Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium.

The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college;

for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects.

He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives.

I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

 One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock.

I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

 “A patient!” said she.

“You’ll have to go out.”

 I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

 We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum.

Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

 “You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried;

“I do so want a little help.”

 “Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney.

How you startled me, Kate!

I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”

 “I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.”

That was always the way.

Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.

 “It was very sweet of you to come.

Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it.

Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?”

 “Oh, no, no! I want the Doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa.

He has not been home for two days.

I am so frightened about him!”

 It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion.

We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.

Did she know where her husband was?

Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?

 It seems that it was.

She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City.

Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening.

But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects.

There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the “Bar of Gold,” in Upper Swandam Lane.

But what was she to do?

How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

 There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.

Might I not escort her to this place?

And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all?

I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him.

I could manage it better if I were alone.

I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me.

And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.

 But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.

Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.

Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.

Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet;

and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

 Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer.

Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.

The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour.

At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

 As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

 “Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I.

“There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”

 There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.

 “My God! It’s Watson,” said he.

He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter.

“I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”

 “Nearly eleven.”

 “Of what day?”

 “Of Friday, June 19th.”

 “Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday.

What d’you want to frighten a chap for?”

He sank his face onto his arms, and began to sob in a high treble key.

 “I tell you that it is Friday, man.

Your wife has been waiting this two days for you.

You should be ashamed of yourself!”

 “So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many.

But I’ll go home with you.

I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate.

Give me your hand!

Have you a cab?”

 “Yes, I have one waiting.”

 “Then I shall go in it.

But I must owe something.

Find what I owe, Watson.

I am all off colour.

I can do nothing for myself.”

 I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager.

As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.”

The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear.

I glanced down.

They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers.

I took two steps forward and looked back.

It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment.

He had turned his back so that none could see him but I.

His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

 “Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”

 “As low as you can,” he answered;

“I have excellent ears.

If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”

 “I have a cab outside.”

 “Then pray send him home in it.

You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief.

I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me.

If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.”

 It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery.

I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished;

and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence.

In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness.

In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes.

For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.

Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

 “I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views.”

 “I was certainly surprised to find you there.”

 “But not more so than I to find you.”

 “I came to find a friend.”

 “And I to find an enemy.”

 “An enemy?”

 “Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.

Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now.

Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase;

for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me.

There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”

 “What! You do not mean bodies?”

 “Aye, bodies, Watson.

We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den.

It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more.

But our trap should be here.”

He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs.

 “Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

 “If I can be of use.”

 “Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use;

and a chronicler still more so.

My room at ‘The Cedars’ is a double-bedded one.”

 “‘The Cedars?’”

 “Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house.

I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.”

 “Where is it, then?”

 “Near Lee, in Kent.

We have a seven-mile drive before us.”

 “But I am all in the dark.”

 “Of course you are.

You’ll know all about it presently.

Jump up here.

All right, John; we shall not need you.

Here’s half a crown.

Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven.

Give her her head.

So long, then!”

 He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us.

Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers.

A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds.

Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts.

We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.

 “You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he.

“It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.

’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant.

I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door.”

 “You forget that I know nothing about it.”

 “I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee.

It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon.

There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of it into my hand.

Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.”

 “Proceed, then.”

 “Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money.

He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style.

By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children.

He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night.

Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him.

I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £88 10s., while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.

There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

 “Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks.

Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company.

Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night.

Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company’s office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station.

Have you followed me so far?”

 “It is very clear.”

 “If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself.

While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window.

The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated.

He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.

One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

 “Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps—for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night—and running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor.

At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street.

Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat.

The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen.

There was no sign of him there.

In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there.

Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon.

So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it.

Out there fell a cascade of children’s bricks.

It was the toy which he had promised to bring home.

 “This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.

The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime.

The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves.

Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water.

The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below.

On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom.

Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat.

His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there.

There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair.

Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

 “And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter.

The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime.

His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman’s clothes.

 “So much for the Lascar manager.

Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair.

His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City.

He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas.

Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall.

Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and, as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him.

I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time.

His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him.

A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.

This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest.”

 “But a cripple!” said I.

“What could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?”

 “He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp;

but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.

Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.”

 “Pray continue your narrative.”

 “Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.

Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter.

One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could incriminate him.

There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source.

He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police.

As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming.

He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.

 “And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find.

It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded.

And what do you think they found in the pockets?”

 “I cannot imagine.”

 “No, I don’t think you would guess.

Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies.

It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide.

But a human body is a different matter.

There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house.

It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.”

 “But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.

Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?”

 “No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough.

Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.

What would he do then?

It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments.

He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink.

He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.

There is not an instant to be lost.

He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat’s sinking.

He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.”

 “It certainly sounds feasible.”

 “Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better.

Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him.

He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.

There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved—what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever.

I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.”

 While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.

Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

 “We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion.

“We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent.

See that light among the trees?

That is ‘The Cedars,’ and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse’s feet.”

 “But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?”

I asked.

 “Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here.

Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague.

I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband.

Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”

 We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds.

A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, and, springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to the house.

As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists.

She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.

 “Well?” she cried, “well?”

And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

 “No good news?”

 “None.”

 “No bad?”

 “No.”

 “Thank God for that. But come in.

You must be weary, for you have had a long day.”

 “This is my friend, Dr. Watson.

He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation.”

 “I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly.

“You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us.”

 “My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that no apology is needed.

If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy.”

 “Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, “I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.”

 “Certainly, madam.”

 “Do not trouble about my feelings.

I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting.

I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”

 “Upon what point?”

 “In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”

 Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.

“Frankly, now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

 “Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”

 “You think that he is dead?”

 “I do.”

 “Murdered?”

 “I don’t say that. Perhaps.”

 “And on what day did he meet his death?”

 “On Monday.”

 “Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day.”

 Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.

 “What!” he roared.

 “Yes, to-day.”

She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air.

 “May I see it?”

 “Certainly.”

 He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table, he drew over the lamp and examined it intently.

I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder.

The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark, and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.

 “Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes.

“Surely this is not your husband’s writing, madam.”

 “No, but the enclosure is.”

 “I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.”

 “How can you tell that?”

 “The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself.

The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been used.

If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade.

This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it.

It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.

Let us now see the letter.

Ha! there has been an enclosure here!”

 “Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”

 “And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”

 “One of his hands.”

 “One?”

 “His hand when he wrote hurriedly.

It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well.”

 “‘Dearest do not be frightened.

All will come well.

There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.

Wait in patience.—NEVILLE.’

Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark.

Hum!

Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb.

Ha!

And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco.

And you have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”

 “None. Neville wrote those words.”

 “And they were posted to-day at Gravesend.

Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.”

 “But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”

 “Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent.

The ring, after all, proves nothing.

It may have been taken from him.”

 “No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”

 “Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day.”

 “That is possible.”

 “If so, much may have happened between.”

 “Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes.

I know that all is well with him.

There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him.

On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened.

Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle, and yet be ignorant of his death?”

 “I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner.

And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view.

But if your husband is alive, and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?”

 “I cannot imagine.

It is unthinkable.”