



                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GABLES

                               Arthur Conan Doyle



     I don't think that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes
     opened quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I
     associate with The Three Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days
     and had no idea of the new channel into which his activities had been
     directed. He was in a chatty mood that morning, however, and had just
     settled me into the well-worn low armchair on one side of the fire,
     while he had curled down with his pipe in his mouth upon the opposite
     chair, when our visitor arrived. If I had said that a mad bull had
     arrived it would give a clearer impression of what occurred.

     The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He
     would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he
     was dressed in a very loud gray check suit with a flowing
     salmon-coloured tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust
     forward, as his sullen dark eyes, with a smouldering gleam of malice
     in them, turned from one of us to the other.

     "Which of you gen'l'men is Masser Holmes?" he asked.

     Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.

     "Oh! it's you, is it?" said our visitor, coming with an unpleasant,
     stealthy step round the angle of the table. "See here, Masser Holmes,
     you keep your hands out of other folks' business. Leave folks to
     manage their own affairs. Got that, Masser Holmes?"

     "Keep on talking," said Holmes. "It's fine."

     "Oh! it's fine, is it?" growled the savage. "It won't be so damn fine
     if I have to trim you up a bit. I've handled your kind before now,
     and they didn't look fine when I was through with them. Look at that,
     Masser Holmes!"

     He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend's nose. Holmes
     examined it closely with an air of great interest. "Were you born
     so?" he asked. "Or did it come by degrees?"

     It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have been
     the slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In any
     case, our visitor's manner became less flamboyant.

     "Well, I've given you fair warnin'," said he. "I've a friend that's
     interested out Harrow way--you know what I'm meaning--and he don't
     intend to have no buttin' in by you. Got that? You ain't the law, and
     I ain't the law either, and if you come in I'll be on hand also.
     Don't you forget it."

     "I've wanted to meet you for some time," said Holmes. "I won't ask
     you to sit down, for I don't like the smell of you, but aren't you
     Steve Dixie, the bruiser?"

     "That's my name, Masser Holmes, and you'll get put through it for
     sure if you give me any lip."

     "It is certainly the last thing you need," said Holmes, staring at
     our visitor's hideous mouth. "But it was the killing of young Perkins
     outside the Holborn Bar-- What! you're not going?"

     The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. "I won't listen
     to no such talk," said he. "What have I to do with this 'ere Perkins,
     Masser Holmes? I was trainin' at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when
     this boy done gone get into trouble."

     "Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve," said Holmes. "I've
     been watching you and Barney Stockdale--"

     "So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes--"

     "That's enough. Get out of it. I'll pick you up when I want you."

     "Good-mornin', Masser Holmes. I hope there ain't no hard feelin's
     about this 'ere visit?"

     "There will be unless you tell me who sent you."

     "Why, there ain't no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that
     same gen'l'man that you have just done gone mention."

     "And who set him on to it?"

     "S'elp me. I don't know, Masser Holmes. He just say, 'Steve, you go
     see Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain't safe if he go down Harrow
     way.' That's the whole truth." Without waiting for any further
     questioning, our visitor bolted out of the room almost as
     precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out the ashes of his
     pipe with a quiet chuckle.

     "I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I
     observed your manoeuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a
     harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and
     easily cowed, as you have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang
     and has taken part in some dirty work of late which I may clear up
     when I have time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute
     person. They specialize in assaults, intimidation, and the like. What
     I want to know is, who is at the back of them on this particular
     occasion?"

     "But why do they want to intimidate you?"

     "It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter,
     for if it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble, there must
     be something in it."

     "But what is it?"

     "I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is
     Mrs. Maberley's note. If you care to come with me we will wire her
     and go out at once."

     Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes [I read]:
     I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in
     connection with this house, and I should much value your advice. You
     would find me at home any time to-morrow. The house is within a short
     walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer
     Maberley, was one of your early clients.
     Yours faithfully,
     Mary Maberley

     The address was "The Three Gables, Harrow Weald."

     "So that's that!" said Holmes. "And now, if you can spare the time,
     Watson, we will get upon our way."

     A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the
     house, a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of
     undeveloped grassland. Three small projections above the upper
     windows made a feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove
     of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place
     was poor and depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well
     furnished, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly
     person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.

     "I remember your husband well, madam," said Holmes, "though it is
     some years since he used my services in some trifling matter."

     "Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son
     Douglas."

     Holmes looked at her with great interest.

     "Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him
     slightly. But of course all London knew him. What a magnificent
     creature he was! Where is he now?"

     "Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was attache at Rome, and he died there of
     pneumonia last month."

     "I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have
     never known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely--every fibre
     of him!"

     "Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember
     him as he was--debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody,
     morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was
     broken. In a single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a
     worn-out cynical man."

     "A love affair--a woman?"

     "Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you
     to come, Mr. Holmes."

     "Dr. Watson and I are at your service."

     "There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in this
     house more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired life I
     have seen little of my neighbours. Three days ago I had a call from a
     man who said that he was a house agent. He said that this house would
     exactly suit a client of his, and that if I would part with it money
     would be no object. It seemed to me very strange as there are several
     empty houses on the market which appear to be equally eligible, but
     naturally I was interested in what he said. I therefore named a price
     which was five hundred pounds more than I gave. He at once closed
     with the offer, but added that his client desired to buy the
     furniture as well and would I put a price upon it. Some of this
     furniture is from my old home, and it is, as you see, very good, so
     that I named a good round sum. To this also he at once agreed. I had
     always wanted to travel, and the bargain was so good a one that it
     really seemed that I should be my own mistress for the rest of my
     life.

     "Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily
     I showed it to Mr. Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to
     me, 'This is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign
     it you could not legally take anything out of the house--not even
     your own private possessions?' When the man came again in the evening
     I pointed this out, and I said that I meant only to sell the
     furniture.

     "'No, no, everything,' said he.

     "'But my clothes? My jewels?'

     "'Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal
     effects. But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client
     is a very liberal man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing
     things. It is everything or nothing with him.'

     "'Then it must be nothing,' said I. And there the matter was left,
     but the whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought--"

     Here we had a very extraordinary interruption.

     Holmes raised his hand for silence. Then he strode across the room,
     flung open the door, and dragged in a great gaunt woman whom he had
     seized by the shoulder. She entered with ungainly struggle like some
     huge awkward chicken, torn, squawking, out of its coop.

     "Leave me alone! What are you a-doin' of?" she screeched.

     "Why, Susan, what is this?"

     "Well, ma'am, I was comin' in to ask if the visitors was stayin' for
     lunch when this man jumped out at me."

     "I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not
     wish to interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little
     wheezy, Susan, are you not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of
     work."

     Susan turned a sulky but amazed face upon her captor. "Who be you,
     anyhow, and what right have you a-pullin' me about like this?"

     "It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did
     you, Mrs. Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write to
     me and consult me?"

     "No, Mr. Holmes, I did not."

     "Who posted your letter?"

     "Susan did."

     "Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a message
     to say that your mistress was asking advice from me?"

     "It's a lie. I sent no message."

     "Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. It's a wicked
     thing to tell fibs. Whom did you tell?"

     "Susan!" cried her mistress, "I believe you are a bad, treacherous
     woman. I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the
     hedge."

     "That was my own business," said the woman sullenly.

     "Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?"
     said Holmes.

     "Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?"

     "I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth
     ten pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney."

     "Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you have
     in the world."

     "So, a rich man? No; you smiled--a rich woman. Now we have got so
     far, you may as well give the name and earn the tenner."

     "I'll see you in hell first."

     "Oh, Susan! Language!"

     "I am clearing out of here. I've had enough of you all. I'll send for
     my box to-morrow." She flounced for the door.

     "Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff... Now," he continued,
     turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed
     behind the flushed and angry woman, "this gang means business. Look
     how close they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 P. M.
     postmark. And yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to
     go to his employer and get instructions; he or she--I incline to the
     latter from Susan's grin when she thought I had blundered--forms a
     plan. Black Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o'clock
     next morning. That's quick work, you know."

     "But what do they want?"

     "Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?"

     "A retired sea captain called Ferguson."

     "Anything remarkable about him?"

     "Not that ever I heard of."

     "I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course,
     when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post-Office
     bank. But there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull
     world without them. At first I thought of some buried valuable. But
     why, in that case, should they want your furniture? You don't happen
     to have a Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare without knowing it?"

     "No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set."

     "That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they
     not openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can
     surely offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and
     barrel. No, as I read it, there is something which you do not know
     that you have, and which you would not give up if you did know."

     "That is how I read it," said I.

     "Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it."

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?"

     "Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a
     finer point. You have been in this house a year."

     "Nearly two."

     "All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from
     you. Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands.
     What would you gather from that?"

     "It can only mean," said I, "that the object, whatever it may be, has
     only just come into the house."

     "Settled once again," said Holmes. "Now, Mrs. Maberley, has any
     object just arrived?"

     "No, I have bought nothing new this year."

     "Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let
     matters develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that
     lawyer of yours a capable man?"

     "Mr. Sutro is most capable."

     "Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged
     your front door, alone?"

     "I have a young girl."

     "Try and get Sutro to spend a night or two in the house. You might
     possibly want protection."

     "Against whom?"

     "Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can't find what
     they are after, I must approach the matter from the other end and try
     to get at the principal. Did this house-agent man give any address?"

     "Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and
     Valuer."

     "I don't think we shall find him in the directory. Honest business
     men don't conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me know
     any fresh development. I have taken up your case, and you may rely
     upon it that I shall see it through."

     As we passed through the hall Holmes's eyes, which missed nothing,
     lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled in a corner.
     The labels shone out upon them.

     "'Milano.' 'Lucerne.' These are from Italy."

     "They are poor Douglas's things."

     "You have not unpacked them? How long have you had them?"

     "They arrived last week."

     "But you said--why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we
     know that there is not something of value there?"

     "There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his
     pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?"

     Holmes was lost in thought.

     "Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley," he said at last. "Have these things
     taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as possible and
     see what they contain. I will come to-morrow and hear your report."

     It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close
     surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the
     lane there was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We
     came on him quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked
     in that lonely place. Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.

     "Lookin' for your gun, Masser Holmes?"

     "No, for my scent-bottle, Steve."

     "You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain't you?"

     "It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you
     fair warning this morning."

     "Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I
     don't want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S'pose I
     can help you, Masser Holmes, I will."

     "Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job."

     "So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before. I
     don't know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all."

     "Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and
     everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don't forget it."

     "All right, Masser Holmes. I'll remember."

     "I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson," Holmes
     remarked as we walked on. "I think he would double-cross his employer
     if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the
     Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this
     is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I
     get back I may be clearer in the matter."

     I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how
     he spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon
     all matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent
     his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club and
     was the receiving-station as well as the transmitter for all the
     gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income
     by the paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage
     papers which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the
     turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy,
     it was marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the
     surface. Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on
     occasion was helped in turn.

     When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious
     from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most
     unpleasant surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the
     following telegram:

     Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police
     in possession.
     Sutro.

     Holmes whistled. "The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I
     had expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this
     business, Watson, which does not surprise me after what I have heard.
     This Sutro, of course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear, in
     not asking you to spend the night on guard. This fellow has clearly
     proved a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for it but another
     journey to Harrow Weald."

     We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the
     orderly household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had
     assembled at the garden gate, while a couple of constables were
     examining the windows and the geranium beds. Within we met a gray old
     gentleman, who introduced himself as the lawyer, together with a
     bustling, rubicund inspector, who greeted Holmes as an old friend.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I'm afraid. Just a
     common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of the poor
     old police. No experts need apply."

     "I am sure the case is in very good hands," said Holmes. "Merely a
     common burglary, you say?"

     "Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find
     them. It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in
     it--they've been seen about here."

     "Excellent! What did they get?"

     "Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was
     chloroformed and the house was-- Ah! here is the lady herself."

     Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered the
     room, leaning upon a little maidservant.

     "You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling ruefully.
     "Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and so
     I was unprotected."

     "I only heard of it this morning," the lawyer explained.

     "Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected
     his advice, and I have paid for it."

     "You look wretchedly ill," said Holmes. "Perhaps you are hardly equal
     to telling me what occurred."

     "It is all here," said the inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.

     "Still, if the lady is not too exhausted--"

     "There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked Susan
     had planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house to
     an inch. I was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which was
     thrust over my mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have been
     senseless. When I woke, one man was at the bedside and another was
     rising with a bundle in his hand from among my son's baggage, which
     was partially opened and littered over the floor. Before he could get
     away I sprang up and seized him."

     "You took a big risk," said the inspector.

     "I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have struck
     me, for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise and
     began screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but the
     rascals had got away."

     "What did they take?"

     "Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing. I am sure
     there was nothing in my son's trunks."

     "Did the men leave no clue?"

     "There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that
     I grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son's
     handwriting."

     "Which means that it is not of much use," said the inspector. "Now if
     it had been in the burglar's--"

     "Exactly," said Holmes. "What rugged common sense! None the less, I
     should be curious to see it."

     The inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocketbook.

     "I never pass anything, however trifling," said he with some
     pomposity. "That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twenty-five
     years' experience I have learned my lesson. There is always the
     chance of finger-marks or something."

     Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.

     "What do you make of it, Inspector?"

     "Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see."

     "It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale," said Holmes.
     "You have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two
     hundred and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four
     pages?"

     "Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!"

     "It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such
     papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?"

     "Yes, sir, it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed
     at what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got."

     "Why should they go to my son's things?" asked Mrs. Maberley.

     "Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their
     luck upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr.
     Holmes?"

     "I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson." Then,
     as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began in
     the middle of a sentence and ran like this:

     "... face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was
     nothing to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the
     face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life,
     looking out at his agony and humiliation. She smiled--yes, by Heaven!
     she smiled, like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked up at her.
     It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Man must live
     for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall
     surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge."

     "Queer grammar!" said Holmes with a smile as he handed the paper back
     to the inspector. "Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed to
     'my'? The writer was so carried away by his own story that he
     imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero."

     "It seemed mighty poor stuff," said the inspector as he replaced it
     in his book. "What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I don't think there is anything more for me to do now that the case
     is in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you
     wished to travel?"

     "It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes."

     "Where would you like to go--Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?"

     "Oh, if I had the money I would go round the world."

     "Quite so. Round the world. Well, good-morning. I may drop you a line
     in the evening." As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of the
     inspector's smile and shake of the head. "These clever fellows have
     always a touch of madness." That was what I read in the inspector's
     smile.

     "Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey," said
     Holmes when we were back in the roar of central London once more. "I
     think we had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well
     that you should come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when
     you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein."

     We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor
     Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself
     suddenly.

     "By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?"

     "No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see
     the lady who is behind all this mischief."

     "Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She
     was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to
     touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterful
     Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for
     generations. She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and
     presently found herself the richest as well as the most lovely widow
     upon earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased
     her own tastes. She had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of
     the most striking men in London, was one of them. It was by all
     accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a society
     butterfly but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But she
     is the 'belle dame sans merci' of fiction. When her caprice is
     satisfied the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter
     can't take her word for it she knows how to bring it home to him."

     "Then that was his own story--"

     "Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to
     marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His
     Grace's ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a
     different matter, so it is imperative-- Ah! here we are."

     It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A
     machine-like footman took up our cards and returned with word that
     the lady was not at home. "Then we shall wait until she is," said
     Holmes cheerfully.

     The machine broke down.

     "Not at home means not at home to you," said the footman.

     "Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait.
     Kindly give this note to your mistress."

     He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook, folded
     it, and handed it to the man.

     "What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.

     "I simply wrote: 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should
     pass us in."

     It did--with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an Arabian
     Nights drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom, picked out
     with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come, I felt, to
     that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds the half light
     more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered: tall, queenly, a
     perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, with two wonderful Spanish
     eyes which looked murder at us both.

     "What is this intrusion--and this insulting message?" she asked,
     holding up the slip of paper.

     "I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your
     intelligence to do so--though I confess that intelligence has been
     surprisingly at fault of late."

     "How so, sir?"

     "By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my work.
     Surely no man would take up my profession if it were not that danger
     attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the case of
     young Maberley."

     "I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with
     hired bullies?"

     Holmes turned away wearily.

     "Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good-afternoon!"

     "Stop! Where are you going?"

     "To Scotland Yard."

     We had not got halfway to the door before she had overtaken us and
     was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.

     "Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel
     that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings of a
     gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will
     treat you as a friend."

     "I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I
     represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to
     listen, and then I will tell you how I will act."

     "No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like
     yourself."

     "What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself in
     the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away."

     "No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may
     say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have the
     least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the
     first--" She smiled and nodded with a charming coquettish intimacy.

     "I see. You've tested them before."

     "They are good hounds who run silent."

     "Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds
     them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are already
     after them."

     "They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I
     shall not appear in the matter."

     "Unless I bring you into it."

     "No, no, you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's secret."

     "In the first place, you must give back this manuscript."

     She broke into a ripple of laughter and walked to the fireplace.
     There was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker. "Shall I
     give this back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as
     she stood before us with a challenging smile that I felt of all
     Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to
     face. However, he was immune from sentiment.

     "That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your
     actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this occasion."

     She threw the poker down with a clatter.

     "How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"

     "I fancy I could tell it to you."

     "But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must realize
     it from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life's ambition
     about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed
     if she protects herself?"

     "The original sin was yours."

     "Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced
     that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage--marriage,
     Mr. Holmes--with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him.
     Then he became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think
     that I still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last
     I had to make him realize it."

     "By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."

     "You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and
     the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing
     so. But what did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman
     would do such an act? He wrote a book in which he described his own
     story. I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there,
     under different names, of course; but who in all London would have
     failed to recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Well, he was within his rights."

     "It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought
     with it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a
     copy of his book that I might have the torture of anticipation. There
     were two copies, he said--one for me, one for his publisher."

     "How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"

     "I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I
     found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas's
     sudden death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there
     was no safety for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and
     these would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of
     them got into the house as servant. I wanted to do the thing
     honestly. I really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and
     everything in it. I offered any price she cared to ask. I only tried
     the other way when everything else had failed. Now, Mr. Holmes,
     granting that I was too hard on Douglas--and, God knows, I am sorry
     for it!--what else could I do with my whole future at stake?"

     Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a felony
     as usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in first-class
     style?"

     The lady stared in amazement.

     "Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"

     "Well, I should think so, indeed!"

     "Very good. I think you will sign me a check for that, and I will see
     that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of air.
     Meantime, lady"--he wagged a cautionary forefinger--"have a care!
     Have a care! You can't play with edged tools forever without cutting
     those dainty hands."









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