The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax

Arthur Conan Doyle

“But why Turkish?” asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment, and my protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.

“English,” I answered in some surprise. “I got them at Latimer's, in Oxford Street.”

Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.

“The bath!” he said; “the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?”

“Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and old. A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine—a fresh starting-point, a cleanser of the system.

“By the way, Holmes,” I added, “I have no doubt the connection between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you would indicate it.”

“The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson,” said Holmes with a mischievous twinkle. “It belongs to the same elementary class of deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you who shared your cab in your drive this morning.”

“I don't admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation,” said I with some asperity.

“Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let me see, what were the points? Take the last one first—the cab. You observe that you have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you would probably have had no splashes, and if you had they would certainly have been symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that you sat at the side. Therefore it is equally clear that you had a companion.”

“That is very evident.”

“Absurdly commonplace, is it not?”

“But the boots and the bath?”

“Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots in a certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an elaborate double bow, which is not your usual method of tying them. You have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A bootmaker—or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker, since your boots are nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for all that, the Turkish bath has served a purpose.”

“What is that?”

“You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear Watson—first-class tickets and all expenses paid on a princely scale?”

“Splendid! But why?”

Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his pocket.

“One of the most dangerous classes in the world,” said he, “is the drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and often the most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable inciter of crime in others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She has sufficient means to take her from country to country and from hotel to hotel. She is lost, as often as not, in a maze of obscure pensions and boardinghouses. She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil has come to the Lady Frances Carfax.”

I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the particular. Holmes consulted his notes.

“Lady Frances,” he continued, “is the sole survivor of the direct family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but with some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly attached—too attached, for she refused to leave them with her banker and always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in fresh middle age, and yet, by a strange change, the last derelict of what only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.”

“What has happened to her, then?”

“Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead? There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and for four years it has been her invariable custom to write every second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed without a word. The last letter was from the Hotel National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there and given no address. The family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum will be spared if we can clear the matter up.”

“Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had other correspondents?”

“There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is the bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have glanced over her account. The last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne, but it was a large one and probably left her with cash in hand. Only one check has been drawn since.”

“To whom, and where?”

“To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check was drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than three weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds.”

“And who is Miss Marie Devine?”

“That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was the maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her this check we have not yet determined. I have no doubt, however, that your researches will soon clear the matter up.”

“My researches!”

“Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal terror of his life. Besides, on general principles it is best that I should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a rate as two pence a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the end of the Continental wire.”

Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne, where I received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-known manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there for several weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her. Her age was not more than forty. She was still handsome and bore every sign of having in her youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable jewellery, but it had been remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk in the lady's bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress. She was actually engaged to one of the head waiters in the hotel, and there was no difficulty in getting her address. It was 11 Rue de Trajan, Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.

Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's sudden departure. She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason to believe that she intended to remain for the season in her luxurious rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she had left at a single day's notice, which involved her in the useless payment of a week's rent. Only Jules Vibart, the lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden departure with the visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall, dark, bearded man. “Un sauvage—un véritable sauvage!” cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He had been seen talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then he had called. She had refused to see him. He was English, but of his name there was no record. Madame had left the place immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of more importance, Jules Vibart's sweetheart, thought that this call and the departure were cause and effect. Only one thing Jules would not discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left her mistress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If I wished to know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.

So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted to the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of throwing someone off her track. Otherwise why should not her luggage have been openly labelled for Baden? Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous route. This much I gathered from the manager of Cook's local office. So to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of half-humorous commendation.

At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a missionary from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her comfort and occupation in religion. Dr. Shlessinger's remarkable personality, his whole hearted devotion, and the fact that he was recovering from a disease contracted in the exercise of his apostolic duties affected her deeply. She had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager described it to me, upon a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon either side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites, upon which he was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much in health, he and his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances had started thither in their company. This was just three weeks before, and the manager had heard nothing since. As to the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days beforehand in floods of tears, after informing the other maids that she was leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the whole party before his departure.

“By the way,” said the landlord in conclusion, “you are not the only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now. Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same errand.”

“Did he give a name?” I asked.

“None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type.”

“A savage?” said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my illustrious friend.

“Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded, sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a farmers' inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend.”

Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious lady pursued from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting figure. She feared him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne. He had still followed. Sooner or later he would overtake her. Had he already overtaken her? Was that the secret of her continued silence? Could the good people who were her companions not screen her from his violence or his blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.

To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down to the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for a description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's ideas of humour are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no notice of his ill-timed jest—indeed, I had already reached Montpellier in my pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message came.

I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only left her mistress because she was sure that she was in good hands, and because her own approaching marriage made a separation inevitable in any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed with distress, shown some irritability of temper towards her during their stay in Baden, and had even questioned her once as if she had suspicions of her honesty, and this had made the parting easier than it would otherwise have been. Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed with deep distrust the stranger who had driven her mistress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize the lady's wrist with great violence on the public promenade by the lake. He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it was out of dread of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the Shlessingers to London. She had never spoken to Marie about it, but many little signs had convinced the maid that her mistress lived in a state of continual nervous apprehension. So far she had got in her narrative, when suddenly she sprang from her chair and her face was convulsed with surprise and fear. “See!” she cried. “The miscreant follows still! There is the very man of whom I speak.”

Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the street and staring eagerly at he numbers of the houses. It was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid. Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and accosted him.

“You are an Englishman,” I said.

“What if I am?” he asked with a most villainous scowl.

“May I ask what your name is?”

“No, you may not,” said he with decision.

The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the best.

“Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?” I asked.

He stared at me with amazement.

“What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist upon an answer!” said I.

The fellow gave a below of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him leave go his hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to thank my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “a very pretty hash you have made of it! I rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night express.”

An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style, was seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding that he could get away from London, he determined to head me off at the next obvious point of my travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had sat in the cabaret waiting for my appearance.

“And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear Watson,” said he. “I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing.”

“Perhaps you would have done no better,” I answered bitterly.

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I have done better. Here is the Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we may find him the starting-point for a more successful investigation.”

A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started when he saw me.

“What is this, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I had your note and I have come. But what has this man to do with the matter?”

“This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us in this affair.”

The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of apology.

“I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not responsible in these days. My nerves are like live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world you came to hear of my existence at all.”

“I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's governess.”

“Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well.”

“And she remembers you. It was in the days before—before you found it better to go to South Africa.”

“Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know—not worse than others of my class. But her mind was pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So, when she came to hear of things that I had done, she would have no more to say to me. And yet she loved me—that is the wonder of it!—loved me well enough to remain single all her sainted days just for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her. I had heard that she was still unmarried, I found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her will was strong, and when next I called she had left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was here. I'm a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But for God's sake tell me what has become of the Lady Frances.”

“That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar gravity. “What is your London address, Mr. Green?”

“The Langham Hotel will find me.”

“Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I should want you? I have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you may rest assured that all that can be done will be done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I will leave you this card so that you may be able to keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7.30 to-morrow.”

A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw across to me. “Jagged or torn,” was the message, and the place of origin, Baden.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You may remember my seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman's left ear. You did not answer it.”

“I had left Baden and could not inquire.”

“Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here.”

“What does it show?”

“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from South America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved—and for a young country it has turned out some very finished types. His particular specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to me, and this physical peculiarity—he was badly bitten in a saloon-fight at Adelaide in '89—confirmed my suspicion. This poor lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always possible that she never reached London, or that she has passed through it, but the former is improbable, as, with their system of registration, it is not easy for foreigners to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter is also unlikely, as these rouges could not hope to find any other place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint. All my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at present no possible means of telling where, we can only take the obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening I will stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but very efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid the crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were as completely obliterated as if they had never lived. Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing. Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain. His old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him. And then suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense there came a flash of light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large, clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address were demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the description was surely that of Shlessinger.

Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for news—the third time within an hour of this fresh development. His clothes were getting looser on his great body. He seemed to be wilting away in his anxiety. “If you will only give me something to do!” was his constant wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.

“He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now.”

“But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?”

Holmes shook his head very gravely.

“Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear that they cannot let her loose without their own destruction. We must prepare for the worst.”

“What can I do?”

“These people do not know you by sight?”

“No.”

“It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the future. in that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's. I will give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the shop. If the fellow comes you will follow him home. But no indiscretion, and, above all, no violence. I put you on your honour that you will take no step without my knowledge and consent.”

For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering with excitement.

“We have him! We have him!” he cried.

He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few words and thrust him into an armchair.

“Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.

“She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the pendant she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall, pale woman, with ferret eyes.”

“That is the lady,” said Holmes.

“She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker's.”

My companion started. “Well?” he asked in that vibrant voice which told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.

“She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well. ‘It is late,’ I heard her say, or words to that effect. The woman was excusing herself. ‘It should be there before now,’ she answered. ‘It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ They both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some questions and then left the shop.”

“You did excellently well. What happened next?”

“The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her. Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get another and so to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the corner of the square, and watched the house.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing there, wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with two men in it. They descended, took something out of the van, and carried it up the steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin.”

“Ah!”

“For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had been opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman who had opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and I think that she recognized me. I saw her start, and she hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I am.”

“You have done excellent work,” said Holmes, scribbling a few words upon a half-sheet of paper. “We can do nothing legal without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down to the authorities and getting one. There may be some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all details.”

“But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin mean, and for whom could it be but for her?”

“We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now Watson,” he added as our client hurried away, “he will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures are justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney Square.

“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,” said he as we drove swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge. “These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any letters they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have engaged a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a prisoner, and they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery which has been their object from the first. Already they have begun to sell part of it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think that anyone is interested in the lady's fate. When she is released she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be released. But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever. So murder is their only solution.”

“That seems very clear.”

“Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It points also to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would have buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open and regular. What does this mean? Surely that they have done her to death in some way which has deceived the doctor and simulated a natural end—poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition.”

“Could they have forged a medical certificate?”

“Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker's, for we have just passed the pawnbroker's. Would go in, Watson? Your appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes place to-morrow.”

The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to be at eight o'clock in the morning. “You see, Watson, no mystery; everything above-board! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear. Well, there's nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”

“My stick!”

“Well, well, we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just.’ We simply can't afford to wait for the police or to keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck together, as we have occasionally in the past.”

He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering at us through the darkness.

“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.

“There is no such person here,” she answered, and tried to close the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

“Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call himself,” said Holmes firmly.

She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well, come in!” said she. “My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world.” She closed the door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. “Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant,” she said.

Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.

“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he said in an unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. “I fancy that you have been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street—”

“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my companion firmly. “You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his formidable pursuer. “I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr. Holmes,” said he coolly. “When a man's conscience is easy you can't rattle him. What is your business in my house?”

“I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom you brought away with you from Baden.”

“I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,” Peters answered coolly. “I've a bill against her for a nearly a hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden—it is a fact that I was using another name at the time—and she stuck on to us until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I'm your debtor.”

In mean to find her,“ said Sherlock Holmes. ”I'm going through this house till I do find her.“

“Where is your warrant?”

Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. “This will have to serve till a better one comes.”

“Why, you're a common burglar.”

“So you might describe me,” said Holmes cheerfully. “My companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your house.”

Our opponent opened the door.

“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was a whisk of feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.

“Our time is limited, Watson,” said Holmes. “If you try to stop us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which was brought into your house?”

“What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in it.”

“I must see the body.”

“Never with my consent.”

“Then without it.” With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease could this wornout wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes's face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

“Thank God!” he muttered. “It's someone else.”

“Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Peters, who had followed us into the room.

“Who is the dead woman?”

“Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's, Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13 Firbank Villas—mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes—and had her carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she died—certificate says senile decay—but that's only the doctor's opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety.”

Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.

“I am going through your house,” said he.

“Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman's voice and heavy steps sounded in the passage. “We'll soon see about that. This way, officers, if you please. These men have forced their way into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out.”

A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card from his case.

“This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“Bless you, sir, we know you very well,” said the sergeant, “but you can't stay here without a warrant.”

“Of course not. I quite understand that.”

“Arrest him!” cried Peters.

“We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted,” said the sergeant majestically, “but you'll have to go, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.”

A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The sergeant had followed us.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law.”

“Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.”

“I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If there is anything I can do—”

“It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. I expect a warrant presently.”

“Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything comes along, I will surely let you know.”

It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at once. First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, where we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a former servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away with them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since died.

The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away, and had signed the certificate in due form. “I assure you that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the matter,” said he. Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious save that for people of their class it was remarkable that they should have no servant. So far and no further went the doctor.

Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay was inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be obtained until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go down with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save that near midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows of the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none had entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.

Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible solution of the mystery. Several times in the course of the night I heard him prowling about the house. Finally, just after I had been called in the morning, he rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.

“What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?” he asked eagerly. “Well, it is 7.20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It's life or death—a hundred chances on death to one on life. I'll never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!”

Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their way.

“Take it back!” he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the foremost. “Take it back this instant!”

“What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your warrant?” shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring over the farther end of the coffin.

“The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house until it comes.”

The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bearers. Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed these new orders. “Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!” he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table. “Here's one for you, my man! A sovreign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask no questions—work away! That's good! Another! And another! Now pull all together! It's giving! It's giving! Ah, that does it at last.”

With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it off and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual woman of middle age. In an instant he had passed his arm round the figure and raised her to a sitting position.

“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not too late!”

For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform, the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall. And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected ether, and with every device that science could suggest, some flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life. A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it. “Here is Lestrade with his warrant,” said he. “He will find that his birds have flown. And here,” he added as a heavy step hurried along the passage, “is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies in that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone.”

“Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,” said Holmes that evening, “it can only be as an example of that temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he who can recognize and repair them. To this modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim. My night was haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a curious observation, had come under my notice and had been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the morning, the words came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker's wife, as reported by Philip Green. She had said, ‘It should be there before now. It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ It was the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary. That could only mean that it had been made to some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room for another body. Both would be buried under the one certificate. It had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to stop the coffin before it left the house.

“It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it was a chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at the last. The could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that such considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to insure against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future career.”

弗朗西丝·卡法克斯女士的失踪

“为什么是土耳其式的？"歇洛克·福尔摩斯问道，眼睛盯着我的靴子。这时我正躺在一把藤靠背椅上，伸出去的两只脚引起了他的极大注意。

“英国式的，"我有点惊奇地回答说，“在牛津大街拉梯默鞋店买的。”

福尔摩斯微笑着显出不耐烦的神情。

“澡堂！"他说，“澡堂！为什么去洗使人松一弛而费钱的土耳其浴，而不洗个本国式的澡提提一精一神呢？”

“因为这几天我的风湿病犯了，感到衰老了。土耳其浴是我们所说的一种可取的疗法，一个新的起点，躯体的一种清洁剂。”

“唉，对了，福尔摩斯，"我接着说，“我不怀疑，对于周密的头脑来说，靴子和土耳其浴之间的关系是不言自明的。不过，要是你能说清楚，我将十分感激。”

“这番道理并不太深奥，华生，"福尔摩斯说，顽皮地眨一眨眼。"我要用的还是那一套推论法。我来问你，你今天早上坐车回来，有谁和你同车。”

“我并不认为一种新颖的例证就是一种解释，"我带点挖苦地说。

“好啊，华生！好一个庄严而合理的抗议。我来看，问题在哪里呢？把最后的拿到最前来说吧——马车。你看，你的左衣袖上和肩上溅有泥浆。如果你坐在车子的当中，就不会有泥浆了。如果你坐在车子当中，要有泥浆当然是两边都会有。所以，你是坐在车子的一边，这很清楚。你有同伴，这同样也很清楚。”

“这很明显。”

“平淡无奇，是不是？”

“但是靴子和洗澡？”

“同样简单。你穿靴子有你自己的一习一惯穿法。我现在看到的是，靴子系的是双结，打得很仔细，这不是你平时的系法。你脱过靴子。是谁系的呢？鞋匠——要不就是澡堂的男仆。不可能是鞋匠，因为你的靴子差不多是新的。喔，还有什么呢？洗澡。太荒唐了，是不是？但是，总之洗土耳其浴是有目的的。”

“什么目的？”

“你说你已经洗过土耳其澡，因为你要换换洗法。我建议你洗一个吧。我亲一爱一的华生，去一趟洛桑怎么样？头等车票，一切开销都会是有气派的。”

“好！但是，为什么呢？”

福尔摩斯靠回安乐椅里，从口袋中取出笔记本。

“世界上最危险的一种人，"他说，“就是漂泊孤独的女人。她本身无害，而且往往是很有用的人，但却总是引起别人犯罪的因素。她无依无靠，到处为家。她有足够的钱供她从一个国家到另一个国家，从一家旅馆到另一家旅馆。她往往失落在偏僻的公寓和寄宿栈房的迷宫里。她是迷失在狐狸世界里的一只小鸡。一旦她被吞没，也很少有人想念她。我很担心弗朗西丝·卡法克斯女士已经遇到了某种不幸。”

这样突然从一抽一象概括转到具体问题，使我感到欣慰。福尔摩斯在查阅他的笔记。

“弗朗西丝女士，"他接着说，“是已故拉福顿伯爵直系亲属中唯一的幸存者。你可能记得，遗产都给了儿辈，只留给她一些非常稀奇的古老西班牙银饰珍宝和一精一巧琢磨的钻石。她喜一爱一这些东西，真是一爱一不释手，不肯存放在银行家那里，老是随身带着。弗朗西丝女士是一个多愁善感的人物，是个美貌的女人，仍然处在一精一力充沛的中年，可是，由于一次意外的遭遇，却成为二十来年前还是一支庞大舰队的最后一只轻舟。”

“那么她出了什么事啦？”

“咳，弗朗西丝女士出了什么事？是活着还是死了？这就是我们要弄清楚的问题。四年来，她每隔一个星期写一封信给她的老家庭女教师杜布妮小一姐。这已成一习一惯，从不改变。杜布妮小一姐早已退休，现在住在坎伯韦尔。前来找我的就是这位杜布妮小一姐。五个星期过去了，杳无音讯。最后一封信是从洛桑的国家饭店寄出的。弗朗西丝女士似乎已经离开那里，没有留下地址。一家人都很着急。他们非常有钱，如果我们能够弄清事情的真相，他们将不惜重金酬谢。”

“杜布妮小一姐是唯一能提供情况的人吗？这位女士肯定也给别的人写信吧？”

“有一个通讯者是肯定的，华生，那就是银行。单身女人也得活。她们的存折就是日记的缩影。她的钱存在西尔维斯特银行。我看过她的户头。她取款的最后一张支票，只是为了付清在洛桑的帐目，但是数目很大，现款可能留在她手上。从那以后只开过一张支票。”

“给谁的？开到什么地方？”

“开给玛丽·黛汶小一姐。开到什么地方不清楚。不到三个星期前，这张支票在蒙彼利埃的里纳银行兑现。总数是五十镑。”

“那么这个玛丽·黛汶小一姐是谁呢？”

“这个，我查出来了。玛丽·黛汶小一姐过去是弗朗西丝·卡法克斯女士的女仆。为什么把这张支票给她，我们还无法断定。但是毫无疑问，你的研究工作将会很快弄清这个问题。”

“我的研究工作？”

“为此才要到洛桑去作一番恢复健康的探险呐。你知道，老阿伯拉罕斯生怕送命，我不能离开伦敦。另外，一般情况下，我最好不到国外去。要是没有我，苏格兰场会感到寂寞的，并且也会在犯人当中引岂不健康的激动。亲一爱一的华生，去吧。如果我的愚见每个字能值两个便士的高价，那就让它在大一陆电报局的另一头日夜听候你的吩咐吧。”

两天后，我来到洛桑的国家饭店，受到那位大名鼎鼎的经理莫塞先生的殷勤接待。据他说，弗朗西丝女士在此住饼几个星期。见到她的人都很喜欢她。她的年龄不超过四十岁，风韵犹存，可以想见得出她年轻时是如何一位美貌佳人。莫塞并不知道有任何珍贵珠宝。但是茶房曾说起过，那位女士卧室里的那只沉甸甸的皮箱总是小心地锁着。女仆玛丽·黛汶同她的女主人一样，与众人关系甚好。她已同饭店里的一个茶房领班订了婚，打听她的地址并不费事，那是在蒙彼利埃的特拉扬路！”！”号。这些我都一一记下了。我觉得即使是福尔摩斯本人，收集情况的本领也不过如此罢了。

只有一处还不清楚。这位女士突然离去的原因何在，尚未探明。她在洛桑过得很愉快。有一切理由可以相信，她本想在这高踞湖滨的豪华房间里度过这个季节，但是，她却在预订之后一天就离开了，白付了一周的房金。只有女仆的情一人茹勒·维巴提出一些看法。他把突然离去和一两天前一个又高又黑、留着一胡一子的人来拜访的事联系起来。“野蛮人——地地道道的野蛮人！"茹勒·维巴嚷道。此人住在城里某处。有人见过他在湖边的游廊上和这位女士认真一交一谈。随后他曾来拜访过。她拒不见他。他是英国人，但是没有留下姓名。这位女士随即离开了那地方。茹勒·维巴，以及更为重要的是茹勒·维巴的情一人，都认为这次访问是因，离去是果。只有一件事，茹勒不能谈。这就是玛丽何以要离开女主人的原因。关于这一点，他不能也不愿说什么。如果我想知道，我必须到蒙彼利埃去问她。

我查询的第一部分就此结束。第二部分要谈的是弗朗西丝·卡法克斯女士离开洛桑后要去找的那个地方。关于这一点，似乎有某种秘密使人确信，她到那个地方去是为了甩开某一个人。否则，她的行李上为什么不公开贴上去巴登的标签？她本人和她的行李都是绕道来到了莱茵河游览区的。这些情况是我从当地库克办事处经理那里收集到的。我发电报给福尔摩斯，把我进行的全部情况告诉他，并且收到他的回电。他半诙谐地赞许了我一番。然后，我就前往巴登了。

在巴登追寻线索并不困难。弗朗西丝女士在英国饭店住了半个月。她在那里认识了来自南美的传教士施莱辛格博士和他的妻子。弗朗西丝女士和大多数单身女子一样，从宗教中获得慰藉。施莱辛格博士的超凡人格，他的全心全意的献身一精一神，以及他在执行传教职务过程中得过病，现正在恢复健康这一事实，深深打动了她。她帮助过施莱辛格太太照料这位逐渐恢复健康的圣者。经理告诉我，博士白天在游廊的躺椅上度过，身旁一边站一个服务员。他正在绘制一幅专门说明米迪安天国圣一地的地图，并在撰写一篇这方面的论文。最后，在完全康复以后，他带着妻子去了伦敦，弗朗西丝女士也和他们一同前往了。这只是三个星期以前的事情。此后，这位经理就再没有听到什么了。至于女仆玛丽，她对别的女仆说永远不再干这行了。她早先几天痛哭了一场就走了。施莱辛格博士动身之前，给他的那一帮人都付了账。

“哦，对了，"经理最后说，“事后打听弗朗西斯·卡法克斯女士的人不止你一位。个把星期之前，也有人到这儿来打听过。”

“他留下姓名没有？"我问。

“没有，不过他是英国人，虽然样子显得特别。”

“一个蛮子？"我说，照我那位大名鼎鼎的朋友的方式把我知道的事情联系起来。

“对。说他是蛮子倒很恰当。这家伙块头很大，留着一胡一子，皮肤晒得黝一黑，看样子，他一习一惯住农村客栈，而不是高级饭店。这个人很凶，我可不敢惹他。”

秘密的真相开始显露，随着云雾逐渐散去，人物变得更清楚了。有一个凶险的家伙在追逐这位善良而虔诚的女士，她到一处，他追到一处。她害怕他，要不然她不会逃离洛桑的。他仍然在跟踪着。他早晚会追上她的。他是不是已经追上她了？她继续保持沉默的秘密是否就在这里？跟她作伴的那些善良的人难道竟不加以掩护，使她免遭暴力或讹诈之害？在这长途追逐的后面隐藏着什么可怕的目的，什么深奥的企图呢？这就是我要解决的问题。

我写信给福尔摩斯，告诉他我已经迅速而肯定地查到案子的根由。我收到的回电却是要我说明施莱辛格博士的左耳是什么样子。福尔摩斯的幽默想法真是奇怪，偶尔未免有些冒失。现在开玩笑也不是时候，所以我就没有加以理会。说真的，在他来电报之前，为了追上女仆玛丽，我已经到了蒙彼利埃。

寻找这位被辞退的女仆并获得她所了解的情况并不困难。她很忠诚。她之所以离开她的女主人，只是因为她确信她的主人有了可靠的人照料，同时因为她的婚期已到，早晚总得离开主人。她痛苦地承认，她们住在巴登的时候，女主人曾对她发过脾气。有一次甚至追问过她，好象女主人对她的忠诚发生了怀疑。这样分手反倒更加好办，否则就会难舍难分。弗朗西丝送给她五十镑作为结婚礼物。和我一样，玛丽也非常怀疑那个使她的女主人离开洛桑的陌生人。她亲眼看见他公然在湖滨游廊上恶狠狠地抓住这位女士的手腕。他这个人凶狠可怕。玛丽认为，弗朗西丝女士愿意和施莱辛格夫妇同去伦敦，就是因为害怕这个人。这件事，她从来没有向玛丽提过，但是许多细小的迹象都使这位女仆深信，她的女主人一直生活在一精一神忧虑的状态中。刚说到这里，她突然从椅子上惊跳起来，脸色惊恐。"看！"她叫喊起来，“这个恶棍悄悄跟到这儿来啦！这就是我说的那个人。”

透过客厅里敞开着的窗子，我看见一个留着黑一胡一子的黑大汉缓慢地踱向街中心，急切地在查看门牌号码。显然，他和我一样在追查女仆的下落。我一时冲动，跑到街上，上前去和他搭腔。

“你是英国人，"我说。

“是又怎么样？"他反问我，怒目而视。

“我可以请问尊姓吗？”

“不，你不可以，"他断然地说。

这种处境真是尴尬。可是，最直截了当的方式常常是最好的方式。

“弗朗西丝·卡法克斯女士在什么地方？"我问道。

他惊讶地看着我。

“你把她怎么样了？你为什么追踪着她？我要你回答！"我说。

这个家伙怒吼一声，象一只老虎似地向我猛扑过来。我经历过不少格斗，都能顶得住。但是这个人两手如铁钳，疯狂得象个魔鬼。他用手卡住我的喉咙，几乎使我失去知觉。这时从对面街上的一家酒店里冲出一个满脸一胡一须身穿蓝色工作服的工人，手拿短棍，一棒打在向我行凶的那家伙的小臂上，使得他松了手。这家伙一时站住了，怒不可遏，不知是否应该就此罢休。然后，他怒吼一声，离开了我，走进我刚才从那里出来的那家小别墅。我转身向我的保护人致谢，他就站在路上，在我的旁边。

“嗨，华生，"他说，“你把事情搞糟啦！我看你最好还是和我坐今晚的快车一起回伦敦去吧。”

一个小时后，穿着平时的服装，恢复原来风度的歇洛克·福尔摩斯已经坐在我的饭店的房间里。他解释说，他之所以突然出现，道理极其简单，因为他认为他可以离开伦敦了，于是就决定赶到我旅程的下一站把我截住，而下一站是明显不过的。他化装成一个工人坐在酒店里等我露面。

“亲一爱一的华生，你做调查工作始终如一，不简单哪，"他说。“我一时还想不起你可能有什么疏忽之处。你的行动的全部效果就是到处发警报，但是什么也没有发现。”

“就是你来干，大概也不比我强，"我委屈地回答说。

“不是大概。我已经干得比你强。尊敬的菲利普·格林就在这里和你住在同一个饭店里。我们可以肯定，要进行更有成果的调查，他就是起点。”

一张名片放在托盘上送了进来。随即进来一个人，就是刚才在街上打我的那个歹徒。他看见我，吃了一惊。

“这是怎么回事，福尔摩斯先生？"他问道，“我得到你的通知，就来了。可是和这个人有什么相干？”

“这是我的老朋友兼同行华生医生。他在协助我们破案。”

这个陌生人伸出一只晒得很黑的大手，连声道歉。

“但愿没有伤着你。你指控我伤害了她，我就火了。说实在的，这几天我是不应负责任的。我的神经就象带电的电线一样。可是这种处境，我无法理解。福尔摩斯先生，我首先想要知道的就是你们到底是怎么打听到我的？”

“我和弗朗西丝女士的女家庭教师杜布妮小一姐取得了联系。”

“就是戴一顶头巾式女帽的老苏姗·杜布妮吗？我记得她。”

“她也记得你。那是在前几天——当时你认为最好是到南美去。”

“啊，我的事你全都知道啦。我用不着向你隐瞒什么了。我向你发誓，福尔摩斯先生，世界上从来没有哪个男人一爱一女人象我一爱一弗朗西丝女士那样真心实意。我是个野小伙子，我知道——我并不比别的年轻人坏。但是她的心象雪一样洁白。她不能忍受丝毫粗一鲁。所以，当她听说我干过的事，她就不理睬我了。但是她一爱一我——怪就怪在这儿——她是那样一爱一我，就是为了我，她在那些圣洁的年月里一直保持独身。几年过去了，我在巴伯顿发了财。这时候，我想我或许能够找到她，感动她。我听说她还是没有结婚。我在洛桑找到她，并且尽了一切努力。我想她变得衰弱了，但是她的意志却很坚强，等我第二次去找她，她已经离开洛桑了。我又追她到了巴登，没过多久，我听说她的女仆在这里。我是一个粗野的人，刚脱离粗野的生活不久，当华生医生那样问我的时候，我一下子就控制不住了。看在上帝的份上，告诉我，弗朗西丝女士现在怎么样啦。”

“我们要进行了解，"福尔摩斯以十分严肃的声调说。"你在伦敦的住址呢，格林先生？”

“到兰姆饭店就可以找到我。”

“我劝你回到那里去，不要离开，我们万一有事可以找你，好不好？我不想让你空抱希望，但你可以相信，为了弗朗西丝女士的安全，凡是能做到的，我们一定去做，一切在所不惜。现在没有别的话要说了。我给你一张名片，以便和我们保持联系。华生，你整理一下行装，我去拍电报给赫德森太太，请她明天气点半钟为两个饥肠辘辘的旅客准备一顿美餐。”

当我们回到贝克街的住房里，已有一封电报在等着我们。福尔摩斯看了电报又惊又喜。他把电报扔给我。上面写着"有缺口或被撕一裂过。"拍电报的地点是巴登。

“这是什么？"我问道。

“这是一切，"福尔摩斯回答说。“你应当记得，我问过一个似乎与本案无关的问题——那位传教士的左耳。你没有答复我。”

“我早已离开巴登，无法询问。”

“对。正因为如此，我把一封内容相同的信寄给了英国饭店的经理。这就是他的答复。”

“这能说明什么？”

“说明我们要对付的是一个非常狡猾、非常危险的人物，亲一爱一的华生。牧师施莱辛格博士是南美的传教士。他就是亨利·彼特斯，是在澳大利亚出现的最无一耻的流一氓之一——在这个年轻的国家里已经出现了某些道貌岸然的人物。他的拿手本领就是诱骗孤身妇女，利用她们的宗教感情。他那个所谓的妻子是个英国人，叫弗蕾塞，是他的得力帮手。我从他的做法的一性一质看破了他的身份，还有他身一体上的特征——一八八九年在阿德莱德的一家沙龙里发生过一次格斗，他在这次格斗中被打得很厉害——证明了我的怀疑。这位可怜的女士竟落到了这一对什么都干得出来的恶魔似的夫妻手里，华生。说她已经死了，很有可能。即使没有死，无疑也被软禁起来了，已经无法写信给杜布妮小一姐和别的朋友，