The Five Orange Pips

Arthur Conan Doyle

When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up.

The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British barque “Sophy Anderson”, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time—a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.

“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”

“Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage visitors.”

“A client, then?”

“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady's.”

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

“Come in!” said he.

The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber.”

“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the south-west, I see.”

“Yes, from Horsham.”

“That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive.”

“I have come for advice.”

“That is easily got.”

“And help.”

“That is not always so easy.”

“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.”

“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”

“He said that you could solve anything.”

“He said too much.”

“That you are never beaten.”

“I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a woman.”

“But what is that compared with the number of your successes?”

“It is true that I have been generally successful.”

“Then you may be so with me.”

“I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as to your case.”

“It is no ordinary one.”

“None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.”

“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my own family.”

“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important.”

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze.

“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair.

“You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence.

“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own brother.

“He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such a room.

“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’

“‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.

“‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.

“‘They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,’ said he with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’

“I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.

“‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’

“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.

“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some ￡14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.”

“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.”

“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2nd.”

“Thank you. Pray proceed.”

“When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’ written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's life in America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.

“Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself.

“‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.

“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.

“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them?’

“‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.

“‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.

“‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must be those that are destroyed.’

“‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come from?’

“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.

“‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’

“‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.

“‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’

“‘Then let me do so?’

“‘No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such nonsense.’

“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.

“On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.

“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another.

“It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.

“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father's last message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’”

“What have you done?” asked Holmes.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against.”

“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”

“I have seen the police.”

“Ah!”

“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.”

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he cried.

“They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me.”

“Has he come with you to-night?”

“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”

Again Holmes raved in the air.

“Why did you come to me,” he cried, “and, above all, why did you not come at once?”

“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.”

“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?”

“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's.”

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical notices:

4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain, of St Augustine.

9th. McCauley cleared.

10th. John Swain cleared.

12th. Visited Paramore. All well.

“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and act.”

“What shall I do?”

“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”

“Entirely.”

“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”

“I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. “You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.”

“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?”

“By train from Waterloo.”

“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”

“I am armed.”

“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.”

“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”

“No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.”

“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.” He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements—blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.

Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have had none more fantastic than this.”

“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”

“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”

“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?”

“There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.

“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this unhappy family?”

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion.”

“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis.”

Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the ‘American Encyclopaedia’ which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?”

“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London.”

“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”

“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”

“Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything?”

“A greater distance to travel.”

“But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”

“Then I do not see the point.”

“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer.”

“It is possible.”

“More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay.”

“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?”

“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society.”

“But of what society?”

“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice—“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”

“I never have.”

Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,” said he presently:

“‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the United States government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’

“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered.”

“Then the page we have seen—”

“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the pips to A, B, and C’—that is, sent the society's warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow-men.”

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw's.”

“What steps will you take?” I asked.

“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all.”

“You will not go there first?”

“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee.”

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.

“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”

“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account:

“Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages.”

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him.

“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.

“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!”

“To the police?”

“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before.”

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.

“You are hungry,” I remarked.

“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”

“And how have you succeeded?”

“Well.”

“You have a clue?”

“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!”

“What do you mean?”

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia.”

“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him.”

“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”

“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”

“How did you trace it, then?”

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names.

“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd's registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union.”

“Texas, I think.”

“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American origin.”

“What then?”

“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London.”

“Yes?”

“The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder.”

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.

五个桔核

当我粗略地看了一遍我积存的一八八二年至一八九○年间福尔摩斯侦探案的笔记和记录时，我发觉摆在我眼前离奇有趣的材料浩如烟海，实在太多了，竟不知如何取舍是好。有些案件通过报纸已经广为流传，但是也有些案件缺乏可供我的朋友尽情发挥其出类拔萃的才能的余地，而我的朋友的这种卓越才能正是那些报纸亟想报道的主要题材。还有些案件使得他的擅长于分析的本领无法施展，正象有些故事一样，成为有头无尾的了。又有一些案件，他仅搞清楚了一部分，对其情节的剖析只是出于推测或臆断，而不是以我的朋友所珍视的、准确无误的逻辑论证为依据。在上述最后一类案件中，有一个案件情节异常、结局离破，使我不禁要有所叙述，尽避与这桩案子有关的一些真相是从未弄明白过，而且也许是永远弄不明白的。

一八八七年我们经手过一系列颇为有趣和趣味不大的案件，有关这些案件的记录，我都保留着。在这一年的十二个月的记录的标题中，有关于如下各案的记载："帕拉多尔大厦案"；“业余乞丐一团一案"，这个业余乞丐一团一在一个家具店库房的地下室拥有一个穷奢极侈的俱乐部；“美国帆船'索菲-安德森'号失事真相案"；“格赖斯-彼得森在乌法岛上的破案"；还有"坎伯韦尔放毒案"。记得在最后一案里，当歇洛克-福尔摩斯给死者的表上发条时，发现该表在两小时前曾被上紧了发条，从而证明在那段时间里死者业已上一床一就寝。这一推论对于廓清案情至关重要。所有这些案件，我有朝一日也许会略述其梗概，但是其中没有一个案件比我现在就要执笔描述的有着一连串扑朔迷一离的情节的案件更加怪诞不经。

那时正值九月下旬，秋分时节的暴风雨猛烈异常。一整天狂风怒号，苦雨击窗，甚至在这伟大的人类用双手建造起来的伦敦城内，我们在这时刻，也失去了从事日常工作的心情，而不得不承认伟大的自然界威力的存在。它犹如铁笼里未经驯服的猛兽，透过人类文明的栅栏向人类怒吼。随着夜幕的降临，暴风骤雨也更为猛烈。风时而大声呼啸，时而低沉饮泣，颇似从壁炉烟囱里发出来的婴儿哭泣声。福尔摩斯坐在壁炉的一端，心情忧郁，正在编制罪案记录互见索引；而我则坐在另一端，埋头于阅读一本克拉克-拉塞尔著的一精一采的有关海洋的小说。这时屋外狂风咆哮，瓢泼大雨渐渐变成海一浪一似的冲击，仿佛和小说的主题互相呼应，混成一体了。我的妻子那时正回一娘一家省亲，所以几天来我又成为我那贝克街故居的旧客了。

“嘿，"我说，抬头望了望我的同伴，“确实是门铃响。今夜谁还能来？也许是你的哪位朋友吧？”

“除了你，我哪里还有什么朋友？"他回答道。“我并不鼓励人们来访。”

“那末，是位委托人吧？”

“如果是委托人，案情一定很严重。如果不严重，此时此刻谁还肯出来。但是我觉得这人更可能是咱们房东太太的亲密朋友。”

福尔摩斯猜错了，因为过道上响起了脚步声，接着有人在敲门。他伸出长臂把照亮他自己的那盏灯转向那张客人一定会在那里就座的空椅子一边，然后说：“进来吧。”

进来的是一个年轻人，外貌大约二十二岁左右，穿着考究，服饰整洁，举止大方，彬彬有礼。他手中的雨伞水泄如注，身上的长雨衣闪烁发亮，这些都说明他一路上所经历的风吹雨打。他在灯光下焦急地向四周打量了一下。这时我看出他的脸色苍白，双目低垂。一个被某种巨大的忧虑压得喘不过气来的人的神情往往如此。

“我应当向您道歉，"他边说边将一副金丝夹鼻眼镜戴上。

"我希望我不致打扰您！我担心我已经把从暴风雨里带来的泥水玷污了您的整洁的房间。”

“把您的雨衣和伞都给我，"福尔摩斯说，“把它们挂在钩子上，一会儿就会干的。我看，您是从西南来的吧。”

“是的，从霍尔舍姆来的。”

“从粘在您鞋尖上混合在一起的粘土和白垩上，我就很清楚地看出您是从那里来的。”

“我是专诚来向您请求指教的。”

“这我很容易做到。”

“并且还要请您帮助哩。”

“那可就不总是那么容易了。”

“我已久闻大名，福尔摩斯先生。我听普伦德加斯特少校说过，您是怎样把他从坦克维尔俱乐部丑闻案件中拯救出来的。”

“啊！不错。人家诬告他用假牌行骗。”

“他说您能解决任何问题。”

“他说得太过分了。”

“他还说您是常胜将军。”

“我曾失败过四次——三次败于几个男人，一次败于一个女人。”

“可是，这同您无数次的胜利是不可同日而语的。”

“不错，一般地说，我还是成功的。”

“那么，对于我的事，您可能也会成功的。”

“请您把椅子挪近壁炉一些，讲一讲您这件案子的一些细节。”

“这决不是一个寻常的案子。”

“到我这里来谈的案子都是不寻常的。我这里成了最高上诉法院。”

“可是，先生，我想问您，在您的经验中，有没有听说过比我家族中所发生的一连串更为神秘、更难解释的事故？”

“您说的使我极感兴趣，"福尔摩斯说道。"请您首先告诉我们一些主要事实，我随后会把我认为最关紧要的细节提出来问您。”

那年轻人朝前挪动了一下椅子，把两只穿着潮一湿鞋子的脚伸向炉火边。

他说：“我名叫约翰-奥彭肖。据我的理解，我自己本身同这一可怕的事件没有多大关系。那是上一代遗留下来的问题，因此，为了使您对这事有一个大概的了解，我必须从这一事件的开端谈起。

“您要晓得，我的祖父有两个儿子——我的伯父伊莱亚斯和我的父亲约瑟夫。我父亲在康文特里开设一座小堡厂，在发明自行车期间，他扩展了这个工厂，并享有奥彭肖防破车胎的专利权，因而生意十分兴隆，这就使他后来能够将工厂出让，而依靠一笔巨款过着富裕的退休生活。

“我的伯父伊莱亚斯年轻时侨居美国，成了佛罗里达州的一个种植园主。据说他经营得很不错。南北战争期间，他在杰克逊麾下作战，后来隶属一胡一德部下，升任上校。南军统帅罗伯特-李投降后，他解甲归田，重返他的种植园，在那里又住了三、四年。大约在一八六九或一八七○年，他回到欧洲，在苏塞克斯郡霍尔舍姆附近购置了一小块地产。他在美国曾发过大财，他之所以离美返英，是因为他厌恶黑人，也不喜欢共和一党一给予黑人选举权的政策。他是个很怪癖的人，凶狠急躁，发怒时言语粗鄙，一性一情极为孤僻。自从他定居霍尔舍姆以来的这些年月里，他深居简出，我不知道他曾否涉足城镇。他拥有一座花园，房子周围有两三块田地，他可以在那里锻炼身一体，可是他却往往几个星期都一直足不出户。他狂饮白兰地酒，而且烟瘾极大，但他不喜欢社一交一，不要任何朋友，甚至和自己的胞弟也不相往来。

“他并不关心我；实际上，他还是喜欢我的，因为他初见我时，我不过是一个十一、二岁的小孩子。那是一八七八年，他已回国八、九年了。他央求我父亲让我同他一起住，他以他自己的方式来疼一爱一我。当他清醒不醉时，喜欢同我一起斗双陆、①玩象棋。他还让我代表他跟佣人和一些生意人打一交一道。所以到我十六岁时，已俨然成为一个小当家的了。我掌管所有的钥匙，我可以随一心一所一欲地到我想去的任何地方，做我想做的任何事情，只要不打扰他的隐居生活即可。不过，也有一个破特的例外，那就是，在阁楼那一层有着许多房间，而唯独其中一间堆存破旧杂物的房间，常年加锁，无论是我或其他任何人，他都严禁入内。我曾经怀着一个男孩子的好破心，从钥匙孔向屋内窥视。可是除了预料中在这样一间屋子里会堆存着的一大堆破旧箱笼和大小包袱之外，就别无其他了。

“有一天，那是在一八八三年三月，一封贴有外国邮票的信放在上校的餐盘前面。对他来说，一封来信却是一件异乎寻常的事，因为他的帐单都用现款支付，他不管什么样的朋友都没有一个。‘从印度来的！'他一边拿起信来，一边诧异地说道，'本地治里的邮戳！这是怎么回事？'在他急忙拆开信封的时候，忽地蹦出五个又干又小的桔核嗒嗒地落在盘子里。我正待张嘴发笑，一看他的脸，我的笑容顿时从我的唇边消失了。只见他咧着嘴唇，双眼突出，面如死灰，直瞪瞪地瞧着颤一抖的手中仍旧拿着的那个信封。'K．K．K．！'他尖一叫了起来，接着喊道，‘天哪，天哪，罪孽难逃呀！'

“我叫道：‘伯伯，怎么啦？'

①又称十五子游戏，是一种双方各有十五枚棋子，掷骰子决定棋格数的游戏——译者注

“‘死亡！'他说着，从桌旁站起身来，回到他自己的房间，剩下我在那里怕得心惊肉跳。我拿起了那信封，发现信封口盖的里层，也就是涂胶水的上端，有三个用红墨水潦草地写的Ｋ字。此外，除了那五个干瘪的桔核，别无他物。是什么原因使他吓得魂飞魄散呢？我离开那早餐的桌子上楼时，正好碰见他走下楼来，一手拿着一只旧得生了锈的钥匙——这一定是楼顶专用的了，另一手里却是一个象钱盒似的小黄铜匣。

“‘他们一爱一干什么就干什么，可是我仍将战胜他们。'他发誓赌咒地说道，“叫玛丽今天给我房间里的壁炉升火，再派人去请霍尔舍姆的福德姆律师来！’

“我照他的吩咐办了。律师来到时，我被召唤到他的房间里。炉火熊熊，在壁炉的炉栅里有一堆黑色蓬松的纸灰烬。那黄铜箱匣放在一旁，敞着盖，里面空空如也。我瞧了那匣子一眼，大吃一惊，因为那匣子盖上印着我上午在信封上所见到的那样的三个Ｋ字。

“‘约翰，我希望你，'我伯父说道，‘作我的遗嘱见证人。我把我的产业，连带它的一切有利和不利之处，留给我的兄弟——也就是你的父亲。无疑以后从你父亲那里又会遗留给你的。如果你能平安无事地享有它们，自然是好；不过，如果你发觉不能，那末，孩子，我劝你把它留给你的死敌。我很遗憾给你留下这样一个具有双重意义的东西，但是我也真说不上事情会向哪个方向发展。请你按照福德姆律师在遗嘱上指给你的地方签上你的名字吧。’

“我照律师所指之处签了名，律师就将遗嘱带走了。您可以想见，这件破特的事给我的印象极为深刻。我反复思量，多方揣摩，还是无法明白其中奥秘。可是这件事留下来的模模糊糊的恐怖感觉却始终难于摆脱，虽然随着时光的流逝，不安之感逐渐缓和，而且也没有发生任何干扰我们日常生活的事。尽避如此，我仍能看出我的伯父从此举止异常。他酗酒狂饮更甚于往日，并且更加不愿意置身于任何社一交一场所。他的大部分时间都消磨在他自己的深室之内，而且室内门上还上了锁；但是他有时又象酒后发狂，从屋子里一冲而出，手握左轮手槍，在花园中狂奔乱跑，尖声叫喊，说什么他谁也不怕，还说不管是人是鬼，谁也不能把他象绵羊似地圈禁起来。等到这阵激烈的突然发作过去以后，他又心慌意乱地急急跑回房间里去，把门锁了起来，还插上门闩，好象一个内心深处渗透了恐惧的人，无颜再虚张声势地装下去那样。在这种时刻，我见到他的脸，即使在寒冬腊月，也是冷汗涔一涔、湿一漉一漉的，似乎刚从洗脸盆里抬起头来。

“噢，福尔摩斯先生，现在说说此事的结局吧，不能再辜负您的耐一性一了。有一一夜，他又撒了一回那样的酒疯，突然跑出去，可是这一回，却永远一去不复返了。我们去寻找他时，发现他面朝下摔跌在花园一端的一个泛着绿色的污水坑里。并未发现施行任何暴力的迹象，坑水也不过两英尺深，因此，陪审一团一鉴于他平日的古怪行径，断定为'自一杀'事件。可是我素来知道他是个怕死的人，总觉得难于相信他竟会跑出去自寻短见。尽避如此，事过境迁。我父亲继承了他的地产，以及他存放在银行的大约一万四千镑存款。”

“等一等，"福尔摩斯插言道，“我预料您所说的这案情将是我所听到的一件最出破的案子。请把您的伯父接到那封信的日期和他的被信以为真的自一杀日期告诉我。”

“收到来信的日期是一八八三年三月十日。他的死是在七个星期后的五月二日。”

“谢谢您。请说下去。”

“当我父亲接收了那座霍尔舍姆房产时，他应我的建议，仔细检查了长年累月挂上了锁的阁楼。我们发现那个黄铜匣子仍在那里，虽然匣内的东西已经被毁掉了。匣盖的里面有个纸标签写着ＫＫＫ．．．三个大写字母。下边还写有'信件、备忘录、收据和一份记录'等字样。我们认为：这表明了奥彭肖上校所销毁的文件的一性一质。除了许多散乱的文件和记有我伯父在美洲的生活情况的笔记本外，顶楼上其余的东西都无关紧要。

这些散乱的东西，有些是关于战争时期的情况和他恪尽职守荣获英勇战士称号的记述；还有些是关于战后南方各州重建时期的大多与政治有关的记录，显然我伯父当时曾积极参加反对那些由北方派来的随身只带着一只旅行手提包进行搜刮的政客。

“唉，我父亲搬到霍尔舍姆去住时，正值一八八四年初，直到一八八五年元月，一切都称心如意。元旦过后的第四天，我们大家围着桌子坐在一起吃早餐时，我的父亲忽然一声惊叫，只见他坐在那里，一手举着一个刚刚拆开的信封，另一只手的五指伸开的掌心上有五个干瘪的桔核。他平日总嘲笑我所说伯父的遭遇是荒诞无稽的故事，一旦他自己碰上了同样的事，却也吓得大惊失色，神志恍惚。

“‘啊，这究竟是怎么一回事，约翰？'他结结巴巴地问道。

“我的心变成一块铅似地沉重。'这是ＫＫＫ．．．，'我说。

“他看看信封的内层。'不错，'他叫了起来，‘就是这几个字母。这上面又写着什么？’

“‘把文件放在日晷仪上，'我从他肩膀背后望着信封念道。

“‘什么文件？什么日晷仪？'他又问道。

“‘花园里的日晷仪，别处没有，'我说，‘文件一定是被毁掉的那些。’

“‘呸！'他壮着胆子说。'我们这里是文明世界，不容许有这种蠢事发生！这东西是哪里来的？’

“‘从敦提来的，'我看了一下邮戳回答说。

“‘一个荒唐的恶作剧，'他说，‘我和日晷仪啦、文件啦，有什么关系？对这种无聊的事我不屑一顾。’

“‘要是我的话，就一定报告警察，'我说。

“‘这样，我痛苦，却让他们讥笑，我不干。’

“‘那末让我去报告吧？’

“‘不，也不许你去。我不愿为这种荒唐事庸人自扰。’

“与他争辩是徒劳的，因为他是个非常顽固的人。我只好走开，心里惴惴不安，充满大祸将临的预感。

“接到来信以后的第三天，我父亲离家去看望他的一位老朋友，弗里博迪少校。他现在是朴次当山一处堡垒的指挥官。

我为他的出访而感到高兴，在我看来，仿佛他离开了家倒可避开危险。可是我想错了。他出门的第二天，我接到少校拍来一封电报，要我立即赶赴他那里。我父亲摔在一个很深的白垩矿坑里，这种矿坑在这附近地区是很多的。他摔碎了头骨，躺在里边不省人事。我急切地跑去看他，可是他再也没有恢复知觉，从此与世长辞了。显而易见，他是在黄昏前从费尔哈姆回家，由于乡间道路不熟，白垩坑又无栏杆遮挡，验一尸一官便毫不迟疑地作出了'由于意外致死'的判断。我审慎地检查了每一与他死因有所关联的事情，但是没有发现任何含有谋杀意图的事实。现场没有暴力行动的迹象，没有脚印，没有发生抢劫，也没有关于看见路上有陌生人出现的记录。可是我不说您也知道，我的心情是非常不平静的。我几乎可以确定：一定有人在他的周围策划了某种卑鄙的一陰一谋。

“在这种不祥的情况下，我继承了遗产。您会问我为什么不把它卖掉。我的回答是：因为我深信，我们家的灾难在一定程度上是由我伯父生前的某种意外事故所决定的，所以不管是在这所房子里，还是在另一所房子里，祸事必将同样紧平地威胁着我们。

“我父亲是在一八八五年一月惨遭不幸的，至今倏已两年八个月了。在这段时间内，我在霍尔舍姆的生活还是幸福的。

我已开始抱着这种希望：灾祸业已远离我家，它已与我的上一代人一起告终了。谁知我这样的自一慰还为时过早。昨天早上，灾祸又临门了，情况和我父亲当年经历的一模一样。”

那年轻人从背心的口袋里取出一个一揉一皱了的信封，走向桌旁，他摇落在桌上五个又小又干的桔核。

“这就是那个信封，"他继续说道，“邮戳盖的是伦敦东区。

信封里还是我父亲接到的最后一封信里的几个字：'K.K．K'。

然后是'把文件放在日晷仪上'。”

“您采取了什么措施没有？"福尔摩斯问道。

“什么也没有。”

“什么也没有？！”

“说实话，"他低下头去，用消瘦苍白的双手捂着脸，“我觉得毫无办法。我觉得自己象一只可怜的兔子面临着一条蜿蜒前来的毒蛇。我好象陷入一种不可抗拒和残酷无情的恶魔的魔爪之中，而这魔爪是任何预见、任何预防措施都无法防范的。”

“喷！喷！"福尔摩斯嚷道。"您一定要采取行动啊，先生。

否则，您可就完了！现在除了振作一精一神以外，没有别的什么能够挽救您的了。可没有唉声叹气的闲工夫啊！”

“我去找过警察了。”

“啊！”

“但是他们听我诉说以后，仅仅付之一笑。我相信那巡官已经形成固定的看法，认为那些信纯属恶作剧，我的两位亲人之死正如验一尸一官所说的，完全是出于意外，因此不必和那些前兆联系到一起。”

福尔摩斯挥舞着他紧一握的双拳，喊着：“令人难以置信的愚蠢！”

“可是他们答应派一名警察，同我一起留在那房子里。”

“今晚同您一起出来了没有？”

“没有。他奉命只呆在房子里。”

福尔摩斯又愤怒得挥舞起拳头来。

“那么，为什么您来找我？"他叫道，“再说更重要的是，为什么您不一开始就来找我？”

“我不知道啊。只是到了今天，我向普伦德加斯特少校谈了我的困境，他才劝我来找您的。”

“您接到了信已经整整过了两天。我们应当在此之前采取行动。我估计您除了那些已经向我提供的情节以外，没有更进一步的凭证——没有什么可以对我们有用的带有启发一性一的细节了吧。”

“有一件，"约翰-奥彭肖说。他在上衣口袋里翻找了一番以后，掏出了一张褪色的蓝纸，摊开放在桌上。“我有些记得，”他说，“那一天，我的伯父在焚烧文件的时候，我看见纸灰堆里有一些小的没有烧着的文件的纸边是这种特殊的颜色的。我在我伯父的屋子里的地板上发现这张纸。我倾向于这样的想法：它是从一叠纸里掉下来的，所以没被焚烧掉。纸上除了提到桔核之外，恐怕它对我们帮助不大。我想它也许是私人日记里的一页，字迹毫无疑问是我伯父的。”

福尔摩斯把灯移动