“Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man， so I came homeand changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had toplay then， for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avertscandal， and I knew that so astute a villain would see that ourhands were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first， ofcourse， he denied everything. But when I gave him every particularthat had occurred， he tried to bluster and took down a lifepreserverfrom the wall. I knew my man， however， and I clappeda pistol to his head before he could strike. Then he became a littlemore reasonable. I told him that we would give him a price for thestones he held— ￡1000 apiece. That brought out the first signs ofgrief that he had shown. ‘Why， dash it all！’ said he， ‘I’ve let themgo at six hundred for the three！’ I soon managed to get the addressof the receiver who had them， on promising him that there wouldbe no prosecution. Off I set to him， and after much chaffering Igot our stones at ￡1000 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son，told him that all was right， and eventually got to my bed about twoo’clock， after what I may call a really hard day’s work.”
“A day which has saved England from a great public scandal，”
said the banker， rising. “Sir， I cannot find words to thank you， butyou shall not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skillhas indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I mustfly to my dear boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I havedone him. As to what you tell me of poor Mary， it goes to my veryheart. Not even your skill can inform me where she is now.”
“I think that we may safely say，” returned Holmes， “that she iswherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain， too， thatwhatever her sins are， they will soon receive a more than sufficientpunishment.”
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
“To the man who loves art for its own sake，” remarked SherlockHolmes， tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the DailyTelegraph， “it is frequently in its least important and lowliestmanifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It ispleasant to me to observe， Watson， that you have so far graspedthis truth that in these little records of our cases which you havebeen good enough to draw up， and， I am bound to say， occasionallyto embellish， you have given prominence not so much to the manycauses célèbres and sensational trials in which I have figured butrather to those incidents which may have been trivial in themselves，but which have given room for those faculties of deduction and oflogical synthesis which I have made my special province.”
“And yet，” said I， smiling， “I cannot quite hold myself absolvedfrom the charge of sensationalism which has been urged againstmy records.”
“You have erred， perhaps，” he observed， taking up a glowingcinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherrywoodpipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in adisputatious rather than a meditative mood—“you have erredperhaps in attempting to put colour and life into each of yourstatements instead of confining yourself to the task of placingupon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which isreally the only notable feature about the thing.”
“It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter，”
I remarked with some coldness， for I was repelled by the egotismwhich I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in myfriend’s singular character.
“No， it is not selfishness or conceit，” said he， answering， as washis wont， my thoughts rather than my words. “If I claim full justicefor my art， it is because it is an impersonal thing—a thing beyondmyself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon thelogic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You havedegraded what should have been a course of lectures into a seriesof tales.”
It was a cold morning of the early spring， and we sat afterbreakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at BakerStreet. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-colouredhouses， and the opposing windows loomed like dark， shapelessblurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shoneon the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal， for the tablehad not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all themorning， dipping continuously into the advertisement columnsof a succession of papers until at last， having apparently given uphis search， he had emerged in no very sweet temper to lecture meupon my literary shortcomings.
“At the same time，” he remarked after a pause， during which hehad sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire， “youcan hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism， for out of thesecases which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in， afair proportion do not treat of crime， in its legal sense， at all. Thesmall matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia，the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland， the problemconnected with the man with the twisted lip， and the incident ofthe noble bachelor， were all matters which are outside the pale ofthe law. But in avoiding the sensational， I fear that you may havebordered on the trivial.”
“The end may have been so，” I answered， “but the methods Ihold to have been novel and of interest.”
“Pshaw， my dear fellow， what do the public， the greatunobservant public， who could hardly tell a weaver by his toothor a compositor by his left thumb， care about the finer shades ofanalysis and deduction！ But， indeed， if you are trivial. I cannotblame you， for the days of the great cases are past. Man， or atleast criminal man， has lost all enterprise and originality. As to myown little practice， it seems to be degenerating into an agencyfor recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladiesfrom boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last，however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point， Ifancy. Read it！” He tossed a crumpled letter across to me.
