The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

judge for yourselves.'

' 'Then, let us judge for ourselves!' smiled Mr. Dunbar, and Sir John went upstairs and brought down the jewel-case. As he opened it on the table and they all crowded round, her ladyship told me to light the lamps in the conservatory as they would be coming shortly to see the red camellias. But there were no red camellias.'

'I fail to understand.'

'They'd gone, sir! Gone, every single one of them,' cried our visitor hoarsely. 'When I entered the conservatory, I just stood there holding the lamp above my head and wondering if I was stark mad. There was the famous shrub, all right, but of the dozen great blossoms which I had admired on it this very afternoon there remained not so much as a petal.'

Sherlock Holmes stretched out a long arm for his pipe.

'Dear, dear,' said he. 'This is most gratifying. But pray continue your interesting narrative.'

'I ran back to the library to tell them. 'But it is im­possible!' cried her ladyship. 'I saw the flowers myself when I plucked one for my dress just before dinner.' 'The man's been at the port!' said Sir John, and then, thrusting the jewel-case into the table drawer, he rushed for the conservatory with all the rest of them at his heels. But the camellias had gone.'

'One moment,' interrupted Holmes. 'When were they seen last?'

'I saw them at four and as her ladyship picked one shortly before dinner, they were there about eight o'clock. But the flowers are of no matter, Mr. Holmes. It's the ruby!'

'Ah!'

Our visitor leaned forward in his chair.

'The library was empty for only a few minutes,' he continued almost in a whisper. 'But when Sir John, fair demented over the mystery of his flowers, returned and opened the drawer, the Abbas Ruby, together with its jewel-case, had vanished as completely as the red camellias.'

For a moment we sat in silence broken only by the tinkle of burning embers falling in the grate.

'Joliffe,' mused Holmes dreamily. 'Andrew Joliffe. The Catterton diamond robbery, was it not?'

The man buried his face in his hands.

'I'm glad you know, sir,' he muttered at last. 'But as God is my judge I've kept straight since I came out three years ago. Captain Masterman was very good to me and got me this job with his brother-in-law, and from that day to this I've never let him down. I've been content to keep my wages, hoping that eventually I might save enough to buy my own cigar shop.'

'Go on with your story.'

'Well, sir, I was in the hall, having sent the stableboy for the police, when I caught Captain Masterman's voice through the half-opened door of the library. 'Damn it, John, I wanted to give a lame dog a chance,' said he, 'but I blame myself now that I did not tell you his past history. He must have slipped in here while everyone was in the conservatory and—' I waited for no more, sir, but telling Rogers, the footman, that if anybody wanted me then they would find me with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I ran here through the snow, believing from all I've heard that you will not think it beneath you to save from injustice one who has already paid his debt to so­ciety. You are my only hope, sir, and—My God, I knew it!'

The door had flown open and a tall, fair-haired man, wrapped to the ears in a snow-powdered cape, strode into the room.

'Ah, Gregson, we were expecting you.'

'No doubt, Mr. Holmes,' replied Inspector Gregson drily. 'Well, this is our man, and so we'll be getting along.'

Our wretched client leaped to his feet. 'But I'm inno­cent! I never touched it!' he wailed.

The police-agent smiled sourly and, drawing from his pocket a flat box, he shook it under his prisoner's nose.

'God save us, it's the jewel-case!' gasped Joliffe.

'There, he admits it! Where was it found, you say? It was found where you put it, my man, under your mattress.'

Joliffe's face had turned the colour of ashes. 'But I never touched it,' he repeated dully.

'One moment, Gregson,' interposed Holmes. 'Am I to understand that you have the Abbas Ruby?'

'No,' he replied, 'the case was empty. But it cannot be far, and Sir John is offering a reward of five thousand pounds.'

'May I see the case? Thank you. Dear me, what a sorry sight. The lock unbroken but the hinges smashed. Flesh-coloured velvet. But surely—'

Whipping out his lens, Holmes laid the jewel-case beneath the reading lamp and examined it closely. 'Most interesting,' he said at length. 'By the way, Joliffe, was the ruby mounted?'

'It was set in a carved gold locket and chain. But, oh, Mr. Holmes—'

'Rest assured I will do my best for you. Well, Gregson, we will detain you no longer.'

The Scotland Yard man snapped a pair of handcuffs on our unhappy visitor and a moment later the door had closed behind them.

For a while, Holmes smoked thoughtfully. He had pulled up his chair to the blaze and, with his chin cupped in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees, he stared broodingly into the fire while the ruddy light waxed and waned on his keen finely drawn features.

'Have you ever heard of the Nonpareil Club, Watson?' he asked suddenly.

'The name is unfamiliar to me,' I confessed.

'It is the most exclusive gambling club in London,' he continued. 'The Members' List, which is privately printed, reads like Debrett with a spicing of the Almanach de Gotha. I have had my eye upon it for sometime past.'

'Good heavens, Holmes, why?'

'Where there is wealth follows crime, Watson. It is the one fixed principle that has governed man's wickedness through all his history.'

'But what has this club to do with the Abbas Ruby?' I asked.

'Perhaps, nothing. Or again, everything. Kindly hand me down the Biographical Index marked 'M' from the shelf above the pipe-rack. Dear me, it is remarkable that one letter of the alphabet can embrace so many notorious names. You would find it profitable to study this list, Watson. But here is our man, I think. Mappins; Marston, the poisoner; Masterman. Captain the Honourable Bruce Mastennan, born 1856, educated at—h'm! ha!—suspected of implication in the Hilliers Dearbon inheritance forgery; secretary of Nonpareil Club; member of—quite so.' My friend flung the book on the couch. 'Well, Watson, are you game for a nocturnal excursion?'

'By all means, Holmes. But where?'

'We will be guided by circumstances.'

The wind had fallen and as we emerged into the white, silent streets, the distant chimes of Big Ben struck the hour of ten. Though we were well muffled, it was so bitterly cold that I welcomed the need of our brisk walk to Marylebone Road before we could hail a hansom.

'It will do no harm to call at Manchester Square,' remarked Holmes, as we tucked the rug about us and jingled away through the snow-covered streets. A short drive brought us to our destination, and as we alighted before the portico of an imposing Georgian house, Holmes pointed to the ground.

'The guests have gone already,' said he, 'for you will observe that these wheel-marks were made after the snow ceased to fall.'

The footman who had opened the door to us took our cards, and a moment later we were ushered across the hall into a handsome library where a tall, thin man with greying hair and a most melancholy countenance was warming his coat-tails before a blazing fire. As we en­tered, a woman, who was reclining on a chaise lounge, rose to her feet and turned to look at us.

Though the leading artist of our day has immortalized Lady Doverton, I venture to think that no portrait will ever do full justice to this imperious and beautiful woman as we saw her then, in a gown of white satin with a single scarlet flower flaming at her bodice and the golden glow of the candles shining on her pale, perfectly chiselled face and drawing sparkles of fire from the diamonds that crowned her rich auburn hair. Her companion advanced on us eagerly.

'Really, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, this is most gratifying!' he cried. 'That you should face the inclemency of the