His Last Bow

An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Conan Doyle

It was nine o'clock at night upon the second of August—the most terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought already that God's curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shining brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay. The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great chalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched himself four years before. They stood with their heads close together, talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of some malignant fiend looking down in the darkness.

A remarkable man this Von Bork—a man who could hardly be matched among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which had first recommended him for the English mission, the most important mission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had become more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world who were really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present companion, Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation, whose huge 100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited to waft its owner back to London.

“So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back in Berlin within the week,” the secretary was saying. “When you get there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest quarters of your work in this country.” He was a huge man, the secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speech which had been his main asset in his political career.

Von Bork laughed.

“They are not very hard to deceive,” he remarked. “A more docile, simple folk could not be imagined.”

“I don't know about that,” said the other thoughtfully. “They have strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One's first impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon something very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit and must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insular conventions which simply must be observed.”

“Meaning ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?” Von Bork sighed as one who had suffered much.

“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an example I may quote one of my own worst blunders—I can afford to talk of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of my successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-end gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The conversation was amazingly indiscreet.”

Von Bork nodded. “I've been there,” said he dryly.

“Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a resume of the information to Berlin. Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was aware of what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight up to me. You've no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing soft about our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I was two years living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours—”

“No, no, don't call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it.”

“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you go the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result? Nobody takes you seriously. You are a ‘good old sport,’ ‘quite a decent fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club, knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet country house of yours is the centre of half the mischief in England, and the sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius, my dear Von Bork—genius!”

“You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim my four years in this country have not been unproductive. I've never shown you my little store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”

The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticed window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested did he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.

“Some of my papers have gone,” said he. “When my wife and the household left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important with them. I must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for the others.”

“Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to her fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them.”

“And Belgium?”

“Yes, and Belgium, too.”

Von Bork shook his head. “I don't see how that could be. There is a definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a humiliation.”

“She would at least have peace for the moment.”

“But her honor?”

“Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a mediaeval conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing, but even our special war tax of fifty million, which one would think made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the front page of the Times, has not roused these people from their slumbers. Here and there one hears a question. It is my business to find an answer. Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my business to soothe it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go—the storage of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements for making high explosives—nothing is prepared. How, then, can England come in, especially when we have stirred her up such a devil's brew of Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her thoughts at home.”

“She must think of her future.”

“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our own very definite plans about England, and that your information will be very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers.” He sat in the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while he puffed sedately at his cigar.

The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the future corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy door.

“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.

The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of the embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such titles as “Fords,” “Harbour-defences,” “Aeroplanes,” “Ireland,” “Egypt,” “Portsmouth forts,” “The Channel,” “Rosythe,” and a score of others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.

“Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly clapped his fat hands.

“And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.

“But you have a good dossier there already.”

“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron—the worst setback in my whole campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the good Altamont all will be well to-night.”

The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of disappointment.

“Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at our posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did Altamont name no hour?”

Von Bork pushed over a telegram.

Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.

— —Altamont.

“Sparking plugs, eh?”

“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”

“From Portsmouth at midday,” said the secretary, examining the superscription. “By the way, what do you give him?”

“Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a salary as well.”

“The greedy rouge. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them their blood money.”

“I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker is a sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a real bitter Irish-American.”

“Oh, an Irish-American?”

“If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the King's English as well as on the English king. Must you really go? He may be here any moment.”

“No. I'm sorry, but I have already overstayed my time. We shall expect you early to-morrow, and when you get that signal book through the little door on the Duke of York's steps you can put a triumphant finis to your record in England. What! Tokay!” He indicated a heavily sealed dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a salver.

“May I offer you a glass before your journey?”

“No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.”

“Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay. He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things. I have to study him, I assure you.” They had strolled out on to the terrace again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the Baron's chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. “Those are the lights of Harwich, I suppose,” said the secretary, pulling on his dust coat. “How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be other lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place! The heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zeppelin promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?”

Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp, and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.

“That is Martha, the only servant I have left.”

The secretary chuckled.

“She might almost personify Britannia,” said he, “with her complete self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au revoir, Von Bork!” With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the opposite direction.

Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed that his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a new experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread house, for his family and household had been a large one. It was a relief to him, however, to think that they were all in safety and that, but for that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole place to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his study and he set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A leather valise stood beside his table, and into this he began to pack very neatly and systematically the precious contents of his safe. He had hardly got started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught the sounds of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction, strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to the terrace. He was just in time to see the lights of a small car come to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang out of it and advanced swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man with a gray moustache, settled down like one who resigns himself to a long vigil.

“Well?” asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.

For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above his head.

“You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,” he cried. “I'm bringing home the bacon at last.”

“The signals?”

“Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp code, Marconi—a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too dangerous. But it's the real goods, and you can lay to that.” He slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from which the other winced.

“Come in,” he said. “I'm all alone in the house. I was only waiting for this. Of course a copy is better than the original. If an original were missing they would change the whole thing. You think it's all safe about the copy?”

The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and relit it. “Making ready for a move?” he remarked as he looked round him. “Say, mister,” he added, as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the curtain was now removed, “you don't tell me you keep your papers in that?”

“Why not?”

“Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to be some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a can-opener. If I'd known that any letter of mine was goin' to lie loose in a thing like that I'd have been a mug to write to you at all.”

“It would puzzle any crook to force that safe,” Von Bork answered. “You won't cut that metal with any tool.”

“But the lock?”

“No, it's a double combination lock. You know what that is?”

“Search me,” said the American.

“Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get the lock to work.” He rose and showed a double-radiating disc round the keyhole. “This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for the figures.”

“Well, well, that's fine.”

“So it's not quite as simple as you thought. It was four years ago that I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and figures?”

“It's beyond me.”

“Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and here we are.”

The American's face showed his surprise and admiration.

“My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing.”

“Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is, and I'm shutting down to-morrow morning.”

“Well, I guess you'll have to fix me up also. I'm not staying is this gol-darned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping. I'd rather watch him from over the water.”

“But you're an American citizen?”

“Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he's doing time in Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell him you're an American citizen. ‘It's British law and order over here,’ says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to me you don't do much to cover your men.”

“What do you mean?” Von Bork asked sharply.

“Well, you are their employer, ain't you? It's up to you to see that they don't fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever pick them up? There's James—”

“It was James's own fault. You know that yourself. He was too self-willed for the job.”

“James was a bonehead—I give you that. Then there was Hollis.”

“The man was mad.”

“Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It's enough to make a man bug-house when he has to play a part from morning to night with a hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there is Steiner—”

Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.

“What about Steiner?”

“Well, they've got him, that's all. They raided his store last night, and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You'll go off and he, poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets off with his life. That's why I want to get over the water as soon as you do.”

Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see that the news had shaken him.

“How could they have got on to Steiner?” he muttered. “That's the worst blow yet.”

“Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off me.”

“You don't mean that!”

“Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and when I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I want to know, mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner is the fifth man you've lost since I signed on with you, and I know the name of the sixth if I don't get a move on. How do you explain it, and ain't you ashamed to see your men go down like this?”

Von Bork flushed crimson.

“How dare you speak in such a way!”

“If I didn't dare things, mister, I wouldn't be in your service. But I'll tell you straight what is in my mind. I've heard that with you German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry to see him put away.”

Von Bork sprang to his feet.

“Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!”

“I don't stand for that, mister, but there's a stool pigeon or a cross somewhere, and it's up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I am taking no more chances. It's me for little Holland, and the sooner the better.”

Von Bork had mastered his anger.

“We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of victory,” he said. “You've done splendid work and taken risks, and I can't forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from now. I'll take that book and pack it with the rest.”

The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to give it up.

“What about the dough?” he asked.

“The what?”

“The boodle. The reward. The ￡500. The gunner turned damned nasty at the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it would have been nitsky for you and me. ‘Nothin' doin'!’ says he, and he meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It's cost me two hundred pound from first to last, so it isn't likely I'd give it up without gettin' my wad.”

Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. “You don't seem to have a very high opinion of my honour,” said he, “you want the money before you give up the book.”

“Well, mister, it is a business proposition.”

“All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the table and scribbled a check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to his companion. “After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr. Altamont,” said he, “I don't see why I should trust you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?” he added, looking back over his shoulder at the American. “There's the check upon the table. I claim the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up.”

The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat dazing for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letters Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his writhing face.

“Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay.

The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed forward his glass with some eagerness.

“It is a good wine, Holmes.”

“A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me that it is from Franz Josef's special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour does not help the palate.”

The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was removing dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it neatly in Von Bork's valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and another round his legs.

“We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption. Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be glad to hear that all is well.”

The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with a smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the figure upon the sofa.

“It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all.”

“I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?”

“No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind. We waited some time for your signal to-night.”

“It was the secretary, sir.”

“I know. His car passed ours.”

“I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your plans, sir, to find him here.”

“No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You can report to me to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge's Hotel.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I suppose you have everything ready to leave.”

“Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses as usual.”

“Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good-night. These papers,” he continued as the old lady vanished, “are not of very great importance, for, of course, the information which they represent has been sent off long ago to the German government. These are the originals which cold not safely be got out of the country.”

“Then they are of no use.”

“I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least show our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good many of these papers have come through me, and I need not add are thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see a German cruiser navigating the Solent according to the mine-field plans which I have furnished. But you, Watson”—he stopped his work and took his old friend by the shoulders—“I've hardly seen you in the light yet. How have the years used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.”

“I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car. But you, Holmes—you have changed very little—save for that horrible goatee.”

“These are the sacrifices one makes for one's country, Watson,” said Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. “To-morrow it will be but a dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge's to-morrow as I was before this American stunt—I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English seems to be permanently defiled—before this American job came my way.”

“But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South Downs.”

“Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum opus of my latter years!” He picked up the volume from the table and read out the whole title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. “Alone I did it. Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of London.”

“But how did you get to work again?”

“Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone I could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my humble roof—! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa was a bit too good for our people. He was in a class by himself. Things were going wrong, and no one could understand why they were going wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was evidence of some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary to expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into the matter. It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not been devoid of excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago, graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave serious trouble to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me as a likely man, you will realize that the matter was complex. Since then I have been honoured by his confidence, which has not prevented most of his plans going subtly wrong and five of his best agents being in prison. I watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they ripened. Well, sir, I hope that you are none the worse!”

The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who after much gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes's statement. He broke out now into a furious stream of German invective, his face convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his swift investigation of documents while his prisoner cursed and swore.

“Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages,” he observed when Von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion. “Hullo! Hullo!” he added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before putting it in the box. “This should put another bird in the cage. I had no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long had an eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer for.”

The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa and was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his captor.

“I shall get level with you, Altamont,” he said, speaking with slow deliberation. “If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you!”

“The old sweet song,” said Holmes. “How often have I heard it in days gone by. It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.”

“Curse you, you double traitor!” cried the German, straining against his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.

“No, no, it is not so bad as that,” said Holmes, smiling. “As my speech surely shows you, Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence in fact. I used him and he is gone.”

“Then who are you?”

“It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to interest you, Mr. Von Bork, I may say that this is not my first acquaintance with the members of your family. I have done a good deal of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar to you.”

“I would wish to know it,” said the Prussian grimly.

“It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and the late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial Envoy. It was I also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman, Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother's elder brother. It was I—”

Von Bork sat up in amazement.

“There is only one man,” he cried.

“Exactly,” said Holmes.

Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. “And most of that information came through you,” he cried. “What is it worth? What have I done? It is my ruin forever!”

“It is certainly a little untrustworthy,” said Holmes. “It will require some checking and you have little time to check it. Your admiral may find the new guns rather larger than he expects, and the cruisers perhaps a trifle faster.”

Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.

“There are a good many other points of detail which will, no doubt, come to light in good time. But you have one quality which is very rare in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear me no ill-will when you realize that you, who have outwitted so many other people, have at last been outwitted yourself. After all, you have done your best for your country, and I have done my best for mine, and what could be more natural? Besides,” he added, not unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man, “it is better than to fall before some ignoble foe. These papers are now ready, Watson. If you will help me with our prisoner, I think that we may get started for London at once.”

It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends walked him very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with such proud confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the little car. His precious valise was wedged in beside him.

“I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit,” said Holmes when the final arrangements were made. “Should I be guilty of a liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?”

But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.

“I suppose you realize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said he, “that if your government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war.”

“What about your government and all this treatment?” said Holmes, tapping the valise.

“You are a private individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous.”

“Absolutely,” said Holmes.

“Kidnapping a German subject.”

“And stealing his private papers.”

“Well, you realize your position, you and your accomplice here. If I were to shout for help as we pass through the village—”

“My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would probably enlarge the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us ‘The Dangling Prussian’ as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient creature, but at present his temper is a little inflamed, and it would be as well not to try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you will go with us in a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can send for your friend, Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill that place which he has reserved for you in the ambassadorial suite. As to you, Watson, you are joining us with your old service, as I understand, so London won't be out of your way. Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have.”

The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes, recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner vainly wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they turned to the car Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful head.

“There's an east wind coming, Watson.”

“I think not, Holmes. It is very warm.”

“Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it's time that we were on our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which should be cashed early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can.”

歇洛克·福尔摩斯的收场白

八月二日晚上九点钟——世界历史上最可怕的八月。人们也许已经想到，上帝的诅咒使得这个堕一落的世界显得沉闷无聊，因为在闷热的空气中，有一种令人可怕的静寂和渺茫期待的感觉。太一陽一早已落山，但是仍留有一道血红色的斑痕，象裂开的伤口低挂在遥远的西边天际。上空星光烁烁，下面，船只上的光亮在海湾里闪耀。两位著名的德国人伫立在花园人行道的石栏旁边。他们身后是一长排低矮沉闷的人字形房屋。他们往下眺望着白垩巨崖脚下的那一大片海滩。冯·波克本人曾象一只到处游荡的山鹰，四年前就在这处悬崖上栖息下来。他们紧挨着站在那里在低声密谈。从下面望去，那两个发出红光的烟头就象是恶魔的两只眼睛，在黑暗中窥视，在黑暗中冒着烟。

冯·波克是个卓越的人物。他在为德国皇帝效忠的谍报人员当中几乎是首屈一指的。由于他的才干，首先把他派到英国去执行一项最为重要的使命，但是，自从他接受任务以后，世界上真正了解真相的那么五六个人才算越来越明了了他的才干。其中之一就是他现在的同伴、公使馆一等秘书冯·赫林男爵。这时男爵的那辆一百马力的本茨轿车正堵塞在乡间小巷里，等着把他的主人送回伦敦去。

“据我对事件趋势的判断，你也许本周内就可以回柏林去，"秘书在说，“亲一爱一的冯·波克，等你到了那边，我想你会对你将受到的欢迎感到惊奇的。这个国家的最高当局对你的工作的看法，我曾偶有所闻。"秘书的个子又高又大，口音缓慢而深沉，这一直是他政治生涯中的主要资本。

冯·波克笑了起来。

“要骗过他们并不很难，"他说道，“没有比他们更加一温一良而单纯的人了。”

“这一点我倒不知道，"秘书若有所思地说。"他们有一些奇怪的限制，我们必须学会遵守这些限制。正是他们表面上的这种简单，对一个陌生人才是陷阱。人们得到的第一个印象是，他们一温一和之极。然后，你会突然遇到非常严厉的事情，你这就会明白你已经达到限度，必须使自己适应事实。比如说，他们有他们偏执的一习一俗，那是必须遵守的。”

“你意思是说良好的礼貌之类的东西吗？"冯·波克叹了一口气，好象一个吃过苦头的人似的。

“说的是表现出来的各种希奇古怪的英国式的偏见。就以我犯过的一次最大的错误来说吧——我是有资格谈谈我自己的错误的，因为如果充分了解我的工作，也就会知道我的成就了。那时我初次来到这里，我被邀请去参加在一位内阁大臣的别墅举行的一次周末聚会。谈话随便得简直令人吃惊。”

冯·波克点点头。"我去过那儿，"他淡漠地说。

“不用说，我自然把情报向柏林作了简要汇报。不幸，我们的那位好首相对这类事情相当大意，他在广播中发表的谈话表明他已经了解了这次所谈的内容。这样一来，当然就追到我头上了。我这次吃的亏，你可不知道。我告诉你，在这种场合，我们的英国主人们可不是一温一和可起的。为了消除这次的影响，花了我两年时间。现在，象你这副运动家姿态——”

“不，不，别把它叫做姿态。姿态是人为的。我这是很自然的。我是个天生的运动家。我有此一爱一好。”

“好啊，那就会更有效果了。你同他们赛艇，同他们一起打猎，你打马球，你在各项运动中都同他们比一比，你的单人四马车赛在奥林匹亚是得了奖的。我还听说你甚至还同年轻的军官比过拳击。结果又怎样呢？谁也没有把你当一回事。你是个运动老行家，一个作为德国人来说是相当体面的家伙，一个酗酒，上夜总会，在城里到处游逛，天不怕地不怕的小伙子。你这所安静的乡村住宅向来是个中心，在英国的破坏活动，有一半是在这儿进行的。而你这位一爱一好体育的乡绅竟然是欧洲最机智的特工人员。天才，我亲一爱一的冯·波克——天才呀！”

“过奖了，男爵。不过我敢说我在这个国家的四年没有虚度。我那个小小的库房还没有给您看过。您愿意进来一会儿吗？”

书房的门直通台阶。冯·波克把门推开，在前面带路。他咔嗒一声打开电灯开关，然后把门关上，那个大块头的人跟在他身后。他仔细把花格窗上厚厚的窗帘拉严密。等到这一切预防措施完毕，他才把他那张晒黑了的鹰脸转向他的客人。

“有些文件已经不在，"他说，“昨天，我妻子和家属离开这里到福勒辛去了，不很重要的文件已让他们带走。其余的一些，我当然要求使馆给以保护。”

“你的名字已经作为私人随员列入名单。对你和你的行李不会有困难。当然，我们也可以不必离开，这也同样是可能的。英国可能扔下法国不管，让法国听天由命。我们可以肯定，英法之间没有签订有约束一性一的条约。”

“比利时呢？”

“比利时也一样。”

冯·波克摇摇头。"我真不明白这怎么能行。明明有条约摆在那儿。比利时永远也无法从这一屈辱中恢复过来了。”

“她至少可以暂时得到和平。”

“那么她的荣誉呢？”

“嗤！亲一爱一的先生，我们生活在一个功利主义的时代。荣誉是中世纪的概念。此外，英国没有准备。我们的战争特别税高达五千万，我们的目的是人人都能看得出来的，就好象在《泰晤士报》头版上登广告一样，可是偏偏没有把英国人从睡梦中唤醒，这真是不可思议。到处都可以听到谈这个问题。我的任务就是寻找答案。到处也出现一股怒气，我的任务就是平息怒气。不过，我可以向你保证，在最关键的一些问题上——军需品的储备，准备进行潜水艇袭击，安排制造烈一性一炸药——都毫无准备。尤其是我们挑一起了一爱一尔兰内战，闹得一塌糊涂，使英国自顾不暇，她怎么还能参战呢。”

“她必须为自己的前途着想。”

“啊，这是另外一回事。我想，到了将来，我们对英国将有非常明确的计划，而你的情报对我们是极为重要的。对于约翰·布尔先生来说，不是今天就是明天的事。如果她愿意在今①天，我们已作好充分的准备。如果是明天，我们的准备就更加充分了。我倒认为，英国应当放聪明一些，参加盟国作战不如不参加盟国作战。不过，这是他们自己的事。这个星期是决定他们命运的一周。不过你刚才谈到你的文件啦。"他坐在靠椅里，灯光照在他光秃的大脑袋上。他悠然自得地在咂着雪茄烟。

这个镶有橡木护墙板、四壁是书架的大房间的远处角落挂着幕帘。拉开幕帘，露出一个黄铜大保险柜。冯·波克从表链上取下一把小钥匙，在锁上经过一番拨一弄，打开了沉重的柜门。

“瞧！"他说，站在一边，用手一指。

灯光把打开的保险柜的里边照得雪亮，使馆秘书聚一精一会神地凝视着保险柜里一排排装得满满的分类架。每一分类架上有一标签。他一眼望去，是一长串标题，如"浅滩"、“港口防御"、“飞机"、“一爱一尔兰"、“埃及"、“起次茅斯要塞"、“海峡"、“罗塞斯"以及其它等等。每一格里装满了文件和计划。

“了不起！"秘书说。他放下雪茄烟，两只肥手轻轻地拍着。

“一切都是四年里弄到的，男爵。对一个嗜饮酒一爱一骑马的乡绅来说，干得不坏吧。不过我收藏的珍品就要到了，已经给它备好了位置。"他指着一个空格。空格上面印着"海军信号”①又译约翰牛，英国的绰号。——译者注字样。

“可是你这里已经有了一份卷宗材料啦。”

“过时了，成了废纸了。海军部已有警觉，把密码全换了。男爵，这是一次打击——我全部战役中最严重的挫折。幸亏我有存折和好帮手阿尔塔蒙。今天晚上将一切顺利。”

男爵看看表，感到失望，发出一声带喉音的叹息。

“唉，我实在不能再等了。眼下，事情正在卡尔顿大院里进行，这一点你是可以想象的。我们必须各就各位。我本来以为可以把你获得巨大成功的消息带回去。阿尔塔蒙没有说定时间吗？”

冯·波克翻出一封电报。

今晚一定带火花塞来。

阿尔塔蒙

“火花塞，唔？”

“你知道，他装作品车行家，我开汽车行。我们说的是汽车备件，实际上这是我们的联络暗号。如果他说散热气，指的就是战列舰；说油泵，指的就是巡洋舰，如此等等。火花塞就是指海军信号。”

“正午的时候从朴次茅斯打来的，"秘书一边说一边查看姓名地址，“对了，你打算给他什么？”

“办好这件事，给他五百镑。当然他还有工资收入。”

“贪婪的无赖。他们这些卖国贼是有用处的。不过，给他们一笔杀人的赏钱，我不甘心。”

“给阿尔塔蒙，我什么都舍得。他是个好样儿的工作者。用他自己的话说，只要我给他的钱多，他无论如何可以一交一货。此外，他不是卖国贼。我向你担保，和一个真正的一爱一尔兰血统的美国人比较起来，我们最激烈的泛日尔曼容克贵族在对待英国的感情方面只不过是一只幼鸽。”

“哦，是一爱一尔兰血统的美国人？”

“你要是听他谈话，你是不会怀疑这一点的。有时候我无法理解他。他好象向英王的英国人宣战了，也向英国的国王宣战了。你一定要走吗？他随时可能到这里来。”

“不等了，对不起，我已经超过停留的时间。我们明天清早等你来。等到你从约克公爵台阶的小门里取得那本信号簿，你在英国的经历就胜利结束了。哟！匈牙利萄萄酒！"他指着一个封得非常严实、沾满尘土的酒瓶。酒瓶旁边的托盘里放着两只高脚酒杯。

“在您上路之前，请您喝一杯吧？”

“不了，谢谢。看来你是要痛饮一番的样子。”

“阿尔塔蒙很一爱一喝酒，特别喜欢我的匈牙利萄萄酒。他是个火一性一子，一些小事情需要敷衍一下。我向你保证，我是不得不细察他。"他们又走到外面台阶上。台阶的那一头，男爵的司机踩动了油门，那辆大轿车隆隆地发动着并摇晃了起来。"我想，这是哈里奇的灯火吧，"秘书说着披上了风雨衣。"一切显得多么寂静太平。一个星期之内也许就会出现另外的火光，英国海岸就不是那么平静的地方啦！如果齐伯林答应我们的事成为现实，就连天堂也不会很太平了。咦，这是谁？"①

他们身后只有一个窗口露出灯光。屋里放着一盏灯。一个脸色红一润的老年妇女，头戴乡村小帽坐在桌旁。她弯着腰在织东西，不时停下来抚一摩她身边凳子上的一只大黑猫。

“这是玛莎，我留下的唯一的仆人。”

秘书咯咯一笑。

“她几乎是不列颠的化身，"他说，“专心一意，悠闲自在。好了，再见，冯·波克！"他招招手，进了汽车。车头上的灯射一出两道金色的光柱，穿过黑暗。秘书靠在豪华轿车的后座上，满脑子在想即将降临的欧洲悲剧。当他的汽车在乡村小街上拐来拐去的时候，迎面开过来一辆小埃特汽车，他都没有注意到。

车灯的亮光消失在远处，这时冯·波克才慢慢踱向书房。当他经过时，他注意到老管家已经关灯就寝了。他那占地很广的住宅里一片寂静和黑暗，这使他有了一种新的体会，因为他的家业大，他家里的人都平安无恙。除了那个老妇人在厨房里磨蹭以外，这个地方由他一个人独占，想到这些，他又感到欣慰。书房里有许多东西需要整理，于是他动起手来，直到他那俊美的脸被烧文件的火光烤得通红。桌旁放着一个旅行提包。他开始仔细而有条理地整理贵重物件，准备放进皮包。当他刚要进行这一工作，他那灵敏的耳朵听到远处有汽车声。他顿时满意地舒了一口气。他将皮包上的皮带拴好，关上保险柜门，锁好，赶忙走向外面的台阶。来到台阶上，正好看见一辆小汽①指德国人品伯林发明的"齐伯林飞船"。——译者注车的车灯。小汽车在门前停下，车里跳出一个人，迅速向他走来。车里的那个司机上了一点年纪，一脸灰白一胡一子，但身一体结实。他坐在那里象是要准备整夜值班似的。

“好啊？"冯·波克急切地问道，一边向来访的人迎上去。

来人得意洋洋地举起一个黄纸小包挥动着作为回答。

“今晚你得欢迎我呀，先生，"他嚷道，“我到底是得胜而归啦。”

“信号？”

“就是我在电报里说的东西。样样都有，信号机，灯的暗码，马可尼式无线电报——不过，你听着，是复制的，可不是原件，那太危险。不过，这是真货，你可以放心。"他粗里粗平地拍拍德国人的肩膀，显得很亲一热。德国人躲开了这种亲一热的表示。

“进来吧，"他说，“屋里就我一个人。我等的就是这个。复制品当然比原件好。要是丢一了原件，他们会全部更换的。你认为复制品靠得住吗？”

这个一爱一尔兰籍的美国人进了书房，舒展修长的四肢坐在靠椅上。他是一个又高又瘦的六十岁的人，面貌清癯，留着一小撮山羊一胡一子，真象山姆大叔的漫画像。他嘴角叼着一支一抽一了一半的、被唾沫浸一湿了的雪茄烟。他坐下以后，划了一根火柴，把烟重新点燃。“打算搬走啦？"他一面说，一面打量四周。“喂，喂，先生，"他接着说，保险柜前面的幕帘这时是拉开的，他的目光落到了保险柜上面。"你就把文件放在这里面？”

“为什么不呢？”

“唉，放在这么一个敞开的新玩意儿里面！他们会把你当成间谍的。嗐，一个美国强盗用一把开罐头的小刀就可以把它打开了。要是我早知道我的来信都放在这样一个不保险的地方，我还写信给你才是傻瓜哩。”

“哪一个强盗也拿这个保险柜没办法，"冯·波克回答说。“随便你用什么工具都锯不断这种金属。”

“锁呢？”

“也不行。锁有两层。你知道是怎么一回事吗？”

“我可不知道，"美国人说。

“你想把锁打开，首先你得知道某一个字和几个号码。"他站立起来，指着钥匙孔四周的双层圆盘。"外面一层是拨字母的，里面一层是拨数字的。”

“哦，哦，好极啦。”

“所以，并不象你想的那么简单。这是我四年前请人制成的。我选定字和数字的办法，你觉得怎么样？”

“我不懂。”

“哦，我选定的字是八月，数字是！”９！”４。你看这儿。”

美国人脸上显出惊异和赞赏的神色。

“唷，真了不起！你这玩意儿真妙。”

“是啊，当时能猜出日期的也没有几个人。现在你知道了。我明天早上就关门不干了。”

“那么，我看你也得把我安顿一下呀。我可不愿意一个人孤零零地留在他一妈一的这个国家里。我看，一个星期，也许不到一个星期，约翰牛就要竖一起后腿跳起来发火了。我倒不如过海去观望观望。”

“可你是美国公民呀？”

“那又怎么样。杰克·詹姆斯也是美国公民，还不是照样在波特兰坐牢。对英国警察说你是美国公民顶个屁用。警察会说：‘这里是英国法律和秩序管辖的地方。对了，说起杰克·詹姆斯来，先生，我觉得你并没有尽力掩护好你手下的人。”

“你这是什么意思？"冯·波克严厉地问道。

“嗯，你是他们的老板，对不对？你不能让他们失败。可是他失败了，你什么时候救过他们呢？就说詹姆斯——”

“那是詹姆斯自己的过错。这你自己也知道。他干这一行太喜欢自作主张。”

“詹姆斯是个笨蛋——我承认。还有霍里斯。”

“这个人是疯子。”

“噢，他到最后是有点糊里糊涂。他得从早到晚和一百来个想用警察的办法对待他的家伙打一交一道，这也够使人发狂了。不过现在是斯泰纳——”

冯·波克猛然一愣，脸色由红转白。

“斯泰纳怎么啦？”

“哼，他们逮住他啦，就是这么回事。他们昨晚抄了他的铺子，连人带文件都进了朴次茅斯监狱。你一走了事，他这个可怜虫还得吃苦头，能保住一性一命就算幸运了。所以，你一过海，我也要过海去。”

冯·波克是个坚强而能自我控制的人，但是显而易见，这一消息使他感到震惊。

“他们怎么会抓到斯泰纳的呢？"他喃喃地说，“这个打击真糟透啦。”

“你差点儿碰上更糟糕的事哩，因为我想，他们要抓我的日子也不会远了。”

“不至于吧！”

“没错儿。我的房东太太弗雷顿受到过查问。我一听这事，就知道我得赶紧了。不过，先生，我想知道的是，警察是怎么知道这些事儿的？自从我签字替你干事以来，斯泰纳是你损失的第五个人了。要是我不赶紧，我知道第六个人会是谁。这，你怎么解释呢？你眼看手下的人一个个失败，你不觉得惭愧吗？”

冯·波克的脸涨得通红。

“你怎么敢这样说话？”

“我要是不敢做不敢当，先生，我就不会给你干事了。不过，我把我心里想的事直截了当告诉你吧。我听说，对你们德国政客来说，每当一名谍报人员任务完成后就把他甩了，这你们是不会感到可惜的。”

冯·波克猛地站了起来。

“你竟敢说是我出卖了我自己的谍报人员！”

“我不是这个意思，先生，反正总有一只囮鸟，或是一个骗局。这得由你们去把问题查清楚。反正我不想玩命了。我这就要去小荷兰，越快越好。”

冯·波克压制住怒气。

“我们曾经长期合作，现在值此胜利的时刻不应该发生争吵，"他说，“你的工作干得很出色，冒了许多风险，这一切，我不会忘记。尽量设法到荷兰去吧，从鹿特丹再坐船去纽约。在下个星期内，别的航线都不安全。那本书我来拿着，同别的东西包在一起。”

这位美国人手里拿着那个小包，没有一交一出去的意思。

“钱呢？"他问道。

“什么？”

“现款。酬金。五百镑。那个槍手最后他一妈一的翻脸不认账了，我只好答应再给他一百镑清账，要不对你我都没有好处。他说没办法！他说的也是实话。不过给了这最后的一百镑，事情就成了。从头到尾，花了我两百镑。所以，不给钞票就叫我罢休，恐怕说不过去吧。”

冯·波克苦笑一下。"看来，你对我的信誉评价不高哇，”他说，“你是要我先一交一钱，再给我书吧。”

“唔，先生，作一交一易嘛。”

“好吧。照你的办。"他在桌边坐下，从支票簿上撕下一张支票，在上面写了几笔，但是没有一交一给他的同伴。“你我的关系弄到这种地步，阿尔塔蒙先生，"他说，“既然你信不过我，我也没有理由信得过你了。懂吗？"他补上一句，转过头看看站在他身后的那位美国人。"支票在桌子上。在你取款之前，我有权检查你的纸包。”

美国人把纸包递过去，什么也没有说。冯·波克解一开绳子，把包在外面的两张纸打开。出现在他面前的是一本蓝色小书，他暗自吃惊，坐在那里对着书呆了一会儿。书的封面上印着金字：《养蜂实用手册》。这个间谍头子对这个与谍报风马牛不相及的奇怪书名刚瞪眼看了一会儿功夫，他的后脖颈儿就被一只手死死卡住了。一块浸有氯仿的海绵放到了他那扭歪了的脸上。

“再来一杯，华生！"福尔摩斯一边说一边举起一个帝国牌葡萄酒瓶。

坐在桌旁的那个结实的司机岂不及待地把酒杯递过去。

“真是好酒，福尔摩斯。”

“美酒，华生。我们这位躺在沙发上的朋友曾对我说过，这酒肯定是从弗朗兹·约瑟夫在申布龙宫的专门酒窖里运来的。劳驾请你把窗子打开，氯仿的气味对我们的品尝可没有好处。”

保险柜半开着。福尔摩斯站在柜前，取出一本一本的卷宗，逐一查看，然后整整齐平地放进冯·波克的提包。这个德国人躺在沙发上睡觉，鼾声如雷，一根皮带捆着他的胳膊，另一根皮带捆着他的双脚。

“不用慌，华生。不会有人来打扰我们的。请你按铃，好吗？除了玛莎以外，这屋里没有别人。玛莎起的作用令人钦佩。我一开始处理这一案件，就把这里的情形告诉了她。啊，玛莎，一切顺利。你听了一定会高兴的。”

满心高兴的老太太出现在过道上。她对福尔摩斯屈膝行礼，笑了一笑，但是有些不安地看了一眼沙发上的那个人。

“没什么，玛莎，完全没有伤着他。”

“那就好，福尔摩斯先生。从他的知识程度来看，他倒是个和气的主人。他昨天要我跟他的妻子一起到德国去，那可就配合不上您的计划了，是吧，先生？”

“是配合不上，玛莎。只要有你在这里，我就放心。我们今天晚上等你的信号等了好一会儿。”

“那个秘书在这儿，先生。”

“我知道。他的汽车是从我们的汽车旁边开过去的。”

“我还以为他不走了哩。我知道，先生，他在这儿，就没法配合你的计划。”

“确是如此。我们大约等了半个钟头，就看见你屋里射一出的灯光，知道没有障碍了。玛莎，你明天去伦敦，可以在克拉瑞治饭店向我报告。”

“好的，先生。”

“我想你是准备走了。”

“是的，先生。他今天寄了七封信。我都照样记下了地址。”

“好极了，玛莎。我明天再细细查看。晚安。这些文件，”当老太太走远了，福尔摩斯接着说，“不很重要，因为文件所提供的情报当然早已到了德国政一府手里。这些原件是无法安全送出这个国家的。”

“那么说，这些文件没有用了。”

“我也不能这么说，华生。文件至少可以向我们的人表明什么已经被别人知道，什么还没有被别人知道。有许多这类文件都是经过我的手送来的，不用说，根本不可靠。能够看到一艘德国巡洋舰按照我提供的布雷区的计划航行在索伦海上，将使我的晚年不胜荣耀。而你，华生——"他放下手头的工作，扶着老朋友的双肩，“我还没有看见你的真面目呢。这几年你过得怎么样？你看起来还象从前那样是个愉快的孩子。”

“我觉得年轻了二十岁，福尔摩斯。当我收到你要我开车到哈里奇和你见面的电报时，我很少那样高兴过。可是你，福尔摩斯——你也没有什么改变——除了山羊小一胡一子之外。”

“这是为我们的国家作出的一点牺牲，华生，"福尔摩斯说着捋一捋小一胡一子。"到了明天就成了不愉快的回忆了。我理过发，修整修整外表，明天再度出现在克拉瑞治饭店的时候，无疑会和我扮演美国人这一花招之前的我一模一样——在我扮演美国人这个角色之前——请你原谅，华生——我的英语似乎已经长时岂不纯了。”

“可你已经退休了，福尔摩斯。我们听说你已在南部草原的一个小农场上与蜜蜂和书本为伍，过着隐士般的生活了。”

“一点不错，华生。这就是我悠闲自在生活的成果——我近年来的杰作！"他从桌上拿起一本书，念出书的全名：《养蜂实用手册，兼论隔离蜂王的研究》。"是我一个人完成的。这项成果是我一日夜一操一劳，苦心经营取得的。我观察过这些勤劳的小小蜂群，正如我曾一度观察伦敦的罪犯世界一样。”

“那么，你怎么又开始工作了呢？”

“啊，我自己也常常感到有些奇怪。单是外一交一大臣一个人，我倒还能经受得住，可是首相也打算光临寒舍——是这样，华生，躺在沙发上的这位先生对我国人民可太好啦。他有一伙人。我们的好些事情都失败了，可是找不出原因。怀疑到一些谍报人员，甚至逮捕了一些。但是事实证明，存在着一支强大的秘密核心力量。加以揭露是绝对必要的。一股强大的压力迫使我感到侦查此事责无旁贷。花了我两年时间，华生，但这两年不是没有乐趣的。等我把下面的情况告诉你，你就知道事情是多么复杂了。我从芝加哥出发远游，加入了布法罗的一个一爱一尔兰秘密一团一体，给斯基巴伦的警察添了不少麻烦，最后引起冯·波克手下的谍报人员的注意。这个人认为我有出息，就推荐了我。从那时期，我取得了他们的信任。这样，使他的大部分计划巧妙地出了差错，他手下五名最一精一干的谍报人员都进了监狱。华生，我监视着他们，他们成熟一个，我就摘一个。唔，华生，但愿你依然如故！”

这最后一句话是说给冯·波克本人听的。他经过一阵喘一息和眨眼之后，安安静静地躺着在听福尔摩斯说话。现在他狂吼起来，用德语谩骂。他的脸气得直一抽一搐。福尔摩斯在他的犯人诅咒时却在一边迅速地检查文件。

“德国话虽然不富于音乐一性一，但也是所有语言中最有表达力的一种语言，"当冯·波克骂得一精一疲力竭停息下来时，福尔摩斯说道。"喂！喂！"他接着说，这时他的眼睛盯着他还没有放进箱子的一张临摹图的一角。"还应该再抓