The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

doomed. But, though his own life was already for­feited, he was playing for the life of his daughter. Ferrers can have had no idea of the actual identity of the assassin who had been selected for the work beyond the fact that the unknown must of necessity be a fellow-member.

'Concealed in the fork of the tree above the pre­arranged meeting place, the murderer lay in wait as a leopard waits for a sheep and, when his victim halted be­neath him, he drew his knife and, leaping to the ground, seized him from behind and cut his throat. When he had searched Ferrers' body for the paper and eventually found it in the butt of the gun, his loathsome task was completed. He forgot, however, that in doing it he had left his heel-marks on the turf and two threads from his brown tweed coat on the rough bark of the tree.'

As Sherlock Holmes ceased speaking, the silence of death fell on that darkening room. Then, stretching out one long, thin arm, he pointed silently at the shadowy figure of James Tonston.

'There stands the murderer of Josua Ferrers,' he said in a quiet voice.

Tonston stepped forward, a smile upon his pale face.

'You are wrong,' he said steadily. 'The executioner of Josua Ferrers.'

For a moment, he stood before us meeting our horrified stares with the serenity of one whose duty has been meritoriously fulfilled. Then, with a rattle of handcuffs, the constable leapt upon his man.

Tonston made no attempt to struggle, and with his hands manacled before him, he was accompanying his captor to the door when my friend's voice brought them to a halt.

'What have you done with it?' he demanded.

The prisoner looked at him silently.

'I ask,' continued Holmes, 'because if you have not destroyed it then it is best that I destroy it myself, and that unread.'

'Rest assured that the paper is already destroyed,' said James Tonston, 'and that the Mala Vita preserves the secrets of the Mala Vita. In parting, take this word of warning to heart. It is that you know too much. Though your life may be an honoured one, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it is most unlikely to be a long one.' Then, with a cold smile in his grey eyes, he passed from the room.

It was an hour later and a full moon was rising when my friend and I, after parting from Dr. Nordham, turned our backs upon Abbotstanding, now gaunt and black against the night sky, and set out on foot towards Beaulieu village, where we planned to stay at the inn and take the morning train back to town.

I shall long remember that wonderful five miles' walk along a road all dappled with white fire and deepest shadow where the great trees met above our heads and the forest deer peered at us from the clumps of glistening bracken. Holmes walked with his chin upon his breast and it was not until we were descending the hill above the village that he broke his silence. It was little enough that he said then but for some reason his words have remained in my mind.

'You know me sufficiently well, Watson, to acquit me of all false sentiment,' said he, 'when I confess that there is an urge upon me tonight to walk for a while in the ruined cloisters of Beaulieu Abbey. It was the abode of men who lived and died at peace with themselves and with each other. We have seen much evil in our time, not least of which is the misuse of noble qualities such as loyalty, courage and determination for purposes that are in themselves ignoble. But the older I grow the more forcibly is it borne in upon me that just as these hills, and moonlit woods have outlived the ruins that now lie before us, so too must our  virtues which are sprung from God survive our vices which, like the Dark Angels, spring from man. Surely. Watson, this is the ultimate promise.'

----:----

I am retained in this case of the Ferrers

FROM 'THE PRIORY SCHOOL'

10

The Adventure of the Two Women

I see from my note-book that it was late in September, 1886, shortly before my departure to Dartmoor with Sir Henry Baskerville, that my attention was first drawn to that curious affair, since termed 'The Blackmailing Case,' which threatened to involve one of the most revered names in England. Even at this late date, Sherlock Holmes has urged me to spare no pains to conceal the real iden­tity of the personage concerned and, in my recital of the events, I shall certainly do my best to observe his wishes in this matter. Indeed, I am as sensitive as he is to the fact that, owing to the many cases in which we have been concerned over the years, we have been of necessity the depositaries of many strange confidences and secrets which, should they become known to the world, could only arouse scandal and amazement. Our honour is therefore deeply involved and I shall make very sure that no inadvertent word of mine shall point the finger of accusation at any one of those men and women, in high life or in low, who have poured out their troubles to us in our modest Baker Street chambers.

I recall that it was on a late September morning when I was first introduced to the adventure which forms the subject of this narrative. It was a grey, depressing day with a hint of early fog in the air and, having been summoned to a patient in Seaton Place, I was walking back to our lodgings when I became aware of a small street urchin slinking along at my heels. As he drew level I recognized the lad as one of the Baker Street irregulars, as Holmes termed the group of grubby little boys whom he employed on odd occasions to act as his eyes and ears amid the purlieus of the London streets.

'Hullo, Billy,' I said.

The lad returned no sign of recognition.

'Got a match, Guv'nor?' he demanded, exhibiting a frayed cigarette-end. I gave him a box and, on handing it back to me, he raised his eyes for an instant to my face. 'For God's sake, Doctor,' he whispered swiftly, 'tell Mr. Holmes to watch out for Footman Boyce.' Then, with a surly nod, he slouched on his way.

I was not displeased to be the bearer of this cryptic message to my friend, for it had been apparent to me for some days past from his alternating moods of energy and absorption and his deplorable consumption of tobacco that Holmes was engaged upon a case. Contrary to his usual practice, however, he had not invited me to share his confidences, and I must confess that my sudden pre­cipitation into the affair, irrespective of Holmes's wishes, caused me no small satisfaction.

On entering our sitting-room, I found him lounging in his arm-chair before the fireplace, still clad in his purple dressing-gown, his grey, heavy-lidded eyes staring thoughtfully at the ceiling through a haze of tobacco smoke while one long, thin arm, dangling a letter between its finger-tips, hung down the side of his chair. An envelope, embossed, I noticed, with a coronet, lay on the floor.

'Ah, Watson,' he said petulantly. 'You are back earlier than I expected.'

'Perhaps it is as well for you, Holmes,' I replied, a trifle nettled at his tone, and proceeded to give the message with which I had been entrusted. Holmes raised his eyebrows.

'This is most curious,' said he. 'What can Footman Boyce have to do with the matter?'

'As I know nothing about it, I am hardly in a position to answer your question,' I remarked.

'Upon my soul, a distinct touch, Watson!' he replied, with a dry chuckle. 'If I have not taken you already into my confidence, my dear fellow, it was not for any lack of faith in you. The affair is, however, of a most delicate nature and I preferred to feel my way a little before in­viting your invaluable assistance.'

'There is no need for you to explain further,' I began warmly.

'Tut, Watson, I have reached a complete impasse. Possibly, it may prove one of those instances where an active mind may overreach, while a merely reflective one, functioning largely on the obvious—' he lapsed into a brooding silence for a moment, then springing to his feet, he strode over to the window.

'I am faced with one of the most dangerous cases of blackmail in all my experience,' he cried. 'I take it that you are familiar with the name of the Duke of Carring­ford?'

'You mean the late Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs?'

'Precisely.'

'But he died some three years ago,' I observed.

'Doubtless it will surprise you to learn, Watson, that I am aware of that fact,' replied Holmes testily. 'But to continue. A few days past I received a note from the duchess, his widow, couched in such urgent terms that I was constrained to comply with her request to call upon her at her house in Portland Place. I found her a woman of more than ordinary intelligence and what you would term beauty, but overwhelmed by the fearsome blow which, striking literally overnight, now threatens her with the complete social and financial destruction of herself and her daughter. And the irony of the situation is the more terrible because her destruction comes from no fault of her own.'