The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

to me that the reaction that generally followed the conclusion of a case was already upon him.

'It is curious,' I observed, 'that a man's hatred and ferocity should remain unabated after twenty years.'

'My dear Watson,' replied Holmes, 'I would remind you of the old Sicilian adage that vengeance is the only dish that is best when eaten cold. But surely,' he con­tinued, shading his eyes with his hand, 'the lady hurrying down our path is Mrs. Longton. Though I trust that I am not lacking in chivalry, nevertheless I am in no mood for the effusions of feminine gratitude and therefore, with your permission, we will take this by-path behind the gorse bushes. If we step out, we should be in time for the afternoon train to town.

'Corata is singing tonight at Covent Garden and, braced by our short holiday in the invigorating atmosphere of Ashdown Forest, I think that you will agree with me, Watson, that we could desire no more pleasant home­coming than an hour or two spent amid the magic of Manon Lescaut followed by a cold supper at our rooms in Baker Street.'

----:----

Here also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy.

FROM 'THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ'

8

The Adventure of the Abbas Ruby

On glancing through my notes, I find it recorded that the night of November 10th saw the first heavy blizzard of the winter of 1886. The day had been dark and cold with a bitter, searching wind that moaned against the windows and, as the early dusk deepened into night, the street-lamps glimmering through the gloom of Baker Street disclosed the first flurries of snow and sleet swirling along the empty, glistening pavements.

Scarcely three weeks had passed since my friend Sher­lock Holmes and I had returned from Dartmoor on the conclusion of that singular case, the details of which I have recorded elsewhere under the name of The Hound of the Baskervilles and, though several enquiries had been brought to my friend's notice since that time, none was of a nature to appeal to his love of the bizarre or to challenge that unique combination of logic and deduction which depended for its inspiration upon the intricacies of the problem which lay before it.

A merry fire was crackling in the grate and as I leaned back in my chair and let my eyes wander about the untidy cosiness of our sitting-room, I had to admit that the wildness of the night and the rattle of the sleet upon the window-panes served merely to increase my own sense of contentment. On the far side of the fire-place, Sherlock Holmes was curled up in his arm-chair, languidly turning over the pages of a black index-book marked 'B' in which he had just completed certain entries under 'Bask­erville' and giving vent to occasional chuckles and ejaculations as his eyes wandered over the names and notes covering every page of the volume. I had flung down The Lancet with some idea of encouraging my friend to touch upon one or two of the names which were strange to me when, beneath the sobbing of the wind, my ears caught the faint sound of the door-bell.

'You have a visitor,' I said.

'Surely a client, Watson,' Holmes replied, laying aside his book. 'And on urgent business,' he added, with a glance at the rattling window-panes. 'These inclement nights are invariably the herald of—' His words were interrupted by a rush of feet on the staircase, the door was burst open, and our visitor stumbled into the room.

He was a short, stout man, wrapped up in a dripping mackintosh cape and wearing a bowler hat tied under his chin by a woollen muffler. Holmes had tilted the lamp­shade, so that the light shone towards the door and, for a moment, the man remained motionless, staring at us across the room while the moisture from his sodden gar­ment dripped in dark stains upon the carpet. He would have been a comical figure, with his tubbiness and his fat face framed in its encircling muffler, were it not for the impression of helpless misery in the man's brown eyes and in the shaking hands with which he plucked at the absurd bow beneath his chin.

'Take off your coat and come to the fire,' said Holmes kindly.

'I must indeed apologize, gentlemen, for my untoward intrusion,' he began. 'But I fear that circumstances have arisen which threaten—threaten—'

'Quick, Watson!'

But I was too late. There was a thud and a groan and there lay our visitor senseless upon the carpet.

Seizing some brandy from the sideboard, I ran to force it between his lips while Holmes, who had loosened the man's muffler, craned over my shoulder.

'What do you make of him, Watson?' he asked.

'He has had a severe shock,' I replied. 'From his appearance, he seems a comfortable, respectable person of the grocer class, and doubtless we will find out more ' about him when he has recovered.'

'Tut, I think that we might venture a little further,' my friend said thoughtfully. 'When the butler from some wealthy household rushes on the spur of the moment through a snow-storm in order to fall senseless on my humble carpet, I am tempted to visualize some affair of greater moment than a broken till.'

'My dear Holmes!'

'I would stake a guinea that there is a livery beneath that overcoat. Ah, did I not say so!'

'Even so, I do not see how you surmised it nor the wealthy household.'

Holmes picked up the limp hands. 'You will observe that the pads of both thumbs are darkened, Watson. In a man of sedentary type, I know of only one occupation that will account for this equality of discolouration. The man polishes silver with his thumbs.'

'Surely, Holmes, a leather would be more usual,' I protested.

'On ordinary silver, yes. Very fine silver is finished, however, with the thumbs, and hence my conjecture of a well-to-do household. As for his sudden departure, the man has rushed into the night in patent-leather pumps despite that it has been snowing since six o'clock. There, now, you are feeling better,' he added kindly, as our visitor opened his eyes. 'Dr. Watson and I will help you into this chair and after you have rested awhile doubtless you will tell us your troubles.'

The man clapped his hands to his head.

'Rested awhile!' he cried wildly. 'My God, sir, they must be after me already!'

'Who must be after you?'

'The police, Sir John, all of them! The Abbas Ruby has been stolen!' The words rose almost to a shriek. My friend leaned forward and placed his long, thin fingers on the other's wrist. On previous occasions I have noted Holmes's almost magnetic power for asserting a sense of peace and comfort over the minds of those in distress.

It was so in this case, and the wild, panic-stricken gleam faded slowly in the man's eyes.

'Come, now, give me the facts,' Sherlock Holmes enjoined after a moment.

'My name is Andrew Joliffe,' began our visitor more calmly, 'and for the past two years I have been employed as butler to Sir John and Lady Doverton at Manchester Square.'

'Sir John Doverton, the horticulturist?'

'Yes, sir. Indeed, there's them that say that his flowers, and especially his famous red camellias, mean more to Sir John than even the Abbas Ruby and all his other family treasures. I take it you know about the ruby, sir?'

'I know of its existence. But tell me in your own words.'

'Well, it makes one frightened just to look at it. Like a big drop of blood it is, with a touch of devil's fire smouldering in its heart. In two years I had seen it only once, for Sir John keeps it in the safe in his bedroom, locked up like some deadly poisonous creature that shouldn't even know the light of day. Tonight, however, I saw it for the second time. It was just after dinner, when one of our guests, Captain Masterman, suggested to Sir John that he should show them the Abbas Ruby—'

'Their names,' interposed Holmes languidly.

'Names, sir? Ah, you mean the guests. Well, there were Captain Masterman, who is her ladyship's brother, Lord and Lady Brackminster, Mrs. Dunbar, the Rt. Hon. William Radford, our Member of Parliament, and Mrs. Fitzsimmons-Leming.'

Holmes scribbled a word on his cuff. 'Pray continue,' said he.

'I was serving coffee in the library when the captain made his suggestion and all the ladies began to clamour to see the gem. 'I would prefer to show you the red camellias in the conservatory,' says Sir John. 'The speci­men that my wife is wearing in her gown is surely more beautiful than anything to be found in a jewel-box, as you can