"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since
the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to
agree with you," I answered.

"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as
be pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The
community is certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save
the poor out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With
that man in the field, one's morning paper presented infinite
possibilities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the
faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the
great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the
edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in
the centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--
to the man who held the clue all could be worked into one
connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher
criminal world, no capital in Europe offered the advantages
which London then possessed. But now----" He shrugged his
shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things which
he had himself done so much to produce.

At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some
months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned
to share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named
Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given
with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I
ventured to ask--an incident which only explained itself some
years later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation of
Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.

Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had
stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period
includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and
also the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which
so nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was
always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public
applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no
further word of himself, his methods, or his successes--a
prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a
leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a
tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow
drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door
with his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into
the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant
later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and
palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one to the
other of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious
that some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me. I am
nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane."

He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both
his visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion's
unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him than to me.

"Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case
across. "I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr.
Watson here would prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so
very warm these last few days. Now, if you feel a little more
composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair,
and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is
that you want. You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize
it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are
a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know
nothing whatever about you."

Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult
for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness
of attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the
breathing which had prompted them. Our client, however, stared
in amazement.

"Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most
unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven's sake,
don't abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before
I have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I may
tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew
that you were working for me outside."

"Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati--most
interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"

"Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."

My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not,
I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

"Dear me," said he, "it was only this moment at breakfast that
I was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases
had disappeared out of our papers."

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the
DAILY TELEGRAPH, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.

"If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance
what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning.
I feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man's
mouth." He turned it over to expose the central page. "Here it
is, and with your permission I will read it to you. Listen to
this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: `Mysterious Affair at Lower
Norwood. Disappearance of a Well Known Builder. Suspicion of
Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' That is the clue
which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it
leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the
warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's heart--it will
break her heart!" He wrung his hands in an agony of
apprehension, and swayed backward and forward in his chair.

I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being
the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and
handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue
eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His
age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that
of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light summer overcoat
protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his
profession.

"We must use what time we have," said Holmes. "Watson, would you have
the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in question?"

Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted,
I read the following suggestive narrative:

"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at
Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime.
Mr. Jonas Oldacre is a well known resident of that suburb, where
he has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr.
Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep
Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has
had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from
the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable
wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back
of the house, and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm was
given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon
upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had
been entirely consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the
appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem
to point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence
of the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire,
and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared
from the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed
had not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open,
that a number of important papers were scattered about the room,
and finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle,
slight traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the
handle. It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late
visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has
been identified as the property of this person, who is a young
London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of
Graham and McFarlane, of 426 Gresham Buildings, E. C. The police
believe that they have evidence in their possession which
supplies a very convincing motive for the crime, and altogether
it cannot be doubted that sensational developments will follow.

"LATER.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder
of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has
been issued. There have been further and sinister developments
in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle
in the room of the unfortunate builder it is now known that the
French windows of his bedroom (which is on the ground floor)
were found to be open, that there were marks as if some bulky
object had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and, finally,
it is asserted that charred remains have been found among the
charcoal ashes of the fire. The police theory is that a most
sensational crime has been committed, that the victim was
clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his
dead body dragged across to the wood-stack, which was then
ignited so as to hide all traces of the crime. The conduct of
the criminal investigation has been left in the experienced
hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following
up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity."

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips
together to this remarkable account.

"The case has certainly some points of interest," said he, in
his languid fashion. "May I ask, in the first place, Mr.
McFarlane, how it is that you are still at liberty, since there
appears to be enough evidence to justify your arrest?"

"I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr.
Holmes, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr.
Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my
business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was
in the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once
saw the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the
case into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been
arrested either at my city office or at my home. A man followed
me from London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt--Great
heaven! what is that?"

It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps
upon the stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared
in the doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or
two uniformed policemen outside.

"Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

"I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of
Lower Norwood."

McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into
his chair once more like one who is crushed.

"One moment, Lestrade," said Holmes. "Half an hour more or less
can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to
give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might
aid us in clearing it up."

"I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up," said
Lestrade, grimly.

"None the less, with your permission, I should be much
interested to hear his account."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you
anything, for you have been of use to the force once or twice in
the past, and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard," said
Lestrade. "At the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and
I am bound to warn him that anything he may say will appear in
evidence against him."

"I wish nothing better," said our client. "All I ask is that you
should hear and recognize the absolute truth."

Lestrade looked at his watch. "I'll give you half an hour," said he.

"I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing of
Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years
ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart.
I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three
o'clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city.
But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of
his visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook,
covered with scribbled writing--here they are--and he laid them
on my table.

"`Here is my will,' said he. `I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast
it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'

"I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment
when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his
property to me. He was a strange little ferret-like man, with
white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen
gray eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could
hardly believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he
explained that he was a bachelor with hardly any living
relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that he
had always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was
assured that his money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I
could only stammer out my thanks. The will was duly finished,
signed, and witnessed by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper,
and these slips, as I have explained, are the rough draft. Mr.
Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of
documents--building leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and
so forth--which it was necessary that I should see and
understand. He said that his mind would not be easy until the
whole thing was settled, and he begged me to come out to his
house at Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to
arrange matters. `Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents
about the affair until everything is settled. We will keep it as
a little surprise for them.' He was very insistent upon this
point, and made me promise it faithfully.

"You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to
refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and
all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular.
I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important
business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how
late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me
to have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before
that hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however,
and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him----"

"One moment!" said Holmes. "Who opened the door?"

"A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper."

"And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?"

"Exactly," said McFarlane.

"Pray proceed."

McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:

"I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal
supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into
his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened
and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together.
It was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He remarked
that we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out
through his own French window, which had been open all this time."

"Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.

"I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down.
Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the
window. I could not find my stick, and he said, `Never mind, my
boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep
your stick until you come back to claim it.' I left him there,
the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.
It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I
spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more
until I read of this horrible affair in the morning."

"Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?" said
Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this
remarkable explanation.

"Not until I have been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

"Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant," said Holmes,
with his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more
experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that brain
could cut through that which was impenetrable to him. I saw him
look curiously at my companion.

"I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes," said he. "Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my
constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler
waiting." The wretched young man arose, and with a last
beseeching glance at us walked from the room. The officers
conducted him to the cab, but Lestrade remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of
the will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon
his face.

"There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there
not?" said he, pushing them over.

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

"I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the
second page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as
print," said he, "but the writing in between is very bad, and
there are three places where I cannot read it at all."

"What do you make of that?" said Holmes.

"Well, what do YOU make of it?"

"That it was written in a train. The good writing represents
stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing
passing over points. A scientific expert would pronounce at once
that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in
the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick
a succession of points. Granting that his whole journey was
occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express,
only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge."

Lestrade began to laugh.

"You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories,
Mr. Holmes," said he. "How does this bear on the case?"

"Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that
the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday.
It is curious--is it not?--that a man should draw up so
important a document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that
he did not think it was going to be of much practical
importance. If a man drew up a will which he did not intend ever
to be effective, he might do it so."

"Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time," said
Lestrade.

"Oh, you think so?"

"Don't you?"

"Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me yet."

"Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what COULD be clear? Here
is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older man
dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says
nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some
pretext to see his client that night. He waits until the only
other person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude of
a man's room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile,
and departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in the
room and also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that
he imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if
the body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of
his death--traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to
him. Is not all this obvious?"

"It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too
obvious," said Holmes. "You do not add imagination to your other
great qualities, but if you could for one moment put yourself in
the place of this young man, would you choose the very night
after the will had been made to commit your crime? Would it not
seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between
the two incidents? Again, would you choose an occasion when you
are known to be in the house, when a servant has let you in?
And, finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the
body, and yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the
criminal? Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely."

"As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a
criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool
man would avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the
room. Give me another theory that would fit the facts."

"I could very easily give you half a dozen," said Holmes. "Here
for example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make
you a free present of it. The older man is showing documents
which are of evident value. A passing tramp sees them through
the window, the blind of which is only half down. Exit the
solicitor. Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he observes
there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body."

"Why should the tramp burn the body?"

"For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?"

"To hide some evidence."

"Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had
been committed."

"And why did the tramp take nothing?"

"Because they were papers that he could not negotiate."

Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner
was less absolutely assured than before.

"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and
while you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future
will show which is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes:
that so far as we know, none of the papers were removed, and
that the prisoner is the one man in the world who had no reason
for removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into
them in any case."

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

"I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very
strongly in favour of your theory," said he. "I only wish to
point out that there are other theories possible. As you say,
the future will decide. Good-morning! I dare say that in the
course of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are
getting on."

When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his
preparations for the day's work with the alert air of a man who
has a congenial task before him.

"My first movement Watson," said he, as he bustled into his
frockcoat, "must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath."

"And why not Norwood?"

"Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close
to the heels of another singular incident. The police are making
the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second,
because it happens to be the one which is actually criminal. But
it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is
to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first incident--
the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected an
heir. It may do something to simplify what followed. No, my dear
fellow, I don't think you can help me. There is no prospect of
danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you. I
trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to
report that I have been able to do something for this
unfortunate youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection."

It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a
glance at his haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with
which be had started had not been fulfilled. For an hour he
droned away upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own
ruffled spirits. At last he flung down the instrument, and
plunged into a detailed account of his misadventures.

"It's all going wrong, Watson--all as wrong as it can go. I kept
a bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that
for once the fellow is on the right track and we are on the
wrong. All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the
other, and I much fear that British juries have not yet attained
that pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to
my theories over Lestrade's facts."

"Did you go to Blackheath?"

"Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the
late lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The
father was away in search of his son. The mother was at home--a
little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and
indignation. Of course, she would not admit even the possibility
of his guilt. But she would not express either surprise or
regret over the fate of Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of
him with such bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably
strengthening the case of the police for, of course, if her son
had heard her speak of the man in this fashion, it would
predispose him towards hatred and violence. `He was more like a
malignant and cunning ape than a human being,' said she, `and he
always was, ever since he was a young man.'

"`You knew him at that time?' said I.

"`Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of mine.
Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to
marry a better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him, Mr.
Holmes, when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a cat
loose in an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty
that I would have nothing more to do with him.' She rummaged in
a bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman,
shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife. `That is my own
photograph,' she said. `He sent it to me in that state, with his
curse, upon my wedding morning.'

"`Well,' said I, `at least he has forgiven you now, since he has
left all his property to your son.'

"`Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or
alive!' she cried, with a proper spirit. `There is a God in
heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished that
wicked man will show, in His own good time, that my son's hands
are guiltless of his blood.'

"Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which
would help our hypothesis, and several points which would make
against it. I gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.

"This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring
brick, standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped
lawn in front of it. To the right and some distance back from
the road was the timber-yard which had been the scene of the
fire. Here's a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook. This window
on the left is the one which opens into Oldacre's room. You can
look into it from the road, you see. That is about the only bit
of consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was not there, but
his head constable did the honours. They had just found a great
treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among the
ashes of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred organic
remains they had secured several discoloured metal discs. I
examined them with care, and there was no doubt that they were
trouser buttons. I even distinguished that one of them was
marked with the name of `Hyams,' who was Oldacres tailor. I then
worked the lawn very carefully for signs and traces, but this
drought has made everything as hard as iron. Nothing was to be
seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged through a
low privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile. All
that, of course, fits in with the official theory. I crawled
about the lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got up at
the end of an hour no wiser than before.

"Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined
that also. The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and
discolourations, but undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been
removed, but there also the marks were slight. There is no doubt
about the stick belonging to our client. He admits it. Footmarks
of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any
third person, which again is a trick for the other side. They
were piling up their score all the time and we were at a
standstill.

"Only one little gleam of hope did I get--and yet it amounted to
nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had
been taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made
up into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by
the police. They were not, so far as I could judge, of any great
value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in such
very affluent circumstances. But it seemed to me that all the
papers were not there. There were allusions to some deeds--
possibly the more valuable--which I could not find. This, of
course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade's
argument against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew
that he would shortly inherit it?

"Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent,
I tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her
name--a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and
sidelong eyes. She could tell us something if she would--I am
convinced of it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let
Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had
withered before she had done so. She had gone to bed at
half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, and
she could hear nothing of what had passed. Mr. McFarlane had
left his hat, and to the best of her had been awakened by the
alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been
murdered. Had he any enemies? Well, every man had enemies, but
Mr. Oldacre kept himself very much to himself, and only met
people in the way of business. She had seen the buttons, and was
sure that they belonged to the clothes which he had worn last
night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained
for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the time she reached
the spot, nothing could be seen but flames. She and all the
firemen smelled the burned flesh from inside it. She knew
nothing of the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.

"So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure. And yet--
and yet--" he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of
conviction--"I KNOW it's all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There
is something that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows
it. There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only
goes with guilty knowledge. However, there's no good talking any
more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes our
way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure
in that chronicle of our successes which I foresee that a
patient public will sooner or later have to endure."

"Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with any jury?"

"That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson. You remember that
terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in
'87? Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?"

"It is true."

"Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this
man is lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can
now be presented against him, and all further investigation has
served to strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little
point about those papers which may serve us as the
starting-point for an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I
found that the low state of the balance was principally due to
large checks which have been made out during the last year to
Mr. Cornelius. I confess that I should be interested to know who
this Mr. Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such
very large transactions. Is it possible that he has had a
hand in the affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have
found no scrip to correspond with these large payments. Failing
any other indication, my researches must now take the direction
of an inquiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these
checks. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end
ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will
certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard."

I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night,
but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed,
his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them.
The carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and
with the early editions of the morning papers. An open telegram
lay upon the table.

"What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked, tossing it across.

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:


Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane's guilt definitely
established. Advise you to abandon case.
LESTRADE.


"This sounds serious," said I.

"It is Lestrade's little cock-a-doodle of victory," Holmes
answered, with a bitter smile. "And yet it may be premature to
abandon the case. After all, important fresh evidence is a
two-edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very different
direction to that which Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast,
Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do. I
feel as if I shall need your company and your moral support today."

My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his
peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit
himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron
strength until he has fainted from pure inanition. "At present
I cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion," he would
say in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,
therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind
him, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid
sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was
just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates
Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner
grossly triumphant.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you
found your tramp?" he cried.

"I have formed no conclusion whatever," my companion answered.

"But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct,
so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of
you this time, Mr. Holmes."

"You certainly have the air of something unusual having
occurred," said Holmes.

Lestrade laughed loudly.

"You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,"
said he. "A man can't expect always to have it his own way, can
he, Dr. Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I
think I can convince you once for all that it was John McFarlane
who did this crime."

He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.

"This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
after the crime was done," said he. "Now look at this." With
dramatic suddenness he struck a match, and by its light exposed
a stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the match
nearer, I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the
well-marked print of a thumb.

"Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I am doing so."

"You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?"

"I have heard something of the kind."

"Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax
impression of young McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my orders
this morning?"

As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not
take a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly
from the same thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate
client was lost.

"That is final," said Lestrade.

"Yes, that is final," I involuntarily echoed.

"It is final," said Holmes.

Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at
him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was
writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like
stars. It seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to
restrain a convulsive attack of laughter.

"Dear me! Dear me!" he said at last. "Well, now, who would have
thought it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure!
Such a nice young man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to
trust our own judgment, is it not, Lestrade?"

"Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-sure,
Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade. The man's insolence was maddening,
but we could not resent it.

"What a providential thing that this young man should press his
right thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg!
Such a very natural action, too, if you come to think of it."
Holmes was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of
suppressed excitement as he spoke.

"By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?"

"It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night
constable's attention to it."

"Where was the night constable?"

"He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was
committed, so as to see that nothing was touched."

"But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"

"Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of
the hall. Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as you see."

"No, no--of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the
mark was there yesterday?"

Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of
his mind. I confess that I was myself surprised both at his
hilarious manner and at his rather wild observation.

"I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail
in the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence
against himself," said Lestrade. "I leave it to any expert in
the world whether that is not the mark of his thumb."

"It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."

"There, that's enough," said Lestrade. "I am a practical man,
Mr. Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my
conclusions. If you have anything to say, you will find me
writing my report in the sitting-room."

Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to
detect gleams of amusement in his expression.

"Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?"
said he. "And yet there are singular points about it which hold
out some hopes for our client."

"I am delighted to hear it," said I, heartily. "I was afraid it
was all up with him."

"I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The
fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence
to which our friend attaches so much importance."

"Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"

"Only this: that I KNOW that that mark was not there when I examined
the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll
round in the sunshine."

With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth
of hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round
the garden. Holmes took each face of the house in turn, and
examined it with great interest. He then led the way inside, and
went over the whole building from basement to attic. Most of the
rooms were unfurnished, but none the less Holmes inspected them
all minutely. Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside
three untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with a spasm of
merriment.

"There are really some very unique features about this case,
Watson," said he. "I think it is time now that we took our
friend Lestrade into our confidence. He has had his little smile
at our expense, and perhaps we may do as much by him, if my
reading of this problem proves to be correct. Yes, yes, I think
I see how we should approach it."

The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour
when Holmes interrupted him.

"I understood that you were writing a report of this case," said he.

"So I am."

"Don't you think it may be a little premature? I can't help
thinking that your evidence is not complete."

Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid
down his pen and looked curiously at him.

"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

"Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen."

"Can you produce him?"

"I think I can."

"Then do so."

"I will do my best. How many constables have you?"

"There are three within call."

"Excellent!" said Holmes. "May I ask if they are all large,
able-bodied men with powerful voices?"

"I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their
voices have to do with it."

"Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things
as well," said Holmes. "Kindly summon your men, and I will try."

Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.

"In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of
straw," said Holmes. "I will ask you to carry in two bundles of
it. I think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing
the witness whom I require. Thank you very much. I believe you
have some matches in your pocket Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I
will ask you all to accompany me to the top landing."

As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran
outside three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were
all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and
Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation, and
derision chasing each other across his features. Holmes stood
before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.

"Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of
water? Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on
either side. Now I think that we are all ready."

Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry. "I don't know
whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
said he. "If you know anything, you can surely say it without
all this tomfoolery."

"I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason
for everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you
chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your
side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little pomp and
ceremony now. Might I ask you, Watson, to open that window, and
then to put a match to the edge of the straw?"

I did so, and driven by the draught a coil of gray smoke swirled
down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.

"Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade.
Might I ask you all to join in the cry of `Fire!'? Now then;
one, two, three----"

"Fire!" we all yelled.

"Thank you. I will trouble you once again."

"Fire!"

"Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."

"Fire!" The shout must have rung over Norwood.

It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door
suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the
end of the corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it,
like a rabbit out of its burrow.

"Capital!" said Holmes, calmly. "Watson, a bucket of water over
the straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with
your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre."

The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement. The
latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and
peering at us and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious
face--crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-gray eyes
and white lashes.

"What's this, then?" said Lestrade, at last. "What have you been
doing all this time, eh?"

Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious
red face of the angry detective.

"I have done no harm."

"No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged.
If it wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would
not have succeeded."

The wretched creature began to whimper.

"I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."

"Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side,
I promise you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room
until I come. Mr. Holmes," he continued, when they had gone,
"I could not speak before the constables, but I don't mind saying,
in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is the brightest thing that
you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me how you did it.
You have saved an innocent man's life, and you have prevented a very
grave scandal, which would have ruined my reputation in the Force."

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

"Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few
alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will
understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector
Lestrade."

"And you don't want your name to appear?"

"Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the
credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous
historian to lay out his foolscap once more--eh, Watson? Well,
now, let us see where this rat has been lurking."

A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six
feet from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was
lit within by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture
and a supply of food and water were within, together with a
number of books and papers.

"There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we
came out. "He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place
without any confederate--save, of course, that precious
housekeeper of his, whom I should lose no time in adding to your
bag, Lestrade."

"I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?"

"I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house.
When I paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the
corresponding one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I
thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of
fire. We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it
amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I owed you a
little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning."

"Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in
the world did you know that he was in the house at all?"

"The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was,
in a very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day
before. I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as
you may have observed, and I had examined the hall, and was sure
that the wall was clear. Therefore, it had been put on during
the night."

"But how?"

"Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre
got McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb
upon the soft wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally,
that I daresay the young man himself has no recollection of it.
Very likely it just so happened, and Oldacre had himself no
notion of the use he would put it to. Brooding over the case in
that den of his, it suddenly struck him what absolutely damning
evidence he could make against McFarlane by using that
thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for him to
take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much
blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon
the wall during the night, either with his own hand or with that
of his housekeeper. If you examine among those documents which
he took with him into his retreat, I will lay you a wager that
you find the seal with the thumb-mark upon it."

"Wonderful!" said Lestrade. "Wonderful! It's all as clear as
crystal, as you put it. But what is the object of this deep
deception, Mr. Holmes?"

It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing
manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions
of its teacher.

"Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting
us downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane's
mother? You don't! I told you that you should go to Blackheath
first and Norwood afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would
consider it, has rankled in his wicked, scheming brain, and all
his life he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his chance.
During the last year or two, things have gone against him--
secret speculation, I think--and he finds himself in a bad way.
He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he
pays large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine,
himself under another name. I have not traced these checks yet,
but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at
some provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a
double existence. He intended to change his name altogether,
draw this money, and vanish, starting life again elsewhere."

"Well, that's likely enough."

"It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all
pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an ample and
crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the
impression that he had been murdered by her only child. It was
a masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master.
The idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the
crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the
retention of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains and
buttons in the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from
which it seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no
possible escape. But he had not that supreme gift of the artist,
the knowledge of when to stop. He wished to improve that which
was already perfect--to draw the rope tighter yet round the neck
of his unfortunate victim--and so he ruined all. Let us descend,
Lestrade. There are just one or two questions that I would ask him."

The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a
policeman upon each side of him.

"It was a joke, my good sir--a practical joke, nothing more," he
whined incessantly. "I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed
myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am
sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would
have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane."

"That's for a jury to decide," said Lestrade. "Anyhow, we shall
have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder."

"And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound the
banking account of Mr. Cornelius," said Holmes.

The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.

"I have to thank you for a good deal," said he. "Perhaps I'll
pay my debt some day."

Holmes smiled indulgently.

"I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very
fully occupied," said he. "By the way, what was it you put into
the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits,
or what? You won't tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well,
well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account both for
the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an
account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn."