Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent

as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of

Baker Street would have failed to recognize him. His face flushed

and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines,

while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter.

His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips

compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long,

sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal

lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated

upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell

unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick,

impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way

along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of

the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is

all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon

the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either

side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and

once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and

I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous,

while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the

conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a

definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water

some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the

Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner.

Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see

the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich

landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods

grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass

twenty paces across between the edge of the trees land the reeds

which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which

the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground,

that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the

fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager

face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read

upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking

up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon

or other trace. But how on earth--"

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its

inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and

there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all

have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo

and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the

lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or

eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of

the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon his

waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to

himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he

was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are

deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his

story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are

the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It

is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this?

Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite

unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course

that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up

and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we

were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a

great beech, the largest tree in the neighborhood. Holmes traced

his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon

his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he

remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks,

gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and

examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of

the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among

the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then

he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the

highroad, where all traces were lost.

"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked,

returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this gray house on

the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a

word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done

that, we may drive back to our lunchebn. You may walk to the cab,

and I shall be with you presently."

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove

back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he

had picked up in the wood.

"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out.

"The murder was done with it."

"I see no marks."

"There are none."

"How do you know, then?"

"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few

days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It

corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other

weapon."

"And the murderer?"

"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears

thick-soled shooting-boots and a gray cloak, smokes Indian

cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his

pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be

enough to aid us in our search."

Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he

said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a

hard-headed British jury."

"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own

method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon,

and shall probably return to London by the evening train."

"And leave your case unfinished?"

"No, finished."

"But the mystery?"

"It is solved."

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The gentleman I describe."

"But who is he?"

"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a

populous neighborhood."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,

"and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking

for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the

laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance.

Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before

I leave."

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where

we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in

thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds

himself in a perplexing position.

"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit

down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't

know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a

cigar and let me expound."

"Pray do so."

"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about

young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly,

although they impressed me in his favor and you against him. One

was the fact that his father should, according to his account,

cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying

reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but

that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double

point our research must commence, and we will begin it by

presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."

"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The

son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that

he was within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the

attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But

'Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used

between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the

person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was

someone who had been in Australia."

"What of the rat, then?"

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened

it out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,"

he said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand

over part of the map. "What do you read?"

"ARAT," I read.

"And now?" He raised his hand.

"BALLARAT."

"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his

son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter

the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down

considerably. The possession of a gray garment was a third point

which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a

certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite

conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a gray cloak."

"Certainly."

"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only

be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could

hardly wander."

"Quite so."

"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the

ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that

imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."

"But how did you gain them?"

"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of

trifles."

"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length

of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."

"Yes, they were peculiar boots."

"But his lameness?"

"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than

his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped--he

was lame."

"But his left-handedness."

"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded

by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from

immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can

that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind

that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had

even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special

knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian

cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and

written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different

varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the

ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss

where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety

which are rolled in Rotterdam."

"And the cigar-holder?"

"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he

used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the

cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."

"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which

he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as

truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the

direction in which all this points. The culprit is--"

"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of

our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His

slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of

decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and

his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual

strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled

hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air

of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an

ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were

tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that

he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my

note?"

"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to

see me here to avoid scandal."

"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my

companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question

was already answered.

"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It

is so. I know all about McCarthy."

The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried.

"But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you

my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at

the Assizes."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.

"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It

would break her heart--it will break her heart when she hears

that I am arrested."

"It may not come to that," said Holmes.

"What?"

"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter

who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests.

Young McCarthy must be got off, however."

"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for

years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a

month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand

and a bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he

said. "I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson

here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the

last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall

not use it unless it is absolutely needed."

"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I

shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I

should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the

thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but

will not take me long to tell.

"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil

incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of

such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years,

and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be

in his power.

"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap

then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at

anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck

with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you

would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and

we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time

to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings.

Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party

is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and

we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers

and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of

their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed,

however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of

the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the

Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his

wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every

feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made

our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted

from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and

respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in

the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money,

to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too,

and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice.

Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down

the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned

over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was

going well when McCarthy laid hls grip upon me.

"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in

Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his

foot.

"'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be

as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and

you can have the keeping of us. If you don't--it's a fine,

law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman

within hail.'

"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking

them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land

ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness;

turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my

elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more

afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he

wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without

question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing

which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was

known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that

his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was

firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that

I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that

was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do

his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses

to talk it over.

"When we went down there I found him talking with his son, so

smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.

But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in

me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my

daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she

were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I

and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a

man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and

a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb,

I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl!

Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I

did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned,

I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl

should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more

than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction

than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought

back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I

was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in

my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that

occurred."

"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man

signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we

may never be exposed to such a temptation."

"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"

"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you

will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the

Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is

condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be

seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or

dead, shall be safe with us."

"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds,

when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace

which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his

giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate

play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such

a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say,

'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a

number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and

submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven

months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is

every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily

together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their

past.