The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

'Yes; it was foreign.' Miss Forsythe spoke in some surprise. 'But surely it was of no importance, since you —'

'Since I—what?'

A sudden touch of bewilderment was manifest in our client's expression, and then, as though, to drive away some perplexity, she hurried on with her narrative.

'Charles tore open the letter, read it, and turned deathly pale. With an incoherent exclamation he rushed from the room. When we descended half an hour later, it was only to discover that he and Trepley had departed with all his luggage. He left no message. He sent no word. I have not seen him since.'

Celia Forsythe lowered her head, and tears glimmered in her eyes.

'Now, Mr. Holmes, I have been frank with you. I beg that you will be equally frank with me. What did you write in that letter?'

The question was so startling that I, for one, leaned back in my chair. Sherlock Holmes's face was without expression. His long, nervous fingers reached out for the tobacco in the Persian slipper, and began to fill a clay pipe.

'In the letter, you say,' he stated rather than asked.

'Yes! You wrote that letter. I saw your signature. That is why I am here!'

'Dear me!' remarked Holmes. He was silent for several minutes, the blue smoke curling about him, and his eyes fixed vacantly upon the clock on the mantelshelf.

'There are times, Miss Forsythe,' he said at last, 'when one must be guarded in one's replies. I have only one more question to ask you.'

'Well, Mr. Holmes?'

'Did Lady Mayo still preserve her friendliness for Mr. Charles Hendon?'

'Oh, yes! She became quite attached to him. More than once I heard her address him as Alec, apparently her nickname for him.' Miss Forsythe paused, with an air of doubt, and even suspicion. 'But what can you mean by such a question?'

Holmes rose to his feet.

'Only, madam, that I shall be happy to look into this matter for you. You return to Groxton Low Hall this evening?'

'Yes. But surely you have more to say to me than this? You have answered not one of my questions!'

'Well, well! I have my methods, as Watson here can tell you. But if you could find it convenient to come here, say a week from this day, at nine o'clock in the evening? Thank you. Then I shall hope to have some news for you.'

Palpably it was a dismissal. Miss Forsythe rose to her feet, and looked at him so forlornly that I felt the need to interpose some word of comfort.

'Be of good cheer, madam!' I cried, gently taking her hand. 'You may have every confidence in my friend Mr. Holmes; and, if I may say so, in myself as well.'

I was rewarded by a gracious and grateful smile. When the door had closed behind our fair visitor, I turned to my companion with some asperity.

'I do feel, Holmes, that you might have treated the young lady with more sympathy.'

'Oh? Sets the wind in that quarter?'

'Holmes, for shame!' said I, flinging myself into my chair. 'The affair is trivial, no doubt. But why you should have written a letter to this clock-breaking madman I cannot conjecture.'

Holmes leaned across and laid his long, thin forefinger upon my knee.

'Watson, I wrote no such letter.'

'What?' I exclaimed.

'Tut, it is not the first time my name has been borrowed by others! There is devilry here, Watson, else I am much mistaken.'

'You take it seriously, then?'

'So seriously that I leave for the Continent tonight.'

'For the Continent? For Switzerland?'

'No, no; what have we to do with Switzerland? Our trail lies further afield.'

'Then where do you go?'

'Surely that is obvious?'

'My dear Holmes!'

'Yet nearly all the data are before you, and, as I in­formed Miss Forsythe, you know my methods. Use them, Watson! Use them!'

Already the first lamps were glimmering through the fog in Baker Street, when my friend's simple preparations were completed. He stood at the doorway of our sitting-room, tall and gaunt in his ear-flapped travelling-cap and long Inverness cape, his Gladstone bag at his feet, and regarded me with singular fixity.

'One last word, Watson, since you still appear to see no light. I would remind you that Mr. Charles Hendon cannot endure the s—'

'But that is clear enough! He cannot bear the sight of a clock.'

Holmes shook his head.

'Not necessarily,' said he. 'I would further draw your attention to the other five clocks, as described by the servant.'

'Mr. Charles Hendon did not smash those clocks!'

'That is why I draw your attention to them. Until nine o'clock this day week, Watson!'

A moment more, and I was alone.

During the dreary week which followed, I occupied myself as best I might. I played billiards with Thurston. I smoked many pipes of Ship's, and I pondered over the notes in the case of Mr. Charles Hendon. One does not associate for some years with Sherlock Holmes without becoming more observant than most. It seemed to me that some dark and sinister peril hung over that poor young lady, Miss Forsythe, nor did I trust either the too-handsome Charles Hendon or the enigmatic Lady Mayo.

On Wednesday, November 23rd, my wife returned with the welcome news that our fortunes were in better order and that I should soon be able to buy a small practice. Her home-coming was a joyous one. That night, as we sat hand in hand before the fire in our lodgings, I told her something of the strange problem before me. I spoke of Miss Forsythe, touching on her parlous plight, and on her youth and beauty and refinement. My wife did not reply, but sat looking thoughtfully at the fire.

It was the distant chime of Big Ben striking the half hour after eight, which roused me.

'By Jove, Mary!' cried I. 'I had all but forgotten!'

'Forgotten?' repeated my wife, with a slight start.

'I have promised to be in Baker Street at nine o'clock tonight. Miss Forsythe is to be there.'

My wife drew back her hand.

'Then you had best be off at once,' said she, with a coldness which astonished me. 'You are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases.'

Puzzled and somewhat hurt, I took my hat and my departure. It was a bitter-cold night, with no breath of fog, but with the roads ice-blocked in mud. Within the half hour a hansom set me down in Baker Street. With a thrill of excitement I observed that Sherlock Holmes had returned from his mission. The upper windows were lighted, and several times I saw his gaunt shadow pass and repass on the blinds.

Letting myself in with a latch-key, I went softly up the stairs and opened the door of the sitting-room. Clearly Holmes had only just returned, for his cape, his cloth cap, and his old Gladstone bag were scattered about the room in his customary untidy fashion.

He stood at his desk, his back towards me, and the light of the green-shaded desk-lamp falling over him as he ripped open envelopes in a small pile of correspon­dence. At the opening of the door he turned round, but his face fell.

'Ah, Watson, it is you. I had hoped to see Miss For­sythe. She is late.'

'By heaven, Holmes! If those scoundrels have harmed the young lady, I swear they shall answer to me!'

'Scoundrels?'

'I refer to Mr. Charles Hendon, and, though it grieves me to say as much about a woman, to Lady Mayo as