“Au revoir,” said our visitor; and with a bright, kindly glance fromone to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom andhurried away.
Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down thestreet until the gray turban and white feather were but a speck inthe sombre crowd.
“What a very attractive woman!” I exclaimed, turning to mycompanion.
He had lit his pipe again and was leaning back with droopingeyelids. “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 judgmentto be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, afactor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic toclear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning woman I everknew was hanged for poisoning three little children for theirinsurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintanceis a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a millionupon 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 habitsand some force of character.”
Holmes shook his head.
“Look at his long letters,” he said. “They hardly rise abovethe common herd. That d might be an a, and that l an e. Men ofcharacter always differentiate their long letters, however illegiblythey may write. There is vacillation in his k’s and self-esteem in hiscapitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make.
Let me recommend this book—one of the most remarkable everpenned. It is Winwood Reade’s ‘Martyrdom of Man.’ I shall be backin an hour.”
I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but mythoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. Mymind ran upon our late visitor—her smiles, the deep rich tonesof her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If shewere seventeen at the time of her father’s disappearance she mustbe seven-and-twenty now—a sweet age, when youth has lost itsself-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So Isat and mused until such dangerous thoughts came into my headthat I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into the latesttreatise upon pathology. What was I, an army surgeon with a weakleg and a weaker banking account, that I should dare to think ofsuch things? She was a unit, a factor—nothing more. If my futurewere black, it was better surely to face it like a man than to attemptto brighten it by mere will-o’-the-wisps of the imagination.
In Quest of a Solution
It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright,eager, and in excellent spirits, a mood which in his case alternatedwith fits of the blackest depression.
“There is no great mystery in this matter,” he said, taking thecup of tea which I had poured out for him; “The facts appear toadmit of only one explanation.”
“What! you have solved it already?”
“Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered asuggestive fact, that is all. It is, however, VERY suggestive. Thedetails are still to be added. I have just found, on consulting theback files of the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, lateof the 34th Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882.”
“I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what thissuggests.”
“No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. CaptainMorstan disappears. The only person in London whom he couldhave visited is Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard thathe was in London. Four years later Sholto dies. WITHIN A WEEKOF HIS DEATH Captain Morstan’s daughter receives a valuablepresent, which is repeated from year to year and now culminatesin a letter which describes her as a wronged woman. What wrongcan it refer to except this deprivation of her father? And whyshould the presents begin immediately after Sholto’s death unlessit is that Sholto’s heir knows something of the mystery and desiresto make compensation? Have you any alternative theory whichwill meet the facts?”
“But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made!
Why, too, should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago?
Again, the letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can shehave? It is too much to suppose that her father is still alive. Thereis no other injustice in her case that you know of.”
“There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties,” saidSherlock Holmes pensively; “But our expedition of to-night willsolve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan isinside. Are you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is alittle past the hour.”
I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed thatHolmes took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into hispocket. It was clear that he thought that our night’s work mightbe a serious one.
Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive facewas composed but pale. She must have been more than woman ifshe did not feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise uponwhich we were embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, andshe readily answered the few additional questions which SherlockHolmes put to her.
“Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa’s,” she said.
“His letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa werein command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they werethrown a great deal together. By the way, a curious paper wasfound in papa’s desk which no one could understand. I don’tsuppose that it is of the slightest importance, but I thought youmight care to see it, so I brought it with me. It is here.”
Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out uponhis knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with hisdouble lens.
