The Sign of the Four Read online

  Chapter III

  In Quest of a Solution

  It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager,and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated withfits of the blackest depression.

  "There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup oftea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of onlyone explanation."

  "What! you have solved it already?"

  "Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestivefact, that is all. It is, however, VERY suggestive. The details arestill to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files ofthe Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th BombayInfantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

  "I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

  "No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstandisappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited isMajor Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.Four years later Sholto dies. WITHIN A WEEK OF HIS DEATH CaptainMorstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated fromyear to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as awronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation ofher father? And why should the presents begin immediately afterSholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir knows something of themystery and desires to make compensation? Have you any alternativetheory which will meet the facts?"

  "But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too,should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, theletter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It istoo much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no otherinjustice in her case that you know of."

  "There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," saidSherlock Holmes, pensively. "But our expedition of to-night will solvethem all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. Areyou all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a little past thehour."

  I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmestook his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. Itwas clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious one.

  Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face wascomposed, but pale. She must have been more than woman if she did notfeel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we wereembarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answeredthe few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

  "Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "Hisletters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were incommand of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown agreat deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in papa'sdesk which no one could understand. I don't suppose that it is of theslightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so Ibrought it with me. It is here."

  Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his knee.He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.

  "It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked. "It has atsome time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be aplan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, andpassages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above itis '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing. In the left-hand corneris a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with their armstouching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse characters,'The sign of the four,--Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan,Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon thematter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance. It has been keptcarefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean as the other."

  "It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

  "Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be ofuse to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be muchdeeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider myideas." He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn browand his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss Morstan and Ichatted in an undertone about our present expedition and its possibleoutcome, but our companion maintained his impenetrable reserve untilthe end of our journey.

  It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day hadbeen a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city.Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down theStrand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which threwa feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow glarefrom the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air, andthrew a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare.There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like in the endlessprocession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars oflight,--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human kind,they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloomonce more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavyevening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combinedto make me nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss Morstan'smanner that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes alonecould rise superior to petty influences. He held his open note-bookupon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down figures andmemoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

  At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at theside-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms andfour-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes ofshirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardlyreached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

  "Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

  "I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said she.

  He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon us."You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manner, "butI was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your companionsis a police-officer."

  "I give you my word on that," she answered.

  He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across afour-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us mountedto the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly done sobefore the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away at afurious pace through the foggy streets.

  The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place,on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a completehoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else we had goodreason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. Iendeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures inAfghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at oursituation and so curious as to our destination that my stories wereslightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one movinganecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night,and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I hadsome idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, whatwith our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lostmy bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going a verylong way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he mutteredthe names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuousby-streets.

  "Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on theVauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpsesof the river."

  We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with thelamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, andwas soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

  "Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lan
e. Our quest does notappear to take us to very fashionable regions."

  We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glareand tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came rowsof two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, andthen again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings,--themonster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into thecountry. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace.None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stoppedwas as dark as its neighbors, save for a single glimmer in the kitchenwindow. On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown openby a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fittingclothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruousin this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace door-way of athird-rate suburban dwelling-house.

  "The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a highpiping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar,"it cried. "Show them straight in to me."