In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for his talents.

It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which are essential to his statement and so give a false impression of the problem, or he must use matter which chance, and not choice, has provided him with.

With this short preface I shall turn to my notes of what proved to be a strange, though a peculiarly terrible, chain of events.

 It was a blazing hot day in August.

Baker Street was like an oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house across the road was painful to the eye.

It was hard to believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs of winter.

Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the morning post.

For myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship.

But the morning paper was uninteresting.

Parliament had risen.

Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea.

A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him.

He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime.

Appreciation of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down his brother of the country.

 Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell into a brown study.

Suddenly my companion’s voice broke in upon my thoughts:

 “You are right, Watson,” said he.

“It does seem a most preposterous way of settling a dispute.”

 “Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul,

I sat up in my chair and stared at him in blank amazement.

 “What is this, Holmes?” I cried.

“This is beyond anything which I could have imagined.”

 He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

 “You remember,” he said, “that some little time ago when I read you the passage in one of Poe’s sketches in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author.

On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing you expressed incredulity.”

 “Oh, no!”

 “Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with your eyebrows.

So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a train of thought,

I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I had been in rapport with you.”

 But I was still far from satisfied.

“In the example which you read to me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the man whom he observed.

If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on.

But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?”

 “You do yourself an injustice.

The features are given to man as the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful servants.”

 “Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my features?”

 “Your features and especially your eyes.

Perhaps you cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced?”

 “No, I cannot.”

 “Then I will tell you.

After throwing down your paper, which was the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant expression.

Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been started.

But it did not lead very far.

Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books.

Then you glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious.

You were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and correspond with Gordon’s picture over there.”

 “You have followed me wonderfully!”

I exclaimed.

 “So far I could hardly have gone astray.

But now your thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying the character in his features.

Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful.

You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s career.

I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was received by the more turbulent of our people.

You felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that also.

When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle.

But then, again, your face grew sadder;

you shook your head.

You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life.

Your hand stole towards your own old wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling international questions had forced itself upon your mind.

At this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find that all my deductions had been correct.”

 “Absolutely!” said I.

“And now that you have explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as before.”

 “It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you.

I should not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity the other day.

But I have in my hands here a little problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my small essay in thought reading.

Have you observed in the paper a short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”

 “No, I saw nothing.”

 “Ah! then you must have overlooked it.

Just toss it over to me.

Here it is, under the financial column.

Perhaps you would be good enough to read it aloud.”

 I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the paragraph indicated.

It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”

 “Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be attached to the incident.

At two o’clock yesterday afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman.

A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt.

On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears, apparently quite freshly severed.

The box had been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before.

There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive anything through the post.

Some years ago, however, when she resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account of their noisy and irregular habits.

The police are of opinion that this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms.

Some probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing’s belief, from Belfast.

In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”

 “So much for the Daily Chronicle,” said Holmes as I finished reading.

“Now for our friend Lestrade.

I had a note from him this morning, in which he says: ‘I think that this case is very much in your line.

We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon.

We have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the sender.

The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any way.

The medical student theory still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here.

I shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.’

What say you, Watson?

Can you rise superior to the heat and run down to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”

 “I was longing for something to do.”

 “You shall have it then.

Ring for our boots and tell them to order a cab.

I’ll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”

 A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town.

Holmes had sent on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station.

A walk of five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

 It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned women gossiping at the doors.

Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl.

Miss Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered.

She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side.

A worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside her.

 “They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as Lestrade entered.

“I wish that you would take them away altogether.”

 “So I shall, Miss Cushing.

I only kept them here until my friend, Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”

 “Why in my presence, sir?”

 “In case he wished to ask any questions.”

 “What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know nothing whatever about it?”

 “Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way.

“I have no doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this business.”

 “Indeed, I have, sir.

I am a quiet woman and live a retired life.

It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the police in my house.

I won’t have those things in here, Mr. Lestrade.

If you wish to see them you must go to the outhouse.”

 It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house.

Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box, with a piece of brown paper and some string.

There was a bench at the end of the path, and we all sat down while Holmes examined, one by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

 “The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding it up to the light and sniffing at it.

“What do you make of this string, Lestrade?”

 “It has been tarred.”

 “Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine.

You have also, no doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side.

This is of importance.”

 “I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.

 “The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”

 “It is very neatly tied.

I had already made a note to that effect,” said Lestrade complacently.

 “So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now for the box wrapper.

Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee.

What, did you not observe it?

I think there can be no doubt of it.

Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S. Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’

Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J, and with very inferior ink.

The word ‘Croydon’ has been originally spelled with an ‘i,’ which has been changed to ‘y.’

The parcel was directed, then, by a man—the printing is distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with the town of Croydon.

So far, so good!

The box is a yellow half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner.

It is filled with rough salt of the quality used for preserving hides and other of the coarser commercial purposes.

And embedded in it are these very singular enclosures.”

 He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these dreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion.

Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep meditation.

 “You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears are not a pair.”

 “Yes, I have noticed that.

But if this were the practical joke of some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for them to send two odd ears as a pair.”

 “Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”

 “You are sure of it?”

 “The presumption is strongly against it.

Bodies in the dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid.

These ears bear no signs of this.

They are fresh, too.

They have been cut off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had done it.

Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the medical mind, certainly not rough salt.

I repeat that there is no practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious crime.”

 A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion’s words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.

This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and inexplicable horror in the background.

Lestrade, however, shook his head like a man who is only half convinced.

 “There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt,” said he, “but there are much stronger reasons against the other.

We know that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Penge and here for the last twenty years.

She has hardly been away from her home for a day during that time.

Why on earth, then, should any criminal send her the proofs of his guilt, especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she understands quite as little of the matter as we do?”

 “That is the problem which we have to solve,” Holmes answered, “and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been committed.

One of these ears is a woman’s, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring.

The other is a man’s, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for an earring.

These two people are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before now.

To-day is Friday.

The packet was posted on Thursday morning.

The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday or earlier.

If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing?

We may take it that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want.

But he must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this packet.

What reason then?

It must have been to tell her that the deed was done!

or to pain her, perhaps.

But in that case she knows who it is.

Does she know?

I doubt it.

If she knew, why should she call the police in?

She might have buried the ears, and no one would have been the wiser.

That is what she would have done if she had wished to shield the criminal.

But if she does not wish to shield him she would give his name.

There is a tangle here which needs straightening out.”

He had been talking in a high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the garden fence, but now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards the house.

 “I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing,” said he.

 “In that case I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have another small business on hand.

I think that I have nothing further to learn from Miss Cushing.

You will find me at the police-station.”

 “We shall look in on our way to the train,” answered Holmes.

A moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the impassive lady was still quietly working away at her antimacassar.

She put it down on her lap as we entered and looked at us with her frank, searching blue eyes.

 “I am convinced, sir,” she said, “that this matter is a mistake, and that the parcel was never meant for me at all.

I have said this several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he simply laughs at me.

I have not an enemy in the world, as far as I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”

 “I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, taking a seat beside her.

“I think that it is more than probable——” he paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to see that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady’s profile.

Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be read upon his eager face, though when she glanced round to find out the cause of his silence he had become as demure as ever.

I stared hard myself at her flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her little gilt earrings, her placid features;

but I could see nothing which could account for my companion’s evident excitement.

 “There were one or two questions——”

 “Oh, I am weary of questions!” cried Miss Cushing impatiently.

 “You have two sisters, I believe.”

 “How could you know that?”

 “I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the relationship.”

 “Yes, you are quite right.

Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary.”

 “And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a steward by his uniform.

I observe that she was unmarried at the time.”

 “You are very quick at observing.”

 “That is my trade.”

 “Well, you are quite right.

But she was married to Mr. Browner a few days afterwards.

He was on the South American line when that was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn’t abide to leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London boats.”

 “Ah, the Conqueror, perhaps?”

 “No, the May Day, when last I heard.

Jim came down here to see me once.

That was before he broke the pledge;

but afterwards he would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink would send him stark, staring mad.

Ah! it was a bad day that ever he took a glass in his hand again.

First he dropped me, then he quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we don’t know how things are going with them.”

 It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which she felt very deeply.

Like most people who lead a lonely life, she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely communicative.

She told us many details about her brother-in-law the steward, and then wandering off on the subject of her former lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of their delinquencies, with their names and those of their hospitals.

Holmes listened attentively to everything, throwing in a question from time to time.

 “About your second sister, Sarah,” said he.

“I wonder, since you are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together.”

 “Ah! you don’t know Sarah’s temper or you would wonder no more.

I tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two months ago, when we had to part.

I don’t want to say a word against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please, was Sarah.”

 “You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations.”

 “Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time.

Why, she went up there to live in order to be near them.

And now she has no word hard enough for Jim Browner.

The last six months that she was here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways.

He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit of his mind, and that was the start of it.”

 “Thank you, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, rising and bowing.

“Your sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street Wallington?

Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to do.”

 There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

 “How far to Wallington?” he asked.

 “Only about a mile, sir.”

 “Very good. Jump in, Watson.

We must strike while the iron is hot.

Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very instructive details in connection with it.

Just pull up at a telegraph office as you pass, cabby.”

 Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the sun from his face.

Our driver pulled up at a house which was not unlike the one which we had just quitted.

My companion ordered him to wait, and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door opened and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the step.

 “Is Miss Cushing at home?” asked Holmes.

 “Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill,” said he.

“She has been suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity.

As her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility of allowing anyone to see her.

I should recommend you to call again in ten days.”

He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off down the street.

 “Well, if we can’t we can’t,” said Holmes, cheerfully.

 “Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much.”

 “I did not wish her to tell me anything.

I only wanted to look at her.

However, I think that I have got all that I want.

Drive us to some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the police-station.”

 We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five hundred guineas, at a Jew broker’s in Tottenham Court Road for fifty-five shillings.

This led him to Paganini, and we sat for an hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote after anecdote of that extraordinary man.

The afternoon was far advanced and the hot glare had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at the police-station.

Lestrade was waiting for us at the door.

 “A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” said he.

 “Ha! It is the answer!”

He tore it open, glanced his eyes over it, and crumpled it into his pocket.

“That’s all right,” said he.

 “Have you found out anything?”

 “I have found out everything!”

 “What!” Lestrade stared at him in amazement.

“You are joking.”

 “I was never more serious in my life.

A shocking crime has been committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it.”

 “And the criminal?”

 Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting cards

and threw it over to Lestrade.

 “That is the name,” he said.

“You cannot effect an arrest until to-morrow night at the earliest.

I should prefer that you do not mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose to be only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty in their solution.

Come on, Watson.”