It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes's requests, for

they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with

such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney

was once confined in the cab my mission was practically

accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better

than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular

adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a

few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him

out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a

very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den,

and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two

streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.

Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and

burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added

opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little

weaknesses on which you have favored me with your medical

views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural

prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable

inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clew in the incoherent

ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been

recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an

hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own

purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have

vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that

building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some

strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless

nights."

"What! You do not mean bodies?"

"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds

for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It

is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that

Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our

trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his

teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a

similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle

of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through

the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from

its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?

"If I can be of use."

"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still

more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

"The Cedars?"

"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I

conduct the inquiry."

"Where is it, then?"

"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

"But I am all in the dark."

"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up

here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a

crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her

head. So long, then!"

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through

the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which

widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad

balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly

beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and

mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of

the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of

revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a

star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of

the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his

breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat

beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which

seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in

upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles,

and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban

villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up

his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he

is acting for the best.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes

you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great

thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are

not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear

little woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

"You forget that I know nothing about it."

"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before

we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can

get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I

can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case

clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a

spark where all is dark to me."

"Proceed, then."

"Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee

a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have

plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very

nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made

friends in the neighborhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter

of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no

occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into

town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon

Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of

age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very

affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know

him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far

as we have been able to ascertain amount to 88 pounds l0s., while

he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and

Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money

troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier

than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important

commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy

home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife

received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his

departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable

value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the

offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up

in your London, you will know that the office of the company is

in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where

you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for

the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office,

got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through

Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me

so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.

Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab,

as she did not like the neighborhood in which she found herself.

While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly

heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her

husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning

to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she

distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly

agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then

vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that

he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.

One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that

although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town

in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the

steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which

you found me to-night--and running through the front room she

attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At

the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of

whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who

acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled

with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the

lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of

constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The

inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the

continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to

the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no

sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was

no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who,

it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly

swore that no one else had been in the front room during the

afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was

staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had

been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box

which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell

a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had

promised to bring home.

"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple

showed, made the inspector realize that the matter was serious.

The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an

abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a

sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon

the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom

window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered

at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The

bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On

examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill,

and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of

the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were

all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of

his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all were

there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these

garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.

Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no

other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon

the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by

swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of

the tragedy.

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immedlately

implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the

vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was

known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few

seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could

hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defense

was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no

knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he

could not account in any way for the presence of the missing

gentleman's clothes.

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who

lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was

certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.

Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which

is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a

professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police

regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some

little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand

side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the

wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,

cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he

is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the

greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I

have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of

making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised

at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His

appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him

without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face

disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has

turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a

pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular

contrast to the color of his hair, all mark him out from amid

the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he

is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be

thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now

learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been

the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed

against a man in the prime of life?"

"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in

other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.

Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that

weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional

strength in the others."

"Pray continue your narrative."

"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the

window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her

presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.

Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful

examination of the premises, but without finding anything which

threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not

arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes

during which he might have communicated with his friend the

Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and

searched, without anything being found which could incriminate

him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right

shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been

cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from

there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and

that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from

the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr.

Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in

his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to

Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband

at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or

dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the

police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in

the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clew.

"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they

had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not

Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And

what do you think they found in the pockets?"

"I cannot imagine."

"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with

pennies and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It

was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a

human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between

the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the

weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked

away into the river."

"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the

room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose

that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the

window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.

What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him

that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize

the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it

would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little

time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried

to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his

Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.

There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret

hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he

stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the

pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and

would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard

the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the

window when the police appeared."

"It certainly sounds feasible."

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a

better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the

station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before

been anything against him. He had for years been known as a

professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very

quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and

the questions which have to be solved--what Neville St. Clair was

doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is

he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance--are

all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot

recall any case within my experience which looked at the first

glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."