



                           THE PROBLEM OF THOR BRIDGE

                               Arthur Conan Doyle



     Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,
     there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name,
     John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is
     crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to
     illustrate the curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at
     various times to examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were
     complete failures, and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no
     final explanation is forthcoming. A problem without a solution may
     interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader.
     Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who,
     stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more
     seen in this world. No less remarkable is that of the cutter Alicia,
     which sailed one spring morning into a small patch of mist from where
     she never again emerged, nor was anything further ever heard of
     herself and her crew. A third case worthy of note is that of Isadora
     Persano, the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found stark
     staring mad with a match box in front of him which contained a
     remarkable worm said to be unknown to science. Apart from these
     unfathomed cases, there are some which involve the secrets of private
     families to an extent which would mean consternation in many exalted
     quarters if it were thought possible that they might find their way
     into print. I need not say that such a breach of confidence is
     unthinkable, and that these records will be separated and destroyed
     now that my friend has time to turn his energies to the matter. There
     remain a considerable residue of cases of greater or less interest
     which I might have edited before had I not feared to give the public
     a surfeit which might react upon the reputation of the man whom above
     all others I revere. In some I was myself concerned and can speak as
     an eye-witness, while in others I was either not present or played so
     small a part that they could only be told as by a third person. The
     following narrative is drawn from my own experience.

     It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing
     how the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary
     plane tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to
     breakfast prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for,
     like all great artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings.
     On the contrary, I found that he had nearly finished his meal, and
     that his mood was particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat
     sinister cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter
     moments.

     "You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.

     "The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he
     answered. "It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case.
     After a month of trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once
     more."

     "Might I share it?"

     "There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have
     consumed the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has
     favoured us. Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of
     the Family Herald which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table.
     Even so trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which
     is conscious of the passage of time and incompatible with the love
     romance in that excellent periodical."

     A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were
     face to face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.

     "You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?" he said.

     "You mean the American Senator?"

     "Well, he was once Senator for some Western state, but is better
     known as the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world."

     "Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time.
     His name is very familiar."

     "Yes, he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years
     ago. Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?"

     "Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But
     I really know nothing of the details."

     Holmes waved his hand towards some papers on a chair. "I had no idea
     that the case was coming my way or I should have had my extracts
     ready," said he. "The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly
     sensational, appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting
     personality of the accused does not obscure the clearness of the
     evidence. That was the view taken by the coroner's jury and also in
     the police-court proceedings. It is now referred to the Assizes at
     Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can discover facts,
     Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new and
     unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope
     for."

     "Your client?"

     "Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved
     habit, Watson, of telling a story backward. You had best read this
     first."

     The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand,
     ran as follows:

     Claridge's Hotel
     October 3rd.
     Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     I can't see the best woman God ever made go to her death without
     doing all that is possible to save her. I can't explain things--I
     can't even try to explain them, but I know beyond all doubt that Miss
     Dunbar is innocent. You know the facts--who doesn't? It has been the
     gossip of the country. And never a voice raised for her! It's the
     damned injustice of it all that makes me crazy. That woman has a
     heart that wouldn't let her kill a fly. Well, I'll come at eleven
     to-morrow and see if you can get some ray of light in the dark. Maybe
     I have a clue and don't know it. Anyhow, all I know and all I have
     and all I am are for your use if only you can save her. If ever in
     your life you showed your powers, put them now into this case.
     Yours faithfully,
     J. Neil Gibson.

     "There you have it," said Sherlock Holmes, knocking out the ashes of
     his after-breakfast pipe and slowly refilling it. "That is the
     gentleman I await. As to the story, you have hardly time to master
     all these papers, so I must give it to you in a nutshell if you are
     to take an intelligent interest in the proceedings. This man is the
     greatest financial power in the world, and a man, as I understand, of
     most violent and formidable character. He married a wife, the victim
     of this tragedy, of whom I know nothing save that she was past her
     prime, which was the more unfortunate as a very attractive governess
     superintended the education of two young children. These are the
     three people concerned, and the scene is a grand old manor house, the
     centre of a historical English state. Then as to the tragedy. The
     wife was found in the grounds nearly half a mile from the house, late
     at night, clad in her dinner dress, with a shawl over her shoulders
     and a revolver bullet through her brain. No weapon was found near her
     and there was no local clue as to the murder. No weapon near her,
     Watson--mark that! The crime seems to have been committed late in the
     evening, and the body was found by a game-keeper about eleven
     o'clock, when it was examined by the police and by a doctor before
     being carried up to the house. Is this too condensed, or can you
     follow it clearly?"

     "It is all very clear. But why suspect the governess?"

     "Well, in the first place there is some very direct evidence. A
     revolver with one discharged chamber and a calibre which corresponded
     with the bullet was found on the floor of her wardrobe." His eyes
     fixed and he repeated in broken words,
     "On--the--floor--of--her--wardrobe." Then he sank into silence, and I
     saw that some train of thought had been set moving which I should be
     foolish to interrupt. Suddenly with a start he emerged into brisk
     life once more. "Yes, Watson, it was found. Pretty damning, eh? So
     the two juries thought. Then the dead woman had a note upon her
     making an appointment at that very place and signed by the governess.
     How's that? Finally there is the motive. Senator Gibson is an
     attractive person. If his wife dies, who more likely to succeed her
     than the young lady who had already by all accounts received pressing
     attentions from her employer? Love, fortune, power, all depending
     upon one middle-aged life. Ugly, Watson--very ugly!"

     "Yes, indeed, Holmes."

     "Nor could she prove an alibi. On the contrary, she had to admit that
     she was down near Thor Bridge--that was the scene of the
     tragedy--about that hour. She couldn't deny it, for some passing
     villager had seen her there."

     "That really seems final."

     "And yet, Watson--and yet! This bridge--a single broad span of stone
     with balustraded sides--carries the drive over the narrowest part of
     a long, deep, reed-girt sheet of water. Thor Mere it is called. In
     the mouth of the bridge lay the dead woman. Such are the main facts.
     But here, if I mistake not, is our client, considerably before his
     time."

     Billy had opened the door, but the name which he announced was an
     unexpected one. Mr. Marlow Bates was a stranger to both of us. He was
     a thin, nervous wisp of a man with frightened eyes and a twitching,
     hesitating manner--a man whom my own professional eye would judge to
     be on the brink of an absolute nervous breakdown.

     "You seem agitated, Mr. Bates," said Holmes. "Pray sit down. I fear I
     can only give you a short time, for I have an appointment at eleven."

     "I know you have," our visitor gasped, shooting out short sentences
     like a man who is out of breath. "Mr. Gibson is coming. Mr. Gibson is
     my employer. I am manager of his estate. Mr. Holmes, he is a
     villain--an infernal villain."

     "Strong language, Mr. Bates."

     "I have to be emphatic, Mr. Holmes, for the time is so limited. I
     would not have him find me here for the world. He is almost due now.
     But I was so situated that I could not come earlier. His secretary,
     Mr. Ferguson, only told me this morning of his appointment with you."

     "And you are his manager?"

     "I have given him notice. In a couple of weeks I shall have shaken
     off his accursed slavery. A hard man, Mr. Holmes, hard to all about
     him. Those public charities are a screen to cover his private
     iniquities. But his wife was his chief victim. He was brutal to
     her--yes, sir, brutal! How she came by her death I do not know, but I
     am sure that he had made her life a misery to her. She was a creature
     of the tropics, a Brazilian by birth, as no doubt you know."

     "No, it had escaped me."

     "Tropical by birth and tropical by nature. A child of the sun and of
     passion. She had loved him as such women can love, but when her own
     physical charms had faded--I am told that they once were great--there
     was nothing to hold him. We all liked her and felt for her and hated
     him for the way that he treated her. But he is plausible and cunning.
     That is all I have to say to you. Don't take him at his face value.
     There is more behind. Now I'll go. No, no, don't detain me! He is
     almost due."

     With a frightened look at the clock our strange visitor literally ran
     to the door and disappeared.

     "Well! Well!" said Holmes after an interval of silence. "Mr. Gibson
     seems to have a nice loyal household. But the warning is a useful
     one, and now we can only wait till the man himself appears."

     Sharp at the hour we heard a heavy step upon the stairs, and the
     famous millionaire was shown into the room. As I looked upon him I
     understood not only the fears and dislike of his manager but also the
     execrations which so many business rivals have heaped upon his head.
     If I were a sculptor and desired to idealize the successful man of
     affairs, iron of nerve and leathery of conscience, I should choose
     Mr. Neil Gibson as my model. His tall, gaunt, craggy figure had a
     suggestion of hunger and rapacity. An Abraham Lincoln keyed to base
     uses instead of high ones would give some idea of the man. His face
     might have been chiselled in granite, hard-set, craggy, remorseless,
     with deep lines upon it, the scars of many a crisis. Cold gray eyes,
     looking shrewdly out from under bristling brows, surveyed us each in
     turn. He bowed in perfunctory fashion as Holmes mentioned my name,
     and then with a masterful air of possession he drew a chair up to my
     companion and seated himself with his bony knees almost touching him.

     "Let me say right here, Mr. Holmes," he began, "that money is nothing
     to me in this case. You can burn it if it's any use in lighting you
     to the truth. This woman is innocent and this woman has to be
     cleared, and it's up to you to do it. Name your figure!"

     "My professional charges are upon a fixed scale," said Holmes coldly.
     "I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether."

     "Well, if dollars make no difference to you, think of the reputation.
     If you pull this off every paper in England and America will be
     booming you. You'll be the talk of two continents."

     "Thank you, Mr. Gibson, I do not think that I am in need of booming.
     It may surprise you to know that I prefer to work anonymously, and
     that it is the problem itself which attracts me. But we are wasting
     time. Let us get down to the facts."

     "I think that you will find all the main ones in the press reports. I
     don't know that I can add anything which will help you. But if there
     is anything you would wish more light upon--well, I am here to give
     it."

     "Well, there is just one point."

     "What is it?"

     "What were the exact relations between you and Miss Dunbar?"

     The Gold King gave a violent start and half rose from his chair. Then
     his massive calm came back to him.

     "I suppose you are within your rights--and maybe doing your duty--in
     asking such a question, Mr. Holmes."

     "We will agree to suppose so," said Holmes.

     "Then I can assure you that our relations were entirely and always
     those of an employer towards a young lady whom he never conversed
     with, or ever saw, save when she was in the company of his children."

     Holmes rose from his chair.

     "I am a rather busy man, Mr. Gibson," said he, "and I have no time or
     taste for aimless conversations. I wish you good-morning."

     Our visitor had risen also, and his great loose figure towered above
     Holmes. There was an angry gleam from under those bristling brows and
     a tinge of colour in the sallow cheeks.

     "What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my
     case?"

     "Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you. I should have thought my
     words were plain."

     "Plain enough, but what's at the back of it? Raising the price on me,
     or afraid to tackle it, or what? I've a right to a plain answer."

     "Well, perhaps you have," said Holmes. "I'll give you one. This case
     is quite sufficiently complicated to start with without the further
     difficulty of false information."

     "Meaning that I lie."

     "Well, I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if
     you insist upon the word I will not contradict you."

     I sprang to my feet, for the expression upon the millionaire's face
     was fiendish in its intensity, and he had raised his great knotted
     fist. Holmes smiled languidly and reached his hand out for his pipe.

     "Don't be noisy, Mr. Gibson. I find that after breakfast even the
     smallest argument is unsettling. I suggest that a stroll in the
     morning air and a little quiet thought will be greatly to your
     advantage."

     With an effort the Gold King mastered his fury. I could not but
     admire him, for by a supreme self-command he had turned in a minute
     from a hot flame of anger to a frigid and contemptuous indifference.

     "Well, it's your choice. I guess you know how to run your own
     business. I can't make you touch the case against your will. You've
     done yourself no good this morning, Mr. Holmes, for I have broken
     stronger men than you. No man ever crossed me and was the better for
     it."

     "So many have said so, and yet here I am," said Holmes, smiling.
     "Well, good-morning, Mr. Gibson. You have a good deal yet to learn."

     Our visitor made a noisy exit, but Holmes smoked in imperturbable
     silence with dreamy eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

     "Any views, Watson?" he asked at last.

     "Well, Holmes, I must confess that when I consider that this is a man
     who would certainly brush any obstacle from his path, and when I
     remember that his wife may have been an obstacle and an object of
     dislike, as that man Bates plainly told us, it seems to me--"

     "Exactly. And to me also."

     "But what were his relations with the governess, and how did you
     discover them?"

     "Bluff, Watson, bluff! When I considered the passionate,
     unconventional, unbusinesslike tone of his letter and contrasted it
     with his self-contained manner and appearance, it was pretty clear
     that there was some deep emotion which centred upon the accused woman
     rather than upon the victim. We've got to understand the exact
     relations of those three people if we are to reach the truth. You saw
     the frontal attack which I made upon him, and how imperturbably he
     received it. Then I bluffed him by giving him the impression that I
     was absolutely certain, when in reality I was only extremely
     suspicious."

     "Perhaps he will come back?"

     "He is sure to come back. He must come back. He can't leave it where
     it is. Ha! isn't that a ring? Yes, there is his footstep. Well, Mr.
     Gibson, I was just saying to Dr. Watson that you were somewhat
     overdue."

     The Gold King had reentered the room in a more chastened mood than he
     had left it. His wounded pride still showed in his resentful eyes,
     but his common sense had shown him that he must yield if he would
     attain his end.

     "I've been thinking it over, Mr. Holmes, and I feel that I have been
     hasty in taking your remarks amiss. You are justified in getting down
     to the facts, whatever they may be, and I think the more of you for
     it. I can assure you, however, that the relations between Miss Dunbar
     and me don't really touch this case."

     "That is for me to decide, is it not?"

     "Yes, I guess that is so. You're like a surgeon who wants every
     symptom before he can give his diagnosis."

     "Exactly. That expresses it. And it is only a patient who has an
     object in deceiving his surgeon who would conceal the facts of his
     case."

     "That may be so, but you will admit, Mr. Holmes, that most men would
     shy off a bit when they are asked point-blank what their relations
     with a woman may be--if there is really some serious feeling in the
     case. I guess most men have a little private reserve of their own in
     some corner of their souls where they don't welcome intruders. And
     you burst suddenly into it. But the object excuses you, since it was
     to try and save her. Well, the stakes are down and the reserve open,
     and you can explore where you will. What is it you want?"

     "The truth."

     The Gold King paused for a moment as one who marshals his thoughts.
     His grim, deep-lined face had become even sadder and more grave.

     "I can give it to you in a very few words, Mr. Holmes," said he at
     last. "There are some things that are painful as well as difficult to
     say, so I won't go deeper than is needful. I met my wife when I was
     gold-hunting in Brazil. Maria Pinto was the daughter of a government
     official at Manaos, and she was very beautiful. I was young and
     ardent in those days, but even now, as I look back with colder blood
     and a more critical eye, I can see that she was rare and wonderful in
     her beauty. It was a deep rich nature, too, passionate,
     whole-hearted, tropical, ill-balanced, very different from the
     American women whom I had known. Well, to make a long story short, I
     loved her and I married her. It was only when the romance had
     passed--and it lingered for years--that I realized that we had
     nothing--absolutely nothing--in common. My love faded. If hers had
     faded also it might have been easier. But you know the wonderful way
     of women! Do what I might, nothing could turn her from me. If I have
     been harsh to her, even brutal as some have said, it has been because
     I knew that if I could kill her love, or if it turned to hate, it
     would be easier for both of us. But nothing changed her. She adored
     me in those English woods as she had adored me twenty years ago on
     the banks of the Amazon. Do what I might, she was as devoted as ever.

     "Then came Miss Grace Dunbar. She answered our advertisement and
     became governess to our two children. Perhaps you have seen her
     portrait in the papers. The whole world has proclaimed that she also
     is a very beautiful woman. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral
     than my neighbours, and I will admit to you that I could not live
     under the same roof with such a woman and in daily contact with her
     without feeling a passionate regard for her. Do you blame me, Mr.
     Holmes?"

     "I do not blame you for feeling it. I should blame you if you
     expressed it, since this young lady was in a sense under your
     protection."

     "Well, maybe so," said the millionaire, though for a moment the
     reproof had brought the old angry gleam into his eyes. "I'm not
     pretending to be any better than I am. I guess all my life I've been
     a man that reached out his hand for what he wanted, and I never
     wanted anything more than the love and possession of that woman. I
     told her so."

     "Oh, you did, did you?"

     Holmes could look very formidable when he was moved.

     "I said to her that if I could marry her I would, but that it was out
     of my power. I said that money was no object and that all I could do
     to make her happy and comfortable would be done."

     "Very generous, I am sure," said Holmes with a sneer.

     "See here, Mr. Holmes. I came to you on a question of evidence, not
     on a question of morals. I'm not asking for your criticism."

     "It is only for the young lady's sake that I touch your case at all,"
     said Holmes sternly. "I don't know that anything she is accused of is
     really worse than what you have yourself admitted, that you have
     tried to ruin a defenceless girl who was under your roof. Some of you
     rich men have to be taught that all the world cannot be bribed into
     condoning your offences."

     To my surprise the Gold King took the reproof with equanimity.

     "That's how I feel myself about it now. I thank God that my plans did
     not work out as I intended. She would have none of it, and she wanted
     to leave the house instantly."

     "Why did she not?"

     "Well, in the first place, others were dependent upon her, and it was
     no light matter for her to let them all down by sacrificing her
     living. When I had sworn--as I did--that she should never be molested
     again, she consented to remain. But there was another reason. She
     knew the influence she had over me, and that it was stronger than any
     other influence in the world. She wanted to use it for good."

     "How?"

     "Well, she knew something of my affairs. They are large, Mr.
     Holmes--large beyond the belief of an ordinary man. I can make or
     break--and it is usually break. It wasn't individuals only. It was
     communities, cities, even nations. Business is a hard game, and the
     weak go to the wall. I played the game for all it was worth. I never
     squealed myself, and I never cared if the other fellow squealed. But
     she saw it different. I guess she was right. She believed and said
     that a fortune for one man that was more than he needed should not be
     built on ten thousand ruined men who were left without the means of
     life. That was how she saw it, and I guess she could see past the
     dollars to something that was more lasting. She found that I listened
     to what she said, and she believed she was serving the world by
     influencing my actions. So she stayed--and then this came along."

     "Can you throw any light upon that?"

     The Gold King paused for a minute or more, his head sunk in his
     hands, lost in deep thought.

     "It's very black against her. I can't deny that. And women lead an
     inward life and may do things beyond the judgment of a man. At first
     I was so rattled and taken aback that I was ready to think she had
     been led away in some extraordinary fashion that was clean against
     her usual nature. One explanation came into my head. I give it to
     you, Mr. Holmes, for what it is worth. There is no doubt that my wife
     was bitterly jealous. There is a soul-jealousy that can be as frantic
     as any body-jealousy, and though my wife had no cause--and I think
     she understood this--for the latter, she was aware that this English
     girl exerted an influence upon my mind and my acts that she herself
     never had. It was an influence for good, but that did not mend the
     matter. She was crazy with hatred, and the heat of the Amazon was
     always in her blood. She might have planned to murder Miss Dunbar--or
     we will say to threaten her with a gun and so frighten her into
     leaving us. Then there might have been a scuffle and the gun gone off
     and shot the woman who held it."

     "That possibility had already occurred to me," said Holmes. "Indeed,
     it is the only obvious alternative to deliberate murder."

     "But she utterly denies it."

     "Well, that is not final--is it? One can understand that a woman
     placed in so awful a position might hurry home still in her
     bewilderment holding the revolver. She might even throw it down among
     her clothes, hardly knowing what she was doing, and when it was found
     she might try to lie her way out by a total denial, since all
     explanation was impossible. What is against such a supposition?"

     "Miss Dunbar herself."

     "Well, perhaps."

     Holmes looked at his watch. "I have no doubt we can get the necessary
     permits this morning and reach Winchester by the evening train. When
     I have seen this young lady it is very possible that I may be of more
     use to you in the matter, though I cannot promise that my conclusions
     will necessarily be such as you desire."

     There was some delay in the official pass, and instead of reaching
     Winchester that day we went down to Thor Place, the Hampshire estate
     of Mr. Neil Gibson. He did not accompany us himself, but we had the
     address of Sergeant Coventry, of the local police, who had first
     examined into the affair. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a
     secretive and mysterious manner which conveyed the idea that he knew
     or suspected a very great deal more than he dared say. He had a
     trick, too, of suddenly sinking his voice to a whisper as if he had
     come upon something of vital importance, though the information was
     usually commonplace enough. Behind these tricks of manner he soon
     showed himself to be a decent, honest fellow who was not too proud to
     admit that he was out of his depth and would welcome any help.

     "Anyhow, I'd rather have you than Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes," said
     he. "If the Yard gets called into a case, then the local loses all
     credit for success and may be blamed for failure. Now, you play
     straight, so I've heard."

     "I need not appear in the matter at all," said Holmes to the evident
     relief of our melancholy acquaintance. "If I can clear it up I don't
     ask to have my name mentioned."

     "Well, it's very handsome of you, I am sure. And your friend, Dr.
     Watson, can be trusted, I know. Now, Mr. Holmes, as we walk down to
     the place there is one question I should like to ask you. I'd breathe
     it to no soul but you." He looked round as though he hardly dare
     utter the words. "Don't you think there might be a case against Mr.
     Neil Gibson himself?"

     "I have been considering that."

     "You've not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman in every
     way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these
     Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his
     pistol, you know."

     "Was that clearly made out?"

     "Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had."

     "One of a pair? Where is the other?"

     "Well, the gentleman has a lot of firearms of one sort and another.
     We never quite matched that particular pistol--but the box was made
     for two."

     "If it was one of a pair you should surely be able to match it."

     "Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to
     look them over."

     "Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look
     at the scene of the tragedy."

     This conversation had taken place in the little front room of
     Sergeant Coventry's humble cottage which served as the local
     police-station. A walk of half a mile or so across a wind-swept
     heath, all gold and bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a
     side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor Place estate. A path
     led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from a clearing we
     saw the widespread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half
     Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was a long,
     reedy pool, constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive
     passed over a stone bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either
     side. Our guide paused at the mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to
     the ground.

     "That was where Mrs. Gibson's body lay. I marked it by that stone."

     "I understand that you were there before it was moved?"

     "Yes, they sent for me at once."

     "Who did?"

     "Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed
     down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be
     moved until the police should arrive."

     "That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the
     shot was fired from close quarters."

     "Yes, sir, very close."

     "Near the right temple?"

     "Just behind it, sir."

     "How did the body lie?"

     "On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon. The
     short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand."

     "Clutched, you say?"

     "Yes, sir, we could hardly open the fingers."

     "That is of great importance. It excludes the idea that anyone could
     have placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false
     clue. Dear me! The note, as I remember, was quite short:

     "I will be at Thor Bridge at nine o'clock.
     "G. Dunbar.

     "Was that not so?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "What was her explanation?"

     "Her defence was reserved for the Assizes. She would say nothing."

     "The problem is certainly a very interesting one. The point of the
     letter is very obscure, is it not?"

     "Well, sir," said the guide, "it seemed, if I may be so bold as to
     say so, the only really clear point in the whole case."

     Holmes shook his head.

     "Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, it was
     certainly received some time before--say one hour or two. Why, then,
     was this lady still clasping it in her left hand? Why should she
     carry it so carefully? She did not need to refer to it in the
     interview. Does it not seem remarkable?"

     "Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does."

     "I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it
     out." He seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I
     could see his quick gray eyes darting their questioning glances in
     every direction. Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to the
     opposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began to
     examine the stonework.

     "This is curious," said he.

     "Yes, sir, we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it's been done by
     some passer-by."

     The stonework was gray, but at this one point it showed white for a
     space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see
     that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.

     "It took some violence to do that," said Holmes thoughtfully. With
     his cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark.
     "Yes, it was a hard knock. In a curious place, too. It was not from
     above but from below, for you see that it is on the lower edge of the
     parapet."

     "But it is at least fifteen feet from the body."

     "Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to do
     with the matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that
     we have anything more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you
     say?"

     "The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all."

     "Then we can go. We will go up to the house first and look over these
     weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I
     should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther."

     Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house
     the neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning. He
     showed us with a sinister relish the formidable array of firearms of
     various shapes and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the
     course of an adventurous life.

     "Mr. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knew him and
     his methods," said he. "He sleeps with a loaded revolver in the
     drawer beside his bed. He is a man of violence, sir, and there are
     times when all of us are afraid of him. I am sure that the poor lady
     who has passed was often terrified."

     "Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?"

     "No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which were nearly as
     bad--words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants."

     "Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life," remarked
     Holmes as we made our way to the station. "Well, Watson, we have come
     on a good many facts, some of them new ones, and yet I seem some way
     from my conclusion. In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr.
     Bates has to his employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came
     he was undoubtedly in his library. Dinner was over at 8.30 and all
     was normal up to then. It is true that the alarm was somewhat late in
     the evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named
     in the note. There is no evidence at all that Mr. Gibson had been out
     of doors since his return from town at five o'clock. On the other
     hand, Miss Dunbar, as I understand it, admits that she had made an
     appointment to meet Mrs. Gibson at the bridge. Beyond this she would
     say nothing, as her lawyer had advised her to reserve her defence. We
     have several very vital questions to ask that young lady, and my mind
     will not be easy until we have seen her. I must confess that the case
     would seem to me to be very black against her if it were not for one
     thing."

     "And what is that, Holmes?"

     "The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe."

     "Dear me, Holmes!" I cried, "that seemed to me to be the most damning
     incident of all."

     "Not so, Watson. It had struck me even at my first perfunctory
     reading as very strange, and now that I am in closer touch with the
     case it is my only firm ground for hope. We must look for
     consistency. Where there is a want of it we must suspect deception."

     "I hardly follow you."

     "Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the
     character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about
     to get rid of a rival. You have planned it. A note has been written.
     The victim has come. You have your weapon. The crime is done. It has
     been workmanlike and complete. Do you tell me that after carrying out
     so crafty a crime you would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by
     forgetting to fling your weapon into those adjacent reed-beds which
     would forever cover it, but you must needs carry it carefully home
     and put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place that would be
     searched? Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, Watson,
     and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that."

     "In the excitement of the moment--"

     "No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible. Where a crime
     is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly
     premeditated also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of
     a serious misconception."

     "But there is so much to explain."

     "Well, we shall set about explaining it. When once your point of view
     is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the
     truth. For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all
     knowledge of it. On our new theory she is speaking truth when she
     says so. Therefore, it was placed in her wardrobe. Who placed it
     there? Someone who wished to incriminate her. Was not that person the
     actual criminal? You see how we come at once upon a most fruitful
     line of inquiry."

     We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the
     formalities had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the
     company of Mr. Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted
     with the defence, we were allowed to see the young lady in her cell.
     I had expected from all that we had heard to see a beautiful woman,
     but I can never forget the effect which Miss Dunbar produced upon me.
     It was no wonder that even the masterful millionaire had found in her
     something more powerful than himself--something which could control
     and guide him. One felt, too, as one looked at the strong, clear-cut,
     and yet sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some
     impetuous deed, none the less there was an innate nobility of
     character which would make her influence always for the good. She was
     a brunette, tall, with a noble figure and commanding presence, but
     her dark eyes had in them the appealing, helpless expression of the
     hunted creature who feels the nets around it, but can see no way out
     from the toils. Now, as she realized the presence and the help of my
     famous friend, there came a touch of colour in her wan cheeks and a
     light of hope began to glimmer in the glance which she turned upon
     us.

     "Perhaps Mr. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred
     between us?" she asked in a low, agitated voice.

     "Yes," Holmes answered, "you need not pain yourself by entering into
     that part of the story. After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr.
     Gibson's statement both as to the influence which you had over him
     and as to the innocence of your relations with him. But why was the
     whole situation not brought out in court?"

     "It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained. I
     thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up
     without our being compelled to enter into painful details of the
     inner life of the family. But I understand that far from clearing it
     has become even more serious."

     "My dear young lady," cried Holmes earnestly, "I beg you to have no
     illusions upon the point. Mr. Cummings here would assure you that all
     the cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything
     that is possible if we are to win clear. It would be a cruel
     deception to pretend that you are not in very great danger. Give me
     all the help you can, then, to get at the truth."

     "I will conceal nothing."

     "Tell us, then, of your true relations with Mr. Gibson's wife."

     "She hated me, Mr. Holmes. She hated me with all the fervour of her
     tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and
     the measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her
     hatred for me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations. I
     would not wish to wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical
     sense that she could hardly understand the mental, and even
     spiritual, tie which held her husband to me, or imagine that it was
     only my desire to influence his power to good ends which kept me
     under his roof. I can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could justify
     me in remaining where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is
     certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left
     the house."

     "Now, Miss Dunbar," said Holmes, "I beg you to tell us exactly what
     occurred that evening."

     "I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr. Holmes, but I am
     in a position to prove nothing, and there are points--the most vital
     points--which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any
     explanation."

     "If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the
     explanation."

     "With regard, then, to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I
     received a note from Mrs. Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table
     of the schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand.
     It implored me to see her there after dinner, said she had something
     important to say to me, and asked me to leave an answer on the
     sundial in the garden, as she desired no one to be in our confidence.
     I saw no reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked, accepting
     the appointment. She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it in
     the schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of her husband, who
     treated her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him,
     and I could only imagine that she acted in this way because she did
     not wish him to know of our interview."

     "Yet she kept your reply very carefully?"

     "Yes. I was surprised to hear that she had it in her hand when she
     died."

     "Well, what happened then?"

     "I went down as I had promised. When I reached the bridge she was
     waiting for me. Never did I realize till that moment how this poor
     creature hated me. She was like a mad woman--indeed, I think she was
     a mad woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane
     people may have. How else could she have met me with unconcern every
     day and yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart? I will not say
     what she said. She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and
     horrible words. I did not even answer--I could not. It was dreadful
     to see her. I put my hands to my ears and rushed away. When I left
     her she was standing, still shrieking out her curses at me, in the
     mouth of the bridge."

     "Where she was afterwards found?"

     "Within a few yards from the spot."

     "And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left
     her, you heard no shot?"

     "No, I heard nothing. But, indeed, Mr. Holmes, I was so agitated and
     horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the
     peace of my own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which
     happened."

     "You say that you returned to your room. Did you leave it again
     before next morning?"

     "Yes, when the alarm came that the poor creature had met her death I
     ran out with the others."

     "Did you see Mr. Gibson?"

     "Yes, he had just returned from the bridge when I saw him. He had
     sent for the doctor and the police."

     "Did he seem to you much perturbed?"

     "Mr. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that
     he would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him
     so well, could see that he was deeply concerned."

     "Then we come to the all-important point. This pistol that was found
     in your room. Had you ever seen it before?"

     "Never, I swear it."

     "When was it found?"

     "Next morning, when the police made their search."

     "Among your clothes?"

     "Yes, on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses."

     "You could not guess how long it had been there?"

     "It had not been there the morning before."

     "How do you know?"

     "Because I tidied out the wardrobe."

     "That is final. Then someone came into your room and placed the
     pistol there in order to inculpate you."

     "It must have been so."

     "And when?"

     "It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I
     would be in the schoolroom with the children."

     "As you were when you got the note?"

     "Yes, from that time onward for the whole morning."

     "Thank you, Miss Dunbar. Is there any other point which could help me
     in the investigation?"

     "I can think of none."

     "There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge--a
     perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body. Could you suggest any
     possible explanation of that?"

     "Surely it must be a mere coincidence."

     "Curious, Miss Dunbar, very curious. Why should it appear at the very
     time of the tragedy, and why at the very place?"

     "But what could have caused it? Only great violence could have such
     an effect."

     Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that
     tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the
     supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in
     his mind that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister,
     prisoner, and myself, watching him in a concentrated and absorbed
     silence. Suddenly he sprang from his chair, vibrating with nervous
     energy and the pressing need for action.

     "Come, Watson, come!" he cried.

     "What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Never mind, my dear lady. You will hear from me, Mr. Cummings. With
     the help of the god of justice I will give you a case which will make
     England ring. You will get news by to-morrow, Miss Dunbar, and
     meanwhile take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I
     have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through."

     It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was
     long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it
     seemed endless; for, in his nervous restlessness, he could not sit
     still, but paced the carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive
     fingers upon the cushions beside him. Suddenly, however, as we neared
     our destination he seated himself opposite to me--we had a
     first-class carriage to ourselves--and laying a hand upon each of my
     knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze
     which was characteristic of his more imp-like moods.

     "Watson," said he, "I have some recollection that you go armed upon
     these excursions of ours."

     It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his
     own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem, so that more
     than once my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him
     of the fact.

     "Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters. But have you
     your revolver on you?"

     I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but very
     serviceable little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out the
     cartridges, and examined it with care.

     "It's heavy--remarkably heavy," said he.

     "Yes, it is a solid bit of work."

     He mused over it for a minute.

     "Do you know, Watson," said he, "I believe your revolver is going to
     have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are
     investigating."

     "My dear Holmes, you are joking."

     "No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us. If the
     test comes off, all will be clear. And the test will depend upon the
     conduct of this little weapon. One cartridge out. Now we will replace
     the other five and put on the safety-catch. So! That increases the
     weight and makes it a better reproduction."

     I had no glimmer of what was in his mind, nor did he enlighten me,
     but sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire
     station. We secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour
     were at the house of our confidential friend, the sergeant.

     "A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?"

     "It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson's revolver," said my
     friend. "Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of
     string?"

     The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.

     "I think that this is all we will need," said Holmes. "Now, if you
     please, we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our
     journey."

     The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a
     wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with many critical and
     incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my
     companion, lurched along beside us. As we approached the scene of the
     crime I could see that my friend under all his habitual coolness was
     in truth deeply agitated.

     "Yes," he said in answer to my remark, "you have seen me miss my mark
     before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has
     sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it
     flashed across my mind in the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of
     an active mind is that one can always conceive alternative
     explanations which would make our scent a false one. And yet--and
     yet-- Well, Watson, we can but try."

     As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle
     of the revolver. We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With
     great care he marked out under the guidance of the policeman the
     exact spot where the body had been stretched. He then hunted among
     the heather and the ferns until he found a considerable stone. This
     he secured to the other end of his line of string, and he hung it
     over the parapet of the bridge so that it swung clear above the
     water. He then stood on the fatal spot, some distance from the edge
     of the bridge, with my revolver in his hand, the string being taut
     between the weapon and the heavy stone on the farther side.

     "Now for it!" he cried.

     At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his
     grip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the
     stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had
     vanished over the side into the water. It had hardly gone before
     Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cry showed
     that he had found what he expected.

     "Was there ever a more exact demonstration?" he cried. "See, Watson,
     your revolver has solved the problem!" As he spoke he pointed to a
     second chip of the exact size and shape of the first which had
     appeared on the under edge of the stone balustrade.

     "We'll stay at the inn to-night," he continued as he rose and faced
     the astonished sergeant. "You will, of course, get a grappling-hook
     and you will easily restore my friend's revolver. You will also find
     beside it the revolver, string and weight with which this vindictive
     woman attempted to disguise her own crime and to fasten a charge of
     murder upon an innocent victim. You can let Mr. Gibson know that I
     will see him in the morning, when steps can be taken for Miss
     Dunbar's vindication."

     Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the
     village inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.

     "I fear, Watson," said he, "that you will not improve any reputation
     which I may have acquired by adding the case of the Thor Bridge
     mystery to your annals. I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in
     that mixture of imagination and reality which is the basis of my art.
     I confess that the chip in the stonework was a sufficient clue to
     suggest the true solution, and that I blame myself for not having
     attained it sooner.

     "It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman's mind
     were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel
     her plot. I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come
     across a stranger example of what perverted love can bring about.
     Whether Miss Dunbar was her rival in a physical or in a merely mental
     sense seems to have been equally unforgivable in her eyes. No doubt
     she blamed this innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind
     words with which her husband tried to repel her too demonstrative
     affection. Her first resolution was to end her own life. Her second
     was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which
     was worse far than any sudden death could be.

     "We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a
     remarkable subtlety of mind. A note was extracted very cleverly from
     Miss Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene
     of the crime. In her anxiety that it should be discovered she
     somewhat overdid it by holding it in her hand to the last. This alone
     should have excited my suspicions earlier than it did.

     "Then she took one of her husband's revolvers--there was, as you saw,
     an arsenal in the house--and kept it for her own use. A similar one
     she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after
     discharging one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods
     without attracting attention. She then went down to the bridge where
     she had contrived this exceedingly ingenious method for getting rid
     of her weapon. When Miss Dunbar appeared she used her last breath in
     pouring out her hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing,
     carried out her terrible purpose. Every link is now in its place and
     the chain is complete. The papers may ask why the mere was not
     dragged in the first instance, but it is easy to be wise after the
     event, and in any case the expanse of a reed-filled lake is no easy
     matter to drag unless you have a clear perception of what you are
     looking for and where. Well, Watson, we have helped a remarkable
     woman, and also a formidable man. Should they in the future join
     their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial world may find
     that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that schoolroom of
     sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught."









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