The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escortedMiss Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion ofwomen, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as therewas someone weaker than herself to support, and I had found herbright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper. In thecab, however, she first turned faint and then burst into a passionof weeping—so sorely had she been tried by the adventures ofthe night. She has told me since that she thought me cold anddistant upon that journey. She little guessed the struggle withinmy breast, or the effort of self-restraint which held me back. Mysympathies and my love went out to her, even as my hand had inthe garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities of life couldnot teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this one dayof strange experiences. Yet there were two thoughts which sealedthe words of affection upon my lips. She was weak and helpless,shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage toobtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she was rich. IfHolmes’s researches were successful, she would be an heiress. Wasit fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon should take suchadvantage of an intimacy which chance had brought about? Mightshe not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I could notbear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind. This Agratreasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.
It was nearly two o’clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester’s.
The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had beenso interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan hadreceived that she had sat up in the hope of her return. She openedthe door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave mejoy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other’s waist andhow motherly was the voice in which she greeted her. She wasclearly no mere paid dependant but an honored friend. I wasintroduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me to step in andtell her our adventures. I explained, however, the importance ofmy errand and promised faithfully to call and report any progresswhich we might make with the case. As we drove away I stole aglance back, and I still seem to see that little group on the step——the two graceful, clinging figures, the half-opened door, the halllightshining through stained glass, the barometer, and the brightstair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse ofa tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark businesswhich had absorbed us.
And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder anddarker it grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence ofevents as I rattled on through the silent, gas-lit streets. There wasthe original problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The deathof Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement,the letter—we had had light upon all those events. They had onlyled us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. TheIndian treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan’s baggage,the strange scene at Major Sholto’s death, the rediscovery of thetreasure immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer,the very singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, theremarkable weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding withthose upon Captain Morstan’s chart—here was indeed a labyrinthin which a man less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodgermight well despair of ever finding the clue.
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby, two-storied brick houses inthe lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time atNo. 3 before I could make my impression. At last, however, therewas the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out atthe upper window.
“Go on, you drunken vagabone,” said the face. “If you kick upany more row, I’ll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogsupon you.”
“If you’ll let one out, it’s just what I have come for,” said I.
“Go on!” yelled the voice. “So help me gracious, I have a wiperin the bag, an’ I’ll drop it on your ’ead if you don’t hook it.”
“But I want a dog,” I cried.
“I won’t be argued with!” shouted Mr. Sherman. “Now standclear; for when I say ‘three,’ down goes the wiper.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes—” I began; but the words had a mostmagical effect, for the window instantly slammed down, andwithin a minute the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Shermanwas a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck,and blue-tinted glasses.
“A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome,” said he. “Step in,sir. Keep clear of the badger, for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty;would you take a nip at the gentleman?” This to a stoat whichthrust its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. “Don’tmind that, sir; it’s only a slowworm. It hain’t got no fangs, so I givesit the run o’ the room, for it keeps the bettles down. You must notmind my bein’ just a little short wi’ you at first, for I’m guyed at bythe children, and there’s many a one just comes down this lane toknock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?”
“He wanted a dog of yours.”
“Ah! that would be Toby.”
“Yes, Toby was the name.”
“Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here.”
He moved slowly forward with his candle among the queeranimal family which he had gathered round him. In the uncertain,shadowy light I could see dimly that there were glancing,glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and corner.
Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, wholazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voicesdisturbed their slumbers.
