion.
By his hand upon the table there
lay a peculiar instrument --
a brown, close-grained stick,
with a stone head like a hammer,
rudely lashed on with coarse
twine. Beside it was a torn sheet
of note-paper with some words
scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced
at it and then handed it to me.
''You
see," he
said with a
significant raising of the eyebrows.
In
the light of
the lantern
I read with a thrill of horror, "The
sign of the four."
"In God's name, what does it
all mean?" I asked.
"It means murder," said he,
stooping over the dead man. "Ah!
I expected it. Look here!"
He pointed to what looked like
a long dark thorn stuck in the
skin just above the ear.
"It looks like a thorn," said
I.
"It
is a thorn.
You may pick
it out. But be careful, for it
is poisoned."
I took it up between my finger
and thumb. It came away from
the skin so readily that hardly
any mark was left behind. One
tiny speck of blood showed where
the puncture had been.
"This is all an insoluble mystery
to me," said I. "It grows darker
instead of clearer."
"On the contrary," he answered, "it
clears every instant. I only
require a few missing links to
have an entirely connected case."
We had almost forgotten our
companion's presence since we
entered the chamber. He was still
standing in the doorway, the
very picture of terror, wringing
his hands and moaning to him-
self. Suddenly, however, he broke
out into a sharp, querulous cry.
"The treasure is gone!" he
said. "They have robbed him of
the treasure! There is the hole
through which we lowered it.
I helped him to do it! I was
the last person who saw him!
I left him here last night, and
I heard him lock the door as
I came downstairs."
"What
time was that?"
"It
was ten o'clock.
And now he
is dead, and
the police
will
be called in, and I shall be
suspected of having had a hand
in it. Oh, yes, I am sure I shall.
But you don't think so, gentlemen?
Surely you don't think that it
was l? Is it likely that I would
have brought you here if it were
l? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know
that I shall go mad!"
He jerked his arms and stamped
his feet in a kind of convul-
sive frenzy.
"You have no reason for fear,
Mr. Sholto," said Holmes kindly,
putting his hand upon his shoulder; "take
my advice and drive down to the
station to report the matter
to the police. Offer to assist
them in every way. We shall wait
here until your return."
The little man obeyed in a
half-stupefied fashion, and we
heard him stumbling down the
stairs in the dark. |