Two uniformed policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose andtouched his prisoner on the shoulder.
“It is time for us to go.”
“Can I see her first?”
“No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hopethat if ever again I have an important case, I shall have the goodfortune to have you by my side.”
We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away. As Iturned back, my eye caught the pellet of paper which the prisonerhad tossed upon the table. It was the note with which Holmes haddecoyed him.
“See if you can read it, Watson,” said he, with a smile.
It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:
“If you use the code which I have explained,” said Holmes, “youwill find that it simply means ‘Come here at once.’ I was convincedthat it was an invitation which he would not refuse, since he couldnever imagine that it could come from anyone but the lady. Andso, my dear Watson, we have ended by turning the dancing men togood when they have so often been the agents of evil, and I thinkthat I have fulfilled my promise of giving you something unusualfor your notebook. Three-forty is our train, and I fancy we shouldbe back in Baker Street for dinner.”
Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe Slaney, wascondemned to death at the winter assizes at Norwich, but hispenalty was changed to penal servitude in consideration ofmitigating circumstances, and the certainty that Hilton Cubitthad fired the first shot. Of Mrs. Hilton Cubitt I only know thatI have heard she recovered entirely, and that she still remains awidow, devoting her whole life to the care of the poor and to theadministration of her husband’s estate.
The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist
From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes wasa very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case ofany difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eightyears, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them ofthe most intricate and extraordinary character, in which he playeda prominent part. Many startling successes and a few unavoidablefailures were the outcome of this long period of continuous work.
As I have preserved very full notes of all these cases, and was myselfpersonally engaged in many of them, it may be imagined that it isno easy task to know which I should select to lay before the public.
I shall, however, preserve my former rule, and give the preferenceto those cases which derive their interest not so much from thebrutality of the crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic qualityof the solution. For this reason I will now lay before the readerthe facts connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist ofCharlington, and the curious sequel of our investigation, whichculminated in unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstancedid not admit of any striking illustration of those powers for whichmy friend was famous, but there were some points about the casewhich made it stand out in those long records of crime from whichI gather the material for these little narratives.
On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that itwas upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of MissViolet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome toHolmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruseand complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution towhich John Vincent Harden, the well known tobacco millionaire,had been subjected. My friend, who loved above all thingsprecision and concentration of thought, resented anything whichdistracted his attention from the matter in hand. And yet, withouta harshness which was foreign to his nature, it was impossible torefuse to listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman,tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Streetlate in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It wasvain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the younglady had come with the determination to tell her story, and it wasevident that nothing short of force could get her out of the roomuntil she had done so. With a resigned air and a somewhat wearysmile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat, and toinform us what it was that was troubling her.
“At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his keen eyesdarted over her, “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.”
She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observedthe slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the frictionof the edge of the pedal.
“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has somethingto do with my visit to you to-day.”
My friend took the lady’s ungloved hand, and examined it withas close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist wouldshow to a specimen.
“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,” said he, as hedropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you weretypewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observethe spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to bothprofessions? There is a spirituality about the face, however”—shegently turned it towards the light—“which the typewriter does notgenerate. This lady is a musician.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”
“In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”
“Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”
“A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interestingassociations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there thatwe took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what hashappened to you, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”
The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made thefollowing curious statement:
