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“State your case,” said he in brisk business tones.
I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.
“You will, I am sure, excuse me,” I said, rising
from my chair.
To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to
detain me.
“If your friend,” she said, “would be good
enough to stop, he might be of inestimable service to me.”
I relapsed into my chair.
“Briefly,” she continued, “the facts are these.
My father was an officer in an Indian regiment, who sent me home when I was quite a child.
My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England. I was placed, however, in a
comfortable boarding establishment at Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was
seventeen years of age. In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his
regiment, obtained twelve months’ leave and came home. He telegraphed to me from
London that he had arrived all safe and directed me to come down at once, giving the
Langham Hotel as his address. His message, as I remember, was full of kindness and love.
On reaching London I drove to the Langham and was informed that Captain Morstan was
staying there, but that he had gone out the night before and had not returned. I waited
all day without news of him. That night, on the [95]
advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police, and next morning we
advertised in all the papers. Our inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no
word has ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with his heart full of
hope to find some peace, some comfort, and instead– –”
She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short
the sentence.
“The date?” asked Holmes, opening his notebook.
“He disappeared upon the third of December,
1878–nearly ten years ago.”
“His luggage?”
“Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to
suggest a clue–some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of curiosities
from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers in charge of the convict-guard
there.”
“Had he any friends in town?”
“Only one that we know of–Major Sholto, of his own
regiment, the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry. The major had retired some little time before
and lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of course, but he did not even know
that his brother officer was in England.”
“A singular case,” remarked Holmes.
“I have not yet described to you the most singular part.
About six years ago–to be exact, upon the fourth of May, 1882–an advertisement
appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan, and stating
that it would be to her advantage to come forward. There was no name or address appended.
I had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of
governess. By her advice I published my address in the advertisement column. The same day
there arrived through the post a small cardboard box addressed to me, which I found to
contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word of writing was enclosed. Since then every
year upon the same date there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar
pearl, without any clue as to the sender. They have been pronounced by an expert to be of
a rare variety and of considerable value. You can see for yourself that they are very
handsome.”
She opened a flat box as she spoke and showed me six of the
finest pearls that I had ever seen.
“Your statement is most interesting,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “Has anything else occurred to you?”
“Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come
to you. This morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for
yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “The envelope, too,
please. Post-mark, London, S. W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man’s thumb-mark on
corner–probably postman. Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet.
Particular man in his stationery. No address.
- “Be at the third pillar
from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o’clock. If you are
distrustful bring two friends. You are a wronged woman and shall have justice. Do not
bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.
Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery! What do
you intend to do, Miss Morstan?”
“That is exactly what I want to ask you.”
“Then we shall most certainly go–you and I
and–yes, why Dr. Watson is the [96]
very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I have worked together before.”
“But would he come?” she asked with something
appealing in her voice and expression.
“I shall be proud and happy,” said I fervently,
“if I can be of any service.”
“You are both very kind,” she answered. “I have
led a retired life and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it will
do, I suppose?”
“You must not be later,” said Holmes. “There is
one other point, however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
addresses?”
“I have them here,” she answered, producing half a
dozen pieces of paper.
“You are certainly a model client. You have the correct
intuition. Let us see, now.” He spread out the papers upon the table and gave little
darting glances from one to the other. “They are disguised hands, except the
letter,” he said presently; “but there can be no question as to the authorship.
See how the irrepressible Greek e will break out, and see the twirl of the final s. They
are undoubtedly by the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss
Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of your father?”
“Nothing could be more unlike.”
“I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for
you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter before
then. It is only half-past three. Au revoir, then.”
“Au revoir,” said our visitor; and with a bright,
kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and
hurried away.
Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the
street until the gray turban and white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd.
“What a very attractive woman!” I exclaimed, turning
to my companion.
He had lit his pipe again and was leaning back with drooping
eyelids. “Is she?” he said languidly; “I did not observe.”
“You really are an automaton–a calculating
machine,” I cried. “There is something positively inhuman in you at times.”
He smiled gently.
“It is of the first importance,” he cried, “not
to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit,
a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I
assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little
children for their insurance-money, and the most repellent man of my acquaintance is a
philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor.”
“In this case, however– –”
“I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the
rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of
this fellow’s scribble?”
“It is legible and regular,” I answered. “A man
of business habits and some force of character.”
Holmes shook his head.
“Look at his long letters,” he said. “They
hardly rise above the common herd. That d might be an a, and that l an e. Men of character
always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is
vacillation in his k’s and self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now.
I have some few references to [97]
make. Let me recommend this book–one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is
Winwood Reade’s Martyrdom of Man. I shall be back in an hour.”
I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my
thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late
visitor –her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which
overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father’s disappearance
she must be seven-and-twenty now–a sweet age, when youth has lost its
self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused until
such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged
furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army surgeon with a weak
leg and a weaker banking account, that I should dare to think of such things? She was a
unit, a factor–nothing more. If my future were black, it was better surely to face it
like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o’-the-wisps of the
imagination.
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