It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was
interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of
the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable
circumstances. The public has already learned those particulars
of the crime which came out in the police investigation, but a
good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for
the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not
necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end of
nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links
which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was
of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me
compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the
greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.
Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I
think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,
amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let
me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those
glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and
actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame me
if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have
considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred by a
positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn
upon the third of last month.

It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes
had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his
disappearance I never failed to read with care the various
problems which came before the public. And I even attempted, more
than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his methods
in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was
none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald
Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a
verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown,
I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss which the
community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There
were points about this strange business which would, I was sure,
have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police
would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by
the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal
agent in Europe. All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned over
the case in my mind and found no explanation which appeared to me
to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I will
recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the
conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of
Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian
colonies. Adair’s mother had returned from Australia to undergo
the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her
daughter Hilda were living together at 427, Park Lane. The youth
moved in the best society—had, so far as was known, no enemies
and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith
Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by
mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it
had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest, the
man’s life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his
habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon
this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most strange
and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty
on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing continually, but never for
such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin,
the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that,
after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of
whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the
afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him—Mr.
Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran—showed that the game
was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards.
Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was
a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect
him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he
was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in
evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually
won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some
weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for
his recent history as it came out at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at
ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a
relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front
room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She
had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window.
No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of
the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say
good-night, she attempted to enter her son’s room. The door was
locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries
and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The
unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head
had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but
no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table
lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in
silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying
amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with
the names of some club friends opposite to them, from which it
was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to make
out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the
case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given
why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside.
There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and
had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least
twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay
beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of
having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow
strip of grass which separated the house from the road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had
fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No one could
have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a
man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable
shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again,
Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab stand
within a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot. And
yet there was the dead man and there the revolver bullet, which
had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted
a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the
circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further
complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said,
young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had
been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.

All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit
upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that
line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be
the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made
little progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and
found myself about six o’clock at the Oxford Street end of Park
Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a
particular window, directed me to the house which I had come to
see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly
suspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out
some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen
to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his
observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in
some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed
man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books
which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I
observed the title of one of them, _The Origin of Tree Worship_,
and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile,
who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure
volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was
evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated
were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a
snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved
back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the
problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from
the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than
five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to
get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,
since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help the
most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced
my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes
when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To
my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book
collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of
white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,
wedged under his right arm.

“You’re surprised to see me, sir,” said he, in a strange,
croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

“Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go
into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to
myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell
him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm
meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my
books.”

“You make too much of a trifle,” said I. “May I ask how you knew
who I was?”

“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of
yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church
Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect
yourself, sir. Here’s _British Birds_, and _Catullus_, and _The
Holy War_—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you
could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy,
does it not, sir?”

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned
again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study
table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter
amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the
first and the last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled
before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone
and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was
bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a
thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

I gripped him by the arms.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you
are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of
that awful abyss?”

“Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are really fit
to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my
unnecessarily dramatic reappearance.”

“I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my
eyes. Good heavens! to think that you—you of all men—should be
standing in my study.” Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and
felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. “Well, you’re not a spirit
anyhow,” said I. “My dear chap, I’m overjoyed to see you. Sit
down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm.”

He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant
manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book
merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white
hair and old books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and
keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his
aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a
healthy one.

“I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he. “It is no joke
when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several
hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these
explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard
and dangerous night’s work in front of us. Perhaps it would be
better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that
work is finished.”

“I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now.”

“You’ll come with me to-night?”

“When you like and where you like.”

“This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a
mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that
chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the
very simple reason that I never was in it.”

“You never were in it?”

“No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely
genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my
career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late
Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to
safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I
exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his
courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards
received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I
walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I
reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed
at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own
game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We
tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some
knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of
wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I
slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked
madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.
But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he
went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way.
Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”

I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes
delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.

“But the tracks!” I cried. “I saw, with my own eyes, that two
went down the path and none returned.”

“It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky
chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not
the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three
others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased
by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men.
One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all
the world was convinced that I was dead they would take
liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and
sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for
me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So
rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all
out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the
Reichenbach Fall.

“I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your
picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great
interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer.
That was not literally true. A few small footholds presented
themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff
is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and
it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path
without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed
my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of
three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I
should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson.
The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I
give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty’s voice screaming
at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More
than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot
slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was
gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge
several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could
lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched,
when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were
investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the
circumstances of my death.

“At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally
erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left
alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my
adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there
were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from
above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the
chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a
moment later, looking up, I saw a man’s head against the
darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which
I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning
of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A
confederate—and even that one glance had told me how dangerous a
man that confederate was—had kept guard while the Professor had
attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness
of his friend’s death and of my escape. He had waited, and then
making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured
to succeed where his comrade had failed.

“I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that
grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the
precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I
don’t think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred
times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think
of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my
hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by
the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path.
I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the
darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the
certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.

“I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe you many
apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it
should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you
would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end
had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times
during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to
you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me
should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my
secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show
of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention
to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable
results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to
obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London
did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty
gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most
vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in
Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and
spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the
remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am
sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news
of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca,
and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum
the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office.
Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the
coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at
Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my
satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now
left in London, I was about to return when my movements were
hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed
to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over
at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw
Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had
preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been.
So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o’clock to-day I found
myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing
that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair
which he has so often adorned.”

Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that
April evening—a narrative which would have been utterly
incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of
the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had
never thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my
own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner
rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to sorrow,
my dear Watson,” said he; “and I have a piece of work for us both
to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion,
will in itself justify a man’s life on this planet.” In vain I
begged him to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before
morning,” he answered. “We have three years of the past to
discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start
upon the notable adventure of the empty house.”

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself
seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the
thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and
silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere
features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his
thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to
hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well
assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the
adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which
occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good
for the object of our quest.

I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes
stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed
that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right
and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the
utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was
certainly a singular one. Holmes’s knowledge of the byways of
London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly
and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,
the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at last
into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us
into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he
turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back
door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an
empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare
planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the
paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes’s cold, thin fingers closed
round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly
saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly
to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty
room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the
centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp
near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only
just discern each other’s figures within. My companion put his
hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.

“Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through the
dim window.

“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our
own old quarters.”

“But why are we here?”

“Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque
pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little
nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show
yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms—the starting-point
of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three
years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise
you.”

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my
eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The
blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The
shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in
hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There
was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the
shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned
half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black
silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out
my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me.
He was quivering with silent laughter.

“Well?” said he.

“Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”

“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite
variety,” said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and
pride which the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is
rather like me, is it not?”

“I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”

“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of
Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust
in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker
Street this afternoon.”

“But why?”

“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for
wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was
really elsewhere.”

“And you thought the rooms were watched?”

“I _knew_ that they were watched.”

“By whom?”

“By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader
lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew,
and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they
believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them
continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my
window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a
garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the
jew’s-harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for
the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom
friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff,
the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the
man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who is
quite unaware that we are after _him_.”

My friend’s plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this
convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the
trackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and
we were the hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness
and watched the hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front
of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could tell that he
was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the
stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and boisterous night and the
wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people were
moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats and
cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same
figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared to
be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house
some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion’s
attention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of
impatience, and continued to stare into the street. More than
once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his
fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming
uneasy, and that his plans were not working out altogether as he
had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the street
gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him,
when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again
experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched
Holmes’s arm, and pointed upward.

“The shadow has moved!” I cried.

It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was
turned towards us.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his
temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his
own.

“Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler,
Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that
some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We
have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some
change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an
hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never
be seen. Ah!” He drew in his breath with a shrill, excited
intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole
attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street was absolutely
deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the doorway,
but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save only
that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure
outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that
thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.
An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of
the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers
which clutched me were quivering. Never had I known my friend
more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched lonely and
motionless before us.

But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had
already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not
from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very
house in which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An
instant later steps crept down the passage—steps which were meant
to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty
house. Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did the same,
my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through
the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than
the blackness of the open door. He stood for an instant, and then
he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was
within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced
myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea
of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the
window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a
foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of the
street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his
face. The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His
two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working
convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting
nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An
opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening
dress shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face
was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his
hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it
down upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the
pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied
himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if
a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon
the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength
upon some lever, with the result that there came a long,
whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click.
He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his
hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He
opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the
breech-lock. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the
barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long
moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered
along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he
cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw that amazing target,
the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of
his foresight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then
his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud
whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant
Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman’s back, and hurled
him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with
convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck
him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped
again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my
comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter
of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform,
with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front
entrance and into the room.

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It’s good to see you
back in London, sir.”

“I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected
murders in one year won’t do, Lestrade. But you handled the
Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that’s to say, you
handled it fairly well.”

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a
stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers
had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the
window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced
two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I
was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.

It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was
turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the
jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great
capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his
cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the
fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow,
without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals. He took no heed
of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes’s face with an
expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended.
“You fiend!” he kept on muttering. “You clever, clever fiend!”

“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar.
“‘Journeys end in lovers’ meetings,’ as the old play says. I
don’t think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you
favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the
Reichenbach Fall.”

The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance.
“You cunning, cunning fiend!” was all that he could say.

“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen,
is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty’s Indian Army,
and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever
produced. I believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag
of tigers still remains unrivalled?”

The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my
companion. With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was
wonderfully like a tiger himself.

“I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a
_shikari_,” said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have
you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with
your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This
empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly
had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers,
or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you.
These,” he pointed around, “are my other guns. The parallel is
exact.”

Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the
constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible
to look at.

“I confess that you had one small surprise for me,” said Holmes.
“I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this
empty house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you
as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his
merry men were awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as
I expected.”

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

“You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” said he,
“but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the
gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things
be done in a legal way.”

“Well, that’s reasonable enough,” said Lestrade. “Nothing further
you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?”

Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was
examining its mechanism.

“An admirable and unique weapon,” said he, “noiseless and of
tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic,
who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty.
For years I have been aware of its existence though I have never
before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very
specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which
fit it.”

“You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade,
as the whole party moved towards the door. “Anything further to
say?”

“Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?”

“What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr.
Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at
all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the
remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I
congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and
audacity, you have got him.”

“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel
Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an
expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the
second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of
last month. That’s the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you
can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an
hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable
amusement.”

Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision
of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I
entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old
landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical corner
and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was
the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which
many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The
diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack—even the Persian
slipper which contained the tobacco—all met my eyes as I glanced
round me. There were two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson,
who beamed upon us both as we entered—the other, the strange
dummy which had played so important a part in the evening’s
adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so
admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a
small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes’s so
draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely
perfect.

“I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes.

“I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me.”

“Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe
where the bullet went?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it
passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I
picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!”

Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet, as you
perceive, Watson. There’s genius in that, for who would expect to
find such a thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I
am much obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see
you in your old seat once more, for there are several points
which I should like to discuss with you.”

He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the Holmes
of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his
effigy.

“The old _shikari’s_ nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor
his eyes their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected
the shattered forehead of his bust.

“Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through
the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there
are few better in London. Have you heard the name?”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right, you
had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one
of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of
biographies from the shelf.”

He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and
blowing great clouds from his cigar.

“My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself
is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the
poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who
knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross,
and, finally, here is our friend of to-night.”

He handed over the book, and I read:

_Moran_, _Sebastian_, _Colonel_. Unemployed. Formerly 1st
Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran,
C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.
Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of _Heavy Game of the
Western Himalayas_ (1881); _Three Months in the Jungle_ (1884).
Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the
Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.

On the margin was written, in Holmes’s precise hand:

The second most dangerous man in London.

“This is astonishing,” said I, as I handed back the volume. “The
man’s career is that of an honourable soldier.”

“It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain point he did
well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still
told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded
man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a
certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly
eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have a theory
that the individual represents in his development the whole
procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good
or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line
of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of
the history of his own family.”

“It is surely rather fanciful.”

“Well, I don’t insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran
began to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India
too hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again
acquired an evil name. It was at this time that he was sought out
by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the
staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him
only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary
criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection of
the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am
sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved.
So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the
Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not incriminate him. You
remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how
I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought
me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the
existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of the
best shots in the world would be behind it. When we were in
Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly
he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.

“You may think that I read the papers with some attention during
my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying
him by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would
really not have been worth living. Night and day the shadow would
have been over me, and sooner or later his chance must have come.
What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should
myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing to a
magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what would
appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But
I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I
should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My
chance had come at last. Knowing what I did, was it not certain
that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played cards with the lad,
he had followed him home from the club, he had shot him through
the open window. There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone
are enough to put his head in a noose. I came over at once. I was
seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the colonel’s
attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden
return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure
that he would make an attempt to get me out of the way _at once_,
and would bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I
left him an excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the
police that they might be needed—by the way, Watson, you spotted
their presence in that doorway with unerring accuracy—I took up
what seemed to me to be a judicious post for observation, never
dreaming that he would choose the same spot for his attack. Now,
my dear Watson, does anything remain for me to explain?”

“Yes,” said I. “You have not made it clear what was Colonel
Moran’s motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?”

“Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of
conjecture, where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may
form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is
as likely to be correct as mine.”

“You have formed one, then?”

“I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came
out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between
them, won a considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly
played foul—of that I have long been aware. I believe that on the
day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating.
Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had threatened to
expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the
club, and promised not to play cards again. It is unlikely that a
youngster like Adair would at once make a hideous scandal by
exposing a well-known man so much older than himself. Probably he
acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean ruin
to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains. He therefore
murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how
much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by
his partner’s foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies
should surprise him and insist upon knowing what he was doing
with these names and coins. Will it pass?”

“I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth.”

“It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come
what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous
air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum,
and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to
examining those interesting little problems which the complex
life of London so plentifully presents.”