[obi/Doyle/sign.of.four.txt]

                       Chapter 1
              The Science of Deduction

  Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-
piece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case.
With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate
needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his
eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all
dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he
thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and
sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of
satisfaction.
  Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this
performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On
the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the
sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought
that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had
registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject;
but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion
which made him the last man with whom one would care to take
anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly
manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraor-
dinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing
him.
  Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I
had taken with my lunch or the additional exasperation produced
by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I
could hold out no longer.
  "Which is it to-day," I asked, "morphine or cocaine?"
  He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume
which he had opened.
  "It is cocaine," he said, "a seven-per-cent solution. Would
you care to try it?"
  "No, indeed," I answered brusquely. "My constitution has
not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw
any extra strain upon it."
  He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Wat-
son," he said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad
one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarify-
ing to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small
moment."
  "But consider!" I said earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain
may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological
and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and
may at least leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what
a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly
worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure,
risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been
endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to
another but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is
to some extent answerable."
  He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-
tips together, and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like
one who has a relish for conversation.
  "My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me prob-
lems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or
the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmo-
sphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor
the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That
is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather
created it, for I am the only one in the world."
  "The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.
  "The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I
am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Greg-
son, or Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths --
which, by the way, is their normal state -- the matter is laid
before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a
specialist's opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name
figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding
a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you
have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the
Jefferson Hope case."
  "Yes, indeed," said I cordially. "I was never so struck by
anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure, with
the somewhat fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.' "
  He shook his head sadly.
  "I glanced over it," said he. "Honestly, I cannot congratulate
you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and
should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You
have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces
much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."
  "But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not
tamper with the facts."
  "Some facts should be suppressed, or, at least, a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point
in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical
reasoning from effects to causes, by which I succeeded in unrav-
elling it."
  I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been
specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was
irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line
of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings.
More than once during the years that I had lived with him in
Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my
companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark
however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had had a Jezaii
bullet through it some time before, and though it did not prevent
me from walking it ached wearily at every change of the weather.
  "My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said
Holmes after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was
consulted last week by Francois le Villard, who, as you
probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French
detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition
but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which is
essential to the higher developments of his art. The case was
concerned with a will and possessed some features of interest. I
was able to refer him to two parallel cases, the one at Riga in
1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested
to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had this
morning acknowledging my assistance."
  He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign
notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of
notes of admiration, with stray magnifiques, coup-de-maitres and
tours-de-force, all testifying to the ardent admiration of the
Frenchman.
  "He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.
  "Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes
lightly. "He has coosiderable gifts himself. He possesses two
out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has
the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only
wanting in knowledge, and that may come in time. He is now
translating my small works into French."
  "Your works?"
  "Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have
been guilty of several monographs. They are all upon technical
subjects. Here, for example, is one 'Upon the Distinction be-
tween the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.' In it I enumerate a
hundred and forty forms of cigar, cigarette, and pipe tobacco,
with coloured plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a
point which is continually turning up in criminal trials, and
which is sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If you can
say definitely, for example, that some murder had been done by
a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows
your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much differ-
ence between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff
of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."
  "You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.
  "I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon
the tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of
plaster of Paris as a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a
curious little work upon the influence of a trade upon the form of
the hand, with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, cork-
cutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers. That is a
matter of great practical interest to the scientific detective -- 
especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in discovering the
antecedents of criminals. But I weary you with my hobby."
  "Not at all," I answered earnestly. "It is of the greatest
interest to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of
observing your practical application of it. But you spoke just
now of observation and deduction. Surely the one to some extent
implies the other."
  "Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his
armchair and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For
example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore
Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that
when there you dispatched a telegram."
  "Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I
don't see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon
my part, and I have mentioned it to no one."
  "It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my
surprise -- "so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous;
and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of
deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish
mould adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Wigmore Street
Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up some
earth, which lies in such a way that it is difficult to avoid
treading in it in entering. The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint
which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the neigh-
bourhood. So much is observation. The rest is deduction."
  "How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"
  "Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter,
since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open
desk there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of
postcards. What could you go into the post-office for, then, but
to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which
remains must be the truth."
  "In this case it certainly is so," I replied after a little thought.
"The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you
think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more
severe test?"
  "On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from
taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look
into any problem which you might submit to me."
  "I have heard you say it is difficult for a man to have any
object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individual-
ity upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it.
Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my
possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion
upon the character or habits of the late owner?"
  I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of
amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an
impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the some-
what dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced
the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back,
and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with
a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his
crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it
back.
  "There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has
been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive
facts. "
  "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being
sent to me."
  In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a
most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data
could he expect from an uncleaned watch?
  "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely
barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy,
lack-lustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that
the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from
your father."
  "That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"
  "Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the
watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the
watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewellery usually
descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same
name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been
dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your
eldest brother."
  "Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"
  "He was a man of untidy habits -- very untidy and careless.
He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances,
lived for some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of
prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can
gather."
  I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room
with considerable bitterness in my heart.
  "This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have
believed that you would have descended to this. You have made
inquiries into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now
pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You
cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this from his
old watch! It is unkind and, to speak plainly, has a touch of
charlatanism in it."
  "My dear doctor," said he kindly, "pray accept my apolo-
gies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten
how personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure
you, however, that I never even knew that you had a brother
until you handed me the watch."
  "Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get
these facts? They are absolutely correct in every particular."
  "Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance
of probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate."
  "But it was not mere guesswork?"
  "No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit -- destructive to
the logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because
you do not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts
upon which large inferences may depend. For example, I began
by stating that your brother was careless. When you observe the
lower part of that watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted
in two places but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of
keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same
pocket. Surely it is no great feat to assume that a man who treats
a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a careless man. Nei-
ther is it a very far-fetched inference that a man who inherits one
article of such value is pretty well provided for in other respects."
  I nodded to show that I followed his reasoning.
  "It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they
take a watch, to scratch the numbers of the ticket with a pin-
point upon the inside of the case. It is more handy than a label as
there is no risk of the number being lost or transposed. There are
no less than four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside
of this case. Inference -- that your brother was often at low water.
Secondary inference -- that he had occasional bursts of prosper-
ity, or he could not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you
to look at the inner plate, which contains the keyhole. Look at
the thousands of scratches all round the hole -- marks where the
key has slipped. What sober man's key could have scored those
grooves? But you will never see a drunkard's watch without
them. He winds it at night, and he leaves these traces of his
unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all this?"
  "It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I regret the injustice
which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvellous
faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on
foot at present?"
  "None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without brainwork.
What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was
ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the
yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-
coloured houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and
material? What is the use of having powers, Doctor, when one
has no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplacc,
existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those which are
commonplace have any function upon earth."
  I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade when, with a
crisp knock, our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass
salver.
  "A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my
companion.
  "Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Hum! I have no recollec-
tion of the name. Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson.
Don't go, Doctor. I should prefer that you remain."

                     Chapter 2
             The Statement of the Case

  Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small,
dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There
was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume
which bore with it a suggestion of limited means. The dress was
a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore
a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion
of white feather in the side. Her face had neither regularity of
feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet
and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual
and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over
many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked
upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and
sensitive nature. I could not but observe that as she took the seat
which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her
hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward
agitation.
  "I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said,"because you
once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a
little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your
kindness and skill."
  "Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe
that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I
remember it, was a very simple one."
  "She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of
mine. I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly
inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."
  Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned
forward in his chair with an expression of extraordinary concen-
tration upon his clear-cut, hawklike features.
  "State your case," said he in brisk business tones.
  I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.
  "You will, I am sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my
chair.
  To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to
detain me.
  "If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop,
he might be of inestimable service to me."
  I relapsed into my chair.
  "Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was
an officer in an Indian regiment, who sent me home when I was
quite a child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in
England. I was placed, however, in a comfortable boarding
establishment at Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was
seventeen years of age. In the year 1878 my father, who was
senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve months' leave
and came home. He telegraphed to me from London that he had
arrived all safe and directed me to come down at once, giving
the Langham Hotel as his address. His message, as I remember,
was full of kindness and love. On reaching London I drove to the
Langham and was informed that Captain Morstan was staying
there, but that he had gone out the night before and had not
returned. I waited all day without news of him. That night, on
the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the
police, and next morning we advertised in all the papers. Our
inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no word has
ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with
his heart full of hope to find some peace, some comfort, and
instead --"
  She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the
sentence.
  "The date?" asked Holmes, opening his notebook.
  "He disappeared upon the third of December, 1878 -- nearly
ten years ago."
  "His luggage?"
  "Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a
clue -- some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the
officers in charge of the convict-guard there."
  "Had he any friends in town?"
  "Only one that we know of -- Major Sholto, of his own regi-
ment, the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry. The major had retired
some little time before and lived at Upper Norwood. We com-
municated with him, of course, but he did not even know that his
brother officer was in England."
  "A singular case," remarked Holmes.
  "I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About
six years ago -- to be exact, upon the fourth of May, 1882 -- an
advertisement appeared in the Times asking for the address of
Miss Mary Morstan, and stating that it would be to her advan-
tage to come forward. There was no name or address appended.
I had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester
in the capacity of governess. By her advice I published my
address in the advertisement column. The same day there arrived
through the post a small cardboard box addressed to me, which I
found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word of
writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same date
there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar
pearl, without any clue as to the sender. They have been pro-
nounced by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable
value. You can see for yourself that they are very hanasome."
  She opened a flat box as she spoke and showed me six of the
finest pearls that I had ever seen.
  "Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.
"Has anything else occurred to you?"
  "Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come to
you. This morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps
read for yourself."
  "Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope, too, please.
Post-mark, London, S. W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man's thumb-
mark on corner -- probably postman. Best quality paper. Enve-
lopes at sixpence a packet. Particular man in his stationery. No
address.

      "Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum
    Theatre to-night at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful
    bring two friends. You are a wronged woman and shall
    have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in
    vain. Your unknown friend.

Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery! What do you
intend to do, Miss Morstan?"
  That is exactly what I want to ask you."
  "Then we shall most certainly go -- you and I and -- yes. why
Dr. Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two
friends. He and I have worked together before."
  "But would he come?" she asked with something appealing
in her voice and expression.
  "I shall be proud and happy," said I fervently, "if I can be of
any service."
  "You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a
retired life and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am
here at six it will do, I suppose?"
  "You must not be later," said Holmes. "There. is one other
point, however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the
pearl-box addresses?"
  "I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen
pieces of paper.
  "You are certainly a model client. You have the correct
intuition. Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the
table and gave little darting glances from one to the other. "They
are disguised hands, except the letter," he said presently; "but
there can be no question as to the authorship. See how the
irrepressible Greek e will break out, and see the twirl of the final
s. They are undoubtedly by the same person. I should not like to
suggest false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is there any resemblance
between this hand and that of your father?"
  "Nothing could be more unlike."
  "I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you,
then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into
the matter before then. It is only half-past three. Au revoir
then."
  "Au revoir," said our visitor; and with a bright, kindly glance
from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her
bosom and hurried away.
  Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down
the street until the gray turban and white feather were but a speck
in the sombre crowd.
  "What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my
companion.
  He had lit his pipe again and was leaning back with drooping
eyelids. "Is she?" he said languidly; "I did not observe."
  "You really are an automaton -- a calculating machine," I
cried. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times."
  He smiled gently.
  "It is of the first importance," he cried, "not to allow your
judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a
mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are
antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most win-
ning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little
children for their insurance-money, and the most repellent man
of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a
quarter of a million upon the London poor."
  "In this case, however --"
  "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule.
Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting?
What do you make of this fellow's scribble?"
  "It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business
habits and some force of character."
  Holmes shook his head.
  "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above
the common herd. That d might be an a, and that I an e. Men of
character always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly
they may write. There is vacillation in his k's and self-esteem in
his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to
make. Let me recommend this book -- one of the most remark-
able ever penned. It is Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man. I
shall be back in an hour."
  I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my
thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My
mind ran upon our late visitor -- her smiles, the deep rich tones of
her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she
were seventeen at the time of her father's disappearance she must
be seven-and-twenty now -- a sweet age, when youth has lost its
self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So
I sat and mused until such dangerous thoughts came into my
head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into
the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army surgeon
with a weak leg and a weaker banking account, that I should
dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a factor -- nothing
more. If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like
a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of
the imagination.

                     Chapter 3
               In Quest of a Solution

  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."

                    Chapter 4
          The Story of the Bald-Headed Man

  We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage,
ill-lit and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the
right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out
upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man
with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of
it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a
mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as
he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk -- now smiling,
now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had
given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and
irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly
passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his
obtrusive baldness he gave the impression of youth. In point of
fact, he had just turned his thirtieth year.
  "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating in a thin,
high voice. "Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little
sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking.
An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."
  We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment
into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of
place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The
richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls,
looped back here and there to expose some richly mounted
painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber and black, so
soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a
bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased
the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which
stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver
dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre
of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and
aromatic odour.
  "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course.
And these gentlemen --"
  "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this Dr. Watson."
  "A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your
stethoscope? Might I ask you -- would you have the kindness? I
have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very
good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your
opinion upon the mitral."
  I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
anything amiss, save, indeed, that he was in an ecstasy of fear,
for he shivered from head to foot.
  "It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no cause for
uneasiness."
  "You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked
airily. "I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as
to that valve. I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted.
Had your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain
upon his heart, he might have been alive now."
  I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at
this callous and offhand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss
Morstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips.
  "I knew in my heart that he was dead," said she.
  "I can give you every information," said he; "and, what is
more, I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother
Bartholomew may say. I am so glad to have your friends here
not only as an escort to you but also as witnesses to what I am
about to do and say. The three of us can show a bold front to
Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no outsiders -- no police or
officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily among ourselves
without any interference. Nothing would annoy Brother Bart-
holomew more than any publicity."
  He sat down upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with
his weak, watery blue eyes.
  "For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to
say will go no further."
  I nodded to show my agreement.
  "That is well! That is well" said he. "May I offer you a
glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other
wines. Shall I open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have
no objection to tobacco-smoke, to the balsamic odour of the
Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my hookah an
invaluable sedative."
  He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled
merrily through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle,
with our heads advanced and our chins upon our hands, while
the strange, jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head,
puffed uneasily in the centre.
  "When I first determined to make this communication to
you," said he, "I might have given you my address; but I feared
that you might disregard my request and bring unpleasant people
with you. I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment
in such a way that my man Williams might be able to see you
first. I have complete confidence in his discretion, and he had
orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the
matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am a man of
somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and
there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman. I have a
natural shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom
come in contact with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with
some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may call myself
a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is a
genuine Corot, and though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question
about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."
  "You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but
I am here at your request to learn something which you desire to
tell me. It is very late, and I should desire the interview to be as
short as possible."
  "At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we
shall certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Barth-
olomew. We shall all go and try if we can get the better of
Brother Bartholomew. He is very angry with me for taking the
course which has seemed right to me. I had quite high words
with him last night. You cannot imagine what a terrible fellow
he is when he is angry."
  "If we are to go to Norwood, it would perhaps be as well to
start at once," I ventured to remark.
  He laughed until his ears were quite red.
  "That would hardly do," he cried. "I don't know what he
would say if I brought you in that sudden way. No, I must
prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each other. In
the first place, I must tell you that there are several points in the
story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the facts
before you as far as I know them myself.
  "My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John
Sholto, once of the Indian Army. He retired some eleven years
ago and came to live at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood.
He had prospered in India and brought back with him a con-
siderable sum of money, a large collection of valuable curiosi-
ties, and a staff of native servants. With these advantages he
bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My twin-
brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.
  "I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the
papers, and knowing that he had been a friend of our father's we
discussed the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our
speculations as to what could have happened. Never for an
instant did we suspect that he had the whole secret hidden in his
own breast, that of all men he alone knew the fate of Arthur
Morstan.
  "We did know, however, that some mystery, some positive
danger, overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out
alone, and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as
porters at Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you tonight,
was one of them. He was once lightweight champion of En-
gland. Our father would never tell us what it was he feared, but
he had a most marked aversion to men with wooden legs. On
one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a wooden-legged
man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for
orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My
brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's, but
events have since led us to change our opinion.
  "Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which
was a great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table
when he opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death.
What was in the letter we could never discover, but I could see
as he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He
had suffered for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now
became rapidly worse, and towards the end of April we were
informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he wished to
make a last communication to us.
  "When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows
and breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to
come upon either side of the bed. Then grasping our hands he
made a remarkable statement to us in a voice which was broken
as much by emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in
his own very words.
  " 'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my
mind at this supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's
orphan. The cursed greed which has been my besetting sin
through life has withheld from her the treasure, half at least of
which should have been hers. And yet I have made no use of it
myself, so blind and foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling
of possession has been so dear to me that I could not bear to
share it with another. See that chaplet tipped with pearls beside
the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to part with,
although I had got it out with the design of sending it to her.
You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure.
But send her nothing -- not even the chaplet -- until I am gone.
After all, men have been as bad as this and have recovered.
  " 'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had
suffered for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from
every one. I alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a
remarkable chain of circumstances, came into possession of a
considerable treasure. I brought it over to England, and on the
night of Morstan's arrival he came straight over here to claim his
share. He walked over from the station and was admitted by my
faithful old Lal Chowdar, who is now dead. Morstan and I had a
difference of opinion as to the division of the treasure, and we
came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of his chair in a
paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his
side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backward, cutting
his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I stooped
over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.
  " 'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I
should do. My first impulse was, of course, to call for assis-
tance; but I could not but recognize that there was every chance
that I would be accused of his murder. His death at the moment
of a quarrel, and the gash in his head, would be black against
me. Again, an official inquiry could not be made without bring-
ing out some facts about the treasure, which I was particularly
anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no soul upon earth
knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no necessity why
any soul ever should know.
  " 'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I
saw my servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and
bolted the door behind him. "Do not fear, sahib," he said; "no
one need know that you have killed him. Let us hide him away,
and who is the wiser?" "I did not kill him," said I. Lal
Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I heard it all, sahib," said
he; "l heard you quarrel, and I heard the blow. But my lips are
sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put him away to-
gether." That was enough to decide me. If my own servant
could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it
good before