THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES THE RESIDENT PATIENT

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$Title{MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES; The Resident Patient}

$Author{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan}

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$Journal{}

$Volume{}

$Date{}

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                         THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                          MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

                             THE RESIDENT PATIENT

IN GLANCING over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which I have

endeavoured to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr.

Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty which I have experienced

in picking out examples which shall in every way answer my purpose.  For in

those cases in which Holmes has performed some tour de force of analytical

reasoning, and has demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of

investigation, the facts themselves have often been so slight or so

commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying them before the public.

On the other hand, it has frequently happened that he has been concerned in

some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and dramatic

character, but where the share which he has himself taken in determining their

causes has been less pronounced than I, as his biographer, could wish.  The

small matter which I have chronicled under the heading of "A Study in

Scarlet," and that other later one connected with the loss of the Gloria

Scott, may serve as examples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever

threatening the historian.  It may be that in the business of which I am now

about to write the part which my friend played is not sufficiently

accentuated; and yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable that I

cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this series.

     It had been a close, rainy day in October.  Our blinds were half-drawn,

and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he

had received by the morning post.  For myself, my term of service in India had

trained me to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer of ninety was no

hardship.  But the paper was uninteresting.  Parliament had risen.  Everybody

was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle

of Southsea.  A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my holiday,

and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea presented the

slightest attraction to him.  He loved to lie in the very centre of five

millions of people, with his filaments stretching out and running through

them, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime.

Appreciation of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only

change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track

down his brother of the country.

     Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation, I had tossed aside

the barren paper, and, leaning back in my chair I fell into a brown study.

Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts.

     "You are right, Watson," said he.  "It does seem a very preposterous way

of settling a dispute."

     "Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then, suddenly realizing how he had

echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and stared at him

in blank amazement.

     "What is this, Holmes?" I cried.  "This is beyond anything which I could

have imagined.

     He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

     "You remember," said he, "that some little time ago, when I read you the

passage in one of Poe's sketches, in which a close reasoner follows the

unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to treat the matter as a

mere tour de force of the author.  On my remarking that I was constantly in

the habit of doing the same thing you expressed incredulity."

     "Oh, no!"

     "Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with your

eyebrows.  So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a train of

thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it off, and

eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I had been in rapport with

you."

     But I was still far from satisfied.  "In the example which you read to

me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the man

whom he observed.  If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap of stones,

looked up at the stars, and so on.  But I have been seated quietly in my

chair, and what clues can I have given you?"

     "You do yourself an injustice.  The features are given to man as the

means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful

servants."

     "Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my features?"

     "Your features, and especially your eyes.  Perhaps you cannot yourself

recall how your reverie commenced?"

     "No, I cannot."

     "Then I will tell you.  After throwing down your paper, which was the

action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant

expression.  Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly framed picture of

General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your face that a train of

thought had been started.  But it did not lead very far.  Your eyes turned

across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher, which stands upon the

top of your books.  You then glanced up at the wall, and of course your

meaning was obvious.  You were thinking that if the portrait were framed it

would just cover that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture over

there."

     "You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.

     "So far I could hardly have gone astray.  But now your thoughts went back

to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying the character

in his features.  Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you continued to look

across, and your face was thoughtful.  You were recalling the incidents of

Beecher's career.  I was well aware that you could not do this without

thinking of the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time

of the Civil War, for I remember you expressing your passionate indignation at

the way in which he was received by the more turbulent of our people.  You

felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without

thinking of that also.  When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from

the picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War, and

when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands

clinched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which

was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle.  But then, again, your

face grew sadder; you shook your head.  You were dwelling upon the sadness and

horror and useless waste of life.  Your hand stole towards your own old wound,

and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of

this method of settling international questions had forced itself upon your

mind.  At this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous, and was glad

to find that all my deductions had been correct."

     "Absolutely!" said I.  "And now that you have explained it, I confess

that I am as amazed as before."

     "It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you.  I should not

have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity the

other day.  But the evening has brought a breeze with it.  What do you say to

a ramble through London?"

     I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced.  For three

hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of

life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the Strand.  His

characteristic talk, with its keen observance of detail and subtle power of

inference, held me amused and enthralled.  It was ten o'clock before we

reached Baker Street again.  A brougham was waiting at our door.

     "Hum!  A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive," said Holmes.  "Not

been long in practice, but has a good deal to do.  Come to consult us, I

fancy!  Lucky we came back!"

     I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to be able to follow

his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the various medical

instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the lamp-light inside the

brougham had given him the data for his swift deduction.  The light in our

window above showed that this late visit was indeed intended for us.  With

some curiosity as to what could have sent a brother medico to us at such an

hour, I followed Holmes into our sanctum.

     A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by the

fire as we entered.  His age may not have been more than three or four and

thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a life which had

sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth.  His manner was nervous and

shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which he laid

on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather than of a surgeon.

His dress was quiet and sombre--a black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch

of colour about his necktie.

     "Good-evening, Doctor," said Holmes cheerily.  "I am glad to see that you

have only been waiting a very few minutes."

     "You spoke to my coachman, then?"

     "No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me.  Pray resume your

seat and let me know how I can serve you."

     "My name is Dr. Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor, "and I live at 403

Brook Street."

     "Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?" I

asked.

     His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was known

to me.

     "I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead," said he.

"My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale.  You are

yourself, I presume, a medical man?"

     "A retired army surgeon."

     "My own hobby has always been nervous disease.  I should wish to make it

an absolute specialty, but of course a man must take what he can get at first.

This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I quite

appreciate how valuable your time is.  The fact is that a very singular train

of events has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and to-night they

came to such a head that I felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another

hour before asking for your advice and assistance."

     Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe.  "You are very welcome to

both," said he.  "Pray let me have a detailed account of what the

circumstances are which have disturbed you."

     "One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr. Trevelyan, "that really I

am almost ashamed to mention them.  But the matter is so inexplicable, and the

recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I shall lay it all before

you, and you shall judge what is essential and what is not.

     "I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own college

career.  I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure that you will

not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say that my student

career was considered by my professors to be a very promising one.  After I

had graduated I continued to devote myself to research, occupying a minor

position in King's College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough to excite

considerable interest by my research into the pathology of catalepsy, and

finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on nervous

lesions to which your friend has just alluded.  I should not go too far if I

were to say that there was a general impression at that time that a

distinguished career lay before me.

     "But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital.  As you

will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to start in

one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all of which entail

enormous rents and furnishing expenses.  Besides this preliminary outlay, he

must be prepared to keep himself for some years, and to hire a presentable

carriage and horse.  To do this was quite beyond my power, and I could only

hope that by economy I might in ten years' time save enough to enable me to

put up my plate.  Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a

new prospect to me.

     "This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who was a

complete stranger to me.  He came up into my room one morning, and plunged

into business in an instant.

     "'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a career

and won a great prize lately?' said he.

     "I bowed.

     "'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find it to your

interest to do so.  You have all the cleverness which makes a successful man.

Have you the tact?'

     "I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.

     "'I trust that I have my share,' I said.

     "'Any bad habits?  Not drawn towards drink, eh?'

     "'Really, sir!' I cried.

     "'Quite right!  That's all right!  But I was bound to ask.  With all

these qualities, why are you not in practice?'

     "I shrugged my shoulders.

     "'Come, come!' said he in his bustling way.  'It's the old story.  More

in your brains than in your pocket, eh?  What would you say if I were to start

you in Brook Street?'

     "I stared at him in astonishment.

     "'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried.  'I'll be perfectly

frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me very well.  I have a few

thousands to invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in you.'

     "'But why?' I gasped.

     "'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and safer than most.'

     "'What am I to do, then?'

     "'I'll tell you.  I'll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and run

the whole place.  All you have to do is just to wear out your chair in the

consulting-room.  I'll let you have pocket-money and everything.  Then you

hand over to me three quarters of what you earn, and you keep the other

quarter for yourself.'

     "This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man

Blessington approached me.  I won't weary you with the account of how we

bargained and negotiated.  It ended in my moving into the house next Lady Day,

and starting in practice on very much the same conditions as he had suggested.

He came himself to live with me in the character of a resident patient.  His

heart was weak, it appears, and he needed constant medical supervision.  He

turned the two best rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom

for himself.  He was a man of singular habits, shunning company and very

seldom going out.  His life was irregular, but in one respect he was

regularity itself.  Every evening, at the same hour, he walked into the

consulting-room, examined the books, put down five and three-pence for every

guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest off to the strong-box in his

own room.

     "I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his

speculation.  From the first it was a success.  A few good cases and the

reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the front,

and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.

     "So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr.

Blessington.  It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred to

bring me here to-night.

     "Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to me, a

state of considerable agitation.  He spoke of some burglary which, he said,

had been committed in the West End, and he appeared, I remember, to be quite

unnecessarily excited about it, declaring that a day should not pass before we

should add stronger bolts to our windows and doors.  For a week he continued

to be in a peculiar state of restlessness, peering continually out of the

windows, and ceasing to take the short walk which had usually been the prelude

to his dinner.  From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of

something or somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he became so

offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject.  Gradually, as time

passed, his fears appeared to die away, and he renewed his former habits, when

a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable state of prostration in which he now

lies.

     "What happened was this.  Two days ago I received the letter which I now

read to you.  Neither address nor date is attached to it.

               "A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England [it runs],

          would be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr.

          Percy Trevelyan.  He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic

          attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority.

          He proposes to call at about a quarter-past six to-morrow evening,

          if Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home.

     "This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in the

study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease.  You may believe, then,

that I was in my consulting-room when, at the appointed hour, the page showed

in the patient.

     "He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace--by no means the

conception one forms of a Russian nobleman.  I was much more struck by the

appearance of his companion.  This was a tall young man, surprisingly

handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and chest of a Hercules.  He

had his hand under the other's arm as they entered, and helped him to a chair

with a tenderness which one would hardly have expected from his appearance.

     "'You will excuse my coming in, Doctor,' said he to me, speaking English

with a slight lisp.  'This is my father, and his health is a matter of the

most overwhelming importance to me.'

     "I was touched by this filial anxiety.  'You would, perhaps, care to

remain during the consultation?' said I.

     "'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of horror.  'It is more

painful to me than I can express.  If I were to see my father in one of these

dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive it.  My own

nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one.  With your permission, I

will remain in the waiting-room while you go into my father's case.'

     "To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew.  The patient

and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I took exhaustive

notes.  He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his answers were

frequently obscure, which I attributed to his limited acquaintance with our

language.  Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he ceased to give any answer

at all to my inquiries, and on my turning towards him I was shocked to see

that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly

blank and rigid face.  He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady.

     "My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror.  My

second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction.  I made notes of

my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his muscles, and

examined his reflexes.  There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these

conditions, which harmonized with my former experiences.  I had obtained good

results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present

seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its virtues.  The bottle was

downstairs in my laboratory, so, leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran

down to get it.  There was some little delay in finding it--five minutes, let

us say--and then I returned.  Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and

the patient gone.

     "Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room.  The son had

gone also.  The hall door had been closed, but not shut.  My page who admits

patients is a new boy and by no means quick.  He waits downstairs and runs up

to show patients out when I ring the consulting-room bell.  He had heard

nothing, and the affair remained a complete mystery.  Mr. Blessington came in

from his walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the

subject, for, to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as

little communication with him as possible.

     "Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian and

his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very same hour this

evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room, just as they had

done before.

     "'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt departure

yesterday, Doctor,' said my patient.

     "'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,' said I.

     "'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I recover from these

attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone before.  I woke

up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way out into the street

in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.'

     "'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass the door of the

waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an end.  It

was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the true state of

affairs.'

     "'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done except that you puzzled

me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the waiting-room I shall

be happy to continue our consultation which was brought to so abrupt an

ending.'

     "For half an hour or so I discussed the old gentleman's symptoms with

him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the arm of his

son.

     "I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of the

day for his exercise.  He came in shortly afterwards and passed upstairs.  An

instant later I heard him running down, and he burst into my consulting-room

like a man who is mad with panic.

     "'Who has been in my room?' he cried.

     "'No one,' said I.

     "'It's a lie!' he yelled.  'Come up and look!'

     "I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out of

his mind with fear.  When I went upstairs with him he pointed to several

footprints upon the light carpet.

     "'Do you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.

     "They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have made,

and were evidently quite fresh.  It rained hard this afternoon, as you know,

and my patients were the only people who called.  It must have been the case,

then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for some unknown reason, while I

was busy with the other, ascended to the room of my resident patient.  Nothing

had been touched or taken, but there were the footprints to prove that the

intrusion was an undoubted fact.

     "Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should have

thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb anybody's peace of

mind.  He actually sat crying in an armchair, and I could hardly get him to

speak coherently.  It was his suggestion that I should come round to you, and

of course I at once saw the propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a

very singular one, though he appears to completely overrate its importance.

If you would only come back with me in my brougham, you would at least be able

to soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able to explain this

remarkable occurrence."

     Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an intentness

which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused.  His face was as

impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his eyes, and

his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe to emphasize each curious

episode in the doctor's tale.  As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up

without a word, handed me my hat, picked his own from the table, and followed

Dr. Trevelyan to the door.  Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped at

the door of the physician's residence in Brook Street, one of those sombre,

flat-faced houses which one associates with a West End practice.  A small page

admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair.

     But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill.  The light at the

top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy, quavering

voice.

     "I have a pistol," it cried.  "I give you my word that I'll fire if you

come any nearer."

     "This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried Dr. Trevelyan.

     "Oh, then it is you, Doctor," said the voice with a great heave of

relief.  "But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to be?"

     We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

     "Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last.  "You can come up,

and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you."

     He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a

singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice, testified to his

jangled nerves.  He was very fat, but had apparently at some time been much

fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose pouches, like the cheeks

of a bloodhound.  He was of a sickly colour, and his thin, sandy hair seemed

to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion.  In his hand he held a

pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we advanced.

     "Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he.  "I am sure I am very much obliged

to you for coming round.  No one ever needed your advice more than I do.  I

suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most unwarrantable intrusion

into my rooms."

     "Quite so," said Holmes.  "Who are these two men, Mr. Blessington, and

why do they wish to molest you?"

     "Well, well," said the resident patient in a nervous fashion, "of course

it is hard to say that.  You can hardly expect me to answer that, Mr. Holmes."

     "Do you mean that you don't know?"

     "Come in here, if you please.  Just have the kindness to step in here."

     He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably

furnished.

     "You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of his

bed.  "I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes--never made but one

investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you.  But I don't believe

in bankers.  I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes.  Between ourselves,

what little I have is in that box, so you can understand what it means to me

when unknown people force themselves into my rooms."

     Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his head.

     "I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me," said he.

     "But I have told you everything."

     Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust.  "Good-night, Dr.

Trevelyan," said he.

     "And no advice for me?" cried Blessington in a breaking voice.

     "My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth."

     A minute later we were in the street and walking for home.  We had

crossed Oxford Street and were halfway down Harley Street before I could get a

word from my companion.

     "Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson," he said at

last.  "It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it."

     "I can make little of it," I confessed.

     "Well, it is quite evident that there are two men--more, perhaps, but at

least two--who are determined for some reason to get at this fellow

Blessington.  I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first and on the

second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's room, while his

confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor from interfering."

     "And the catalepsy?"

     "A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint as

much to our specialist.  It is a very easy complaint to imitate.  I have done

it myself."

     "And then?"

     "By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion.  Their reason

for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was obviously to insure

that there should be no other patient in the waiting-room.  It just happened,

however, that this hour coincided with Blessington's constitutional, which

seems to show that they were not very well acquainted with his daily routine.

Of course, if they had been merely after plunder they would at least have made

some attempt to search for it.  Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it is

his own skin that he is frightened for.  It is inconceivable that this fellow

could have made two such vindictive enemies as these appear to be without

knowing of it.  I hold it, therefore, to be certain that he does know who

these men are, and that for reasons of his own he suppresses it.  It is just

possible that to-morrow may find him in a more communicative mood."

     "Is there not one alternative," I suggested, "grotesquely improbable, no

doubt, but still just conceivable?  Might the whole story of the cataleptic

Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's, who has, for his own

purposes, been in Blessington's rooms?"

     I saw in the gas-light that Holmes wore an amused smile at this brilliant

departure of mine.

     "My dear fellow," said he, "it was one of the first solutions which

occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale.  This

young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it quite

superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the room.  When I

tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed like

Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the doctor's,

you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to his individuality.  But

we may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if we do not hear something

further from Brook Street in the morning."

     Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic fashion.

At half-past seven next morning, in the first dim glimmer of daylight, I found

him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

     "There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.

     "What's the matter, then?"

     "The Brook Street business."

     "Any fresh news?"

     "Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the blind.  "Look at this--a

sheet from a notebook, with 'For God's sake come at once.  P. T.,' scrawled

upon it in pencil.  Our friend, the doctor, was hard put to it when he wrote

this.  Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an urgent call."

     In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician's house.  He

came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

     "Oh, such a business!" he cried with his hands to his temples.

     "What then?"

     "Blessington has committed suicide!"

     Holmes whistled.

     "Yes, he hanged himself during the night."

     We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was evidently

his waiting-room.

     "I really hardly know what I am doing," he cried.  "The police are

already upstairs.  It has shaken me most dreadfully."

     "When did you find it out?"

     "He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning.  When the maid

entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging in the middle

of the room.  He had tied his cord to the hook on which the heavy lamp used to

hang, and he had jumped off from the top of the very box that he showed us

yesterday."

     Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

     "With your permission," said he at last, "I should like to go upstairs

and look into the matter."

     We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

     It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door.  I

have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man Blessington

conveyed.  As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated and intensified

until he was scarce human in his appearance.  The neck was drawn out like a

plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem the more obese and unnatural by

the contrast.  He was clad only in his long night-dress, and his swollen

ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath it.  Beside him stood

a smart-looking police-inspector, who was taking notes in a pocketbook.

     "Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he heartily as my friend entered, "I am delighted

to see you."

     "Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't think me an intruder,

I am sure.  Have you heard of the events which led up to this affair?"

     "Yes, I heard something of them."

     "Have you formed any opinion?"

     "As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by

fright.  The bed has been well slept in, you see.  There's his impression,

deep enough.  It's about five in the morning, you know, that suicides are most

common.  That would be about his time for hanging himself.  It seems to have

been a very deliberate affair."

     "I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by the

rigidity of the muscles," said I.

     "Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked Holmes.

     "Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand.  Seems to

have smoked heavily during the night, too.  Here are four cigar-ends that I

picked out of the fireplace."

     "Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"

     "No, I have seen none."

     "His cigar-case, then?"

     "Yes, it was in his coat-pocket."

     Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

     "Oh, this is a Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar sort

which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies.  They are

usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for their length than any

other brand."  He picked up the four ends and examined them with his

pocket-lens.

     "Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without," said he.

"Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had the ends bitten

off by a set of excellent teeth.  This is no suicide, Mr. Lanner.  It is a

very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder."

     "Impossible!" cried the inspector.

     "And why?"

     "Why should anyone murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging

him?"

     "That is what we have to find out."

     "How could they get in?"

     "Through the front door."

     "It was barred in the morning."

     "Then it was barred after them."

     "How do you know?"

     "I saw their traces.  Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give you

some further information about it."

     He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his

methodical way.  Then he took out the key, which was on the inside, and

inspected that also.  The bed, the carpet, the chairs, the mantelpiece, the

dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined, until at last he professed

himself satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector cut down the

wretched object and laid it reverently under a sheet.

     "How about this rope?" he asked.

     "It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from under

the bed.  "He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept this beside him,

so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs were burning."

     "That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes thoughtfully.  "Yes, the

actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the afternoon I

cannot give you the reasons for them as well.  I will take this photograph of

Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as it may help me in my

inquiries."

     "But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.

     "Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events," said Holmes.

"There were three of them in it:  the young man, the old man, and a third, to

whose identity I have no clue.  The first two, I need hardly remark, are the

same who masqueraded as the Russian count and his son, so we can give a very

full description of them.  They were admitted by a confederate inside the

house.  If I might offer you a word of advice, Inspector, it would be to

arrest the page, who, as I understand, has only recently come into your

service, Doctor."

     "The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan; "the maid and the

cook have just been searching for him."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "He has played a not unimportant part in this drama," said he.  "The

three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the elder man

first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the rear-- --"

     "My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.

     "Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the footmarks.

I had the advantage of learning which was which last night.  They ascended,

then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of which they found to be locked.

With the help of a wire, however, they forced round the key.  Even without the

lens you will perceive, by the scratches on this ward, where the pressure was

applied.

     "On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag Mr.

Blessington.  He may have been asleep, or he may have been so paralyzed with

terror as to have been unable to cry out.  These walls are thick, and it is

conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to utter one, was unheard.

     "Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some sort

was held.  Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial proceeding.

It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that these cigars were

smoked.  The older man sat in that wicker chair; it was he who used the

cigar-holder.  The younger man sat over yonder; he knocked his ash off against

the chest of drawers.  The third fellow paced up and down.  Blessington, I

think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely certain.

     "Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him.  The matter

was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with them some sort

of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows.  That screw-driver and

those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it up.  Seeing the hook, however,

they naturally saved themselves the trouble.  Having finished their work they

made off, and the door was barred behind them by their confederate."

     We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the

night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and minute that,

even when he had pointed them out to us, we could scarcely follow him in his

reasonings.  The inspector hurried away on the instant to make inquiries about

the page, while Holmes and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

     "I'll be back by three," said he when we had finished our meal.  "Both

the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour, and I hope by

that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which the case may still

present."

     Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to four

before my friend put in an appearance.  From his expression as he entered,

however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

     "Any news, Inspector?"

     "We have got the boy, sir."

     "Excellent, and I have got the men."

     "You have got them!" we cried, all three.

     "Well, at least I have got their identity.  This so-called Blessington

is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his assailants.

Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."

     "The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.

     "Precisely," said Holmes.

     "Then Blessington must have been Sutton."

     "Exactly," said Holmes.

     "Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said the inspector.

     But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

     "You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business," said

Holmes.  "Five men were in it--these four and a fifth called Cartwright.

Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got away with seven

thousand pounds.  This was in 1875.  They were all five arrested, but the

evidence against them was by no means conclusive.  This Blessington or Sutton,

who was the worst of the gang, turned informer.  On his evidence Cartwright

was hanged and the other three got fifteen years apiece.  When they got out

the other day, which was some years before their full term, they set

themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death

of their comrade upon him.  Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third

time, you see, it came off.  Is there anything further which I can explain,

Dr. Trevelyan?"

     "I think you have made it all remarkably clear," said the doctor.  "No

doubt the day on which he was so perturbed was the day when he had seen of

their release in the newspapers."

     "Quite so.  His talk about a burglary was the merest blind."

     "But why could he not tell you this?"

     "Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old

associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as long as

he could.  His secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring himself to

divulge it.  However, wretch as he was, he was still living under the shield

of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector, that you will see that, though

that shield may fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge."

     Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident

Patient and the Brook Street Doctor.  From that night nothing has been seen of

the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at Scotland Yard that

they were among the passengers of the ill-fated steamer Norah Creina, which

was lost some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues

to the north of Oporto.  The proceedings against the page broke down for want

of evidence, and the Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until

now been fully dealt with in any public print.