The Artist's Son

by Tony Vernon-Smith

Holmes solves a kidnapping and meets an old foe.

The Adventure of the Artist's Son

"It would seem," remarked Sherlock Holmes, querulously, "that the criminals of London cannot tolerate heat."

He tossed aside the newspaper he had been reading with a petulant flick of the wrist and launched off upon the subject he had expounded upon at length every day for the past fortnight. "There is not a single notable crime in the paper, nor has been for a month; even thievery and brawlings appear to be declining. I have not even the option of journeying over to France or the Continent, as the only crimes which flower there are passionate, romantic ones," he curled his lip in a sneer, "and solved by the snap of a finger. What is the use of having a brain, Watson, if one is never given the chance to use it? I tell you in all seriousness that if this present calm continues, I shall leave Baker Street and go to the country to--to raise bees."

"Nonsense, old fellow," said I calmly, "you have much too great a fear of open spaces to do such a thing."

"Fear," he muttered, "is a luxury I never indulge in; an utterly unnecessary waste of energy." And with that he lapsed into silence, drawing moodily at his cherrywood pipe and gazing out into the street, which shimmered and shifted like a reflection upon water from the waves of heat rising from the cobblestones.

There had indeed been nothing to hold my friend's attention for some time; consequently, he had sunk into a most eccentric mode of existence, alternating between periods of extreme lassitude and devouring energy. As the days had ground on he had become more prone to depressions, and I had begun to fear for him, for whenever such black periods occurred he was wont to turn to his self-prescribed remedy for boredom: the seven-percent solution of cocaine. I knew that some energetic course of action must be taken to prevent him from becoming enmeshed once more in the toils of the drug I was so precariously weaning him from.

I sprang from my chair.

"Get your hat, Holmes, we are going out."

He turned quickly, as though my voice had wakened him from a trance. "Out! Where?"

"To take a walk round the Park."

"I don't want to."

"I am a doctor, and I say you need it. Come along, now; the exercise will do you good."

"The state of my health," said Holmes, coldly, "is not a subject which holds the faintest interest for me." He scowled as I handed him his hat and urged him, still arguing, down the stairs and into the street.

For two hours and a quarter we set a brisk pace round the Park, stopping occasionally to take a brief respite in the shade of the maple trees, which were by this time thick with dark, broad green leaves. My military career in Afghanistan, where the hot, dry white heat wavered all around one like the air from a kiln, had hardened me against the more temperate summer climes of England, and I felt no discomfort. As for Holmes, he said nothing to indicate that he was overheated; indeed, he was singularly silent, though once or twice I caught him regarding me with that sardonic, cynical smile, which made me feel he knew my ulterior motive in forcing him out for exercise and air: to distract him from his more morbid thoughts.

By the time we had returned the afternoon post had come in, and Holmes pounced upon the humble envelopes with the avidity of a starving tiger upon a piece of meat. The first two were bills, which caused him no inconsiderable disappointment; the third was a letter from a woman whose adult son was missing, which brought an incensed look to Holmes' saturnine features, as though it were an outrage to be confronted with such a commonplace affair. The fourth, however, caught and held his attention; and after reading it through three or four times, he chuckled dryly and tossed it over to me.

"See here, Watson, what do you make of this?" said he.

The letter was short and to the point, and ran thus:

July 19, 1895

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

Your time is no doubt of value, but having heard from an acquaintance, Mr. Peter Harrison, as to how you assisted him in a very delicate matter which you may recollect, I have ventured to consult you upon a matter which is of the utmost importance to me. The case, briefly, is this: my son, Jacob, vanished out of his room without a trace upon Monday last, and has not been heard of since. The police have been called in, but are unable to locate him, and presume that he has been kidnapped and taken to London; or, at least, away from the neighbourhood. I should appreciate it if you would do me the honour of hearing my case and perhaps offering some advice, which I should greatly appreciate. You may wire me as to what time I should arrive. I am prepared to pay whatever sums you may demand.

Yours sincerely,

Charles Nevil

I turned to Holmes, who had been watching my face as I read this missive with much the same air as a medical man judging the reactions of a patient. "The man must be quite upset. Poor fellow! Will you take the case?"

"Perhaps," and his eyelids drooped sleepily. "There appear to be some quite unusual features about the business, though really the language is so terse as to force one to read a great deal between the lines. But what do you make of the writing itself?"

I studied the manuscript carefully, endeavouring to imitate my companion's methods. "It seems to be written upon expensive paper, and with a most odd choice of ink; I have never seen anything else quite like it."

"It is artist's ink," said Holmes; "quite distinguishable from the ordinary type. They make it thin in consistency, so as to be picked up by a fine-nibbed pen. Anything else?"

"Well, no; apart from a smudge in the upper left-hand corner. There is nothing much to go upon at any rate."

Holmes gazed at me thoughtfully and shook his head. "You have missed nearly everything of importance," said he. "You must learn to deduce, my dear fellow, and not merely take note. It is the extrapolation from small details which makes the art of detection. You were indeed correct about the type of paper, but you could have inferred a great deal more about the artist' ink. The fact that he used it instead of regular ink informs us that he took the first kind that came to hand, from which we can draw the conclusion that he was in a hurry, and also impulsive. We may also say that since he had such ink ready to hand that he is either an artist himself--which is the most probable solution--or that someone in his family is. He seems to be a normally arrogant fellow, to judge by his capitals, but he was shaken when he wrote this letter; observe the tremulous flow of the script, the many mistakes and blots, which he has not bothered to correct. Observe also the smudging of the words and that smear you remarked upon."

"What of them?"

"He is left-handed," said Holmes curtly. "The English language is written from left to right, as opposed to Hebrew, which is written right to left; or Chinese, which is written in vertical rows. This method is advantageous to the individual who uses his right hand to write, as he pulls the pen across the paper in a smooth motion. But the left-handed man is faced with a somewhat more difficult task. He must push the pen across the paper. If it is sharp-pointed it may catch. And not only that." He lifted his own left hand and touched the outer edge of his little finger. "He must drag his hand across the newly written words, and almost infallibly covers the second joint of his little finger with ink. One can always tell the man who has the misfortune of left-handedness by that if by nothing else."

There was something about his way of putting the methods by which he reached his results that made the thing seem childishly simple, and yet no-one ever thought by such processes. Holmes seemed to have read my thoughts, for he said, "It takes some training, you know, but it is worth the effort. And now, Watson, I shall write up a telegram to Mr. Nevil, inviting him to come down at twelve noon tomorrow, and I shall ask you to run it off. Thank you! And now we shall have to wait until this man arrives and explains to us how his son came to vanish 'without a trace', as he somewhat dramatically puts it."

We indeed had no other option than to wait. Sherlock Holmes was restless all the next day; he paced about the sitting room, played snatches upon the violin and broke off in the middle of a tune, cut all the newspapers to shreds with a scissors and left the remnants scattered upon the floor. Finally, when it neared noon, he stood for some time at the window biting his nails and leaning his forehead against the windowpane; then, seeing no-one, he flung himself into his favourite armchair and began to polish one of his high-power lenses with a silk necktie.

I crossed the room to retrieve a yellow-backed novel from the seat in the window. As I did so, I noticed a man rushing through the crowds upon the sidewalk, alternating his gaze from a slip of paper in his hand to the numbers on the houses. From what I could see of him, his most singular feature was an extraordinarily head of flaming red hair, which would not lie flat, but instead stood straight up, reminding one of a bonfire. He started as he read our number, thrust his way past a nurse with a perambulator and two muttonchopped elderly gentlemen, and tugged impatiently upon the bellpull.

Holmes catapulted himself out of his chair to kick all the newspaper clippings out of sight under the settee. He rose from this occupation not an instant too soon, for the door opened, and the red-haired man stepped into the room.

Charles Nevil was about six feet in height, with expensively tailored clothing: a black frock coat and trousers to match. His jaw was strong and his features irregular but with a sort of striking oddity about them which made his face, if not handsome, at least noticeable. He had the assured bearing of a man who knew his way about in the world, but at present he had an aura of weariness and dejection that was almost tangible. He halted on the threshold, momentarily unsure of himself; and then he came forward with his hand outstretched and introduced himself, surveying us with brilliant blue eyes which presented an odd contrast to his fiery hair.

"Thank you for your promptitude, Mr. Nevil," said my friend. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Doctor Watson, before whom you may say anything which you would say to me."

"But perhaps," I began, rising, "if the matter is delicate, you should prefer that I leave--"

"Certainly not," said Nevil, decisively, holding up a hand to detain me and at the same time seating himself upon the sofa. "I would much rather that you stay. I should like as much help and advice as possible." He seemed an unemotional man as a rule, but it was evident that he was highly disturbed, for his hands quivered and his face twitched. He passed a hand before his eyes and accepted gratefully the brandy and soda I had silently poured out for him. "Thank you, Doctor. I shall try to tell my story in an orderly and coherent fashion," turning to Holmes, who was busily striking a match to light his pipe, "but you must make allowances for my--shaken--frame of mind. Pray feel free to ask about anything which is not clear to you."

"I shall. Proceed."

"Well," started our visitor, taking a deep breath and smoothing his unruly hair, "I am a widower, and I live in a village in Guildford with my only son, Jacob, who is about ten years of age. He is a very good boy, a bright lad, as his tutor could attest--" his voice quivered and then steadied as he continued. "I am an illustrator for a well-known magazine" (Holmes shot me a sly glance of triumph) "and I work in the office; Jacob, therefore, is left all day in the care of this tutor, who is called Emory Roydon. Roydon is a good enough fellow, above reproach in most respects, but he has the queerest ideas about spirits, and talks the most remarkable nonsense upon the subject."

Holmes' eyelids flickered. "What sort of nonsense?"

"Well, Roydon has apparently taken it upon himself to educate my boy about the spirit world, for I overheard him telling my poor innocent lad some tale about a poisoner, who was carried off by the ghost of his victim. Have you ever heard such rubbish, I ask you!" Nevil's face was flushed indignantly.

My friend surveyed him with a sardonic air. "Calm yourself, Mr. Nevil. I assure you that I have heard much worse."

"Well, I have not," said Nevil positively. "I do not believe in a supernatural, and I will not have any son of mine filling his head with absurdities--for, mind you, Jacob was intrigued by this and all other legends of this sort. His tutor encouraged him to the point that I was forced to reprimand him for allowing Jacob to spend his hours of study in reading spirit literature instead of applying himself to his mathematics and other useful subjects. I told Roydon plainly that if this behaviour continued I should be compelled to dismiss him. He gave me the most extraordinary poisonous glance, nodded coldly, and walked past me without a word. After this episode I found that no more books of such type appeared, but my son had evidently been deeply struck by what he had read, and talked incessantly about it; he even claimed to have seen a ghost once."

"Tell me," said Holmes, leaning forward intently with his steely eyes riveted upon his client's face.

Nevil shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, nothing really; some white thing or other outside the window. A cat, most likely."

"Perhaps; perhaps not. Pray continue, Mr. Nevil. We have had the prelude; what about the incident itself?"

"Yes," said Nevil, taking a deep breath and swallowing. "Forgive me. You can understand that this is a subject of no small emotion for me...

"It was upon Monday last that this catastrophe occurred. The day was, I recall, exceptionally dull. I travelled to London upon my usual business, returned at five of the clock for a light supper, which I shared with my son, after which I retired to my study and he to his room. That was the last I saw of him.

"Jacob's bedroom is situated upon the first floor. There is a trellis immediately under the window, leading to the garden, which I suppose the kidnapper might have ascended--" Nevil's voice wavered and then cracked, and he took a large swig of brandy from his glass before continuing:

"At about two in the morning I was awakened by a most horrific scream, which set my hair standing on end, for I recognised the voice as that of my son. I rushed into the hallway and up the stairs to my son's room. Emory Roydon met me on the landing, and the housekeeper nearly knocked me down the stairs as she flew down the corridor. I ran past them both and tried the door of my son's room--it was locked. I put my shoulder to it, and a moment later Roydon lent his aid. It gave way after three or four tries--it is a sturdy door with excellent hinges--and we found ourselves in the room. It was empty; the window stood fully open, and the bed was in disarray, as well as the bureau, which had been tugged open and the clothes strewn all over the floor."

"Where was the key?"

"In the upper drawer of the bureau, which was locked."

"Suggestive. Very suggestive. Well, go on. What did you do next?"

"I roused the house, then took up a pistol and searched the property and the surrounding area. I found nothing--and yet my son was gone."

"What of the police?"

"They had the same results when I brought them in that very night. When daylight came they went over the grounds once more, and with the same results. They examined all the major properties, and also came up with a blank; my own belief is that he has been taken from the countryside. And now, Mr. Holmes, I ask you to look at this letter which came in the post immediately after I sent my own letter to you." Our client pulled a rather crumpled piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. Holmes examined it minutely, presently crossing over to the mantelpiece and retrieving his magnifying lens, sweeping it up and down the length of the paper and talking to himself all the while.

"Typewritten with one of the most common machines. The e and the t are rather worn, which is certainly not unusual. Cheap paper, postmarked from London in--yes--in Middlesex Street. Hum! And the watermark is missing, clipped off with a shortbladed, exceptionally dull scissors. Watson, am I mistaken, or do you wish to see this?" and he thrust the missive into my hand. I smoothed it out and read the message, which was to the effect that Nevil's son was being held in a safe location, that if Nevil wished to see him alive he would pay nine hundred pounds, and that he had two weeks to do so. He was to send the sum to the Houndsditch post-office in London, to be left til called for.

"I can assure you that nine hundred pounds is utterly beyond me," said Nevil, wearily. "I am not a rich man."

I looked up at Holmes. "London."

"The money is to be sent to London," he answered, sliding the paper out of my grasp and placing it carefully in his notebook. "That does not prove conclusively that the boy is in London, although it is certainly possible."

"Can we not send the money to the post-office and catch the rogue as he calls for it?" I suggested.

"I tell you that I haven't the money," repeated Nevil.

"Also it would undoubtedly endanger the boy," said Holmes. "This fellow, whoever he is, is not new to this game. To continue with the matter at hand, however: this housekeeper of yours. You remarked that you ran past her on the landing. What did she do once you had gone on to your son's room?"

"She retired to her own; the excitement was too much for her, and she was afraid of burglars."

"Hum!" Holmes chewed thoughtfully at his pipe. "Well, it is certainly a very pretty little problem."

"And a most important one to me," said Nevil, with feeling. "I do wish you would come down and investigate. I am prepared to put you up at my house, if you wish."

"Then that at least is decided," said Holmes, starting for his bedroom door. "If we find the trail leads to London, I have certain resources which will undoubtedly aid our search. You do remember Shinwell Johnson, Watson? And now, if you will excuse us," he added, pausing in the doorway, "Doctor Watson and I have some preparations to make."

I supplied our guest with biscuits from the sideboard and retired to my room to pack my valise. Army life in Afghanistan had had the effect of making me an efficient traveller, and so in something less than ten minutes I was ready to go, though it took Holmes somewhat longer to prepare. At last, however, we rattled off in a cab for the train station. During the journey, none of us spoke; each was engaged in our own thoughts. Charles Nevil stared morosely out the window at the sunbaked earth, while Holmes fidgeted and I contented myself with an old issue of The Lancet.

Nevil's house was a typical country residence just off the road which led to the nearest village, built of stone in a manner which bespoke of quality, with ivy curling up the walls and nearly obscuring the wide windows in some places. Its well cared-for grounds spread out in a circle around it, the grass breaking at a small copse of trees in the back, and the whole was surrounded by a high slatted fence.

Holmes immediately insisted upon inspecting young Jacob's room and the adjoining area, going carefully over the stairway, examining every smudge and scuff upon the well-polished wooden steps with the greatest attention, and seemed unwarrantably excited when he entered the missing boy's room and examined the key, rubbing the smooth, slick metal with long, sensitive fingers. He then bent down to study the floor, straightened up again, rushed over to the bed, threw back the coverlet, hurried to the window, ran his fingers along the woodwork, and took up what appeared to be a scrap of brown cloth that had been caught upon a splinter. He then pushed up the sash, leaned out of the window and exclaimed over the trellis, pulled himself back in, and clattered down the stairs without a word to me or to Charles Nevil, who had watched this performance with interest, following my friend's movements with curious eyes.

"What did he find that excited him so?" he asked now, turning to me.

"I am sure that he shall explain presently. He is a very secretive fellow, but I can occasionally induce him to tell. Will you be coming out into the garden?"

"Thank you, no. I sent a telegram to Mr. Larch, our local inspector, before I caught the train. He is due to arrive at any moment, and I wish to be in the house to receive him. If you need me, I shall be in the study."

I descended the stairs, came out into the garden, and found a changed man from the listless, restless creature of yesterday. Sherlock Holmes was upon a hot scent, and it showed in every line of his taut, tense body, his flushed face and narrow, glittering eyes. The veins were throbbing at his temples, his jaw was clenched and his mouth drawn into a thin tight line; his shoulders were bowed. He was following, swiftly and with his head down, a set of footprints.

"Hullo, Holmes," said I.

"Get away, Watson, I'm busy. What's this! A man, tall and with small feet for the length of his stride. He is carrying something over his left shoulder, and here he begins to run. He rounds the corner of the house and trips, then springs up and runs again, shifting the burden to his arms. Here he stops quickly. Now he runs once more, and scrambles over this fence."

Holmes, without a moment's hesitation, had done the same. I myself took the more conventional procedure of exiting by the gate, emerging to discover Holmes down upon hands and knees, studying the ground.

"Look here, Watson!" he cried, in some excitement. "Do you know what this is?"

I stooped down to get a better view. "It appears to be the imprint of a body."

"Very good. Do you observe anything else?"

"No; should I have?"

"Perhaps." He sprang to his feet and turned his attention back to the footprints, rushing over to the hard-packed dirt road which wound through the scattered clumps of trees. Together we walked down it in both directions for nearly a mile before abandoning the attempt, Holmes shaking his head disgustedly.

"Nothing," said he, gloomily, as he walked briskly back, with I at his heels. "Not a thing, except for the wheels of a farm cart which went off the road and a light trap, which I suspect is the one we arrived in. He must have kept to the centre of the road."

My old army wound was throbbing painfully and I was panting when we finally neared the house, though Holmes was apparently drawing upon the stores of nervous energy he had been gathering for the past fortnight as a thundercloud collects electricity. As we turned into the drive Charles Nevil, who had been pacing restlessly up and down, rushed up and nearly ran into us.

"I had begun to think that you had walked back to London," said he, petulantly. "What on earth have you been doing?"

"Walking up and down the road to see if your man had gone off into a field, but he looks to have been inconsiderate enough to have left no tracks. He might have taken a train--"

"What! With a struggling boy in his arms?"

"I don't insist upon it. I am considering other solutions."

"Such as?"

"When I have thought of them I shall tell you."

"Humph. Well, Inspector Larch has been here for the past three-quarters of an hour, making a nuisance of himself. He is the most emptyheaded fellow I have ever met in my life, but I suppose you wish to meet him all the same."

"Certainly. It is always wise to confer with the regulars."

"Not with this one," said Nevil, sourly.

Upon entering the door we were immediately accosted by a very long, thin, energetic young man with a mop of light brown hair and an enormous moustache of the same shade, who greeted us with much effusion, shaking each of us warmly by the hand.

"Hello, hello, hello! I have heard of you two. The Strand, isn't it, the magazine with your stories? I have them all. I say, Doctor, why don't you write some more? They are very interesting and instructive."

Holmes gave me a baleful glare, as much to say, "Look what you have got us into."

"Never mind, though," continued the young man cheerfully. "My name is Larch--John Larch--Inspector John Larch, if you don't mind my saying so. How are you?"

"I am well, thank you," said Holmes tersely, disengaging his hand. "Let us get down to business. You, I take it, are investigating this case?"

"Oh, yes," said Inspector Larch, bouncing up and down upon his toes, and nodding his head with energy. "Yes, and I have already interviewed the servants, if that is what you are intending to do. I can give you my notes, I have them here somewhere--" and he began to rummage furiously in the depths of his pockets.

"I beg your pardon," said Holmes, in his smoothest tone, "but I have always preferred to hear eyewitness accounts firsthand. There are so many different nuances of voice, you know."

"All right then," said Larch, and for a moment I caught sight of something serious under the fatuous mask. "I shan't interfere. Can you assemble your household, Mr. Nevil?"

Holmes stood gazing out the window as Larch quite literally danced about him, running a steady stream of information, observations, opinions, and rhetorical questions.

"We were called in at night, when I was off-duty, so I unfortunately did not see the evidence fresh. Most annoying, is it not? They sent me on the day after, however, because the original man, Constable Drubbins, was bitten on the leg by a perfectly monstrous bullpup. Horribly uncomfortable, wouldn't you suppose? And undignified. Have you ever felt such a thing?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," said Holmes. I could see that he was becoming irritated. "When I was in college. A fellow student had tied his bullpup to a post outside chapel, and it pulled free as I was walking up the steps and froze onto my ankle. I was sent up for swearing in a church."

"Did it hurt badly?" asked Larch, inquisitively.

Holmes shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye. "What do you think?"

"Well, at any rate, I came down to take a look," Inspector Larch resumed his somewhat disconnected narrative after a short silence, "as I said before, and I fear that I could distinguish nothing of any interest, as they had trampled everything; and the results made one wonder whether a rugby match had taken place in that garden. If it was intentionally destroyed they could not have made a better job of it."

A cold, supercilious smile tugged at the corners of my friend's mouth.

"Except," said Larch, with a sudden gravity which was almost startling, "except for a set of footprints which led off in the direction of the road. I walked for a good distance up the road either way, but found nothing, Mr. Holmes. Dashed inconsiderate, I say," he added cheerfully, as Nevil's red head appeared in the doorway.

There was a man behind him, who now joined us with the air of a witness in a courtroom. He was a tall, thinfaced fellow, with a pale face, a pair of liquid, opaque amber-tinted eyes behind round spectacles, and a thick shock of coal black hair which fell across his forehead, and yet looked somehow tidy. His age, I should say, was about forty.

"My name," said this apparition, "is Emory Roydon. I understand you wished to see me?"

"Yes," said Holmes, in that velvety voice which yet held a hint of steel, and which he used only on occasion, "we wish you to be completely honest with us about the events of Monday last, holding nothing back. A boy's life may depend upon it."

"I am very fond of Jacob," said the tutor imperturbably, "and I am very anxious to have him found."

"That will do, Roydon," said Nevil. "Just answer the gentleman's questions."

"I will, sir," Roydon answered. He had a most peculiar air of obsequiousness with a sort of wry, mocking humour beneath it. It was apparent that Holmes had felt this undercurrent as well as I, for he shot the man one of his keen, searching glances before asking:

"Did anything unusual happen that night?"

"No."

"You are certain of this?"

"I was wakeful when the tragedy occurred. Shall I tell you?"

"Please do."

"I was suffering from insomnia, as I do on occasions, and consequently had absorbed myself in a book. My sense of hearing is very good, and I heard nothing save the clatter of the occasional belated farm cart until nearly two of the clock, when I heard the scream. I at once arose and ran up the stairs to the first floor landing, where I met Miss Carter--Miss Carter is the housekeeper. An instant later Mr. Nevil rushed up, and we went to the door together. Finding it locked, we put our shoulders to it, but the lock was a good one, and I should estimate that nearly three minutes had passed before it burst open. When we finally gained entrance to the room, we found no trace of Jacob."

"Was the room disarranged?"

"Not very. I then assisted Mr. Nevil in searching the garden, and I regret to say that our results were negative."

"May I see the boots you wore that night?"

"I fear that what you ask is impossible."

"Why so?" asked Holmes sharply.

Roydon smiled thinly. "I have since discarded them. They were old, and I have a new pair, which I purchased in London the Saturday before the kidnapping." His tone was oddly precise, as though he was reciting something he had learned by heart.

"What else did you do while in London?"

"Nothing."

"You did nothing else, then."

"No, Mr. Holmes."

"You did not visit a metalworker's, for example."

Roydon's brown eyes narrowed slightly. "Why a metalworker's?"

"I merely cite that as an example."

"No, sir, I did not." His face was as immobile as marble.

Holmes stared at him for a moment, then dismissed him abruptly with a flip of his hand. "Well then, that is all. You may go."

"Good day, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the tutor, a thread of irony in his voice. "And good luck."

"Queer fellow," I said as soon as the door had closed behind him.

"Quite," agreed Holmes laconically. "I think that I am finished here, Mr. Nevil."

The inspector had left the room during the questioning, but he now returned, exploding into the room and banging the door against the wall. "I say, fellows," he cried, "the dinner is ready."

"Hang the dinner," snapped Nevil, impatiently, "what about my son?"

"Your son will be found, Mr. Nevil," said Holmes, leaning forward and placing his hand on the other's shoulder. His eyes had an almost hypnotic intensity, and I could see the tension fade from Nevil's posture.

"Good," said Larch, with a wriggle of his shoulders, "we shall eat, then. It is against the law to starve government officials."

The dining room was a large one, with great windows and skylights set all round the room to let the light in, and affording a wonderful view of the surrounding countryside, painted crimson and gold by the setting sun. The floor was stone-flagged, and the walls were of wood; one could almost fancy oneself in an outdoor pavilion.

The fresh country air had whetted my appetite, and I ate a hearty meal. Nevil was listless and hardly took a bite; Holmes pushed piles of peas and curried chicken about his plate in an abstracted, absentminded manner. As for Larch, he devoured everything with the greatest gusto.

"I was thinking," remarked the latter, laying down his fork after some time, "about that fellow Colonel Trowbridge, who lives in the village--the hermit, you know."

"What about him?" asked Nevil, testily.

"Didn't you hear about it? He has set not less than three heathen idols out in his front garden, and scandalised all his neighbours. There is one, a hideous brick-coloured thing with four arms and snakes for hair, which is the worst by far. It is quite the ugliest thing I have ever seen."

"The goddess Kali," said Holmes, looking up suddenly; "Indian deity of love and death."

"Love and death," repeated the inspector. "Why two such unrelated subjects?"

"If you study human affairs, you shall find that love and death are very closely related," said Holmes darkly, and gazed down at his plate once more.

There was a short, uncomfortable silence, and then Larch broke out with more cheery gossip.

"Then there is Mrs. Oakes," said he, "who has been drinking again. She was at her window all day, skimming dishes out at passersby, and one of them actually struck the vicar."

"I have no interest in the inebriation of Mrs. Oakes," said Nevil shortly.

"Well, then, what about that new fellow, the farmer?"

"Which farmer?"

"The farmer who came here recently. A tall, slim, blond man, with a beard; I believe he is called Fulton Bentley. He is in the vegetable business, you know, and takes them in burlap sacks to the city--"

"Fulton Bentley!" Holmes roared, jumping out of his chair and sending it crashing over.

Larch stared at him with startled eyes. "Yes. Why?"

"Did you ever observe whether he had green eyes?"

"Well, yes, he does. Why?" he repeated. "Mr. Holmes, are you well?"

My friend was glaring fixedly with wide, vacant eyes; his hands were gripping the edge of the table until the knuckles showed white. His teeth were bared in what was almost a snarl, and I knew that the pieces of the puzzle had fallen suddenly into place.

"The devil!" he said, and rushed from the room.

Nevil and Larch turned their eyes upon me, their faces full of question. They had not long to wait, however, for Holmes was back in an instant, quivering with excitement. He darted over to Larch and threw something down before him.

"There!" he cried. "That is your answer!"

Larch picked it up and held it to the light, and I saw it clearly. It was a block of ordinary red sealing wax.

"What in the name of heaven--" the inspector spluttered. Holmes snatched up a fork from the table and ground it into the wax.

"You see?" he shouted. "You see?"

Larch sank back in a chair, his face covered with the light of dawning understanding. Then he rallied and turned to Nevil.

"Mr. Nevil," said he. His voice was sharp and authoritative, bearing no resemblance to his earlier light, comical tones. "You are to remain here and let nobody either in or out of your house, unless it be a policeman. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but what on earth--"

"There is no time," Holmes interrupted. "We shall borrow your dog-cart, Mr. Nevil, and we shall return shortly with your son."

"What? Let me come with you!"

"Mr. Nevil, there is a criminal in your household. You must prevent him from escaping." Holmes spun on his heel and stalked out the door, with Larch and I in hot pursuit. We soon had the cart out of the coachhouse and were driving down the hard dirt road at the top of our speed. Dusk had descended, and the surrounding countryside, the trees and the little brown houses in the village, were blurred and obscured, like a painting with a layer of thick grey dust over it.

"Who is this man we are after?" I asked.

Holmes flicked the horse with his whip. "He is Francis Brooks, better known as Ford Broderick, Fletcher Benton, and half a dozen other names. He is a forger, a thief, a murderer, and a very skilled safe cracksman--"

"That's his house," shouted Larch; "that one at the end, isolated from the others by the wide spread of grass."

Holmes pulled up and we all sprang out. There was some distance between us and our destination, so as to ensure that the criminal would not observe our approach, and as we closed in upon the weatherbeaten, ramshackle old cottage Holmes continued his monologue.

"We have had some duels before, he and I," he murmured. "I once enabled him to take a prolonged holiday at the Old Bailey at the taxpayer's expense; and now, it seems, we meet again."

We had by this time halted before the door, and Larch was now tinkering with the lock and trying the thick oak frame. "How shall we get in? It seems very solid, and this door is securely locked. Shall I try a window?"

"That in all probability shall not be necessary," said Holmes, crouching before the keyhole. With one hand he pulled out a ring of little, shining metal bars. His fingers seemed to select one of themselves, and an instant later he was maneuvering the delicate shaft of steel with the confident demeanour and trained hand of an expert, his head tilted to catch the slight but telling clicks from the lock.

The inspector watched him through narrowed eyes, a dark expression crossing his face. "I hope," he said, "that you have not gained your expertise in breaking and entering through actual practice."

Holmes did not glance up from his task, but a peculiar, enigmatic smile curved his mouth. "What do you think?" And then, "Ah!" as the handle turned silently. The door swung open to reveal a glimpse of a large, dim, dusty room, full of packing cases. Holmes put his finger to his lips and stepped inside, motioning for us to follow; the inspector came second and I brought up the rear. The room we entered was indeed furnished only with crates, boxes, and empty tins of every kind; the next was a narrow, unlit, oppressive corridor lined with doors. The first two were silent and empty, but at the third we detected faint sounds of movement. Holmes and Larch drew their revolvers; Larch laid his hand upon the knob, and with one swift flung open the door.

A slender, leonine man was within, seated with his back to us at a table covered with playing cards. He was dressed in the clothes of a working man, but his bearing, even seated, indicated a gentleman. As we rushed into the room he leaped to his feet with startling swiftness, his teeth bared in anger and surprise.

"What the devil are you doing in my house!" he roared, his peculiarly tinted green eyes blazing at us furiously. "What is the meaning of this!"

"I think you know as well as I, Francis Brooks," said Holmes, coolly, fingering his revolver.

The man flinched and stepped back.

"You must be mistaken. There is nobody by that name here. I am Fulton Bentley."

"Indeed?" said Holmes blandly. "Would Fletcher Benton or Ford Broderick happen to be in, then?"

The other's jaw clenched spasmodically, and his fists clenched at his sides. "What's your game here?" he demanded.

"I knew you were a master at forgery and lock picking," said Holmes, with that smooth sneer he could incorporate into his tone so well, "but I confess that I never considered your skill as an actor. Very well, I shall spell it out to you: we want Jacob Nevil. Where is he?"

"As if I know," the fellow growled.

"I am convinced that you do. Therefore, my dear Brooks, I am compelled to leave you in the company of this inspector, while my friend and I search the house. And would you be gracious enough to uncock that pistol you have in your pocket?"

"That would be wise, Mr. Brooks," said Larch in a soft voice. "Perhaps you would place it on the table--slowly! And keep your hands at your sides afterwards. Well, Mr. Holmes, I should much prefer to search the building with you, but I suppose I shall have to remain here with this chap. If you find the boy, be sure to come notify me at once."

"We will," Holmes replied, and watched with the intent eyes of a cat while Brooks reluctantly drew his firearm out and placed it upon the table.

"Well, Watson," he said, as we hurried from the room and down the hall, "if you were a kidnapper, where would you conceal your victim?"

"The first floor."

"Why so?"

"I should say that the police, were they to find me, would search the ground floor first. I should also say that a higher position would lessen the chances of the boy's escape."

"Bravo, Watson! Very logical. Come then," and he turned and mounted the staircase, which was battered, splintered, and in general disrepair, creaking ominously under our weight.

The two rooms we examined were very much alike: unfurnished, uncared for, with wood floors much in need of polishing and sweeping and a great stone fireplace at one end. Holmes went carefully over all the walls and floorings, so as to ensure against trapdoors or places of concealment; but he found nothing. We were preparing to enter the third room when a faint yet unmistakeable sound reached my ears: a low moan.

Holmes immediately sprang forward and sent all his weight crashing against the door. It creaked and groaned, but did not yield. Together he and I threw ourselves against it; and this time the hinges snapped. We found ourselves in a room similar to all the others, but our attention was immediately riveted by the thing upon the floor: a boy, not more than ten years of age, lying bound and gagged with strips torn from a bedsheet. His eyes held a depth of terror and pain I had never seen in one so young, and as we burst into the room he writhed and twisted in a desperate attempt to break free.

We were beside him in an instant, cutting his bonds. Fortunately, other than a few bruises, he appeared unharmed; though I could not make a thorough examination, for he shrank away from our hands.

"Who are you?" he gasped, shielding his face with his arms. "Why are you here?"

"My name is Mr. Holmes," said my friend, with a gentleness I had seldom seen in him. "This is my friend Doctor Watson. We have come to take you back to your father."

"You have come from my father?" asked the little boy, staring at us with wide blue eyes. "Truly?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I am so glad!" he burst out. "I--I was so frightened--and that man--he did things to me--"

"What kind of things?" asked Holmes.

The boy's eyes were full of terror. "I--I can't tell you," he gasped, tears spilling from his eyes. "Please--"

"Holmes, I feel we should not ask him just now," I murmured. "He has been through quite enough."

Holmes glanced at the pale, trembling child and nodded, then reached out and touched the boy's hand. "Can you stand?"

"I think so," said Jacob unsteadily, wiping his cheeks and biting his lips in an effort to keep himself from bursting into tears. He put his hands on the floor, then pushed himself up and stood.

"Please, sir," said he, "can you take me home? Father must be frightened; and I have not eaten since this morning. I am terribly hungry, and I miss my father."

"Certainly," said Holmes. "First, however, we must tell the inspector that we have found you; and then we must talk to the man who kidnapped you."

Jacob's eyes widened, and he backed away. "I don't want to see him!" he cried. "I hate him. He is a cruel and wicked man."

"He is indeed. But we need to talk to him so we can punish him. Can you help us?"

The child considered. "Will he hurt another boy if I do not?"

"He might."

"Then," said Jacob, lifting his chin in sudden courage, "I shall come."

"Good boy!" said Holmes, approvingly.

"You are very brave, Jacob," said I, patting him on the shoulder, "and we shan't let him hurt you."

"Thank you, sir."

We descended the flimsy stairs back to the room where we had first found Brooks; and had not got within ten feet of the doorway before the eager face and fluffy hair of Inspector Larch protruded from it, his features brightening as he beheld our small companion.

"You've found him!" said he. "How is he?"

"Exhausted and in need of nourishment," I answered, "but otherwise in good health."

Larch nodded; then his eyes fastened upon our young companion's clothes, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Where did you get those clothes, my lad?" said he.

"That man brought them to me. They are mine. He must have taken them from my room."

"No doubt," said Larch. "Well, now that we have found him and Doctor Watson has told us that he is in no immediate danger, we may go and see the wretch behind all this." He withdrew into the room, and we followed. Brooks was slumped at the card table, listlessly picking up cards and laying them down again. He picked up the ace of spades and gazed at it intently for some time, his mouth working, then suddenly crumpled it in his hand and turned upon us with an expression of vindictive fury.

"You!" he snarled. "You two! I thought I recognised you when you burst in earlier, and now I am certain of it." His voice slid from a roar into a mocking, mincing accent, an acidic parody of polite drawing-room tones. "Have I the honour to meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"You do," said Holmes quietly.

Brooks smiled bitterly. "I must say that you are very good at hide-and-seek."

"Say rather at catching rats."

Brooks laughed mirthlessly. "How very complimentary of you. Let me pay you one in return when I say that I have long had the opinion that you were in league with the devil, if not the gentleman in person."

"You have done enough to merit more than a passing acquaintance with that individual, Francis Brooks," said Holmes in a cold, low voice. "You have frightened an innocent child half out of his senses and tried your hardest to ruin his father. And you are a coward, Brooks. You had rather prey upon the vulnerable than earn your living. You make me positively ill--however, my opinion of you is neither here nor there. This tired from the hardships he has undergone at your hands, so I think it would be as well for you to tell me your story now and get it over with."

"I had rather hang," said the criminal; and then added mockingly, "You tell it yourself."

"Very well," said Holmes, dryly. "For starts, you had moved out here, in this desolate place, to practice your forgery in peace, and perhaps for some other reasons of which I am unaware. You posed as a farmer for the express reason that you would be able to take sacks and crates to and from town without suspicion, and perhaps because vegetables are relatively easy to tend. You are an unscrupulous man, however, ready to try your hand at anything, and so when a chance at kidnapping presented itself to you, you took it. The notion first occurred to you when you heard that a certain Jane Carter was serving as housekeeper to a relatively wealthy man with a son. Jane Carter had been your accomplice in a few former escapades, am I correct?"

"Do you think that I would tell you if you were?" demanded Brooks, with a sneer.

"I take that to mean yes. Miss Carter had left a rather precarious livelihood as a counterfeiter and cracksman's assistant--she brought your tools to you, did she not? I thought so--she gave up this job to earn honest, if somewhat lesser, wages. Unfortunately for her, she loved you, and you in addition knew some rather questionable episodes in her past that she had rather not made public, so under this double coercion she consented to be your accomplice once more, after you assured her that no harm should come of this venture and that there would be excellent profits.

"She did not wish to be seen with you, and so, after taking a wax impression of the key to the boy's room, she persuaded the tutor, Mr. Roydon, who was deeply in love with her, to have the key made while he was in London, giving some excuse or other. Mr. Roydon saw nothing in this, and duly took the mould to a locksmith, returning with a perfect key. All was quiet until two days later, the Monday, when you took your vegetables up to London and returned by way of the road that runs by Mr. Nevil's house. Only you did not proceed to the village; you pulled up a little way from the house, and waited for the all-clear signal. Having received this, you ran through the back garden, dragging a burlap sack behind you, and, after Miss Carter dropped the duplicate key into your hands, you climbed up the trellis and into the boy's room, locking the door to prevent interference. You then quieted him in some way--I should suggest chloroform--wrapped him in a bedsheet, thrust him into the sack, placed it on the window ledge, then swung both it and yourself out the window and back into the garden, where you scaled the fence, reached your cart, threw both bag and boy in, and continued to your own house. I think that was the train of events, Brooks!"

"Well, if you are so certain," said the criminal, "why are you asking me?"

"I am doing nothing of the sort. The inspector is anxious to take you to the station, and this boy's father is anxiously awaiting us; and therefore, my dear Brooks, we must cut this pleasant interview short."

"All right, Mr. Brooks," said Larch, "hold out your hands for the handcuffs and don't be troublesome or you'll come to grief."

Brooks snarled and leaped to his feet before Larch could stop him, and a small, shining revolver was suddenly in his hand, appearing there as if by magic. The barrel was leveled at Jacob Nevil's head.

"If any of you move," he said tightly, "I shall blow the boy's brains out."

Everyone froze. Brooks started backing for the door, still keeping the revolver trained upon the boy. As he reached the open doorway he broke into a sneer and said,

"Good day, gentlemen--I hope you enjoyed tracking me, but I am afraid that you shall not have the pleasure of putting me in a cell--"

His words were drowned out as a shot like an explosion went off right beside me, and a streak of fire traced through the room. Larch and I dropped to the floor for cover, but the revolver in the criminal's grip had been struck from his hand and sent spinning and clattering against the wall, and Brooks himself was doubled over, clutching his hand and cursing.

Sherlock Holmes smiled grimly. "I fear that I have ruined a perfectly good suit," he said; "I don't think anything will be able to repair that hole in my pocket."

Inspector Larch had remained in the cart upon our return journey with the sullen criminal while Holmes and I confronted the housekeeper. She had burst into tears at the news that Brooks had been arrested, and so we needed no further confirmation of her duplicity in the crime. She had been taken, along with Brooks, to the local police station, while Jacob Nevil had been reunited with his father. Now, some hours later, Holmes explained to Charles Nevil and myself how he had reached his conclusions.

"First and foremost," said he, "I had to select which data was relevant to the case. Emory Roydon was evidently merely interested in supernatural phenomena--a groundless by harmless hobby--but meant no harm to the boy. He was curiously evasive, however, when I mentioned a metalworker's. How did I know about the duplicate key before I found the block of wax? Well, I felt it, and it was slightly greasy. That was an amateurish mistake. Miss Carter had no doubt washed it after she took the impression, but she had failed to remove all traces of wax. So we had a duplicate key about. Who had taken it, and why?"

"Why take a key at all, if Brooks is a skilled cracksman?" asked Nevil.

"I have some experience in lock-picking,"--Holmes ignored Nevil's scandalised stare-- "and I know that it takes some time to pick a lock. A duplicate key would be much easier, and you must remember that time was of the essence to them."

"I see."

"The housekeeper had certainly behaved curiously," Holmes continued; "she claimed to have retired to her room for fear of burglars; but could it be that she had actually gone to her room out of fear for the burglar--to make certain he had come away safely? The fellow had certainly stopped beneath her window for some time."

"Yes. How did you know how to find the fellow?"

"Emory Roydon told me--and incidentally assured me of his innocence, for no man in his right mind would give this away, were he guilty--he spoke of the 'rumble of the occasional farm-cart', and no other vehicle. Therefore the man must have come in a farm-cart; and, as there was a shred of burlap caught upon a splinter in the window, he must have put the boy in a sack. That made me feel that the man posed as a farmer. Then Larch spoke of Fulton Bentley, and I recognised the alias and physical description of a clever and absolutely ruthless man named Francis Brooks."

Nevil shivered. "What would he have done to Jacob had I not sent him the money he demanded?"

"Undoubtedly he would have killed him," said Holmes. "Your son has had a narrow escape."

"And it is your genius that saved him," said Nevil, with emotion, seizing my friend's hand and wringing it heartily.

"Well, really," said Holmes, shifting awkwardly, "Inspector Larch had a good deal of a hand in it."

"He did, didn't he. I suppose I shall have to apologise to him; I have behaved rather badly. But you--you fit all the facts together; you have given me back my son, and I shall never forget it."

"Neither shall I," said a small voice from the doorway. Jacob Nevil was standing there in his nightshirt, his bright red hair tousled and his face flushed from sleep. He came forward impulsively to us, his eyes shining.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson," he said, in his boyish voice, "you took me away from that man and back to my father. Thank you--for everything."

Holmes took the boy's outstretched hand.

"You are very, very welcome."

"Supposing I were Brooks or Woodhouse or any of the fifty men who have good reason for taking my life--how long would I stand against my own pursuit?"

--Sherlock Holmes