I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken theprinted description， I eliminated everything from it which couldbe the result of a disguise—the whiskers， the glasses， the voice，and I sent it to the firm， with a request that they would inform mewhether it answered to the description of any of their travellers. Ihad already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter， and I wroteto the man himself at his business address asking him if he wouldcome here. As I expected， his reply was typewritten and revealedthe same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post broughtme a letter from Westhouse & Marbank， of Fenchurch Street， tosay that the description tallied in every respect with that of theiremployé， James Windibank. Voilà tout！”
“And Miss Sutherland？”
“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the oldPersian saying， ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub，and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’
There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace， and as muchknowledge of the world.”
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
We were seated at breakfast one morning， my wife and I， whenthe maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes andran in this way：
“Have you a couple of days to spare？ Have just been wired for fromthe west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy.
Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect.
Leave Paddington by the 11：15.”
“What do you say， dear？” said my wife， looking across at me. “Willyou go？”
“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list atpresent.”
“Oh， Anstruther would do your work for you. You have beenlooking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do yougood， and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’
cases.”
“I should be ungrateful if I were not， seeing what I gainedthrough one of them，” I answered. “But if I am to go， I must packat once， for I have only half an hour.”
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had theeffect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants werefew and simple， so that in less than the time stated I was in a cabwith my valise， rattling away to Paddington Station. SherlockHolmes was pacing up and down the platform， his tall， gauntfigure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey travellingcloakand close-fitting cloth cap.
“It is really very good of you to come， Watson，” said he. “It makesa considerable difference to me， having someone with me on whomI can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or elsebiassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”
We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litterof papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among thesehe rummaged and read， with intervals of note-taking and ofmeditation， until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolledthem all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.
“Have you heard anything of the case？” he asked.
“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”
“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have justbeen looking through all the recent papers in order to master theparticulars. It seems， from what I gather， to be one of those simplecases which are so extremely difficult.”
“That sounds a little paradoxical.”
“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably aclue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is， the moredifficult it is to bring it home. In this case， however， they haveestablished a very serious case against the son of the murderedman.”
“It is a murder， then？”
“Well， it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granteduntil I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I willexplain the state of things to you， as far as I have been able tounderstand it， in a very few words.
“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross， inHerefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr.
John Turner， who made his money in Australia and returned someyears ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held， thatof Hatherley， was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy， who was also anex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies， sothat it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down theyshould do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparentlythe richer man， so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained，it seems， upon terms of perfect equality， as they were frequentlytogether. McCarthy had one son， a lad of eighteen， and Turnerhad an only daughter of the same age， but neither of them hadwives living. They appear to have avoided the society of theneighbouring English families and to have led retired lives， thoughboth the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seenat the race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept twoservants—a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household，some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been ableto gather about the families. Now for the facts.
“On June 3rd， that is， on Monday last， McCarthy left his houseat Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down tothe Boscombe Pool， which is a small lake formed by the spreadingout of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He hadbeen out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross， and hehad told the man that he must hurry， as he had an appointmentof importance to keep at three. From that appointment he nevercame back alive.
“From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarterof a mile， and two people saw him as he passed over this ground.
One was an old woman， whose name is not mentioned， and theother was William Crowder， a game-keeper in the employ of Mr.
