THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE

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$Title{THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES; The Adventure of the Lion's Mane}

$Author{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan}

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$Volume{}

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                         THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                       THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE

IT IS a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as abstruse and

unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional career should have

come to me after my retirement, and be brought, as it were, to my very door.

It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given

myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often

yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London.  At this period

of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken.  An occasional

week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him.  Thus I must act as my own

chronicler.  Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have made of so

wonderful a happening and of my eventual triumph against every difficulty!  As

it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my

words each step upon the difficult road which lay before me as I searched for

the mystery of the Lion's Mane.

     My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commanding a

great view of the Channel.  At this point the coast-line is entirely of chalk

cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous path, which is

steep and slippery.  At the bottom of the path lie a hundred yards of pebbles

and shingle, even when the tide is at full.  Here and there, however, there

are curves and hollows which make splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with

each flow.  This admirable beach extends for some miles in each direction,

save only at one point where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the

line.

     My house is lonely.  I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate

all to ourselves.  Half a mile off, however, is Harold Stackhurst's well-known

coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a large place, which contains some

score of young fellows preparing for various professions, with a staff of

several masters.  Stackhurst himself was a well-known rowing Blue in his day,

and an excellent all-round scholar.  He and I were always friendly from the

day I came to the coast, and he was the one man who was on such terms with me

that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an invitation.

     Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind blowing

up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs and leaving a lagoon at

the turn of the tide.  On the morning of which I speak the wind had abated,

and all Nature was newly washed and fresh.  It was impossible to work upon so

delightful a day, and I strolled out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite

air.  I walked along the cliff path which led to the steep descent to the

beach.  As I walked I heard a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst

waving his hand in cheery greeting.

     "What a morning, Mr. Holmes!  I thought I should see you out."

     "Going for a swim, I see."

     "At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket.

"Yes.  McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."

     Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young fellow

whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following rheumatic fever.  He

was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in every game which did not throw

too great a strain upon him.  Summer and winter he went for his swim, and, as

I am a swimmer myself, I have often joined him.

     At this moment we saw the man himself.  His head showed above the edge of

the cliff where the path ends.  Then his whole figure appeared at the top,

staggering like a drunken man.  The next instant he threw up his hands and,

with a terrible cry, fell upon his face.  Stackhurst and I rushed forward--it

may have been fifty yards--and turned him on his back.  He was obviously

dying.  Those glazed sunken eyes and dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing

else.  One glimmer of life came into his face for an instant, and he uttered

two or three words with an eager air of warning.  They were slurred and

indistinct, but to my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his

lips, were "the Lion's Mane."  It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible,

and yet I could twist the sound into no other sense.  Then he half raised

himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air, and fell forward on his

side.  He was dead.

     My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may well

be imagined, had every sense on the alert.  And I had need, for it was

speedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary case.  The

man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers, and an unlaced

pair of canvas shoes.  As he fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply

thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk.  We stared at it

in amazement.  His back was covered with dark red lines as though he had been

terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge.  The instrument with which this

punishment had been inflicted was clearly flexible, for the long, angry weals

curved round his shoulders and ribs.  There was blood dripping down his chin,

for he had bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony.  His

drawn and distorted face told how terrible that agony had been.

     I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell

across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side.  Murdoch was the

mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, so taciturn

and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend.  He seemed to live in

some high, abstract region of surds and conic sections, with little to connect

him with ordinary life.  He was looked upon as an oddity by the students, and

would have been their butt, but there was some strange outlandish blood in the

man, which showed itself not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face but

also in occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described as

ferocious.  On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging to

McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the plate-glass

window, an action for which Stackhurst would certainly have given him his

dismissal had he not been a very valuable teacher.  Such was the strange

complex man who now appeared beside us.  He seemed to be honestly shocked at

the sight before him, though the incident of the dog may show that there was

no great sympathy between the dead man and himself.

     "Poor fellow!  Poor fellow!  What can I do?  How can I help?"

     "Were you with him?  Can you tell us what has happened?"

     "No, no, I was late this morning.  I was not on the beach at all.  I have

come straight from The Gables.  What can I do?"

     "You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth.  Report the matter at

once."

     Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the

matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by the body.

My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach.  From the top of the

path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was absolutely deserted save

that two or three dark figures could be seen far away moving towards the

village of Fulworth.  Having satisfied myself upon this point, I walked slowly

down the path.  There was clay or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every

here and there I saw the same footstep, both ascending and descending.  No one

else had gone down to the beach by this track that morning.  At one place I

observed the print of an open hand with the fingers towards the incline.  This

could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as he ascended.  There were

rounded depressions, too, which suggested that he had come down upon his knees

more than once.  At the bottom of the path was the considerable lagoon left by

the retreating tide.  At the side of it McPherson had undressed, for there lay

his towel on a rock.  It was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, after

all, he had never entered the water.  Once or twice as I hunted round amid the

hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of his canvas

shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen.  The latter fact proved that

he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated that he had not

actually done so.

     And here was the problem clearly defined--as strange a one as had ever

confronted me.  The man had not been on the beach more than a quarter of an

hour at the most.  Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables, so there could

be no doubt about that.  He had gone to bathe and had stripped, as the naked

footsteps showed.  Then he had suddenly huddled on his clothes again--they

were all dishevelled and unfastened--and he had returned without bathing, or

at any rate without drying himself.  And the reason for his change of purpose

had been that he had been scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured

until he bit his lip through in his agony, and was left with only strength

enough to crawl away and to die.  Who had done this barbarous deed?  There

were, it is true, small grottos and caves in the base of the cliffs, but the

low sun shone directly into them, and there was no place for concealment.

Then, again, there were those distant figures on the beach.  They seemed too

far away to have been connected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which

McPherson had intended to bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the

rocks.  On the sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great distance.

Their occupants might be examined at our leisure.  There were several roads

for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.

     When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of

wondering folk had gathered round it.  Stackhurst was, of course, still there,

and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village constable, a big,

ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex breed--a breed which covers

much good sense under a heavy, silent exterior.  He listened to everything,

took note of all we said, and finally drew me aside.

     "I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes.  This is a big thing for me to

handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."

     I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor; also

to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as possible to be

made, until they came.  In the meantime I searched the dead man's pockets.

There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a small folding card-case.

From this projected a slip of paper, which I unfolded and handed to the

constable.  There was written on it in a scrawling, feminine hand:

                      I will be there, you may be sure.

                                                                    MAUDIE.

It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where were a

blank.  The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned it with the

other things to the pockets of the Burberry.  Then, as nothing more suggested

itself, I walked back to my house for breakfast, having first arranged that

the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly searched.

     Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had been

removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held.  He brought with him

some serious and definite news.  As I expected, nothing had been found in the

small caves below the cliff, but he had examined the papers in McPherson's

desk, and there were several which showed an intimate correspondence with a

certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth.  We had then established the identity

of the writer of the note.

     "The police have the letters," he explained.  "I could not bring them.

But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair.  I see no reason,

however, to connect it with that horrible happening save, indeed, that the

lady had made an appointment with him."

     "But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of

using," I remarked.

     "It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not with

McPherson."

     "Was it mere chance?"

     Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.

     "Ian Murdoch held them back," said he.  "He would insist upon some

algebraic demonstration before breakfast.  Poor chap, he is dreadfully cut up

about it all."

     "And yet I gather that they were not friends."

     "At one time they were not.  But for a year or more Murdoch has been as

near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone.  He is not of a very

sympathetic disposition by nature."

     "So I understand.  I seem to remember your telling me once about a

quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."

     "That blew over all right."

     "But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."

     "No, no, I am sure they were real friends."

     "Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl.  Do you know her?"

     "Everyone knows her.  She is the beauty of the neighbourhood--a real

beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere.  I knew that McPherson

was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone so far as these

letters would seem to indicate."

     "But who is she?"

     "She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and

bathing-cots at Fulworth.  He was a fisherman to start with, but is now a man

of some substance.  He and his son William run the business."

     "Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"

     "On what pretext?"

     "Oh, we can easily find a pretext.  After all, this poor man did not

ill-use himself in this outrageous way.  Some human hand was on the handle of

that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the injuries.  His

circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was surely limited.  Let us

follow it up in every direction and we can hardly fail to come upon the

motive, which in turn should lead us to the criminal."

     It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had our

minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed.  The village of

Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the bay.  Behind the

old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been built upon the rising

ground.  It was to one of these that Stackhurst guided me.

     "That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it.  The one with the corner tower

and slate roof.  Not bad for a man who started with nothing but-- --  By Jove,

look at that!"

     The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged.  There was

no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure.  It was Ian Murdoch, the

mathematician.  A moment later we confronted him upon the road.

     "Hullo!" said Stackhurst.  The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance from

his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his principal pulled him

up.

     "What were you doing there?" he asked.

     Murdoch's face flushed with anger.  "I am your subordinate, sir, under

your roof.  I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private actions."

     Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.

Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited.  Now he lost his temper completely.

     "In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."

     "Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."

     "This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your

insubordinate ways.  It will certainly be the last.  You will kindly make

fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."

     "I had intended to do so.  I have lost to-day the only person who made

The Gables habitable."

     He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood

glaring after him.  "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he cried.

     The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that Mr.

Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape from the

scene of the crime.  Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now beginning to take

outline in my mind.  Perhaps the visit to the Bellamys might throw some

further light upon the matter.  Stackhurst pulled himself together, and we

went forward to the house.

     Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.  He

seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid as his

hair.

     "No, sir, I do not desire any particulars.  My son here"--indicating a

powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the

sitting-room --"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions to Maud

were insulting.  Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never mentioned, and yet

there were letters and meetings, and a great deal more of which neither of us

could approve.  She has no mother, and we are her only guardians.  We are

determined-- --"

     But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady

herself.  There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any assembly in

the world.  Who could have imagined that so rare a flower would grow from such

a root and in such an atmosphere?  Women have seldom been an attraction to me,

for my brain has always governed my heart, but I could not look upon her

perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of the downlands in her

delicate colouring, without realizing that no young man would cross her path

unscathed.  Such was the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now,

wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.

     "I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said.  "Do not be afraid to

tell me the particulars."

     "This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the

father.

     "There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"

growled the younger man.

     The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him.  "This is my business,

William.  Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way.  By all accounts there

has been a crime committed.  If I can help to show who did it, it is the least

I can do for him who is gone."

     She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed

concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as well as

great beauty.  Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as a most complete

and remarkable woman.  It seems that she already knew me by sight, for she

turned to me at the end.

     "Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes.  You have my sympathy and my help,

whoever they may be."  It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at her

father and brother as she spoke.

     "Thank you," said I.  "I value a woman's instinct in such matters.  You

use the word 'they.'  You think that more than one was concerned?"

     "I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and a

strong man.  No single person could ever have inflicted such an outrage upon

him."

     "Might I have one word with you alone?"

     "I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her

father angrily.

     She looked at me helplessly.  "What can I do?"

     "The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no harm

if I discuss them here," said I.  "I should have preferred privacy, but if

your father will not allow it he must share the deliberations."  Then I spoke

of the note which had been found in the dead man's pocket.  "It is sure to be

produced at the inquest.  May I ask you to throw any light upon it that you

can?"

     "I see no reason for mystery," she answered.  "We were engaged to be

married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is very old

and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had married against

his wish.  There was no other reason."

     "You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.

     "So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."

     "I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."

     "It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling you.

As to this appointment"--she fumbled in her dress and produced a crumpled

note-- "it was in answer to this."

          DEAREST [ran the message]:

               The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday.  It is

          the only time I can get away.

                                                                         F. M.

     "Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."

     I turned over the paper.  "This never came by post.  How did you get it?"

     "I would rather not answer that question.  It has really nothing to do

with the matter which you are investigating.  But anything which bears upon

that I will most freely answer."

     She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful in

our investigation.  She had no reason to think that her fiance had any hidden

enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers.

     "May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"

     She blushed and seemed confused.

     "There was a time when I thought he was.  But that was all changed when

he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."

     Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking more

definite shape.  His record must be examined.  His rooms must be privately

searched.  Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his mind also

suspicions were forming.  We returned from our visit to The Haven with the

hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already in our hands.

     A week passed.  The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and had

been adjourned for further evidence.  Stackhurst had made discreet inquiry

about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search of his room,

but without result.  Personally, I had gone over the whole ground again, both

physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions.  In all my chronicles

the reader will find no case which brought me so completely to the limit of my

powers.  Even my imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery.  And

then there came the incident of the dog.

     It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange wireless

by which such people collect the news of the countryside.

     "Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one evening.

     I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my

attention.

     "What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"

     "Dead, sir.  Died of grief for its master."

     "Who told you this?"

     "Why, sir, everyone is talking of it.  It took on terrible, and has eaten

nothing for a week.  Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from The Gables

found it dead--down on the beach, sir, at the very place where its master met

his end."

     "At the very place."  The words stood out clear in my memory.  Some dim

perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind.  That the dog should die

was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs.  But "in the very place"!

Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it?  Was it possible that it also had

been sacrificed to some revengeful feud?  Was it possible-- --?  Yes, the

perception was dim, but already something was building up in my mind.  In a

few minutes I was on my way to The Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his

study.  At my request he sent for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had

found the dog.

     "Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them.  "It must

have followed the trail of its dead master."

     I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out upon

the mat in the hall.  The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes projecting, and

the limbs contorted.  There was agony in every line of it.

     From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool.  The sun had sunk and

the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which glimmered

dully like a sheet of lead.  The place was deserted and there was no sign of

life save for two sea-birds circling and screaming overhead.  In the fading

light I could dimly make out the little dog's spoor upon the sand round the

very rock on which his master's towel had been laid.  For a long time I stood

in deep meditation while the shadows grew darker around me.  My mind was

filled with racing thoughts.  You have known what it was to be in a nightmare

in which you feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search

and which you know is there, though it remains forever just beyond your reach.

That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place of death.

Then at last I turned and walked slowly homeward.

     I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me.  Like a flash,

I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped.  You

will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store of

out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system, but very available for the

needs of my work.  My mind is like a crowded box-room with packets of all

sorts stowed away therein--so many that I may well have but a vague perception

of what was there.  I had known that there was something which might bear upon

this matter.  It was still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it

clear.  It was monstrous, incredible, and yet it was always a possibility.  I

would test it to the full.

     There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with books.

It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour.  At the end of that

time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver volume.  Eagerly I turned up

the chapter of which I had a dim remembrance.  Yes, it was indeed a

far-fetched and unlikely proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I

had made sure if it might, indeed, be so.  It was late when I retired, with my

mind eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.

     But that work met with an annoying interruption.  I had hardly swallowed

my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I had a call from

Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary--a steady, solid, bovine man with

thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a very troubled expression.

     "I know your immense experience, sir," said he.  "This is quite

unofficial, of course, and need go no farther.  But I am fairly up against it

in this McPherson case.  The question is, shall I make an arrest, or shall I

not?"

     "Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"

     "Yes, sir.  There is really no one else when you come to think of it.

That's the advantage of this solitude.  We narrow it down to a very small

compass.  If he did not do it, then who did?"

     "What have you against him?"

     He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had.  There was Murdoch's

character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man.  His furious

bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog.  The fact that he had

quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there was some reason to think

that he might have resented his attentions to Miss Bellamy.  He had all my

points, but no fresh ones, save that Murdoch seemed to be making every

preparation for departure.

     "What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this evidence

against him?"  The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled in his mind.

     "Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case.  On the morning

of the crime he can surely prove an alibi.  He had been with his scholars till

the last moment, and within a few minutes of McPherson's appearance he came

upon us from behind.  Then bear in mind the absolute impossibility that he

could single-handed have inflicted this outrage upon a man quite as strong as

himself.  Finally, there is this question of the instrument with which these

injuries were inflicted."

     "What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"

     "Have you examined the marks?" I asked.

     "I have seen them.  So has the doctor."

     "But I have examined them very carefully with a lens.  They have

peculiarities."

     "What are they, Mr. Holmes?"

     I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph.  "This is

my method in such cases," I explained.

     "You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."

     "I should hardly be what I am if I did not.  Now let us consider this

weal which extends round the right shoulder.  Do you observe nothing

remarkable?"

     "I can't say I do."

     "Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity.  There is a

dot of extravasated blood here, and another there.  There are similar

indications in this other weal down here.  What can that mean?"

     "I have no idea.  Have you?"

     "Perhaps I have.  Perhaps I haven't.  I may be able to say more soon.

Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long way

towards the criminal."

     "It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a red-hot

net of wire had been laid across the back, then these better marked points

would represent where the meshes crossed each other."

     "A most ingenious comparison.  Or shall we say a very stiff

cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"

     "By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."

     "Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle.  But your case is

far too weak for an arrest.  Besides, we have those last words--the 'Lion's

Mane.'"

     "I have wondered whether Ian-- --"

     "Yes, I have considered that.  If the second word had borne any

resemblance to Murdoch--but it did not.  He gave it almost in a shriek.  I am

sure that it was 'Mane.'"

     "Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Perhaps I have.  But I do not care to discuss it until there is

something more solid to discuss."

     "And when will that be?"

     "In an hour--possibly less."

     The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.

     "I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes.  Perhaps it's

those fishing-boats."

     "No, no, they were too far out."

     "Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his?  They were not too

sweet upon Mr. McPherson.  Could they have done him a mischief?"

     "No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile.  "Now,

Inspector, we each have our own work to do.  Perhaps if you were to meet me

here at midday-- --"

     So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which was

the beginning of the end.

     My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in the

passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid, dishevelled, his

clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony hands at the furniture to hold

himself erect.  "Brandy!  Brandy!" he gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.

     He was not alone.  Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,

almost as distrait as his companion.

     "Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried.  "The man is at his last gasp.  It was all

I could do to bring him here.  He fainted twice upon the way."

     Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change.  He

pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulders.  "For

God's sake, oil, opium, morphia!" he cried.  "Anything to ease this infernal

agony!"

     The inspector and I cried out at the sight.  There, crisscrossed upon the

man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of red,

inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.

     The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the

sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black, and

then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his brow

dropped beads of sweat.  At any moment he might die.  More and more brandy was

poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him back to life.  Pads of

cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take the agony from the strange

wounds.  At last his head fell heavily upon the cushion.  Exhausted Nature had

taken refuge in its last storehouse of vitality.  It was half a sleep and half

a faint, but at least it was ease from pain.

     To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured of

his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.

     "My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes?  What is it?"

     "Where did you find him?"

     "Down on the beach.  Exactly where poor McPherson met his end.  If this

man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here now.  More

than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up.  It was too far to The

Gables, so I made for you."

     "Did you see him on the beach?"

     "I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry.  He was at the edge of

the water, reeling about like a drunken man.  I ran down, threw some clothes

about him, and brought him up.  For heaven's sake, Holmes, use all the powers

you have and spare no pains to lift the curse from this place, for life is

becoming unendurable.  Can you, with all your world-wide reputation, do

nothing for us?"

     "I think I can, Stackhurst.  Come with me now!  And you, Inspector, come

along!  We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your hands."

     Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all three

went down to the deadly lagoon.  On the shingle there was piled a little heap

of towels and clothes left by the stricken man.  Slowly I walked round the

edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file behind me.  Most of the pool was

quite shallow, but under the cliff where the beach was hollowed out it was

four or five feet deep.  It was to this part that a swimmer would naturally

go, for it formed a beautiful pellucid green pool as clear as crystal.  A line

of rocks lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way,

peering eagerly into the depths beneath me.  I had reached the deepest and

stillest pool when my eyes caught that for which they were searching, and I

burst into a shout of triumph.

     "Cyanea!" I cried.  "Cyanea!  Behold the Lion's Mane!"

     The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled mass

torn from the mane of a lion.  It lay upon a rocky shelf some three feet under

the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy creature with streaks of silver

among its yellow tresses.  It pulsated with a slow, heavy dilation and

contraction.

     "It has done mischief enough.  Its day is over!" I cried.  "Help me,

Stackhurst!  Let us end the murderer forever."

     There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until it

fell with a tremendous splash into the water.  When the ripples had cleared we

saw that it had settled upon the ledge below.  One flapping edge of yellow

membrane showed that our victim was beneath it.  A thick oily scum oozed out

from below the stone and stained the water round, rising slowly to the

surface.

     "Well, this gets me!" cried the inspector.  "What was it, Mr. Holmes?

I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing.  It don't

belong to Sussex."

     "Just as well for Sussex," I remarked.  "It may have been the southwest

gale that brought it up.  Come back to my house, both of you, and I will give

you the terrible experience of one who has good reason to remember his own

meeting with the same peril of the seas."

     When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so far recovered that

he could sit up.  He was dazed in mind, and every now and then was shaken by a

paroxysm of pain.  In broken words he explained that he had no notion what had

occurred to him, save that terrific pangs had suddenly shot through him, and

that it had taken all his fortitude to reach the bank.

     "Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first

brought light into what might have been forever dark.  It is Out of Doors, by

the famous observer, J. G. Wood.  Wood himself very nearly perished from

contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a very full knowledge.

Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full name, and he can be as dangerous to

life as, and far more painful than, the bite of the cobra.  Let me briefly

give this extract.

               "If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny

          membranes and fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's

          mane and silver paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful

          stinger, Cyanea capillata.

Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?

     "He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming off the

coast of Kent.  He found that the creature radiated almost invisible filaments

to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within that circumference from

the deadly centre was in danger of death.  Even at a distance the effect upon

Wood was almost fatal.

               "The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon the

          skin which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or

          pustules, each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making

          its way through the nerves.

     "The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite

torment.

               "Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck

          by a bullet.  The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would

          give six or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the

          chest.

     "It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the

disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool.  He says

that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white, wrinkled and

shrivelled was his face.  He gulped down brandy, a whole bottleful, and it

seems to have saved his life.  There is the book, Inspector.  I leave it with

you, and you cannot doubt that it contains a full explanation of the tragedy

of poor McPherson."

     "And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry smile.

"I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your suspicions were

natural.  I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I have only cleared myself

by sharing the fate of my poor friend."

     "No, Mr. Murdoch.  I was already upon the track, and had I been out as

early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific

experience."

     "But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.

That phrase 'the Lion's Mane' haunted my mind.  I knew that I had seen it

somewhere in an unexpected context.  You have seen that it does describe the

creature.  I have no doubt that it was floating on the water when McPherson

saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by which he could convey to us a

warning as to the creature which had been his death."

     "Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his feet.

"There are one or two words of explanation which I should give, for I know the

direction in which your inquiries have run.  It is true that I loved this

lady, but from the day when she chose my friend McPherson my one desire was to

help her to happiness.  I was well content to stand aside and act as their

go-between.  Often I carried their messages, and it was because I was in their

confidence and because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my

friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and

heartless manner.  She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest you

should disapprove and I might suffer.  But with your leave I must try to get

back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."

     Stackhurst held out his hand.  "Our nerves have all been at

concert-pitch," said he.  "Forgive what is past, Murdoch.  We shall understand

each other better in the future."  They passed out together with their arms

linked in friendly fashion.  The inspector remained, staring at me in silence

with his ox-like eyes.

     "Well, you've done it!" he cried at last.  "I had read of you, but I

never believed it.  It's wonderful!"

     I was forced to shake my head.  To accept such praise was to lower one's

own standards.

     "I was slow at the outset--culpably slow.  Had the body been found in the

water I could hardly have missed it.  It was the towel which misled me.  The

poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn was led to

believe that he had never been in the water.  Why, then, should the attack of

any water creature suggest itself to me?  That was where I went astray.  Well,

well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff you gentlemen of the police force,

but Cyanea capillata very nearly avenged Scotland Yard."