“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair,the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that thedanger is over.”
“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”
“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. Thering, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”
“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”
“Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday andonly posted to-day.”
“That is possible.”
“If so, much may have happened between.”
“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that allis well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that Ishould know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I sawhim last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the diningroomrushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty thatsomething had happened. Do you think that I would respond tosuch a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?”
“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of awoman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analyticalreasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong pieceof evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is aliveand able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?”
“I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.”
“And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?”
“No.”
“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”
“Very much so.”
“Was the window open?”
“Yes.”
“Then he might have called to you?”
“He might.”
“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”
“Yes.”
“A call for help, you thought?”
“Yes. He waved his hands.”
“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at theunexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?”
“It is possible.”
“And you thought he was pulled back?”
“He disappeared so suddenly.”
“He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in theroom?”
“No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, andthe Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.”
“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had hisordinary clothes on?”
“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”
“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”
“Never.”
“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”
“Never.”
“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points aboutwhich I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a littlesupper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.”
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placedat our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I wasweary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man,however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind,would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turningit over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point ofview until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself thathis data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he wasnow preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat andwaistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wanderedabout the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushionsfrom the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort ofEastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, withan ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in frontof him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, anold briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon thecorner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquilinefeatures. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when asudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summersun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips,the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a densetobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which Ihad seen upon the previous night.
“Awake, Watson?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Game for a morning drive?”
“Certainly.”
“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stableboysleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled tohimself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a differentman to the sombre thinker of the previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that noone was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardlyfinished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy wasputting in the horse.
“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on hisboots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presenceof one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to bekicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key ofthe affair now.”
“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.
“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” hecontinued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there,and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.
Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out intothe bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap,with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprangin, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few countrycarts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but thelines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some cityin a dream.
“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes,flicking the horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been asblind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never tolearn it at all.”
