



                     THE ADVENTURE OF THE RETIRED COLOURMAN

                               Arthur Conan Doyle



     Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic mood that
     morning. His alert practical nature was subject to such reactions.

     "Did you see him?" he asked.

     "You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?"

     "Precisely."

     "Yes, I met him at the door."

     "What did you think of him?"

     "A pathetic, futile, broken creature."

     "Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic
     and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We
     grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse
     than a shadow--misery."

     "Is he one of your clients?"

     "Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on by the Yard.
     Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a quack.
     They argue that they can do nothing more, and that whatever happens
     the patient can be no worse than he is."

     "What is the matter?"

     Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. "Josiah Amberley. He
     says he was junior partner of Brickfall and Amberley, who are
     manufacturers of artistic materials. You will see their names upon
     paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired from business at the
     age of sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham, and settled down to
     rest after a life of ceaseless grind. One would think his future was
     tolerably assured."

     "Yes, indeed."

     Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon the back
     of an envelope.

     "Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman twenty
     years younger than himself--a good-looking woman, too, if the
     photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure--it seemed
     a straight road which lay before him. And yet within two years he is,
     as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls
     beneath the sun."

     "But what has happened?"

     "The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It
     would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess.
     Not far from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor who is also a
     chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray Ernest. Ernest was
     frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs.
     Amberley was a natural sequence, for you must admit that our
     unfortunate client has few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues
     may be. The couple went off together last week--destination untraced.
     What is more, the faithless spouse carried off the old man's deed-box
     as her personal luggage with a good part of his life's savings
     within. Can we find the lady? Can we save the money? A commonplace
     problem so far as it has developed, and yet a vital one for Josiah
     Amberley."

     "What will you do about it?"

     "Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be, What
     will you do?--if you will be good enough to understudy me. You know
     that I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs,
     which should come to a head to-day. I really have not time to go out
     to Lewisham, and yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value.
     The old fellow was quite insistent that I should go, but I explained
     my difficulty. He is prepared to meet a representative."

     "By all means," I answered. "I confess I don't see that I can be of
     much service, but I am willing to do my best." And so it was that on
     a summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming that
     within a week the affair in which I was engaging would be the eager
     debate of all England.

     It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street and gave
     an account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figure stretched
     in his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths of acrid
     tobacco, while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily that he
     might almost have been asleep were it not that at any halt or
     questionable passage of my narrative they half lifted, and two gray
     eyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed me with their
     searching glance.

     "The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley's house," I explained.
     "I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some penurious
     patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferiors. You know
     that particular quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the weary
     suburban highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island of
     ancient culture and comfort, lies this old home, surrounded by a high
     sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of
     wall--"

     "Cut out the poetry, Watson," said Holmes severely. "I note that it
     was a high brick wall."

     "Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had I not asked
     a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a reason for
     mentioning him. He was a tall, dark, heavily moustached, rather
     military-looking man. He nodded in answer to my inquiry and gave me a
     curiously questioning glance, which came back to my memory a little
     later.

     "I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley coming
     down the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this morning, and he
     certainly gave me the impression of a strange creature, but when I
     saw him in full light his appearance was even more abnormal."

     "I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested to
     have your impression," said Holmes.

     "He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His
     back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden. Yet he was not
     the weakling that I had at first imagined, for his shoulders and
     chest have the framework of a giant, though his figure tapers away
     into a pair of spindled legs."

     "Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth."

     "I did not observe that."

     "No, you wouldn't. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed."

     "I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from
     under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager
     expression and the deeply lined features."

     "Very good, Watson. What did he say?"

     "He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walked down the
     drive together, and of course I took a good look round. I have never
     seen a worse-kept place. The garden was all running to seed, giving
     me an impression of wild neglect in which the plants had been allowed
     to find the way of Nature rather than of art. How any decent woman
     could have tolerated such a state of things, I don't know. The house,
     too, was slatternly to the last degree, but the poor man seemed
     himself to be aware of it and to be trying to remedy it, for a great
     pot of green paint stood in the centre of the hall, and he was
     carrying a thick brush in his left hand. He had been working on the
     woodwork.

     "He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat. Of
     course, he was disappointed that you had not come yourself. 'I hardly
     expected,' he said, 'that so humble an individual as myself,
     especially after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the complete
     attention of so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'

     "I assured him that the financial question did not arise. 'No, of
     course, it is art for art's sake with him,' said he, 'but even on the
     artistic side of crime he might have found something here to study.
     And human nature, Dr. Watson--the black ingratitude of it all! When
     did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered?
     And that young man--he might have been my own son. He had the run of
     my house. And yet see how they have treated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is
     a dreadful, dreadful world!'

     "That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He had, it
     seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save for a woman
     who comes in by the day and leaves every evening at six. On that
     particular evening old Amberley, wishing to give his wife a treat,
     had taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre. At the
     last moment she had complained of a headache and had refused to go.
     He had gone alone. There seemed to be no doubt about the fact, for he
     produced the unused ticket which he had taken for his wife."

     "That is remarkable--most remarkable," said Holmes, whose interest in
     the case seemed to be rising. "Pray continue, Watson. I find your
     narrative most arresting. Did you personally examine this ticket? You
     did not, perchance, take the number?"

     "It so happens that I did," I answered with some pride. "It chanced
     to be my old school number, thirty-one, and so is stuck in my head."

     "Excellent, Watson! His seat, then, was either thirty or thirty-two."

     "Quite so," I answered with some mystification. "And on B row."

     "That is most satisfactory. What else did he tell you?"

     "He showed me his strong-room, as he called it. It really is a
     strong-room--like a bank--with iron door and shutter--burglar-proof,
     as he claimed. However, the woman seems to have had a duplicate key,
     and between them they had carried off some seven thousand pounds'
     worth of cash and securities."

     "Securities! How could they dispose of those?"

     "He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped they
     would be unsaleable. He had got back from the theatre about midnight
     and found the place plundered, the door and window open, and the
     fugitives gone. There was no letter or message, nor has he heard a
     word since. He at once gave the alarm to the police."

     Holmes brooded for some minutes.

     "You say he was painting. What was he painting?"

     "Well, he was painting the passage. But he had already painted the
     door and woodwork of this room I spoke of."

     "Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the
     circumstances?"

     "'One must do something to ease an aching heart.' That was his own
     explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but he is clearly an
     eccentric man. He tore up one of his wife's photographs in my
     presence--tore it up furiously in a tempest of passion. 'I never wish
     to see her damned face again,' he shrieked."

     "Anything more, Watson?"

     "Yes, one thing which struck me more than anything else. I had driven
     to the Blackheath Station and had caught my train there when, just as
     it was starting, I saw a man dart into the carriage next to my own.
     You know that I have a quick eye for faces, Holmes. It was
     undoubtedly the tall, dark man whom I had addressed in the street. I
     saw him once more at London Bridge, and then I lost him in the crowd.
     But I am convinced that he was following me."

     "No doubt! No doubt!" said Holmes. "A tall, dark, heavily moustached
     man, you say, with gray-tinted sun-glasses?"

     "Holmes, you are a wizard. I did not say so, but he had gray-tinted
     sun-glasses."

     "And a Masonic tie-pin?"

     "Holmes!"

     "Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what is
     practical. I must admit to you that the case, which seemed to me to
     be so absurdly simple as to be hardly worth my notice, is rapidly
     assuming a very different aspect. It is true that though in your
     mission you have missed everything of importance, yet even those
     things which have obtruded themselves upon your notice give rise to
     serious thought."

     "What have I missed?"

     "Don't be hurt, my dear fellow. You know that I am quite impersonal.
     No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But
     clearly you have missed some vital points. What is the opinion of the
     neighbours about this man Amberley and his wife? That surely is of
     importance. What of Dr. Ernest? Was he the gay Lothario one would
     expect? With your natural advantages, Watson, every lady is your
     helper and accomplice. What about the girl at the post-office, or the
     wife of the greengrocer? I can picture you whispering soft nothings
     with the young lady at the Blue Anchor, and receiving hard somethings
     in exchange. All this you have left undone."

     "It can still be done."

     "It has been done. Thanks to the telephone and the help of the Yard,
     I can usually get my essentials without leaving this room. As a
     matter of fact, my information confirms the man's story. He has the
     local repute of being a miser as well as a harsh and exacting
     husband. That he had a large sum of money in that strong-room of his
     is certain. So also is it that young Dr. Ernest, an unmarried man,
     played chess with Amberley, and probably played the fool with his
     wife. All this seems plain sailing, and one would think that there
     was no more to be said--and yet!--and yet!"

     "Where lies the difficulty?"

     "In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson. Let us
     escape from this weary workaday world by the side door of music.
     Carina sings to-night at the Albert Hall, and we still have time to
     dress, dine, and enjoy."

     In the morning I was up betimes, but some toast crumbs and two empty
     egg-shells told me that my companion was earlier still. I found a
     scribbled note upon the table.

     Dear Watson:
     There are one or two points of contact which I should wish to
     establish with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have done so we can
     dismiss the case--or not. I would only ask you to be on hand about
     three o'clock, as I conceive it possible that I may want you.
     S. H.

     I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he returned,
     grave, preoccupied, and aloof. At such times it was wiser to leave
     him to himself.

     "Has Amberley been here yet?"

     "No."

     "Ah! I am expecting him."

     He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived with a
     very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere face.

     "I've had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it." He
     handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.

     "Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your
     recent loss.
     "Elman.
     "The Vicarage.

     "Dispatched at 2.10 from Little Purlington," said Holmes. "Little
     Purlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton. Well, of
     course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible
     person, the vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford? Yes, here we
     have him: 'J. C. Elman, M. A., Living of Moosmoor cum Little
     Purlington.' Look up the trains, Watson."

     "There is one at 5.20 from Liverpool Street."

     "Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may need help or
     advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair."

     But our client seemed by no means eager to start.

     "It's perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes," he said. "What can this man
     possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and money."

     "He would not have telegraphed to you if he did not know something.
     Wire at once that you are coming."

     "I don't think I shall go."

     Holmes assumed his sternest aspect.

     "It would make the worst possible impression both on the police and
     upon myself, Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a clue arose you should
     refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in
     earnest in this investigation."

     Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.

     "Why, of course I shall go if you look at it in that way," said he.
     "On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this person knows
     anything, but if you think--"

     "I do think," said Holmes with emphasis, and so we were launched upon
     our journey. Holmes took me aside before we left the room and gave me
     one word of counsel, which showed that he considered the matter to be
     of importance. "Whatever you do, see that he really does go," said
     he. "Should he break away or return, get to the nearest telephone
     exchange and send the single word 'Bolted.' I will arrange here that
     it shall reach me wherever I am."

     Little Purlington is not an easy place to reach, for it is on a
     branch line. My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant one, for
     the weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion sullen and
     silent, hardly talking at all save to make an occasional sardonic
     remark as to the futility of our proceedings. When we at last reached
     the little station it was a two-mile drive before we came to the
     Vicarage, where a big, solemn, rather pompous clergyman received us
     in his study. Our telegram lay before him.

     "Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what can I do for you?"

     "We came," I explained, "in answer to your wire."

     "My wire! I sent no wire."

     "I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley about his wife
     and his money."

     "If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one," said the
     vicar angrily. "I have never heard of the gentleman you name, and I
     have not sent a wire to anyone."

     Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.

     "Perhaps there is some mistake," said I; "are there perhaps two
     vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman and dated from the
     Vicarage."

     "There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this wire
     is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be
     investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible object
     in prolonging this interview."

     So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in what seemed
     to me to be the most primitive village in England. We made for the
     telegraph office, but it was already closed. There was a telephone,
     however, at the little Railway Arms, and by it I got into touch with
     Holmes, who shared in our amazement at the result of our journey.

     "Most singular!" said the distant voice. "Most remarkable! I much
     fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night. I have
     unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn. However,
     there is always Nature, Watson--Nature and Josiah Amberley--you can
     be in close commune with both." I heard his dry chuckle as he turned
     away.

     It was soon apparent to me that my companion's reputation as a miser
     was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of the journey,
     had insisted upon travelling third-class, and was now clamorous in
     his objections to the hotel bill. Next morning, when we did at last
     arrive in London, it was hard to say which of us was in the worse
     humour.

     "You had best take Baker Street as we pass," said I. "Mr. Holmes may
     have some fresh instructions."

     "If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of much
     use, " said Amberley with a malevolent scowl. None the less, he kept
     me company. I had already warned Holmes by telegram of the hour of
     our arrival, but we found a message waiting that he was at Lewisham
     and would expect us there. That was a surprise, but an even greater
     one was to find that he was not alone in the sitting-room of our
     client. A stern-looking, impassive man sat beside him, a dark man
     with gray-tinted glasses and a large Masonic pin projecting from his
     tie.

     "This is my friend Mr. Barker," said Holmes. "He has been interesting
     himself also in your business, Mr. Josiah Amberley, though we have
     been working independently. But we both have the same question to ask
     you!"

     Mr. Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending danger. I read it
     in his straining eyes and his twitching features.

     "What is the question, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Only this: What did you do with the bodies?"

     The man sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. He clawed into the
     air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for the instant he
     looked like some horrible bird of prey. In a flash we got a glimpse
     of the real Josiah Amberley, a misshapen demon with a soul as
     distorted as his body. As he fell back into his chair he clapped his
     hand to his lips as if to stifle a cough. Holmes sprang at his throat
     like a tiger and twisted his face towards the ground. A white pellet
     fell from between his gasping lips.

     "No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done decently and in
     order. What about it, Barker?"

     "I have a cab at the door," said our taciturn companion.

     "It is only a few hundred yards to the station. We will go together.
     You can stay here, Watson. I shall be back within half an hour."

     The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great trunk of
     his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two experienced
     man-handlers. Wriggling and twisting he was dragged to the waiting
     cab, and I was left to my solitary vigil in the ill-omened house. In
     less time than he had named, however, Holmes was back, in company
     with a smart young police inspector.

     "I've left Barker to look after the formalities," said Holmes. "You
     had not met Barker, Watson. He is my hated rival upon the Surrey
     shore. When you said a tall dark man it was not difficult for me to
     complete the picture. He has several good cases to his credit, has he
     not, Inspector?"

     "He has certainly interfered several times," the inspector answered
     with reserve.

     "His methods are irregular, no doubt, like my own. The irregulars are
     useful sometimes, you know. You, for example, with your compulsory
     warning about whatever he said being used against him, could never
     have bluffed this rascal into what is virtually a confession."

     "Perhaps not. But we get there all the same, Mr. Holmes. Don't
     imagine that we had not formed our own views of this case, and that
     we would not have laid our hands on our man. You will excuse us for
     feeling sore when you jump in with methods which we cannot use, and
     so rob us of the credit."

     "There shall be no such robbery, MacKinnon. I assure you that I
     efface myself from now onward, and as to Barker, he has done nothing
     save what I told him."

     The inspector seemed considerably relieved.

     "That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. Praise or blame can matter
     little to you, but it is very different to us when the newspapers
     begin to ask questions."

     "Quite so. But they are pretty sure to ask questions anyhow, so it
     would be as well to have answers. What will you say, for example,
     when the intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you what the
     exact points were which aroused your suspicion, and finally gave you
     a certain conviction as to the real facts?"

     The inspector looked puzzled.

     "We don't seem to have got any real facts yet, Mr. Holmes. You say
     that the prisoner, in the presence of three witnesses, practically
     confessed by trying to commit suicide, that he had murdered his wife
     and her lover. What other facts have you?"

     "Have you arranged for a search?"

     "There are three constables on their way."

     "Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all. The bodies cannot
     be far away. Try the cellars and the garden. It should not take long
     to dig up the likely places. This house is older than the
     water-pipes. There must be a disused well somewhere. Try your luck
     there."

     "But how did you know of it, and how was it done?"

     "I'll show you first how it was done, and then I will give the
     explanation which is due to you, and even more to my long-suffering
     friend here, who has been invaluable throughout. But, first, I would
     give you an insight into this man's mentality. It is a very unusual
     one--so much so that I think his destination is more likely to be
     Broadmoor than the scaffold. He has, to a high degree, the sort of
     mind which one associates with the mediaeval Italian nature rather
     than with the modern Briton. He was a miserable miser who made his
     wife so wretched by his niggardly ways that she was a ready prey for
     any adventurer. Such a one came upon the scene in the person of this
     chess-playing doctor. Amberley excelled at chess--one mark, Watson,
     of a scheming mind. Like all misers, he was a jealous man, and his
     jealousy became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly, he suspected an
     intrigue. He determined to have his revenge, and he planned it with
     diabolical cleverness. Come here!"

     Holmes led us along the passage with as much certainty as if he had
     lived in the house and halted at the open door of the strong-room.

     "Pooh! What an awful smell of paint!" cried the inspector.

     "That was our first clue," said Holmes. "You can thank Dr. Watson's
     observation for that, though he failed to draw the inference. It set
     my foot upon the trail. Why should this man at such a time be filling
     his house with strong odours? Obviously, to cover some other smell
     which he wished to conceal--some guilty smell which would suggest
     suspicions. Then came the idea of a room such as you see here with
     iron door and shutter--a hermetically sealed room. Put those two
     facts together, and whither do they lead? I could only determine that
     by examining the house myself. I was already certain that the case
     was serious, for I had examined the box-office chart at the Haymarket
     Theatre--another of Dr. Watson's bull's-eyes--and ascertained that
     neither B thirty nor thirty-two of the upper circle had been occupied
     that night. Therefore, Amberley had not been to the theatre, and his
     alibi fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he allowed my
     astute friend to notice the number of the seat taken for his wife.
     The question now arose how I might be able to examine the house. I
     sent an agent to the most impossible village I could think of, and
     summoned my man to it at such an hour that he could not possibly get
     back. To prevent any miscarriage, Dr. Watson accompanied him. The
     good vicar's name I took, of course, out of my Crockford. Do I make
     it all clear to you?"

     "It is masterly," said the inspector in an awed voice.

     "There being no fear of interruption I proceeded to burgle the house.
     Burglary has always been an alternative profession had I cared to
     adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have come to the
     front. Observe what I found. You see the gas-pipe along the skirting
     here. Very good. It rises in the angle of the wall, and there is a
     tap here in the corner. The pipe runs out into the strong-room, as
     you can see, and ends in that plaster rose in the centre of the
     ceiling, where it is concealed by the ornamentation. That end is wide
     open. At any moment by turning the outside tap the room could be
     flooded with gas. With door and shutter closed and the tap full on I
     would not give two minutes of conscious sensation to anyone shut up
     in that little chamber. By what devilish device he decoyed them there
     I do not know, but once inside the door they were at his mercy."

     The inspector examined the pipe with interest. "One of our officers
     mentioned the smell of gas," said he, "but of course the window and
     door were open then, and the paint--or some of it--was already about.
     He had begun the work of painting the day before, according to his
     story. But what next, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to myself. I
     was slipping through the pantry window in the early dawn when I felt
     a hand inside my collar, and a voice said: 'Now, you rascal, what are
     you doing in there?' When I could twist my head round I looked into
     the tinted spectacles of my friend and rival, Mr. Barker. It was a
     curious foregathering and set us both smiling. It seems that he had
     been engaged by Dr. Ray Ernest's family to make some investigations
     and had come to the same conclusion as to foul play. He had watched
     the house for some days and had spotted Dr. Watson as one of the
     obviously suspicious characters who had called there. He could hardly
     arrest Watson, but when he saw a man actually climbing out of the
     pantry window there came a limit to his restraint. Of course, I told
     him how matters stood and we continued the case together."

     "Why him? Why not us?"

     "Because it was in my mind to put that little test which answered so
     admirably. I fear you would not have gone so far."

     The inspector smiled.

     "Well, maybe not. I understand that I have your word, Mr. Holmes,
     that you step right out of the case now and that you turn all your
     results over to us."

     "Certainly, that is always my custom."

     "Well, in the name of the force I thank you. It seems a clear case,
     as you put it, and there can't be much difficulty over the bodies."

     "I'll show you a grim little bit of evidence," said Holmes, "and I am
     sure Amberley himself never observed it. You'll get results,
     Inspector, by always putting yourself in the other fellow's place,
     and thinking what you would do yourself. It takes some imagination,
     but it pays. Now, we will suppose that you were shut up in this
     little room, had not two minutes to live, but wanted to get even with
     the fiend who was probably mocking at you from the other side of the
     door. What would you do?"

     "Write a message."

     "Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use writing
     on paper. That would be seen. If you wrote on the wall someone might
     rest upon it. Now, look here! Just above the skirting is scribbled
     with a purple indelible pencil: 'We we--' That's all."

     "What do you make of that?"

     "Well, it's only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on the
     floor dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he could
     finish."

     "He was writing, 'We were murdered.'"

     "That's how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the body--"

     "We'll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities?
     Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he did possess those
     bonds. We verified that."

     "You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When the whole
     elopement had passed into history, he would suddenly discover them
     and announce that the guilty couple had relented and sent back the
     plunder or had dropped it on the way."

     "You certainly seem to have met every difficulty," said the
     inspector. "Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he should
     have gone to you I can't understand."

     "Pure swank!" Holmes answered. "He felt so clever and so sure of
     himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could say to any
     suspicious neighbour, 'Look at the steps I have taken. I have
     consulted not only the police but even Sherlock Holmes.'"

     The inspector laughed.

     "We must forgive you your 'even,' Mr. Holmes," said he, "it's as
     workmanlike a job as I can remember."

     A couple of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of the
     bi-weekly North Surrey Observer. Under a series of flaming headlines,
     which began with "The Haven Horror" and ended with "Brilliant Police
     Investigation," there was a packed column of print which gave the
     first consecutive account of the affair. The concluding paragraph is
     typical of the whole. It ran thus:

     The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon deduced from the
     smell of paint that some other smell, that of gas, for example, might
     be concealed; the bold deduction that the strong-room might also be
     the death-chamber, and the subsequent inquiry which led to the
     discovery of the bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a
     dog-kennel, should live in the history of crime as a standing example
     of the intelligence of our professional detectives.

     "Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow," said Holmes with a tolerant
     smile. "You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some day the true
     story may be told."









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