There are not such a very great number of civilians, and adeformed man was sure to have attracted attention. I spent a dayin the search, and by evening—this very evening, Watson—I hadrun him down. The man’s name is Henry Wood, and he lives inlodgings in this same street in which the ladies met him. He hasonly been five days in the place. In the character of a registrationagentI had a most interesting gossip with his landlady. The man isby trade a conjurer and performer, going round the canteens afternightfall, and giving a little entertainment at each. He carries somecreature about with him in that box; about which the landladyseemed to be in considerable trepidation, for she had never seenan animal like it. He uses it in some of his tricks according to heraccount. So much the woman was able to tell me, and also that itwas a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and thathe spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the last twonights she had heard him groaning and weeping in his bedroom.
He was all right, as far as money went, but in his deposit he hadgiven her what looked like a bad florin. She showed it to me,Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.
“So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and whyit is I want you. It is perfectly plain that after the ladies partedfrom this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw thequarrel between husband and wife through the window, that herushed in, and that the creature which he carried in his box gotloose. That is all very certain. But he is the only person in thisworld who can tell us exactly what happened in that room.”
“And you intend to ask him?”
“Most certainly—but in the presence of a witness.”
“And I am the witness?”
“If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up, well andgood. If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for awarrant.”
“But how do you know he’ll be there when we return?”
“You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have oneof my Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who wouldstick to him like a burr, go where he might. We shall find him inHudson Street to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be thecriminal myself if I kept you out of bed any longer.”
It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of thetragedy, and, under my companion’s guidance, we made our wayat once to Hudson Street. In spite of his capacity for concealinghis emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state ofsuppressed excitement, while I was myself tingling with that halfsporting,half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably experiencedwhen I associated myself with him in his investigations.
“This is the street,” said he, as we turned into a shortthoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick houses. “Ah, hereis Simpson to report.”
“He’s in all right, Mr. Holmes,” cried a small street Arab,running up to us.
“Good, Simpson!” said Holmes, patting him on the head. “Comealong, Watson. This is the house.” He sent in his card with amessage that he had come on important business, and a momentlater we were face to face with the man whom we had come to see.
In spite of the warm weather he was crouching over a fire, and thelittle room was like an oven. The man sat all twisted and huddledin his chair in a way which gave an indescribably impression ofdeformity; but the face which he turned towards us, though wornand swarthy, must at some time have been remarkable for its beauty.
He looked suspiciously at us now out of yellow-shot, bilious eyes,and, without speaking or rising, he waved towards two chairs.
“Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably.
“I’ve come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay’s death.”
“What should I know about that?”
“That’s what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, thatunless the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old friendof yours, will in all probability be tried for murder.”
The man gave a violent start.
“I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “nor how you come toknow what you do know, but will you swear that this is true thatyou tell me?”
“Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses toarrest her.”
“My God! Are you in the police yourself?”
“No.”
“What business is it of yours, then?”
“It’s every man’s business to see justice done.”
“You can take my word that she is innocent.”
“Then you are guilty.”
“No, I am not.”
“Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?”
“It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind you this,that if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to do, hewould have had no more than his due from my hands. If his ownguilty conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough thatI might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell thestory. Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t, for there’s no cause forme to be ashamed of it.
“It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back like a cameland my ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal HenryWood was the smartest man in the One Hundred and Seventeenthfoot. We were in India then, in cantonments, at a place we’ll callBhurtee. Barclay, who died the other day, was sergeant in the samecompany as myself, and the belle of the regiment, ay, and the finestgirl that ever had the breath of life between her lips, was NancyDevoy, the daughter of the color-sergeant. There were two men thatloved her, and one that she loved, and you’ll smile when you look atthis poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear me say that it wasfor my good looks that she loved me.
“Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon hermarrying Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he hadhad an education, and was already marked for the sword-belt. Butthe girl held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had herwhen the Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.
