are, and they are waiting for us."
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had
found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and,
following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a
narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us.
Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive
iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding
stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr.
Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us
down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a
third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all
round with crates and massive boxes.
"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he
held up the lantern and gazed about him.
"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon
the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite
hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.
"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes
severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit
down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a
very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his
knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens,
began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few
seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again
and put his glass in his pocket.
"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can
hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their
work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at
present, Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of
the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to
you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of
London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at
present."
"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had
several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."
"Your French gold?"
"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources
and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of
France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to
unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The
crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between
layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at
present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the
directors have had misgivings upon the subject."
"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is
time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an
hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr.
Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern."
"And sit in the dark?"
"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and
I thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your
rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have
gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And,
first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men,
and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate,
and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a
light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no
compunction about shooting them down."
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case
behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front
of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute
darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot
metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready
to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked
up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and
subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the
vault.
"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back
through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have
done what I asked you, Jones?"
"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."
"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent
and wait."
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but
an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must
have almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs
were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my
nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my
hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle
breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper,
heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note
of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case
in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint
of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then
it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then,
without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand
appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the
centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the
hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then
it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between
the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,
tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon
its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed
the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,
boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand
on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and
waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another
instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after
him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face
and a shock of very red hair.
"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the
bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the
collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of
rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed
upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came
down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone
floor.
"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no
chance at all."
"So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy
that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his
coat-tails."
"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.
"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I
must compliment you."
"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new
and effective."
"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker
at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the
derbies."
"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,"
remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.
"You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have
the goodness, also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and
'please.'"
"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would
you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry
your Highness to the police-station?"
"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow
to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the
detective.
"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them
from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or
repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated
in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts
at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience."
"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over
this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond
that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in
many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of
the Red-headed League."
"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning
as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it
was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible
object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of
the League, and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get
this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of
hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but,
really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was
no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his
accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure which must draw
him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands?
They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary
office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and
together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the
week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for
half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
for securing the situation."
"But how could you guess what the motive was?"
"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a
mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The
man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his
house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and
such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something
out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's
fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the
cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then
I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I
had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in
London. He was doing something in the cellar--something which
took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once
more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel
to some other building.
"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had
never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his
face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have
remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of
those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they
were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and
Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I
had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I
called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank
directors, with the result that you have seen."
"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt
to-night?" I asked.
"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that
they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other
words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than
any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.
For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."
"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings
true."
"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already
feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort
to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little
problems help me to do so."
"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of
some little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre
c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."
ADVENTURE III. A CASE OF IDENTITY
"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side
of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We
would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere
commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window
hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the
roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the
strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the
wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and
leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with
its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and
unprofitable."
"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which
come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and
vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to
its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,
neither fascinating nor artistic."
"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the
police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the
platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an
observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend
upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."
I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking
so," I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser
and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout
three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is
strange and bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper
from the ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the
first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his
wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without
reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of
course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the
bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of
writers could invent nothing more crude."
"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,"
said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This
is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged
in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The
husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the
conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of
winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling
them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely
to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a
pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over
you in your example."
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in
the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his
homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon
it.
"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks.
It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my
assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."
"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.
"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of
my little problems."
"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.
"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of
interest. They are important, you understand, without being
interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in
unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation,
and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the
charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the
simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is
the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter
which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing
which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however,
that I may have something better before very many minutes are
over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."
He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted
blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite
there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,
and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was
tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her
ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,
hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated
backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove
buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves
the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp
clang of the bell.
"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his
cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always
means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure
that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet
even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously
wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom
is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love
matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or
grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons
entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself
loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed
merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed
her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and,
having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked
her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was
peculiar to him.
"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a
little trying to do so much typewriting?"
"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters
are without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport
of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear
and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've
heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know
all that?"
"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know
things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others
overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"
"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege,
whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had
given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as
much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in
my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and
I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."
"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked
Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to
the ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss
Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said,
"for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.
Windibank--that is, my father--took it all. He would not go to
the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he
would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done,
it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away
to you."
"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the
name is different."
"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny,
too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself."
"And your mother is alive?"
"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.
Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and
a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father
was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy
business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the
foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the
business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines.
They got 4700 pounds for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't
near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this
rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he
had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.
"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the
business?"
"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle
Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per
cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can
only touch the interest."
"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so
large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the
bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in
every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely
upon an income of about 60 pounds."
"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you
understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a
burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while
I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the
time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it
over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I
earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can
often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."
"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes.
"This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as
freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your
connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel."
A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked
nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the
gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets
when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and
sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He
never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I
wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I
was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to
prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all
father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing
fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much
as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do,
he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,
mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it
was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."
"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from
France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."
"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying
anything to a woman, for she would have her way."
"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."
"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if
we had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to
say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father
came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house
any more."
"No?"
"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He
wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to
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