The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

signature. Does not this strike you as curious?'

'Curious, perhaps, but by no means inexplicable. Gladsdale was probably in the habit of using his own waistcoat-inkpot.'

Holmes rushed to a writing-desk in the window and, after rummaging for an instant, returned with a quill and inkstand in his hand.

'Would you say that this is the same colour?' he asked, dipping the quill and making a mark or two on the edge of the document.

'It is identical,' I confirmed.

'Quite so. And the ink in this pot is blue-black indigo.'

Madame von Lammerain, who had been standing ha the background darted suddenly for the bell-rope but, before she had time to pull it, Holmes's voice rang through the room.

'You have my word for it that if you touch that bell, you are ruined,' he said sternly.

She paused with her hand upon the rope.

'What mockery is this!' she sneered. 'Are you sug­gesting that Henry Gladsdale signed his marriage docu­ ments at my desk? Why, you fool, everybody uses ink of that description.'

'Largely true. But these documents are dated June 12th, 1848.'

'Well, what of that!'

'I fear that you have been guilty of a small error, Madame von Lammerain. The black ink that contains indigo was not invented until 1856.'

There was something terrible in the beautiful face that glared at us across the circle of candlelight.

'You lie!' she hissed.

Holmes shrugged. 'The veriest amateur chemist can prove it,' said he, as he picked up the papers and placed them carefully in his cape pocket. 'These are, of course, the perfectly genuine marriage documents of Franзoise Pelletan,' he continued. 'But the real name of the bride­groom has been erased both in the certificate and in the page from the Valence church register and the name of Henry Corwyn Gladsdale substituted in its place. I have no doubt that, should the need arise, an examination under the microscope would show traces of the erasure.

'The ink itself is, however, conclusive proof and repre­sents but another example that it is on the small, easily committed error, rather than on any basic flaw in the conception, that most intricate plans crash to their ruin as the mighty vessel on the small but fatal point of rock. As for you, madame, when I consider the full implica­tions of your scheme against a defenceless woman, I am hard put to it to recall a more cold-blooded ruthlessness.'

'What are you to insult a woman!'

'In scheming to destroy another should she refuse you her husband's secret papers, you have surrendered the prerogatives of a woman,' he replied bitterly.

She looked at us with an evil smile on her waxen face. 'At least, you shall pay for it,' she promised. 'You have broken the law.'

'True, and by all means pull the bell,' said Sherlock Holmes. 'My poor defence will be the provocation of forgery, attempted blackmail and—mark the word—espionage. Indeed, as a measure of tribute to your gifts, I shall allow you exactly one week in which to leave this country. After then, the authorities will be warned against you.'

There was a moment of tense stillness, and then without a word Edith von Lammerain raised her white, shapely arm and pointed silently towards the door.

It was past eleven o'clock next morning and the breakfast things had not yet been cleared from the table. Sher­lock Holmes, who had returned from an early excursion, had discarded his frock-coat for an old smoking-jacket, and now lounged in front of the fire cleaning the stems of his pipes with a long, thin bodkin that had originally come into his possession under circumstances with which I do not propose to harrow my readers.

'You have seen the duchess?' I enquired.

'I have, and put her in possession of all the facts. Purely as a precautionary measure, she is lodging the documents inscribed with her husband's forged signature, together with my statement of the case, in the hands of the family lawyers. But she has nothing more to fear from Edith von Lammerain.'

'Owing to you, my dear fellow,' I cried warmly.

'Well, well, Watson. The case was simple enough and the work its own reward.'

I glanced at him keenly.

'You look a bit fine-drawn, Holmes,' I remarked. 'You should get away into the country for a few days.'

'Later on, perhaps. But I cannot leave town until Madame has departed from these shores, for she is a person of singular address.'

'That is a very fine pearl which you are wearing in your cravat. I do not remember seeing it before.'

My friend picked up two letters from the mantelpiece and tossed them across to me. 'They arrived while you were absent on your round,' said he.

The one, which bore the address of Carringford House, ran thus:

'To your chivalry, to your courage, a woman owes her all, and such a debt is beyond reward. Let this pearl, the ancient symbol of Faith, be the token of the life that you have given back to me. I shall not forget.'

The other, which had neither address nor signature, ran:

'We shall meet again, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I shall not forget.'

'It is all in the point of view,' chuckled Holmes, 'and I have yet to meet the two women who look from the same angle.'

Then, throwing himself into his chair, he reached out lazily for his most obnoxious pipe.

----:----

At the present instant one of the most revered names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer and only I can stop a disas­trous scandal.

FROM 'THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES.'

11

The Adventure of the Deptford Horror

I have remarked elsewhere that my friend Sherlock Holmes, like all great artists, lived for his art's sake and, save in the case of the Duke of Holderness, I have seldom known him claim any substantial reward. However powerful or wealthy the client, he would refuse to undertake any problem that lacked appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote his most intense energies to the affairs of  some  humble  person whose case  contained those singular and remarkable qualities which struck a respon­sive chord in his imagination.

On glancing through my notes for that memorable year '95, I find recorded the details of a case which may be taken as a typical instance of this disinterested and even altruistic attitude of mind which placed the rendering of a kindly service above that of material reward. I refer, of course, to the dreadful affair of the canaries and the soot- marks on the ceiling.

It was early in June that my friend completed his in­vestigations into the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca, an enquiry which he had undertaken at the special request of the Pope. The case had demanded the most exacting work on Holmes's part and, as I had feared at the time, the aftermath had left him in a highly nervous and restless state that caused me some concern both as his friend and his medical adviser.

One rainy night towards the end of the same month, I persuaded him to dine with me at Frascatti's and there­after we had gone on to the Cafe Royal for our coffee and liquors. As I had hoped, the bustle of the great room, with its red plush seats and stately palms bathed in the glow of numerous crystal chandeliers, drew him out of his introspective mood and as he leaned back on our sofa, his fingers playing with the stem of his glass, I noted with satisfaction a gleam of interest in those keen grey eyes as he studied the somewhat Bohemian clientele that thronged the tables and alcoves.

I was in the act of replying to some remark when Holmes nodded suddenly in the direction of the door.

'Lestrade,' said he. 'What can he be doing here?'

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the lean, rat-faced figure of the Scotland Yard man standing in the entrance, his dark eyes roving slowly around the room.

'He may be seeking you,' I remarked. 'Probably on some urgent case.'

'Hardly, Watson. His wet boots show that he has walked. If there was urgency, he would have taken a cab. But here he comes.'