Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him whenthere, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with hisdisappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess thatI cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at thefirst glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.”
While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular seriesof events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the greattown until the last straggling houses had been left behind, andwe rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Justas he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages,where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.
“We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We havetouched on three English counties in our short drive, starting inMiddlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent.
See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and besidethat lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I havelittle doubt, caught the clink of our horse’s feet.”
“But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” Iasked.
“Because there are many inquiries which must be made outhere. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal,and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcomefor my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when Ihave no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within itsown grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, andspringing down I followed Holmes up the small, winding graveldrivewhich led to the house. As we approached, the door flewopen, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad insome sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pinkchiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlinedagainst the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one halfraisedin her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and faceprotruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.
“Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were twoof us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she sawthat my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“No good news?”
“None.”
“No bad?”
“No.”
“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for youhave had a long day.”
“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use tome in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possiblefor me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation.”
“I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly.
“You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in ourarrangements, when you consider the blow which has come sosuddenly upon us.”
“My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I werenot I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be ofany assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeedhappy.”
“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a welllitdining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had beenlaid out, “I should very much like to ask you one or two plainquestions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.”
“Certainly, madam.”
“Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, norgiven to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”
“Upon what point?”
“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”
Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.
“Frankly, now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and lookingkeenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.
“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”
“You think that he is dead?”
“I do.”
“Murdered?”
“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”
“And on what day did he meet his death?”
“On Monday.”
“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explainhow it is that I have received a letter from him to-day.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.
“What!” he roared.
“Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paperin the air.
“May I see it?”
“Certainly.”
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it outupon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently.
I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. Theenvelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with theGravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or ratherof the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.
“Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not yourhusband’s writing, madam.”
“No, but the enclosure is.”
“I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to goand inquire as to the address.”
“How can you tell that?”
“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has drieditself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blottingpaperhas been used. If it had been written straight off, and thenblotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man haswritten the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrotethe address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it.
It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.
Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!”
“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”
“And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”
“One of his hands.”
“One?”
“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usualwriting, and yet I know it well.”
“ ‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a hugeerror which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.
—NEVILLE.’
Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, nowater-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with adirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not verymuch in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. Andyou have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”
“None. Neville wrote those words.”
