Chapter II.

The Tiger of San Pedro

A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a high wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts. The curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-black against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon the left of the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.

“There's a constable in possession,” said Baynes. “I'll knock at the window.” He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with his hand on the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An instant later a white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the door, the candle wavering in his trembling hand.

“What's the matter, Walters?” asked Baynes sharply.

The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and agave a long sigh of relief.

“I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I don't think my nerve is as good as it was.”

“Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve in your body.”

“Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in the kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had come again.”

“That what had come again?”

“The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window.”

“What was at the window, and when?”

“It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I was sitting reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look up, but there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane. Lord, sir, what a face it was! I'll see it in my dreams.”

“Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable.”

“I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there's no use to deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour that I know but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of milk in it. Then there was the size of it—it was twice yours, sir. And the look of it—the great staring goggle eyes, and the line of white teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn't move a finger, nor get my breath, till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and through the shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there.”

“If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a black mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a constable on duty should never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision and a touch of nerves?”

“That, at least, is very easily settled,” said Holmes, lighting his little pocket lantern. “Yes,” he reported, after a short examination of the grass bed, “a number twelve shoe, I should say. If he was all on the same scale as his foot he must certainly have been a giant.”

“What became of him?”

“He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the road.”

“Well,” said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face, “whoever he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he's gone for the present, and we have more immediate things to attend to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round the house.”

The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or nothing with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest details had been taken over with the house. A good deal of clothing with the stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been left behind. Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which showed that Marx knew nothing of his customer save that he was a good payer. Odds and ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them in Spanish, and old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were among the personal property.

“Nothing in all this,” said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand, from room to room. “But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention to the kitchen.”

It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house, with a straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a bed for the cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and dirty plates, the debris of last night's dinner.

“Look at this,” said Baynes. “What do you make of it?”

He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood at the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and withered that it was difficult to say what it might have been. One could but say that it was black and leathery and that it bore some resemblance to a dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I examined it, I thought that it was a mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very twisted and ancient monkey. Finally I was left in doubt as to whether it was animal or human. A double band of white shells were strung round the centre of it.

“Very interesting—very interesting, indeed!” said Holmes, peering at this sinister relic. “Anything more?”

In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn savagely to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all over it. Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.

“A white cock,” said he. “Most interesting! It is really a very curious case.”

But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last. From under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a quantity of blood. Then from the table he took a platter heaped with small pieces of charred bone.

“Something has been killed and something has been burned. We raked all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this morning. He says that they are not human.”

Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.

“I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive and instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without offence, seem superior to your opportunities.”

Inspector Baynes's small eyes twinkled with pleasure.

“You're right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case of this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take it. What do you make of these bones?”

“A lamb, I should say, or a kid.”

“And the white cock?”

“Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique.”

“Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with some very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did his companions follow him and kill him? If they did we should have them, for every port is watched. But my own views are different. Yes, sir, my own views are very different.”

“You have a theory then?”

“And I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due to my own credit to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make mine. I should be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had solved it without your help.”

Holmes laughed good-humoredly.

“Well, well, Inspector,” said he. “Do you follow your path and I will follow mine. My results are always very much at your service if you care to apply to me for them. I think that I have seen all that I wish in this house, and that my time may be more profitably employed elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!”

I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As impassive as ever to the casual observer, there were none the less a subdued eagerness and suggestion of tension in his brightened eyes and brisker manner which assured me that the game was afoot. After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked no questions. Sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my humble help to the capture without distracting that intent brain with needless interruption. All would come round to me in due time.

I waited, therefore—but to my ever-deepening disappointment I waited in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step forward. One morning he spent in town, and I learned from a casual reference that he had visited the British Museum. Save for this one excursion, he spent his days in long and often solitary walks, or in chatting with a number of village gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated.

“I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to you,” he remarked. “It is very pleasant to see the first green shoots upon the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again. With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on botany, there are instructive days to be spent.” He prowled about with this equipment himself, but it was a poor show of plants which he would bring back of an evening.

Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His fat, red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes glittered as he greeted my companion. He said little about the case, but from that little we gathered that he also was not dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit, however, that I was somewhat surprised when, some five days after the crime, I opened my morning paper to find in large letters:

The Oxshott Mystery

a solution

Arrest of Supposed Assassin

Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read the headlines.

“By Jove!” he cried. “You don't mean that Baynes has got him?”

“Apparently,” said I as I read the following report:

“Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district when it was learned late last night that an arrest had been effected in connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be remembered that Mr. Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on Oxshott Common, his body showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the same night his servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their participation in the crime. It was suggested, but never proved, that the deceased gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their abstraction was the motive of the crime. Every effort was made by Inspector Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding place of the fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they had not gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been already prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of one or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the window, was a man of most remarkable appearance—being a huge and hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced negroid type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was detected and pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening, when he had the audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector Baynes, considering that such a visit must have some purpose in view and was likely, therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the house but left an ambuscade in the shrubbery. The man walked into the trap and was captured last night after a struggle in which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage. We understand that when the prison is brought before the magistrates a remand will be applied for by the police, and that great developments are hoped from his capture.”

“Really we must see Baynes at once,” cried Holmes, picking up his hat. “We will just catch him before he starts.” We hurried down the village street and found, as we had expected, that the inspector was just leaving his lodgings.

“You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, holding one out to us.

“Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Pray don't think it a liberty if I give you a word of friendly warning.”

“Of warning, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not convinced that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to commit yourself too far unless you are sure.”

“You're very kind, Mr. Holmes.”

“I assure you I speak for your good.”

It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an instant over one of Mr. Baynes's tiny eyes.

“We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That's what I am doing.”

“Oh, very good,” said Holmes. “Don't blame me.”

“No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine.”

“Let us say no more about it.”

“You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect savage, as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He chewed Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master him. He hardly speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of him but grunts.”

“And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late master?”

“I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn't say so. We all have our little ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That's the agreement.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. “I can't make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well, as he says, we must each try our own way and see what comes of it. But there's something in Inspector Baynes which I can't quite understand.”

“Just sit down in that chair, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes when we had returned to our apartment at the Bull. “I want to put you in touch with the situation, as I may need your help to-night. Let me show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been able to follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading features, it has none the less presented surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest. There are gaps in that direction which we have still to fill.

“We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon the evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes's that Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter. The proof of this lies in the fact that it was he who had arranged for the presence of Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the purpose of an alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the course of which he met his death. I say ‘criminal’ because only a man with a criminal enterprise desires to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most likely to have taken his life? Surely the person against whom the criminal enterprise was directed. So far it seems to me that we are on safe ground.

“We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's household. They were all confederates in the same unknown crime. If it came off when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would be warded off by the Englishman's evidence, and all would be well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia did not return by a certain hour it was probable that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been arranged, therefore, that in such a case his two subordinates were to make for some prearranged spot where they could escape investigation and be in a position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully explain the facts, would it not?”

The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me. I wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me before.

“But why should one servant return?”

“We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something precious, something which he could not bear to part with, had been left behind. That would explain his persistence, would it not?”

“Well, what is the next step?”

“The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the other end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in some large house, and that the number of large houses is limited. My first days in this village were devoted to a series of walks in which in the intervals of my botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all the large houses and an examination of the family history of the occupants. One house, and only one, riveted my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean grange of High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott, and less than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy. The other mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable people who live far aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High Gable, was by all accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures might befall. I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and his household.

“A singular set of people, Watson—the man himself the most singular of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black eyebrows, the step of a deer and the air of an emperor—a fierce, masterful man, with a red-hot spirit behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate brown, wily, suave, and catlike, with a poisonous gentleness of speech. You see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of foreigners—one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High Gable—so our gaps are beginning to close.

“These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of the household; but there is one other person who for our immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two children—girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is also one confidential manservant. This little group forms the real family, for their travel about together, and Henderson is a great traveller, always on the move. It is only within the last weeks that he has returned, after a year's absence, to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual overfed, underworked staff of a large English country house.

“So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my own observation. There are no better instruments than discharged servants with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I not been looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems. It was my system which enabled me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment of temper by his imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master. So I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.

“Curious people, Watson! I don't pretend to understand it all yet, but very curious people anyway. It's a double-winged house, and the servants live on one side, the family on the other. There's no link between the two save for Henderson's own servant, who serves the family's meals. Everything is carried to a certain door, which forms the one connection. Governess and children hardly go out at all, except into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks alone. His dark secretary is like his shadow. The gossip among the servants is that their master is terribly afraid of something. ‘Sold his soul to the devil in exchange for money,’ says Warner, ‘and expects his creditor to come up and claim his own.’ Where they came from, or who they are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.

“Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new information. We may take it that the letter came out of this strange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note? It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate, we may take it as a hypothesis and see what consequences it would entail. I may add that Miss Burnet's age and character make it certain that my first idea that there might be a love interest in our story is out of the question.

“If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and confederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious enterprise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she must retain bitterness and hatred against those who had killed him and would presumably help so far as she could to have revenge upon them. Could we see her, then and try to use her? That was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact. Miss Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the friend whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner? There is the point which we still have to decide.

“You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson. There is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate. The woman's disappearance counts for nothing, since in that extraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for a week. And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of her life. All I can do is to watch the house and leave my agent, Warner, on guard at the gates. We can't let such a situation continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk ourselves.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of an outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if we can strike at the very heart of the mystery.”

It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old house with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from any adventure which he might recommend. One knew that thus, and only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his hand in silence, and the die was cast.

But it was not destined that our investigation should have so adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the shadows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excited rustic rushed into our room.

“They've gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The lady broke away, and I've got her in a cab downstairs.”

“Excellent, Warner!” cried Holmes, springing to his feet. “Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly.”

In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion. She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She was drugged with opium.

“I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes,” said our emissary, the discharged gardener. “When the carriage came out I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way out again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are. I shan't forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away. I'd have a short life if he had his way—the black-eyed, scowling, yellow devil.”

We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly explained to him.

“Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want,” said the inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. “I was on the same scent as you from the first.”

“What! You were after Henderson?”

“Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you down below. It was just who would get his evidence first.”

“Then why did you arrest the mulatto?”

Baynes chuckled.

“I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss Burnet.”

Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder.

“You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition,” said he.

Baynes flushed with pleasure.

“I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week. Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in sight. But he must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet broke away. However, your man picked her up, and it all ends well. We can't arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get a statement the better.”

“Every minute she gets stronger,” said Holmes, glancing at the governess. “But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?”

“Henderson,” the inspector answered, “is Don Murillo, once called the Tiger of San Pedro.”

The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country with a pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices upon a cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terror through all Central America. At the end of that time there was a universal rising against him. But he was as cunning as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them. From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.

“Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro,” said Baynes. “If you look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where his ship came in in '86. They've been looking for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to find him out.”

“They discovered him a year ago,” said Miss Burnet, who had sat up and was now intently following the conversation. “Once already his life has been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet another, until some day justice will be done; that is as certain as the rise of to-morrow's sun.” Her thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched with the passion of her hatred.

“But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?” asked Holmes. “How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?”

“I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like crimes committed in some other planet. But we know. We have learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry for vengeance.”

“No doubt,” said Holmes, “he was as you say. I have heard that he was atrocious. But how are you affected?”

“I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was to murder, on one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband—yes, my real name is Signora Victor Durando—was the San Pedro minister in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a broken heart.

“Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have just described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands, would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into a society which should never be dissolved until the work was done. It was my part after we had discovered in the transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his household and keep the others in touch with his movements. This I was able to do by securing the position of governess in his family. He little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's notice into eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken upon his first arrival in England.

“But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing that he would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty companions of humble station, all three fired with the same reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known in the days of his greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger might find him. On a certain evening, which had been prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all was safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.

“But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and sprang upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon me as a convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate, they concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they determined to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant, Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was Murillo's hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to guard me. I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes through which the path winds and struck him down as he passed. At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they were mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be publicly disclosed and they would be open to further attacks. With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since such a death might frighten others from the task.

“All would now have been well for them had it not been for my knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to break my spirit—see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises from end to end of my arms—and a gag was thrust into my mouth on the one occasion when I tried to call from the window. For five days this cruel imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good lunch was brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led, half-carried to the carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the train. Only then, when the wheels were almost moving, did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the help of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never had broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever.”

We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It was Holmes who broke the silence.

“Our difficulties are not over,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Our police work ends, but our legal work begins.”

“Exactly,” said I. “A plausible lawyer could make it out as an act of self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the background, but it is only on this one that they can be tried.”

“Come, come,” said Baynes cheerily, “I think better of the law than that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold blood with the object of murdering him is another, whatever danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next Guildford Assizes.”

It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day they were seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards the Marquess of Montalva and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid. The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers were never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street with a printed description of the dark face of the secretary, and of the masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had come at last.

“A chaotic case, my dear Watson,” said Holmes over an evening pipe. “It will not be possible for you to present in that compact form which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents, concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is further complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend, Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia had a scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy collaborator, the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials and so been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any point which is not quite clear to you?”

“The object of the mulatto cook's return?”

“I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for it. The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his companion and he had fled to some prearranged retreat—already occupied, no doubt by a confederate—the companion had persuaded him to leave so compromising an article of furniture. But the mulatto's heart was with it, and he was driven back to it next day, when, on reconnoitering through the window, he found policeman Walters in possession. He waited three days longer, and then his piety or his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector Baynes, who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the incident before me, had really recognized its importance and had left a trap into which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?”

“The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the mystery of that weird kitchen?”

Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his note-book.

“I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and other points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann's Voodooism and the Negroid Religions:

“‘The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites take the form of human sacrifices followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.’

“So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual. It is grotesque, Watson,” Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his notebook, “but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but one step from the grotesque to the horrible.”

二　圣佩德罗之虎

走了几英里又一一冷又凄凉的路程，我们来到一扇高大的木门前。门内是一条一一暗的栗树林荫道。这条弯曲而一一森的道路把我们引向一所低矮黑暗的房屋，在蓝灰色的夜空下，它显得黑影憧憧。大门左边的窗子里露出一丝微弱的灯光。

“这是一名警察在值班，"贝尼斯说，“我来敲一下窗子。”他走过草坪，用手轻扣窗台。透过朦胧的玻璃，我隐约看见一个人从火旁的椅子上跳起来，并且听见屋里一声尖一叫。过了一会儿，一个脸色苍白、气喘吁吁的警察开了门，一支蜡烛在他发一抖的手中摇晃。

“怎么啦，瓦尔特斯？"贝尼斯厉声问道。

这个人用手绢擦擦前额，长长叹了一口气，算是放了心。

“先生，您来了我真高兴。这个夜晚真长，我想我的神经不如往常那么顶用了。”

“你的神经，瓦尔特斯？我倒没有想到你身上还有神经。”

“嗯，先生，我是说这个孤寂的屋子，还有厨房里的那个奇怪的东西。您刚才敲窗子，我还以为那个东西又来了哩。”

“什么东西又来了？”

“鬼，先生，我知道。就在窗口。”

“什么在窗口？什么时候？”

“大约两个钟头之前。天刚黑，我坐在椅子上看报。不知怎么我一抬头，却看见下端的窗框外面有一张脸在向里面望着我。天啊，先生，那是怎样的一张脸啊！我做梦都会看到它。”

“啧！啧！瓦尔特斯，这可不象一名警官说的话呀。”

“我知道，先生，我知道，可是它使我害怕极啦，先生，不承认也不管用。那张脸既不黑又不白，说不上是什么颜色，一种非常奇怪的色彩，就好象泥土里溅上了牛一奶一。至于那个脸盘，总有您的两个脸那么大，先生。还有那副样子，两只一逼一人的大眼睛，眼珠突出，加上一口白牙，活象一只饿狼。我对您说，先生，我连一个指头都不敢动，也不敢出一口气，直到它突然消失不见。我跑了出去，穿过灌木林，感谢上帝，那儿什么也没有。”

“如果我不知道你是个好人，瓦尔特斯，就为这件事，我也可以给你记上一个黑点。如果真的是鬼，那么，一个值班警官也绝对不应当为他不敢用手去碰它一下而感谢上帝。这该不是一种幻觉和神经的错觉吧？”

“至少，这一点是很容易解答的，"福尔摩斯说着，点燃了他的袖珍小灯。"是的，"他迅速地检查了草地之后说：“我认为，穿的是十二号鞋。照脚的尺寸来推断，他肯定是个大个子。”

“他怎么啦？”

“他似乎是穿过灌木林朝大路跑了。”

“好吧，"那位警长带着严肃而沉思的脸色说，“不管他是谁，也不管他想干什么，现在他已经走了，我们还有更急的事情要办。福尔摩斯先生，如果你允许，我要带你巡视一下这所住宅了。”

每个卧室和起居室都经过了仔细搜查，什么都没有发现。显然，房客随身带来的东西很少，甚至什么也没有带。从全部家具到细小的物件，都是连同房子一起租用的。留下的许多衣服上都缀有高霍尔本的马克思公司的标记。电报询问的结果表明，马克思除了知道他的买主付账爽一快之外，其他一无所知。还有一些零碎东西，几个烟斗，几本小说，其中有两本是西班牙文的，一支老式左轮手槍，在个人财产之中，还有一把吉他。

“这里面没有什么，"贝尼斯说，手里拿着蜡烛，高视阔步地走出这个房间，进入那个房间。“福尔摩斯先生，现在我请你注意厨房。”

厨房一一暗，天花板很高，在这所房子的背后。厨房角落里放着一个草铺，显然是厨师的一床一铺。桌上堆满了装有剩菜的盘子和用脏了的餐具，还有昨天晚餐留下的残菜剩饭。

“看这儿，"贝尼斯说，“你看这是什么？”

他举起蜡烛，照着橱柜背后的一件特别的东西。这件东西已一揉一皱干瘪，很难说它是个什么。只能说它是黑色的，皮做的，形状有点象个矮小的人。我查看的时候，起初以为是个经过干燥处理的黑种小孩；再一看，又象个扭变了形的古猴。究竟是动物还是人，我最后还是莫名片妙。它身一体中部挂着两串白色贝壳。

“确实是很有趣——很有趣！"福尔摩斯说，并注视着这件邪恶的古物。"还有什么没有？”

贝尼斯一声不响，把我们带到洗涤槽前面。他把蜡烛朝前一照，只见某种白色大一鸟的翅膀和躯体被撕得七零八落，上面还留着羽一毛一，盛满一盆。福尔摩斯指了指割下来的那只鸟头上的垂肉。

“一只白公鸡，"他说，“太有趣了！这真是一件非常离奇的案子。”

但是，贝尼斯先生把他那最不吉利的展览一直坚持到最后。他从洗涤槽下面拿出一个铝桶，桶里满装着血。他又从桌上取来一个盘子，上面放着烧焦了的碎骨头。

“杀死了一些东西，又烧了一些东西。这些都是我们从火里收集起来的。今天早上我请来一位医生，医生说这些不是人一体上的东西。”

福尔摩斯微笑着一搓一着两手。

“我得恭贺你，警长，你处理了一件如此不同一般、如此富于教益的案件。你的才能似乎胜过你的机会，如果我这样说不致于有所冒犯的话。”

贝尼斯警长的两只小眼睛露出高兴的神色。

“你说得对，福尔摩斯先生。我们在工作上停滞不前。象这样的案件可以给人们带来机会。我希望我能利用这种机会。你对这些骨头是怎么看的？”

“我看是一只羔羊，要不就是小山羊。”

“那么，白公鸡呢？”

“很怪，贝尼斯先生，非常奇怪。可以说从来没有见过。”

“对，先生。这房子里住的人一定很奇怪，行动一定也很奇怪。其中一个已死啦。难道是他的同伴跟在后面把他打死的？如果是这样，我们早就抓住他们了，因为所有的港口都有人监视着。不过，我本人有不同的看法。是的，先生，我本人的看法大不相同。”

“那么你自有主张喽？”

“我要自己来进行，福尔摩斯先生。我这样做只是为了我自己的声誉。你已经成名了，我也得要成名。如果以后我能够说，我在没有你的帮助下破了案，那我就高兴了。”

福尔摩斯爽朗地笑了起来。

“好吧，好吧，警长，"他说，“你走你的路，我过我的桥吧。我的成果可以随时供你使用，如果你愿意向我索取的话。我想，这房子里，我想看的都看过了。把时间花到别处去也许更有好处，再见啦，祝你运气好！”

我可以举出好多微妙的表情来说明福尔摩斯正在一性一急地追寻一条线索，这种表情，除了我以外，别人可能不会注意到。在一个不经心的观察者看来，福尔摩斯象往常一样冷淡，但是，他那双发光的眼睛和轻快的举止却显示出一种抑制着的热情和紧张的情绪，这使我确信，他是正在考虑对策。按照他的一习一惯，他一句话不说；照我的脾气，我什么话也不问。能和他一起参加这场游戏，为捕获罪犯而提供出我微小的帮助，又不致以不必要的插话分散他的注意力，这对我来说已是很满意的了。到时候，一切都会转向我的。

因此，我等待着——可是，我越来越失望，白等了一场。一天接着一天，我的朋友毫无动静。有一天的上午他是在城里度过的，我偶然了解到，他是去大英博物馆了。除了这次外出之外，他成天作长时间的而且常常是孤独的散步，要不就是同村里的几个碎嘴子闲聊，他力求与这些人一交一往和结识。

“华生，我相信在乡间住一个星期对你是很宝贵的，"他说道，“重又看见树篱上新绿的嫩芽和榛树上的花序，那是非常愉快的。带上一把小锄，一只铁盒子，和一本初级植物学读本，就可以度过一些有意思的日子了。"他自己带着这套装备四处寻觅，可是带回来的只是寥寥几株小植物，而这是在一个黄昏就可以采到的。

在我们漫步闲谈的时候，偶尔也碰见贝尼斯警长。当他同我的同伴打招呼的时候，他那张又肥又红的脸上堆满了笑容，一对小眼睛闪闪发光。他很少谈起案情，但从他谈起的那么一点情况来看，他对事情的进展也倒不是不满意的。然而，我得承认，在案子发生五天以后，当我打开晨报看见这样的大字标题的时候，我还是不由得有些惊奇：

奥克斯肖特谜案揭破

被认为是凶犯的人已捕获

当我读着标题时，福尔摩斯从椅子上跳了起来，好似被什么刺了一下。

“啊！"他叫了起来。"你该不是说贝尼斯已经抓住他了吧？”

“很明显，"我说着就把以下报道念了出来。

"昨晚深夜当传闻与奥克斯肖特凶杀案有关之凶犯已被捕获时，在厄榭及其邻近地区引起极大轰动。人们记得威斯特里亚寓所的加西亚先生系被发现死于奥克斯肖特空地，身上有遭受残酷袭击的伤痕，他的仆人和厨师亦于同一晚上逃走，显然他们参与了这一罪行。有人指出但从未得到证实的是，死去的这位先生可能有贵重财物存放在寓所里，以致财物失窃，构成罪案。经负责此案的贝尼斯警长多方努力，查明了逃犯的藏匿处所。他有充足的理由证明他们没有远遁，只是潜伏一在事先准备好的某一巢窟中。首先可以肯定，他们最终将被捕获，因为据曾经通过窗户见过厨师的一两个商人作证说，厨师的相貌非常特别——是一个魁梧而可怕的混血儿，具有显著的黑种人型的淡黄色的面目。自从作案以来，有人曾见过此人，因为他竟敢贸然重返威斯特里亚寓所，以致在当晚被警官瓦尔特斯发现并追踪。贝尼斯警长认为，此人此行定有目的，因而断定可能还会再来，于是放弃寓所，另在灌木林中设下埋伏。此人进入了圈套，在昨晚经过一场搏斗后，终被捕获，警官唐宁在搏斗中遭到这个暴徒猛击。我们知道，当罪犯被带到地方法官面前时，警方将要求予以还押。捕获此人后，本案可望取得巨大进展。”

“我们真应当马上去见贝尼斯，"福尔摩斯喊道，拿起了帽子。“我们来得及在他出发之前赶到他那里。"我们急忙来到村路上，正如我们所料，警长刚刚离开他的住处。

“你看到报纸了吧，福尔摩斯先生？"他问道，一边把一份报纸递给我们。

“是呀，贝尼斯先生，看到了。如果我向你提出一点友好的忠告，望你不要见怪。”

“忠告，福尔摩斯先生？”

“我曾细心研究过这个案件，我还不敢肯定你走的路子是对的。我不愿意你这样蛮干下去，除非你有十足的把握。”

“谢谢你的好意，福尔摩斯先生。”

“我向你保证，我这是为了你好。”

我仿佛看见贝尼斯先生的两只小眼睛中的一只象眨眼睛那样抖动了一下。

“我们都同意，各走各的路，福尔摩斯先生。我正是这样做的。”

“哦，那很好，"福尔摩斯说，“请别见怪。”

“哪儿的话，先生，我相信你对我是一片好意。不过，我们都有自己的安排，福尔摩斯先生。你有你的安排，我也许有我的安排。”

“我们不要再谈这个了吧。”

“欢迎你随时使用我的情报。这个家伙是个地道的野人，结实得象一匹拖车的马，凶狠得象魔鬼。抓住他之前，他差点儿把唐宁的大拇指咬断了。他一个英文字也不会说，除了哼哼哈哈之外，从他那里什么都得不到。”

“你认为你可以证明是他杀害了他的主人？”

“我没有这样说，福尔摩斯先生，我没有这样说。我们各有各的办法。你试你的，我试我的。这是说定了的。”

福尔摩斯耸耸肩，我们就一起走开了。“我摸不透这个人。他好象是在骑着马瞎闯。好吧，就照他说的办，各人试各人的，看结果怎么样。不过，贝尼斯警长身上总有某种我不很理解的东西。”

我们回到布尔的住处时，歇洛克·福尔摩斯说道：“华生，你在那个椅子上坐下。我要让你了解一下情况，因为我今天晚上可能需要你的帮助。让我把我所能了解的案情的来龙去脉讲给你听。虽然案情的主要特点是简单的，但是如何拘捕仍然存在着极大的困难。在这方面还有一些缺口，需要我们去填补。

“让我们回过头去谈谈在加西亚死去的那天晚上送给他的那封信吧。我们可以把贝尼斯的关于加西亚的仆人与此案有关这一想法搁在一边。证据是这样一个事实：正是加西亚安排斯考特·艾克尔斯到来的，这只能说明他的目的在于为他证明不在犯罪现场。那天晚上，是加西亚起了心，而且显然是起了坏心。他在干坏事的过程中送了命。我说坏心，那是因为，只有当一个人心怀恶念的时候，他才想制造不在犯罪现场的假想。那么，谋害他的人又会是谁呢？当然是犯罪企图所指向的那个人。到现在为止，我看我们的根据是可靠的。

“现在，我们可以解释加西亚的仆人们失踪的原因了。他们都是同伙，都参与了这个我们还弄不清楚的罪行。如果加西亚回去时事情得手，那么，那个英国人的作证就会排除任何可能的怀疑，一切都会顺利。但是，这一尝试是危险的。如果加西亚到了一定的时间不回去，那就可能是他送了命。因此，事情是这样安排的：遇到上述情况，他的两个下手便会躲到事先安排好的地方，逃避搜查，以便事后继续再干。这说明了全部的情况，是不是？”

整个一一团一乱线似乎已在我眼前理出了头绪。我奇怪，正和往常一样，何以在此之前我总是看不出来呢。

“但是，为什么有一个仆人要回来呢？”

“我们可以想象一下，在急忙逃走的时候，他遗下了某种珍贵的东西，他舍不得丢下的东西。这一点说明了他的固执，对不对？”

“哦，那么下一步呢？”

“下一步是加西亚吃晚饭时收到的那封信。这封信表明，还有一个同伴在另一头。那么，这个另一头又在哪儿呢？我已经对你说过，它只能在某一处大住宅里，而大住宅则为数有限。到村里来的头几天，我到处游逛，进行我的植物研究，并利用空隙时间，查访了所有的大住宅，还调查了住宅主人的家世。有一家住宅，而且只有一家住宅，引起我的注意。这就是海伊加布尔有名的雅各宾老庄园，离奥克斯肖特河的那一头一英里，距发生悲剧的地点不到半英里。其他宅邸的主人都平凡而可敬，与传奇生活毫不相干。但是，海伊加布尔的亨德森先生是个十分古怪的人，稀奇古怪的事可能发生在他身上。于是，我把注意力集中在他和他一家人的身上。

“一群怪人，华生——他本人是他们中间最怪的一个。我利用了一个近乎情理的借口设法去见过他。可是，从他那双晦暗、深陷、沉思着的眼睛里我似乎看出，他对我的真正来意十分清楚。他大约五十岁，强壮而机灵，铁灰色的头发，两道浓眉联成一线，行动敏捷如鹿，风度宛如帝王——一个凶狠专横的人。在他那羊皮纸一般的面孔后面，有着一股火一辣辣的一精一神。他要么是个外国人，要么就是曾长期在热带居住饼，因为他的皮肤黄而枯槁，但却坚韧得象马裤呢。他的朋友兼秘书卢卡斯先生无疑是个外国人，棕色的皮肤，狡猾，文雅，象只猫一样，谈吐刻薄而有礼貌。你看，华生，我们已经接触到了两伙外国人——一伙在威斯特里亚寓所，另一伙在海伊加布尔——所以，我们的两个缺口已经开始合一拢了。

“这两个密友是全家的中心。不过，对于我最直接的目的来说，另外还有一个人甚至更为重要。亨德森有两个孩子——两个姑一娘一，一个十一岁，一个十三岁。她们的家庭女教师是伯内特小一姐，英国妇女，四十岁上下。还有一个亲信男仆。这小小的一伙人组成了一个真正的家庭，因为他们一同旅行各地。亨德森先生是大旅行家，经常出去旅行。前几个星期他才从外地回到海伊加布尔来，已有一年不在家了。我还可以补充一句，他非常有钱。他想到要什么就可以很容易地得到满足。至于别的情况，就是他家里总是有一大堆管事、听差、女仆，以及英国乡村宅邸里常有的一群吃喝多、干事少的人员。

“这些情况，一部分是从村里的闲谈中听到的，一部分是我自己观察所得。最好的人证莫过于被辞退而受尽委曲的仆人。我幸运地找到这么一个。虽说是幸运，但是，如果我不出去找，好运气也不会自己找上门来的。正如贝尼斯所说，我们都有自己的打算。按照我的打算，我找到了海伊加布尔原先的花匠约翰·瓦纳。他是在他专横的主人一怒之下卷铺盖滚蛋的。而那些在室内工作的仆人有不少和他一个鼻孔出气，他们大家既害怕又憎恨他们的主人。所以，我找到了打开这家人的秘密的钥匙。

“怪人，华生！我并不认为我已弄清全部情况，不过确是非常古怪的人。这是两边有厢房的一所住宅，仆人住一边，主人住另一边。除了亨德森本人的仆人给全家开饭之外，这两边之间没有联系。每一样东西都得拿到指定的一个门口，这就是联系。女教师和两个孩子只到花园里走走，根本不出门。亨德森从来不单独散步。他的那个深色皮肤的秘书跟他形影不离。仆人当中有人传说，他们的主人特别害怕某种东西。‘为了钱，他把灵魂都出卖给了魔鬼，瓦纳说，‘就等着债主来要他的命了。他们从哪里来，他们是什么人，谁也不知道。他们是非常凶暴的。亨德森曾两次用他打狗的鞭子一抽一人，只是由于他那满满的钱包和巨额赔款，才使他得以免吃官司。

“华生，现在让我们根据这一新的情报来判断一下形势。我们可以这样认为：那封信是从这个古怪人家送去的，要加西亚去执行某种事先早已计划好的任务。信是谁的？是这个城堡里的某一个人写的，并且是个女的，那么，除了女教师伯内特小一姐之外，还会是谁呢？我们的全部推理似乎都是指向这个方面。无论如何，我们可以把它看作是一种设想，看它将会带来什么样的结果。再说一句，从伯内特小一姐的年纪和一性一格来看，我最初认为这件事里面可能夹杂着一爱一情的想法肯定是不能成立的。

“如果信是她写的，那么，她总该是加西亚的朋友和同伴了吧。她一旦听到他死去的消息，她可能会干些什么呢？如果他是在进行某种非法勾当中遇害的，那么她就会守口如瓶。可是，她心里一定痛恨那些杀害他的人，她大概会尽力设法向杀害他的人报仇。能不能去见她？设法去见她？这是我最初的想法。现在我遇到的情况不太妙。自从那天晚上发生了谋杀案后，到现在还没有谁看见过伯内特小一姐。从那天晚上起，她就没有影踪了。她还活着吗？也许她同她所召唤的朋友一样，在同一个晚上遭到了横祸？或者，她只不过是个犯人？这一点是我们要加以确定的。

“你会体会到这种困境的，华生。我们的材料不足，不能要求进行搜查。如果把我们的全部计划拿给地方法官看，他可能会认为是异想天开。那个女人的失踪说明不了什么问题，因为在那个特殊的家庭里，任何一个人都可以一个星期不见面。而目前她的生命可能处于危险中。我所能做的就是监视这所房子，把我的代理人瓦纳留下看守着大门。我们不能让这种情形再继续下去。如果法律无能为力，我们只好自己来冒这场风险了。”

“你打算怎么办呢？”

“我知道她的房间。可以从外面一间屋的屋顶进去。我建议我们今晚就去，看能不能击中这个神秘事件的核心。”

我必须承认，前景并不十分乐观。那座弥漫着凶杀气氛的老屋，奇怪而又可怕的住户，进行探索中的不测危险，以及我们被法定地置于违反原则行一事的地位，这一切合在一起，挫伤了我的热情。但是，在福尔摩斯冷静的推理中有某种东西，使得避开他提出的任何冒险而往后退缩成为不可能。我们知道，这样，而且只有这样才能找到答案。我默默地握住了他的手。事已如此，不容翻悔。

但是，我们的调查的结局竟是如此离奇，却是始料所不及的。大约在五点钟，正当三月黄昏的一一影开始降临时，一个慌慌张张的乡下佬闯进了我们的房间。

“他们走了，福尔摩斯先生。他们坐最后一趟火车走了。那位女士挣脱了。我把她安顿在楼下马车里了。”

“好极了，瓦纳！"福尔摩斯叫道，一跃而起。“华生，缺口很快合一拢啦。”

马车里是一个女人，由于神经衰竭而半瘫痪了。她那瘦削而憔悴的脸上留有最近这一悲剧的痕迹。她的脑袋有气无力地垂落在胸前。当她抬起头来，用她那双迟钝的眼睛望着我们的时候，我发现她的瞳仁已经变成浅灰色虹膜中的两个小黑点。她服过鸦片了。

“我照您的吩咐守在大门口，福尔摩斯先生。"我们的使者，那位被开除了的花匠说。"马车出来以后，我一直跟到车站。她就象个梦游人，但是当他们想把她拉上火车的时候，她醒过来了，竭力挣扎，他们把她推进车厢，她又挣脱了出来。我把她拉开，送进一辆马车，就来到这儿。我决不会忘记当我带她离开时那车厢窗子里的那张脸。要是他得逞了，我早就没命了——那个黑眼睛、怒目相视的黄鬼。”

我们把她扶上楼，让她躺在沙发上。两杯浓咖啡立刻使她的头脑从药一性一中清醒过来。福尔摩斯把贝尼斯请来了。看到这情况，他很快就明白了发生的事情。

“啊，先生，你把我要找的证人找到啦，"警长握住我朋友的手热情地说道。"从一开始，我就和你在找寻同一条线索。”

“什么！你也在找亨德森？”

“唔，福尔摩斯先生，当你在海伊加布尔的灌木林中缓步而行时，我正在庄园里的一棵大树上往下看着你。问题只在于看谁先获得他的证人。”

“那么，你为什么逮捕那个混血儿呢？”

贝尼斯得意地笑了起来。

“我肯定，那个自称为亨德森的人已经感到自己被怀疑了，并且只要他认为他有危险，他就会隐蔽起来，不再行动。我错抓人，是为了使他相信我们已经不注意他了。我知道，他可能会溜掉，这样就给了我们找到伯内特小一姐的机会。”

福尔摩斯用手抚一着警长的肩膀。

“你会高升的。你有才能，你有直觉，"他说。

贝尼斯满面笑容，十分高兴。

“一个星期来，我派了一个便衣守候在车站。海伊加布尔家的人不管上哪儿、都在便衣的监视之下。可是，当伯内特小一姐挣脱的时候，便衣一定感到为难，不知如何是好。不管怎么说，你的人找到了她，一切都很顺利。没有她的证词，我们不能捉人，这是很清楚的。所以，让我们越快得到她的证词越好。”

“她在逐渐恢复，"福尔摩斯说，眼睛望着女教师。"告诉我，贝尼斯，亨德森这个人是谁？”

“亨德森，"警长说，“就是唐·默里罗，一度被称为圣佩德罗之虎的就是他。”

圣佩德罗之虎！这个人的全部历史立刻呈现在我眼前。在那些打着文明的招牌统治国家的暴君中间，他是以最荒一婬一残忍出名的。他身强力壮，无所畏惧，而且一精一力充沛。他刚愎自用，对一个胆小怕事的民族施加残暴统治长达十一二年之久。他的名字在整个中美洲是一种恐怖。那个时期的最后几年，全国爆发了反对他的全民起义。可是，他既残酷又狡猾，刚听到一点风声，就把他的财产偷偷转移到一艘由他的忠实