It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of
our night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great
city behind us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew
from the westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky,
with half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts. It was
clear enough to see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took
down one of the side-lamps from the carriage to give us a better
light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round
with a very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single
narrow iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On
this our guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys.
The door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood
in the opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon
his protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no
orders about them from the master."

"No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night
that I should bring some friends."

"He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have
no orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations.
I can let you in, but your friends must just stop where they
are."

This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about
him in a perplexed and helpless manner. "This is too bad of you,
McMurdo!" he said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you.
There is the young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road
at this hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably. "Folk
may be friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's. He
pays me well to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know
none o' your friends."

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially. "I
don't think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember the
amateur who fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the
night of your benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's
truth! how could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin'
there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-
hit of yours under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question.
Ah, you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might
have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy."

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our
friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

"In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he
answered. "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict.
Had to be certain of your friends before I let them in."

Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge
clump of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save
where a moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret
window. The vast size of the building, with its gloom and its
deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus
Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled
in his hand.

"I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake.
I distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet
there is no light in his window. I do not know what to make of
it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the favorite
son, you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told
him more than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up
there where the moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there
is no light from within, I think."

"None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that
little window beside the door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs.
Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you
would not mind waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go
in together and she has no word of our coming she may be alarmed.
But hush! what is that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of
light flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my
wrist, and we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears.
From the great black house there sounded through the silent night
the saddest and most pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken
whimpering of a frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in
the house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried
for the door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a
tall old woman admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very
sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad
you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated
rejoicings until the door was closed and her voice died away into
a muffled monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round,
and peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps
which cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together,
and her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for
here were we two who had never seen each other before that day,
between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed,
and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought
for each other. I have marvelled at it since, but at the time it
seemed the most natural thing that I should go out to her so,
and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct
to turn to me for comfort and protection. So we stood hand in
hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for
all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose
in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill
near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."

"And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of
the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years
looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-
pit."

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus
Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror
in his eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am
frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half
blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out
from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing
expression of a terrified child.

"Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal
to giving directions."

We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon
the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up
and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the
sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon
her.

"God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical
sob. "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely
tried this day!"

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some
few words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back
into the others bloodless cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she
explained. "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often
likes to be alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was
amiss, so I went up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go
up, Mr. Thaddeus,--you must go up and look for yourself. I have
seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long
years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as that."

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus
Sholto's teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he
that I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the
stairs, for his knees were trembling under him. Twice as we
ascended Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully
examined marks which appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges
of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served as a stair-
carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, holding the lamp,
and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had
remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some
length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of
it and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in
the same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his
heels, with our long black shadows streaming backwards down the
corridor. The third door was that which we were seeking. Holmes
knocked without receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the
handle and force it open. It was locked on the inside, however,
and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when we set our
lamp up against it. The key being turned, however, the hole was
not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and
instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more
moved than I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?"

I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was
streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and
shifty radiance. Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it
were, in the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a
face,--the very face of our companion Thaddeus. There was the
same high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red hair,
the same bloodless countenance. The features were set, however,
in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural grin, which in that
still and moonlit room was more jarring to the nerves than any
scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of our little
friend that I looked round at him to make sure that he was indeed
with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us
that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against
it, he put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned,
but did not yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once
more, and this time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found
ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A
double line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall
opposite the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen
burners, test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys
of acid in wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to
have been broken, for a stream of dark-colored liquid had
trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly
pungent, tar-like odor. A set of steps stood at one side of the
room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and above
them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man
to pass through. At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope
was thrown carelessly together.

By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was
seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder,
and that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff
and cold, and had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me
that not only his features but all his limbs were twisted and
turned in the most fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table
there lay a peculiar instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick,
with a stone head like a hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse
twine. Beside it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words
scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it, and then handed it to
me.

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The
sign of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I
expected it. Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long,
dark thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is
poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the
skin so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny
speck of blood showed where the puncture had been.

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows
darker instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I only
require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered
the chamber. He was still standing in the door-way, the very
picture of terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself.
Suddenly, however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of the
treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I
helped him to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left
him here last night, and I heard him lock the door as I came
down-stairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be
called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it.
Oh, yes, I am sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen?
Surely you don't think that it was I? Is it likely that I would
have brought you here if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know
that I shall go mad!" He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in
a kind of convulsive frenzy.

"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly,
putting his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive
down to the station to report this matter to the police. Offer
to assist them in every way. We shall wait here until your
return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard
him stumbling down the stairs in the dark.