===============

AI-Generated Graded Readers
Masaru Uchida, Gifu University

Publication webpage:
https://www1.gifu-u.ac.jp/~masaru/a1/ai-generated_graded_readers.html

Publication date: April 17, 2026

About This Edition

This book is a simplified English adaptation created for extensive reading practice.
The text was generated using ChatGPT and prepared for intermediate English learners as part of an educational project.

Target reading level: CEFR A2-B1

This edition aims to support fluency development through accessible vocabulary, expanded narration, and improved readability while preserving the original story structure.

Source Text

Original work: A Study in Scarlet
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Source: Project Gutenberg
https://www.gutenberg.org/

Full text available at:
https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/244/pg244.txt

The original text is in the public domain.

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This simplified edition is intended for educational and non-commercial use only.

The source text is provided by Project Gutenberg under its public domain policy.
Users should refer to the Project Gutenberg License for full terms:

https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

This adaptation was generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence and edited for readability and educational purposes.

Disclaimer

This edition is an educational adaptation and is not affiliated with or endorsed by Project Gutenberg.

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Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet (Simplified Edition, Adapted and Simplified by ChatGPT)

Part 1

　　In 1878, I finished my medical studies in London and then went to Netley, where army doctors were trained. After that, I joined the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as an assistant surgeon. The regiment was in India, but before I could reach it, the second Afghan war had already begun. When I landed at Bombay, I learned that my regiment had moved far into the country. I followed with other officers and at last reached Candahar safely. There I found my regiment and began my work.
　　The war brought success to many men, but it did not bring success to me. I was moved from my own unit and sent to serve with the Berkshires. Then, at the battle of Maiwand, I was badly wounded. A bullet hit my shoulder, broke the bone, and passed close to a great blood vessel. I might have died there, or fallen into the hands of the enemy, if not for the courage of my servant Murray. He lifted me onto a pack-horse and got me back to the British lines.
　　I had suffered from pain, weakness, and long hardship. With many other wounded men, I was taken to the hospital at Peshawar. There I slowly became stronger, and after some time I could walk a little and even sit outside in the sun. But then a new trouble came. I was struck down by enteric fever, which was one of the great dangers of India in those days. For many months my life was in danger, and when I finally began to recover, I was thin, weak, and greatly changed.
　　The doctors decided that I had to return to England at once. So I was sent home on the troopship Orontes, and about a month later I arrived at Portsmouth. My health was broken, and I was given nine months to recover before I would be expected to do any more work. I had no close family in England, and so I was free to go where I liked. Still, a man is not truly free when he has only a small daily income and poor health. Under those conditions, I went to London.
　　In London, I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand. My life there had no shape and no purpose. I had little to do, few people to see, and too much time to think. Also, I was spending money faster than I should have done. Before long I saw clearly that I could not go on in that way. I had to leave London and live very cheaply in the country, or I had to change my way of life in the city.
　　I chose the second plan. I decided to leave the hotel and look for rooms that were more modest and less costly. On the very day when I made that decision, chance stepped in to help me. I was standing at the bar of the Criterion when someone touched me on the shoulder. I turned and saw young Stamford, who had once worked under me at Bart’s Hospital. In a great city, a familiar face can feel like a gift to a lonely man, and I was truly glad to see him.
　　Stamford had never been a close friend of mine, but I greeted him warmly, and he seemed pleased to meet me again. In my happiness, I asked him to have lunch with me at the Holborn, and he accepted. We took a hansom cab together, and as it moved through the crowded streets, he looked at me with surprise. “What has happened to you, Watson?” he asked. “You are very thin, and the sun has made your face quite dark.” I laughed and told him that the answer was a long one, but I gave him the story in a short form before we reached the hotel.
　　When he heard it, he shook his head with pity. “You have had a hard time,” he said. “And what are you doing now?” I told him that I was looking for rooms and trying to find some comfortable place at a price I could pay. At that, he looked at me more sharply. “That is strange,” he said. “You are the second man today who has said that to me.” I asked who the first man was, and Stamford said that it was someone working in the chemical laboratory at the hospital.
　　“He was complaining this morning,” Stamford said, “because he had found some good rooms, but they were too expensive for him alone. He wanted someone to share them with him.” I cried out at once that this was exactly what I wanted. “If he truly wants a man to share the rooms and the cost,” I said, “then I am the very person for him. I would much rather live with someone than live by myself.” Stamford did not answer at once. Instead, he looked at me over his glass in a rather curious way.
　　“You do not know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said at last. “Perhaps you would not like him if you had to live with him every day.” That answer naturally made me curious. I asked what there was against this Holmes. Stamford replied that he had not said there was anything actually wrong with him. He only said that Holmes was a little strange in some of his ideas, and very deeply interested in certain parts of science. “As far as I know,” he said, “he is a decent man enough.”
　　I supposed that Holmes must be a medical student, but Stamford quickly told me that this was not so. In truth, he said, he did not know what Holmes was trying to become. Holmes knew a great deal about anatomy, and he was an excellent chemist, but he had not followed the usual medical course. His studies were strange and uneven. He seemed to learn a very great deal about a few subjects, and almost nothing about others. Stamford spoke of him with a mixture of respect and uncertainty, as if Holmes was a man difficult to place in the ordinary world.
　　I asked whether he had ever tried to learn Holmes’s plans. Stamford said that Holmes was not an easy man to draw out, though sometimes he could be quite ready to talk if he felt like it. That answer only made me more interested. A quiet man with unusual knowledge seemed to me far better than the noisy and troublesome companions one could easily find in London. My nerves were still weak, and I had no wish to live with a loud, foolish, or restless person. I said that I would like to meet this Holmes as soon as possible.
　　Stamford told me that Holmes would almost certainly be at the laboratory. “He either stays away for days,” he said, “or else he works there from morning to night.” Then he offered to take me there after lunch. I agreed at once. For a little while our talk moved on to other things, but my mind kept returning to this unknown man. The name Sherlock Holmes was still new to me, yet already I felt that it might become important in my life.
　　As we left the restaurant and rode toward the hospital, Stamford gave me a few more words of warning. He said that if Holmes and I did not get on well together, I should not blame him, because the whole arrangement had been my idea. I told him that there would be no great harm done if two men found they could not live together. Still, I could see that Stamford was holding something back. He did not seem afraid of Holmes, but he did seem unwilling to be responsible for him.
　　“You have some reason for speaking like this,” I said. “Is his temper bad? Or what is the trouble?” Stamford smiled and said that Holmes was a little too scientific for his taste. He even laughed and said that Holmes might give a friend a dangerous substance just to test its effects, though not out of cruelty. He added, however, that Holmes would probably test it on himself as readily as on anyone else. “He wants exact knowledge,” Stamford said. “That is what drives him.” I answered that there was nothing wrong with that, though I also began to feel that my future companion might indeed be a very unusual man.
　　Even so, I was not discouraged. My own life at that moment was empty, and the chance of sharing rooms with an intelligent man seemed much better than going back alone to my hotel and my dull thoughts. I was tired of living without aim. I wanted cheaper rooms, of course, but I also wanted something more than that. I wanted interest, movement, and a little human company. So I went with Stamford toward the hospital, ready to meet the man called Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

Part 2

　　We went through a side door into one part of the great hospital building. I knew the place well enough from earlier days, so I needed no guide as we climbed the stone stairs and walked down a long corridor. At the far end, a lower passage led away to the chemical laboratory. Stamford said little now, and I think he wanted me to form my own opinion. I was glad of that, because I wished to see this strange man without any more warnings in my ears.
　　The laboratory was a large room with many bottles, jars, and pieces of glass on the tables. Small lamps burned with blue flames, and the place had the sharp smell of chemicals. Only one man was there. He stood at a table in the distance, bent over his work so deeply that he did not notice us at first. Then he heard our steps, looked around, and suddenly gave a cry of joy.
　　He ran toward us with a test tube in his hand and a bright light in his eyes. “I have found it,” he shouted to Stamford. “I have found a chemical that reacts to blood, and to nothing else.” He looked so pleased that one might have thought he had found a chest of gold. Stamford introduced us, saying, “Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” Holmes shook my hand warmly, and I was surprised by the strength of his grip.
　　He looked at me with keen eyes, and almost at once he said, “You have been in Afghanistan, I see.” I stared at him in complete surprise. “How could you possibly know that?” I asked. He only smiled in a pleased way and said that this question could wait. He was far more interested, at that moment, in the blood test he had just discovered.
　　Holmes quickly drew us to the table where he had been working. He pricked his finger, let one small drop of blood fall into water, and showed us how the red color disappeared at once. Then he added a few white crystals and some clear liquid. In a moment the mixture changed color, and a brown dust fell to the bottom of the jar. Holmes clapped his hands like a delighted child and asked me what I thought of it.
　　I said that it seemed to be a very delicate test, and he answered at once that it was much more than that. He told us that old tests for blood were uncertain and often useless, especially after time had passed. His new test, he said, would show whether a stain was truly blood even when it was old. Holmes spoke with great energy, and his face shone with excitement. It was plain that he cared deeply about the practical use of science.
　　He began naming famous crimes and said that, if such a test had existed earlier, many guilty men would already have been punished. Stamford laughed and said that Holmes seemed to carry a whole history of crime in his head. Holmes did not deny it. He spoke with a kind of proud seriousness that might have seemed foolish in another man, but in him it was held up by real knowledge. I could already see that he had both confidence and ability in unusual measure.
　　Then Stamford explained why we had come. He told Holmes that I was looking for rooms, and that Holmes himself had been complaining that he could not find anyone to share the cost of a set of rooms he liked. At once Holmes seemed very pleased. He said that he had seen some rooms in Baker Street which would suit us very well. He then began asking me questions in a direct and practical way, as if he wished to settle the whole matter without delay.
　　He asked whether I minded the smell of strong tobacco. I answered that I smoked myself, so that would cause no trouble. He said that he often kept chemicals in the rooms and sometimes did experiments there. I told him that this did not trouble me either. He also warned me that there were times when he became low in spirit and said almost nothing for several days. “Do not think I am angry,” he said. “Leave me alone, and I will soon be right again.”
　　Then he asked about my own faults, saying that it was better for two men to know the worst of each other before they began to live together. I laughed and answered honestly. I told him that I had a small dog, that loud quarrels were bad for my nerves, that I kept strange hours, and that I was very lazy. Holmes listened seriously, as if each point mattered. Then, with sudden concern, he asked whether I counted violin playing as a kind of noise.
　　I answered that it depended on the player. Good violin playing, I said, was one of the finest sounds in the world, but bad playing was another matter. Holmes laughed with real pleasure at this reply and declared that we would do very well together. He suggested that I come the next day at noon so that we could go to Baker Street and see the rooms. I agreed, and we shook hands on the arrangement.
　　When Stamford and I left the laboratory, Holmes stayed behind among his bottles and flames, already turning back to his work. As we walked away, I suddenly stopped and asked the question that still burned in my mind. “How did he know I had come from Afghanistan?” I said. Stamford smiled in a curious way and answered that this was one of Holmes’s little gifts. Many people, he said, had wanted to know how Holmes learned such things. His answer only increased my interest.
　　The next day I met Holmes again, just as we had arranged, and together we went to Baker Street. The rooms at 221B were exactly what both of us needed. There were two comfortable bedrooms and one large sitting room with wide windows and a cheerful look. The price was fair when shared between two men, and we decided on the spot to take them. That same evening I moved my things from the hotel, and Holmes followed on the next morning with boxes and bags of his own.
　　For a day or two we were busy unpacking and arranging our possessions. After that, we slowly settled into our new life together. Holmes was not difficult to live with. He was quiet in his habits and usually rose early, often before I was awake. Sometimes he spent the day in the laboratory, sometimes in the rooms where bodies were studied, and sometimes on long walks in poor parts of London. At other times, however, he would lie on the sofa for hours and speak hardly a word.
　　As the days passed, my curiosity about him grew stronger. His face, his habits, and his strange mixture of silence and sudden energy all kept my attention fixed on him. He knew a great deal about some things and almost nothing about others. I soon understood that living with Sherlock Holmes would not be dull. Even before I learned what sort of work he truly did, I felt that I had stepped into a new and very unusual part of my life.

Part 3

　　As the weeks passed, my interest in Holmes grew deeper. He was a man who drew attention even when he sat still and said nothing. He was over six feet tall, and so thin that he looked even taller than he really was. His eyes were sharp and bright when he was active, though at times they became distant and empty when he fell into one of his silent moods. His nose was thin and keen, and his firm chin gave him the look of a man who never gave up easily.
　　His hands also told a story of their own. They were often marked with ink, strong chemicals, or little cuts from his work, yet they could move with great care and lightness when he handled small instruments. I often watched him in the sitting room and wondered what kind of work needed such a strange mix of skill. I must admit that I became very curious about him. My life had little other interest, and the mystery of Holmes gave my mind something to follow.
　　It soon became clear that he was not studying medicine in the usual way. He had told me so himself, and everything I saw agreed with that. At the same time, he did not seem to be preparing for any other normal profession. Yet he worked hard, and when he wanted knowledge, he wanted it with exactness. A man does not fill his mind in that way unless he has some clear purpose.
　　What surprised me most was the odd shape of his knowledge. In some subjects he was almost great, while in others he knew almost nothing. He seemed to care very little for literature, philosophy, or politics. One day I spoke of Thomas Carlyle, and Holmes asked, quite simply, who that was. I was astonished, but even greater surprise was waiting for me. I learned by chance that he did not know that the earth moved around the sun.
　　I could hardly believe that an educated man in our time could be ignorant of such a fact. Holmes only smiled at my amazement and said that now that he knew it, he would try to forget it again. When I cried out in surprise, he explained his idea calmly. He said that a man’s brain was like a small room, and that one must choose carefully what to put into it. Useless facts, he believed, only pushed out facts that might actually help one in one’s work.
　　I argued that the movements of the planets could not possibly be called useless. Holmes cut me short and said that it made no difference to him whether the earth went around the sun or the moon. If the fact did not help his work, he did not wish to keep it in his mind. There was something so firm and so strange in this way of thinking that I did not know whether to laugh or to admire him. Still, I began to see that all his learning had been chosen for some special purpose.
　　After that talk, I tried to make a list of the things he knew and the things he did not know. It was a foolish little act, but it amused me and perhaps helped me think more clearly. Holmes knew chemistry very deeply and anatomy quite well, though not in a regular way. He had a great knowledge of crime, poisons, and British law. He also played the violin well, boxed well, used a sword and a stick, and could tell much from a man’s clothes, hands, or the mud on his boots.
　　Yet even after making this list, I still could not guess his true profession. Matters became more interesting when I noticed that many visitors came to see him. They were not all alike at all. Some were plainly dressed men, some were women, and some looked poor and troubled. Whenever such a person arrived, Holmes would ask to use the sitting room alone, and I would go into my bedroom until the meeting was over.
　　He always said he was sorry to trouble me, but he told me that he used our room as a place of business. That single word made me still more curious, though I did not like to question him too directly. Then, on the fourth of March, the matter began to grow clear. I came down to breakfast earlier than usual and found Holmes still at the table. While I waited for my coffee, I picked up a magazine that lay near my plate.
　　One article had been marked with pencil, and I began to read it. Its title was “The Book of Life,” and it argued that a man with enough training could learn a great deal from the smallest signs. The writer claimed that by looking at a face, a hand, a sleeve, or a boot, one might discover a man’s history and profession. The article was clever in places, but to me it seemed full of exaggeration. At last I threw the magazine down and called it complete nonsense.
　　Holmes asked what I meant, and I pointed angrily to the article. I said that it was the sort of thing written by a man who sat in a chair and imagined impossible ideas instead of testing them in real life. I added that I would like to see such a writer in a train, asked to tell the work of every passenger there. Holmes listened quietly and then said, in the calmest possible voice, “You would lose your bet, for I wrote the article myself.” I stared at him in open disbelief.
　　He then explained, at last, what his work was. He said that he was a consulting detective, and that he believed he was the only one in the world. When police detectives or private agents could not solve a problem, they came to him. They gave him the facts, and by using his special knowledge and his methods of observation, he put them on the right path. As he spoke, many things that had puzzled me suddenly began to fit together. The visitors, the strange studies, the exact knowledge, and even the blood test all now had a single purpose.
　　Holmes then returned to the question of Afghanistan, which had surprised me at our first meeting. He said no one had told him anything. He had simply seen that I was a doctor, that I had the manner of a military man, that my skin was dark but not naturally so, that I had been ill and had suffered hardship, and that my arm had been injured. From there, he said, Afghanistan was the clear answer. When he broke it into steps, the reasoning seemed simple, though I had not been able to see it myself.
　　I told him that his method reminded me of Dupin in Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. Holmes did not accept this as praise. He said that Dupin was clever in some ways, but much too theatrical for his taste. When I mentioned Lecoq, another famous detective from fiction, Holmes disliked that name even more and called him a poor worker who took far too long to do simple things. There was no doubt that Holmes had a very high opinion of his own abilities. I felt a little annoyed by his pride, even while I could not deny his skill.
　　At that moment, a strong-looking man with a blue envelope appeared outside in the street. Holmes glanced at him and said at once, “That is a retired sergeant of Marines.” I thought this was only another wild guess, but a moment later the man came up, knocked, and entered with a letter for Holmes. I asked him what his trade was, and he answered that he was now a commissionaire, though he had once been a sergeant in the Royal Marine Light Infantry. When he left, I could only look at Holmes with fresh amazement, for once again he had been exactly right.

Part 4

　　The new letter brought a fresh surprise, but it was not my only one that morning. Before I could even speak about the man from the street, Holmes explained calmly how he had known that the visitor had once served in the Marines. He said that the man’s heavy walk, his military way of standing, his age, and the blue anchor on his hand had all pointed to that answer. I listened with growing respect. Holmes did not guess wildly, as I had first thought. He noticed things, joined them together, and reached a result almost before another man had begun to think.
　　Yet he gave me little time to admire him, for he had already opened the letter and was reading it with close attention. When he finished, his face changed. The easy, amused expression disappeared, and in its place came the still, far-away look that meant his mind was working hard. I asked what the matter was, and he passed the paper to me. It was from Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard, who asked Holmes to come at once to a house in Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road, where a dead man had been found during the night.
　　The letter said that the house was empty and that the body was that of a well-dressed gentleman. Cards found in his pocket gave the name Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland, Ohio, in the United States. There had been no robbery, and yet there was blood in the room, though no wound could be found on the dead man. Gregson admitted openly that the case had defeated him so far. He begged Holmes to come before noon, while everything was still untouched.
　　I looked up from the letter with deep interest and some horror. “This is a terrible business,” I said. Holmes, however, seemed less shocked than pleased. He said that Gregson and Lestrade were the best men in a poor group, quick and active, but too narrow in their methods. He added, with a smile, that the two detectives were jealous of each other and that this alone might make the case worth watching. I was astonished that he could speak so lightly about such a matter.
　　“Then we must go at once,” I cried. Holmes answered that he was not even sure whether he cared to go. He complained that, if he solved the mystery, the police would take the credit while he would be forgotten. Still, he admitted that this was exactly the sort of case he liked best. In another moment his lazy mood was gone. He pulled on his coat with sudden energy, told me to get my hat, and within minutes we were in a cab, driving hard toward Brixton Road.
　　The morning was dark, wet, and cheerless. A dirty fog hung over the roofs, and the streets below seemed to reflect the same dull color back into the sky. Holmes, strangely enough, was in excellent spirits. He talked about old violins and the difference between famous makers, as if we were going to a concert and not to a house of death. I could not match his mood. The weather, the letter, and the thought of the unknown dead man pressed heavily on my mind.
　　At last I said that he seemed to be giving very little thought to the case. Holmes answered that it was a great mistake to build theories before one had facts. Too early an idea, he said, could lead a man away from the truth. Just then he looked out of the cab and saw the place ahead of us. He stopped the driver before we reached it and insisted that we walk the last part of the way. I noticed that he was already studying the road and the houses around us with close attention.
　　Number 3, Lauriston Gardens stood a little back from the street with three other houses in a row. Two were lived in, but two were empty, and the one we wanted had a sad, neglected look. Its windows were blank and dirty, and a small garden lay in front of it, crossed by a narrow path of clay and gravel. The rain of the night before had left the ground soft and marked. A police constable stood near the low wall, and several idle people had gathered to stare toward the house in the useless hope of seeing something.
　　I expected Holmes to hurry inside, but instead he walked up and down outside with great calm. He looked at the street, the wall, the sky, and then carefully at the ground. After that, he moved along the path slowly, keeping to the edge where a little strip of grass ran beside it. More than once he stopped, and once I saw a small smile of satisfaction cross his face. I could make nothing of what he saw. The police had already trampled over the path so much that it seemed to me hopeless to learn anything there.
　　At the door we were met by Gregson, a tall fair man with a notebook in his hand and a serious face. He greeted Holmes warmly and said that he had left everything exactly as it was found. Holmes pointed at once to the muddy path and answered dryly that an army of buffaloes could hardly have made a worse mess of it. Gregson explained that he had been busy inside and that Lestrade had been expected to watch the entrance. Holmes only raised his eyebrows and went in.
　　A bare passage led us toward the room where the death had taken place. The house felt cold, empty, and silent, and even before I saw the body I felt that heavy stillness which belongs to death. The room itself was large and almost unfurnished. The wallpaper was cheap and ugly, and in several places it had come loose from the wall. A dirty window let in a weak grey light, and on the mantelpiece there stood the red end of a candle.
　　On the floor lay the dead man. He seemed to be in his forties, broad in the shoulders, with dark hair and a short beard. He was well dressed in a good coat and trousers, and his top hat lay beside him on the boards. His hands were tightly closed, his arms spread out, and his legs were twisted together as if he had died in pain or struggle. But what struck me most was his face. It held such fear and hatred that I had never seen anything like it on a human face before.
　　Lestrade was in the room too, thin and sharp-looking as ever. Both he and Gregson agreed that no wound could be found on the dead man, though blood was splashed about the floor. Holmes knelt at once beside the body and began to examine it with quick, careful movements. He touched the clothes, looked at the face, and even bent near the lips. The speed of his work was surprising, but I had already learned that his speed hid great care. At last he stood up and said that the blood must belong not to the dead man, but to someone else, most likely the murderer.
　　When the body was lifted to be taken away, a small ring fell from beneath it and rolled across the floor. Lestrade picked it up and cried out that it was a woman’s wedding ring. We all gathered around him and looked at it. There could be no doubt about what it was. Gregson said that this only made the case more difficult, but Holmes answered that there was no point in simply staring at the ring. He then asked what had been found in the dead man’s pockets.
　　Gregson showed us the objects collected from the body. There was a gold watch and chain, a gold ring with a Masonic sign, a gold pin shaped like a dog’s head with red stones for eyes, some money, a card case, a copy of The Decameron, and two letters. The name Enoch J. Drebber appeared, as Gregson had said, and another name, Joseph Stangerson, was written in the book and on one of the letters. The letters had come from a steamship company and concerned travel to New York. Gregson said that it seemed clear that the dead man had been preparing to leave England.
　　Holmes asked at once whether any search had been made for Stangerson and whether Cleveland had been contacted. Gregson answered that he had done both, though he seemed offended by Holmes’s questions. Before Holmes could reply, Lestrade called us over in triumph. He had found something on the wall in a dark corner where a piece of paper had fallen away. Written there in blood-red letters was one word: RACHE. Lestrade declared proudly that the murderer had begun to write the name Rachel and had been interrupted before finishing it.
　　Holmes burst out laughing, which made Lestrade very angry. Still, Holmes apologized and then began his own full examination of the room. He took out a tape measure and a round magnifying glass and moved across the floor like a hunting dog, now kneeling, now bending, now lying flat to look more closely. He measured distances I could not understand, picked up some grey dust, and studied the blood writing letter by letter. At last he seemed satisfied. Then he turned to the two detectives and said that a murder had indeed been committed, that the murderer was a tall man in the strength of life, with small feet for his height, long nails on his right hand, and a red face, that he had smoked a Trichinopoly cigar, and that he had come in a four-wheeled cab pulled by a horse with three old shoes and one new one. Lestrade asked how the man had killed Drebber, and Holmes answered in one hard word: “Poison.” Then, as he walked away, he added that “Rache” was the German word for “revenge,” and that Lestrade should not waste his time looking for a woman named Rachel.

Part 5

　　Holmes and I left Lauriston Gardens at about one o’clock. On the way, he stopped at a telegraph office and sent a long message. After that, we took a cab to Audley Court, where the police constable John Rance lived. Holmes said that there was nothing better than hearing a thing from the lips of the man who had seen it. He also said, in a quiet way, that the main lines of the case were already clear in his mind, though there was still more to learn.
　　I told him that I could not understand how he could be so sure. Holmes then explained some of his earlier deductions. He said that the marks of the cab wheels in the wet ground showed that the vehicle had come during the night and had not been there before the rain. He also told me that one horse shoe was newer than the others, because one hoof mark was much clearer than the rest. From the stride of the man on the path and from the height of the writing on the wall, he had judged the murderer’s height. Such things sounded simple when he said them, though they had seemed impossible to me only a short time before.
　　He then explained about the long finger nails and the cigar. The writing on the wall, he said, had been made with a forefinger dipped in blood, and the plaster had been lightly scratched by the nail. The ash upon the floor showed the kind of cigar that had been smoked there. He even spoke as if he knew many kinds of ash by sight. Still, for all this, my mind remained in confusion. There were too many loose ends. I could not understand how one man had died without a wound, why there had been blood, or what part the woman’s ring had played in it all.
　　Holmes smiled at my questions but did not answer all of them. He said that Lestrade’s blood-red word on the wall had been meant to lead the police in the wrong direction. It had not been written by a German, but by someone pretending badly. He also warned me that if he explained everything too early, I would think less of him once the trick was known. There was pride in this, of course, but I had already learned that with Holmes pride was often joined to truth. Soon after that we reached the narrow court where John Rance lived, and we were shown into a small room while he was called from his bed.
　　The constable came in looking sleepy and not at all pleased to be disturbed. Holmes quieted him with a coin and asked him to tell us exactly what had happened. Rance began from the start of his night duty. He said that after one o’clock it had begun to rain, and later, near two, he had gone down Brixton Road to make sure that all was in order. Everything had been quiet and lonely until he saw a light shining in the empty house at Lauriston Gardens. Since he knew the place was not occupied, he felt sure that something was wrong.
　　Before he could go on, Holmes interrupted him and said that he must have walked first to the door, then back to the gate, and only after that gone inside. Rance stared in astonishment and demanded to know how Holmes could possibly know such a thing. Holmes laughed and told him not to arrest the wrong man. Rance then admitted that it was true. He had felt frightened by the silent house and had gone back to the gate in the hope of seeing another constable’s lantern. When he saw no one, he forced himself to return and enter the house alone.
　　He then found the candle burning and saw the dead man in the room. Holmes again showed that he knew more than Rance had yet said. He described how the constable had walked around the room, bent over the body, and then gone to look toward the kitchen. This only made Rance more uneasy. At last he went on and explained that he had blown his whistle for help. Then he said something which changed Holmes at once from mild interest to sharp attention. When he came back out to the gate, there had been a very drunk man leaning against the railings.
　　Holmes asked quickly what kind of man this had been. Rance said he was tall, with a red face, and had a brown overcoat on. The lower part of his face had been hidden, and he had been so drunk that he could hardly stand. Rance and another officer had held him up between them, but because they were busy with the dead body inside, they had let him go. Holmes asked whether he had a whip or whether a cab had been seen nearby, but Rance had noticed nothing more. Then Holmes stood up and told the poor man, with some anger, that he had held in his hands the very person they were seeking.
　　When we returned to our cab, Holmes spoke bitterly about the lost chance. I was still puzzled and asked why the murderer would ever come back to the house. Holmes answered at once that he had returned for the ring. That, he said, was the thing that mattered. If they could not catch the man in any other way, they could use the ring to draw him out. Holmes spoke with such confidence that I began to believe he truly would do it. Yet I still could not see how such a trap could work.
　　Holmes was late returning home that evening, and when he came in, dinner was already on the table. He spoke first, strangely enough, about the beauty of the music he had heard, and then noticed that the case had troubled me deeply. I admitted that it had. He said that mystery frightens the mind more than open violence, because the imagination begins to work. Then he asked whether I had seen the evening paper. When I said no, he handed it to me and pointed to a small advertisement in the “Found” column.
　　It said that a plain gold wedding ring had been found in Brixton Road and that the owner could apply to Dr. Watson at 221B Baker Street between eight and nine that evening. Holmes apologized for using my name, but said that if he had used his own, the police might interfere. I pointed out that I did not have the ring at all. Holmes smiled and handed me another ring almost exactly like it. He believed that the man who had come back for the ring would risk much to get it again. If that man did not come himself, Holmes said, he might send someone else.
　　He then explained the whole idea more fully. The murderer, in his view, had dropped the ring while bending over Drebber’s body. Only after leaving the house had he discovered the loss and returned. Seeing the police there, he had pretended to be drunk so that his presence would not seem suspicious. Later he must have thought it possible that the ring had fallen in the road outside rather than in the room. Therefore he would watch the evening papers with great care. Holmes believed that our notice would give him hope, not fear.
　　Holmes asked whether I had any weapon, and I brought out my old service revolver. He advised me to clean and load it, since the man we were dealing with might be dangerous. When I returned, Holmes had taken up his violin, and while he played he told me that an answer had come from America which confirmed his view of the case. I tried to press him for more, but he only turned the talk aside. Then, a little before eight, he told me to leave the door a little open, place the key on the inside, and speak naturally to whoever came.
　　We waited in silence. At last the bell rang below, and we heard someone slowly climbing the stairs. Holmes had moved his chair closer to the door, ready to act at once. I expected a violent man to enter, but instead a very old woman came into the room. She was bent, wrinkled, and feeble, with weak eyes and shaking hands. She pointed to the advertisement and said that the ring belonged to her daughter, who had lost it the night before. Her story wandered in every direction, and I could see from Holmes’s unhappy face that this was not the visitor he had hoped for.
　　Even so, I asked for her address and wrote down the names she gave. Holmes suddenly pointed out that her story about the road did not make sense, and the old woman answered him sharply in a way that made me look at her more carefully. Still, at a sign from Holmes, I gave her the ring and let her go. The moment the door closed behind her, Holmes rushed to his room, came back in coat and scarf, and said that he would follow her. He believed she was an accomplice and would lead him to the man himself. I watched from the window as the bent old figure moved away and Holmes followed at a little distance. Hours later he returned alone. The old woman had taken a cab, and Holmes had leaped into another and followed it to the address she had given. But when the cab stopped, the passenger had vanished into the night, and the house proved to belong to strangers. Holmes then understood the truth. The old woman had not been an old woman at all, but a young man in disguise, and a very skillful actor. The trap had nearly worked, but the enemy had escaped once more.

Part 6

　　I was amazed by Holmes’s story of the false old woman. I cried out that no weak old person could have slipped from a moving cab without being seen. Holmes answered sharply that the old woman had never existed at all. We, he said, had been the foolish old women in the matter. It must have been a young man in perfect disguise, quick in movement and very clever at acting. Holmes admitted the trick had been beautifully done, and from that he learned one important thing: the murderer was not working alone, but had at least one helper who would take risks for him.
　　I was very tired by then, and Holmes advised me to go to bed. I obeyed him, though my mind was still full of the case. Long after I had gone to my room, I could hear the sad sound of his violin through the house. It rose and fell in the quiet of the night, and I knew that he was still thinking deeply about the strange events of the day. The mystery had not let him go, and it would not let me go either.
　　The next morning the newspapers were full of what they called the Brixton Mystery. Every paper seemed sure that it understood the affair, though no two explanations were quite the same. One blamed foreign revolutionaries. Another connected the matter with politics in Europe. A third said that all such crimes were signs of weakness in public order. The writing on the wall, the American name, and the absence of robbery had made it easy for those writers to invent what they pleased.
　　There was, however, one useful fact among all the noise. The newspapers had learned that Drebber and his secretary, Stangerson, had been staying at a boarding house kept by Madame Charpentier in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. Holmes and I read these reports over breakfast. He seemed amused rather than annoyed by them. He said that whatever happened, Gregson and Lestrade would still receive praise from the public, whether they deserved it or not.
　　While we were still at the table, there came a sound of many feet in the hall and on the stairs. A moment later, half a dozen dirty street boys rushed into the room. They were the strangest little army I had ever seen, but Holmes spoke to them like a commanding officer. One boy, called Wiggins, told him that they had not yet found what they were looking for. Holmes handed out wages, told them to keep at the search, and sent them off again.
　　When they had gone, he explained that such boys were often more useful than the regular police. People shut their mouths when they saw an official man, but they took no notice of a street child. These boys could go anywhere, hear anything, and return without attracting attention. I asked whether they were working on the Brixton matter, and Holmes said that they were. There was still one point he wished to clear up. Before he could say more, he looked out of the window and smiled.
　　Gregson was coming up the street. Even from a distance, one could see his confidence. He came in quickly, full of importance, shaking Holmes by the hand and asking to be congratulated. He said that the whole case had become clear. For one brief moment, I thought I saw anxiety pass across Holmes’s face. Then Gregson gave the name of the man he had arrested: Arthur Charpentier, a sub-lieutenant in the Navy.
　　Holmes leaned back with what seemed to be relief and invited Gregson to sit down, smoke, and tell his story. The detective accepted all this very gladly. He also spoke in a way that made it plain he thought highly of his own powers. He laughed at Lestrade, who, he said, had gone off after Stangerson and had wasted his time entirely. Gregson was delighted with himself, and there was something so open in his pride that one could hardly dislike him, though one might smile at him.
　　He began at the beginning and explained how he had first found the address of the dead man. The hat beside Drebber’s body had been sold by a shop in Camberwell, and the shop records showed that it had been sent to Drebber at Charpentier’s boarding house. Holmes quietly named the shop before Gregson could do so, which took some of the wind out of the detective’s pride. Still, Gregson pushed on. He had then gone to Madame Charpentier and found her very pale and shaken, while her daughter seemed to have been crying.
　　At once, he said, he suspected that something was wrong in that house. He asked whether Drebber had truly left for the train at eight o’clock, and Madame Charpentier answered yes, though with great difficulty. At that moment, her daughter Alice suddenly broke in and said that they had seen Drebber again after that. The mother cried out in fear and said that Alice had ruined her brother. From this alone Gregson felt sure he was close to the truth.
　　He then got the whole story from the mother. Drebber and Stangerson had stayed with them for nearly three weeks. Stangerson was quiet and kept to himself, but Drebber was a coarse and ugly man, often drunk, rude to the servants, and worse than rude to Alice Charpentier. At last he behaved so badly toward her that Madame Charpentier gave him notice to leave. This, she said, was why he had gone away that evening.
　　But an hour later he came back, already drunk and very excited. He forced his way in, said he had missed his train, and then turned at once to Alice with a shocking proposal. He told her that she was old enough to choose for herself, that he had plenty of money, and that she should come away with him immediately. He caught her by the wrist and tried to pull her toward the door, while her mother cried out in fear. At that very moment Arthur Charpentier entered the room.
　　What followed, Madame Charpentier could not fully describe. She heard angry voices and the sounds of a struggle, but fear kept her from raising her head. When she looked again, Arthur was standing with a stick in his hand and saying that Drebber would not trouble them any more. Then he took his hat and went out after him. The next morning they heard that Drebber had been found dead. Gregson said that once he heard this, the whole path became plain to him.
　　He asked the mother what time her son came home that night. She could not answer. She only knew that he had his own key and let himself in after she had gone to bed at eleven. That meant, as Gregson saw at once, that Arthur had been out for at least two hours, and perhaps much longer. When asked where Arthur had been during that time, Madame Charpentier turned white and said that she did not know. To Gregson, this was enough.
　　He found Arthur Charpentier, took two officers with him, and arrested him. Gregson was especially pleased by one detail. When Arthur was touched on the shoulder and told to come quietly, he said at once that they must be arresting him for the death of that villain Drebber. Since the police had not yet named the charge, Gregson took this as near proof of guilt. Arthur also still had the heavy oak stick which his mother had described.
　　From all this, Gregson built his theory. Arthur, he said, had followed Drebber after leaving the house. Somewhere on the Brixton Road the two men had quarreled again. Arthur had struck Drebber with the stick, perhaps in the stomach, and killed him without leaving an outward mark. Then, because the night was wet and empty, he had dragged the body into the deserted house. The candle, the blood, the ring, and the writing on the wall were, in Gregson’s view, only tricks meant to confuse the police.
　　Holmes praised him in a mild voice that sounded to me more amusing than sincere. Gregson, however, took the words as real admiration. He added that Arthur had tried to explain himself by saying that Drebber saw him following and escaped in a cab, and that later he had met an old sailor friend and gone for a long walk. Since he could not clearly identify this friend, Gregson dismissed the story at once. The whole matter, he said proudly, fitted together very neatly.
　　He was still laughing at Lestrade’s failure when the door opened and Lestrade himself came in. One look at his face showed that something had gone badly wrong. His clothes were untidy, his manner was troubled, and he seemed almost embarrassed to find Gregson there. He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, turning his hat nervously in his hands. Then Gregson asked, with open triumph, whether he had found the secretary, Joseph Stangerson.
　　Lestrade answered in a grave voice that Joseph Stangerson had indeed been found. He had been murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel at about six o’clock that very morning.

Part 7

　　Lestrade’s words struck us all with force. Gregson, who had been full of pride only a moment before, stood silent and pale. Holmes, too, was deeply moved, though he showed it in a different way. He sat very still, his brows bent low and his lips pressed together, as if his thoughts were racing ahead faster than his face could follow. Then he asked Lestrade to tell us everything from the beginning.
　　Lestrade admitted at once that he had made a mistake. He had believed that Stangerson must be involved in Drebber’s death, and so he had spent all his effort trying to find him. Since Drebber and Stangerson had been seen together at Euston Station the night before the murder, Lestrade thought the secretary would either leave by boat or stay somewhere near the station. He had sent messages to Liverpool and then searched the hotels and lodging houses around Euston. All the previous evening he had found nothing, but early that morning he had gone on with the search.
　　At last he reached Halliday’s Private Hotel in Little George Street. When he asked whether a Mr. Stangerson was staying there, the people at once told him yes. They even said that Stangerson had been waiting for a gentleman for two days. He had gone to bed and had asked to be called at nine, so Lestrade decided to go up to the room at once. He hoped that a sudden visit might force the man to say something careless before he had time to prepare himself.
　　A servant showed him the way upstairs. The room was on the second floor, and the servant had hardly pointed to the door when Lestrade noticed something terrible. From beneath the closed door there came a thin line of blood that crossed the floor of the passage. He cried out, and the servant nearly fainted when he saw it. The door was locked from the inside, so they had to break it open with their shoulders.
　　Inside, they found the room in great disorder. The window stood wide open, and beside it lay the body of a man in his nightclothes. He had been dead for some time already, for his limbs were cold and stiff. When they turned him over, the servant knew him at once as Joseph Stangerson. He had been stabbed in the left side with a deep wound that had reached the heart. Unlike Drebber, he had not died by poison or terror, but by open violence.
　　Then came the detail that made the whole case darker still. Above the dead man, written on the wall in blood, was the same strange word we had seen before. Lestrade told us this in a low voice, and none of us answered at once. It was terrible enough that there had been a second murder, but worse still was the calm, methodical way in which the unknown killer repeated his signs. It gave the crime the look not of sudden anger, but of a fixed purpose that had not yet spent itself.
　　Lestrade then went on to say that the murderer had actually been seen. A milk boy had walked through the lane behind the hotel and noticed a ladder standing against one of the upstairs windows. The window was open, and after passing by, the boy looked back and saw a man quietly climbing down. The fellow moved so calmly that the boy had taken him for a workman and thought no more of it. Holmes leaned forward at this point and asked quickly what kind of man he had been.
　　Lestrade answered that the witness described him as tall, with a red face, and wearing a long brown coat. At that, Holmes gave a small sound of satisfaction. It was plain that this description agreed with his own earlier ideas. Even before we reached the hotel, I could see that his confidence had returned. To him, the second crime had not made the matter more confusing. On the contrary, it had given him fresh proof that he was already on the right road.
　　Lestrade next told us what had been found in the room. On the table there had been Stangerson’s purse, which still held a good sum of money. There was also a telegram that had come from Cleveland, in answer to the police inquiry. It said only that “J. H. is in Europe.” There were also a pipe, a glass of water, and a novel on the bed. The room showed signs that Stangerson had waited there quietly, fully expecting someone to come.
　　Holmes asked whether anything else had been found. Lestrade said yes, there had been one more object which seemed too small to matter. It was a little white box containing two curious pills. He had taken them along with the telegram and the purse, though he had paid little attention to them. Holmes’s eyes brightened at once. He asked to see the pills, but before Lestrade would hand them over, Holmes said that we must first go to the hotel and examine the room for ourselves.
　　We all drove there together without delay. On the way, Gregson tried once or twice to defend his arrest of Arthur Charpentier, but Holmes brushed his theory aside. He said plainly that the young officer had no more to do with these murders than we had. Gregson did not like this, but after the news of Stangerson’s death, his confidence had been badly shaken. He now looked from Holmes to Lestrade and back again, as if he no longer knew where the truth might lie.
　　Halliday’s Private Hotel was a quiet house in a narrow street, with a lane and a stable-yard behind it. Holmes did not go first to the room. Instead, he examined the lane, the ladder, the ground near the wall, and the position of the window. Then he went upstairs and entered the room where Stangerson had died. Once again, I saw that strange change come over him. He became all energy and attention. He moved about swiftly, but his eyes missed nothing.
　　The room itself was smaller and cleaner than the one in Lauriston Gardens, but the feeling in it was no less grim. The bed had clearly been slept in, and the open book lay where the dead man had last put it down. Holmes looked at the washstand, the window, the floor, and the writing on the wall. He measured a little, bent close to the floorboards, and looked out into the lane below. He then turned to Lestrade and asked whether Stangerson had made any sign of letting a visitor in by the door. Lestrade said no, and Holmes answered that then the window had been the true road of entrance and escape.
　　After several more minutes of close inspection, Holmes’s face took on that look which meant that one more piece had fallen into place. He picked up the telegram and read it carefully. Then he examined the purse and the small white pill box. He did not open the box there, but he turned it in his hand thoughtfully and slipped it into his pocket. I could see that he attached the greatest importance to it. To Gregson and Lestrade it seemed a useless little thing, but not to Holmes.
　　At last he was ready to leave. As we went back downstairs, he said that the second murder had shown the case much more clearly than before. The same man, he declared, had killed both Drebber and Stangerson. In the first case he had used one method, and in the second he had been forced to use another. The motive, however, had not changed. This was no common robbery and no random crime. It was a private act of revenge, carried out with cold patience.
　　Back in Baker Street, Holmes sat down with the pill box before him, turning it over in his long fingers. Gregson and Lestrade both wanted answers now, and I could not blame them. Holmes, however, was not yet ready to say everything. He only asked me one strange favor. He reminded me of the little terrier downstairs, the old dog who had been suffering for days and whom our landlady had wished to put out of pain. Then he looked at the white box again and said quietly that before we went any farther, he wished to make a small experiment.

Part 8

　　Holmes’s small experiment began at once. He opened the white box, took out one of the two pills, and cut it into pieces. Then he dissolved it in a little water, added some milk, and put the mixture before the old dog. We all watched in silence as the poor animal drank it. But nothing happened.
　　The dog lay as before, weak and breathing heavily, yet neither better nor worse. Holmes took out his watch and stared at the animal with growing impatience. As the minutes passed, his face changed more and more. Gregson and Lestrade began to smile in a way that showed they were pleased to see him fail.
　　Then Holmes suddenly sprang to his feet and cried out that it could not be chance. He paced the room in great excitement and said that his chain of reasoning could not be wrong. All at once he stopped, gave a sharp cry of joy, and seized the second pill. He cut it, mixed it with water and milk, and placed it before the dog.
　　This time the effect was instant. The creature had hardly touched the mixture when it gave a violent shake and fell dead upon the cushion. Holmes let out a long breath and wiped his forehead. He then said that one pill had been harmless and the other had carried a deadly poison.
　　I confess that even then I found it hard to follow him. Yet the dead dog lay before us, and there could be no doubt that he had been right. Holmes said that he should have trusted his own reasoning more. If one fact seemed to go against the rest, he said, that usually meant not that the reasoning was false, but that the fact had another meaning.
　　He then turned to us and explained why the case had seemed so strange. Strange things, he said, are not always more difficult than ordinary ones. In truth, the unusual parts of this crime had helped him. The wedding ring, the writing on the wall, the blood, and the pills had not hidden the truth from him. They had pointed him toward it.
　　Gregson could bear no more of this calm speaking. He broke in and said that both he and Lestrade had failed, while Holmes had spoken in hints and half-answers from the beginning. Since Holmes clearly knew more than the rest of us, Gregson demanded that he speak plainly at last. Could he, or could he not, name the man who had done the murders?
　　Lestrade agreed with him, and I supported them both. If the murderer was still free, I said, delay might lead to another crime. Holmes walked up and down the room for a little while without speaking. Then he stopped and faced us with great seriousness.
　　He said that there would be no more murders, and that we could put that fear aside. Yes, he knew the man’s name. But, he added, knowing the name was much less important than laying hands on the man himself. This would need care, because the murderer was both clever and desperate, and he was helped by another person almost as able as he was.
　　Holmes went on to say that if the man had the smallest idea that suspicion had come near him, he would change his name and disappear into London forever. For that reason, Holmes had not called in the official police before now. Gregson and Lestrade did not enjoy hearing that they were less capable than their enemy, and I could see anger on both their faces. Before either could answer, however, there came a knock at the door.
　　It was Wiggins, the leader of Holmes’s street boys. He touched his forehead and said that the cab was waiting downstairs. Holmes praised him, took a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer, and showed us how neatly they worked. Then he said, almost carelessly, that the cabman might as well help him with his luggage. I was surprised, for I had heard nothing about any journey.
　　Holmes pulled out a small traveling bag and began fastening the straps around it. He was bending over the buckle when the cabman entered the room. The man had a rough, dark look and a bold expression, but he came forward at once when Holmes asked for help. “Just give me a hand with this buckle, cabman,” Holmes said, still kneeling and not turning his head.
　　The driver bent down to assist him. In the same instant there came a sharp click of metal, and Holmes leaped to his feet. The handcuffs were already fast upon the man’s wrists. “Gentlemen,” cried Holmes, his eyes bright with victory, “allow me to introduce Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson.”
　　For one second, no one moved. Then the prisoner gave a terrible roar and tore himself away like a wild beast. He hurled himself through the window, smashing the glass and wood as he went. But before he could escape, Holmes, Gregson, Lestrade, and I threw ourselves upon him and dragged him back into the room.
　　What followed was a fierce and ugly struggle. Jefferson Hope was so strong that he shook us off again and again, though his face and hands were badly cut by the broken glass. He fought like a madman and did not seem to feel pain or weakness. At last Lestrade half-choked him by the neckcloth, and together we forced him down and tied both his feet and his hands.
　　When it was over, we stood up breathing hard and covered with dust. Holmes said that the man’s own cab would serve to carry him to Scotland Yard. Then, with a quiet smile, he told us that we had reached the end of our little mystery and could ask what questions we liked. At that moment, we had the murderer at last, but we did not yet know the full story that had driven him to kill.

Part 9

　　Far away in the center of North America there is a wide, dry land of dust, rock, and bitter salt. For many years it stood like a wall against the advance of towns and farms. There were mountains with snow on their tops, dark valleys, and long empty plains where almost nothing grew. In summer the ground was grey with alkali dust, and in winter snow lay over the same hard earth. It was a cruel land, silent and empty, and few people crossed it unless they had no other road.
　　On one side of this great wilderness, near the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco, two small dark shapes could be seen one hot day against the wide plain. As the sun moved west, the shapes grew clearer. One was a tall man with a long beard and worn clothes. The other was a little girl, no more than five years old, with fair hair and a face burned by sun and wind.
　　The man’s face was thin and hard with suffering. His lips were cracked, his eyes were deep in his head, and his step was slow and uncertain. Yet he still held the child’s hand and helped her forward over the rough ground. It was plain that both had reached the very end of their strength. Around them there was nothing but silence, stones, and the dry breath of death.
　　The child asked again and again when they would find water and food. The man tried to speak gently, though his own throat was burning and his body shook with weakness. He told her that they would rest soon and that God would not forget them. But in his heart he knew that hope was almost gone. Their friends and animals had already died one by one on the terrible road behind them.
　　At last they came to a great rock and sat in its narrow shadow. The man looked over the empty land and saw no sign of life. Above them, dark birds were circling lower and lower, as if they already knew that death was close. The child spoke about her mother and asked whether she had gone before them. The man answered sadly that her mother had gone long ago and that they might soon see her again.
　　Then the child, worn out by hunger and heat, leaned against him and fell asleep. The man kept watch, though his own eyes closed again and again. He tried to pray, but his thoughts were broken and weak. Still he held the little girl close, as if by that simple act he could keep death away from her for one more hour. It seemed to him that the whole world had grown still.
　　Suddenly he heard a distant sound. At first he thought it was only in his mind, but then it came again, clearer now. It was the noise of wheels, hooves, and many voices. He dragged himself up and looked across the plain. There, moving slowly toward them, was a long line of wagons, horses, men, women, and children.
　　The travelers were a great company moving westward in order and discipline. They were poor and dusty, but they were strong enough to go on, and they had food, animals, and water. Several men rode ahead to see who the strangers might be. When they reached the rock, they found the bearded man half-conscious and the child waking in fear. The man gave his name as John Ferrier and said that all the others who had set out with him were dead.
　　The leaders of the company spoke together for a little time. They were members of the Mormon faith, moving under strong direction toward a new home in the West. At last they agreed to save Ferrier and the child, but on one condition. If he came with them, he must live as one of them and accept the faith that guided their people. Ferrier, who had no power left to bargain and no wish except to save the child, agreed at once.
　　So the two were taken into the wagon train and given food and drink. The child slowly came back to life, and Ferrier also grew stronger day by day. The journey continued across lonely country, over dry land and through mountain passes, until at last the travelers reached a broad valley ringed by high hills. To them this place was the end of wandering and the beginning of hope. There they would build a city of their own.
　　The valley soon changed under their hands. Fields appeared, houses rose, roads were marked out, and a great community began to grow. The leaders directed everything, and the people obeyed with deep faith. John Ferrier received land and worked with all his strength. He was an able man, and because he labored hard and used his head well, he prospered quickly in the new country.
　　The little girl grew up with him and became his true daughter in every way except blood. Her name was Lucy Ferrier, and as the years passed she became known for her beauty throughout the valley. She was lively, warm-hearted, and brave, and many men noticed her. Yet John Ferrier kept her close, and the bond between them was very strong. He had saved her life in the desert, and after that each of them seemed to belong to the other.
　　Ferrier did one thing, however, that did not fit well with the customs of the people around him. Though many Mormon men took several wives, he never took even one. He lived quietly with Lucy and gave no clear reason for remaining alone. Because he was rich and useful, people let this pass for a time. But it was remembered, and it quietly set him apart.
　　One day, when Lucy was riding near the city, a herd of cattle came rushing along the road in confusion. Her horse was frightened and began to rear and plunge. For a moment it seemed certain that she would be thrown under the heavy horns and trampling feet. Then a young man rode boldly into the danger, seized control of her horse, and brought her safely out of it. That man was Jefferson Hope, a hunter and guide from the mountains.
　　Hope was strong, fearless, and used to a hard life. He spoke in a direct way, and there was nothing weak or false in him. After that first meeting, he and Lucy saw each other again, and love grew quickly between them. John Ferrier liked the young man and believed him honest and brave. When Jefferson Hope left for a time on business in the mountains, he did so with the clear understanding that he would come back for Lucy, and that, if all went well, she would become his wife. That hope now stood at the center of all three lives, though none of them yet knew how much danger was already moving toward them.

Part 10

　　Three weeks passed after Jefferson Hope left Salt Lake City. During that time, John Ferrier lived with a heavy heart. He knew that Lucy loved the young hunter and that she would be happy with him. Yet he also knew that their danger was growing day by day. He had always decided, deep inside himself, that he would never let his daughter marry a Mormon.
　　In those days, it was dangerous in Utah to speak openly against the rule of the Church. People who doubted, complained, or resisted could disappear without warning. No one knew exactly who carried out such punishments, but everyone feared them. Men spoke softly even in their own homes, because they did not know whom they could trust. Dark stories went from mouth to mouth about secret riders, sudden deaths, and the band known as the Avenging Angels.
　　One morning, John Ferrier saw an important visitor coming up the path to his house. It was Brigham Young himself. Ferrier felt fear at once, because such a visit could bring nothing good. Young entered coldly, sat down, and reminded Ferrier that the Mormon people had saved him in the desert, given him land, and allowed him to grow rich under their protection.
　　Ferrier admitted all this, but Young soon came to the true point. He asked where Ferrier’s wives were. Ferrier answered that he had never married, and that Lucy had been enough company for him. Young then said that Lucy had become the most beautiful young woman in Utah and that many important men had noticed her. He also said that ugly stories had reached him, stories that she had promised herself to a Gentile.
　　Young made it very clear that this could not be allowed. The Sacred Council, he said, had decided that Lucy must choose between the son of Elder Drebber and the son of Elder Stangerson. She would be given one month to decide. Then he rose, turned at the door, and warned Ferrier in a voice full of anger that it would have been better for him and Lucy to die in the desert than to oppose the will of the Holy Four.
　　Lucy had heard the conversation, and when Young left she came to her father white with fear. He tried to comfort her and asked whether her feelings for Jefferson Hope had changed. She answered only by crying and holding his hand more tightly. Ferrier then told her that he would send word to Hope at once and that he trusted the young man to come back quickly. He also said that, if things became worse, they might have to leave Utah forever.
　　The next day he sent a message toward the Nevada mountains, begging Hope to return without delay. But when he came back to his farm, he found two visitors waiting for him in the sitting room. They were the sons of Drebber and Stangerson. One had a long pale face and an unpleasant calm manner. The other was thick-necked and heavy, with a coarse face and an air of foolish pride.
　　They had come, they said, to ask for Lucy’s hand. Each argued that he was the better choice. One said he already had fewer wives, so his claim was stronger. The other answered that he was richer. They spoke of Lucy as if she were an animal to be divided, and they smiled at themselves while they did it. Ferrier’s anger rose until he could bear no more, and he drove them both from his house with fierce words and his riding whip in his hand.
　　After that, the pressure became darker and more frightening. One morning, Ferrier found a paper pinned to his bed with the number 29 on it. The next day, the number 28 was burned into the ceiling. After that, the numbers appeared again and again, on the door, on the wall, or on the gate. Day by day they went down. Ferrier watched, guarded, and searched, but he never saw who left them there.
　　The sight of those numbers slowly broke his peace of mind. He became thin, restless, and hunted in look. Yet he did not bend. He would rather die than let Lucy be given to either of those men. Still, as the numbers fell from twenty to fifteen, from fifteen to ten, and then lower and lower, no news came from Jefferson Hope. At last only two days remained, and Ferrier almost gave up hope.
　　On the evening before the final day, he sat alone in despair. Then he heard a soft scratching sound at the door. He opened it and saw no one at first. But when he looked down, he found a man lying flat upon the ground. In the next instant the figure slipped into the house like a snake, sprang to his feet, and showed the fierce face of Jefferson Hope. The young man had crawled through the darkness because the house was watched on every side.
　　Hope had eaten nothing for two days, so Ferrier gave him food at once. Then they spoke quickly and plainly. There was no time to lose. Hope had a mule and two horses hidden in Eagle Ravine. Ferrier had money ready, and Hope had brought more. They would leave that very night, take Lucy with them, and ride through the mountains toward Carson City before the Mormon leaders knew they were gone.
　　Lucy was awakened, dressed, and made ready. Her meeting with Hope was full of feeling, but it had to be brief. Hope packed food and water, and Ferrier took the bag of money. The three of them put out the lights, opened the side window carefully, and slipped into the garden. Every step had to be taken in silence. The house, the fields, and the trees all looked peaceful under the night sky, yet death was hiding among them.
　　They had just reached the edge of the cornfield when Hope suddenly pulled the others down into the shadows. A moment later they heard the cry of an owl, answered from a little distance away. Then two dark figures appeared near the very gap through which the fugitives had planned to pass. The men exchanged secret words, fixed the time for the next night, and then gave a strange sign and answer. Hope remembered those words at once.
　　As soon as the guards had gone, the three fugitives crossed the fields at speed and reached the mountain path. At Eagle Ravine they found the waiting animals, and Lucy was placed on the mule while Ferrier rode one horse and Hope led the other. The road was narrow, wild, and dangerous, with black cliffs on one side and broken rock on the other. Yet their hearts grew lighter, because each step seemed to carry them farther from the power that had held them in fear.
　　Then, in the darkest part of the pass, a single watcher appeared high above them on a rock and cried out, “Who goes there?” Hope answered that they were travelers for Nevada. The guard demanded to know by whose order they passed. Ferrier said, “The Holy Four.” Then came the secret challenge. “Nine from seven,” called the sentinel. Hope replied without delay, “Seven from five.” At once the voice above them answered, “Pass, and the Lord go with you.” They rode on, passed the last guard post of the Saints, and for one brief shining moment believed that freedom was now before them.

Part 11

　　All through that night the three fugitives went on through twisting passes and over rough ground covered with stone. More than once they lost the track, but Jefferson Hope knew the mountains well enough to find it again. When morning came, a wild and grand land opened around them. High white peaks stood in every direction, and dark cliffs rose so steeply on both sides that the trees above seemed ready to fall upon their heads.
　　The beauty of the place could not hide its danger. Great rocks and broken trees lay everywhere, showing how often the mountains threw down their weight into the valley below. Even while they passed, a huge stone came crashing down with a terrible noise and sent the tired horses into sudden motion. Still, when the first sunlight touched one snowy summit after another, the sight gave fresh strength to the three travelers. It was as if the mountains themselves promised that freedom might yet be won.
　　They stopped at a fast stream which came out of a narrow ravine and gave water to the animals. There they ate a little food and wished to rest longer, but Jefferson Hope would not allow it. He said that their enemies must already be following their trail and that everything depended on speed. If they could only reach Carson City, he told them, they might rest for all the years to come.
　　All that day they struggled forward through the passes and by evening believed that they had put more than thirty miles between themselves and their pursuers. At night they slept a little under the shelter of a great rock, pressed close together against the cold wind. Before dawn they were moving again. As they went on without seeing any sign of pursuit, Hope began to believe that they had truly broken free from the reach of the men who hunted them.
　　About the middle of the second day, their food began to run low. This did not trouble Hope too deeply, because he knew the mountain country and believed he could find game. He chose a sheltered place, built a fire for Lucy and Ferrier, tied the horses, and then set off with his rifle. When he looked back, he saw the old man and the girl by the flames and the animals standing quietly behind them. Then the rocks hid them from his sight.
　　For two or three hours he searched without success. At last he saw, high above him on a sharp edge of rock, a big mountain sheep with enormous horns. He lay down, took careful aim, and fired. The creature fell from the height into the valley below. Hope cut away enough meat to carry, lifted it over his shoulder, and turned back, pleased that he now had food for the rest of their flight.
　　But on the way back his trouble began. In his eagerness to hunt, he had gone farther than he meant to go, and the valleys and broken paths all looked alike. He chose one pass, then another, only to find himself on ground he did not know. Darkness was falling before he at last reached a track that seemed familiar. Even then it was hard to keep the right way, for the moon had not yet risen and the cliffs made the night darker still.
　　At last he came near the place where he had left Lucy and her father. Happy now that his long absence was nearly over, he shouted aloud so that they would know he was coming. Only the empty mountains answered him. He shouted again, louder than before, and again there came no answer from the camp. Then a fear without a name entered his heart, and he hurried forward so wildly that he dropped the meat he had been carrying.
　　When he turned the last corner, he saw at once that disaster had come. The fire was still there, but it had burned low and had clearly not been touched for hours. The horses were gone, Lucy was gone, Ferrier was gone, and there was no sound anywhere. The place had the look of sudden violence, though at first there was little to tell him exactly what had happened. For a moment he could only stand there, shaken and almost unable to think.
　　Then he forced himself to examine the ground. The earth had been beaten down by many horses, showing that a mounted party had come upon the fugitives. The tracks showed also that the riders had turned back toward Salt Lake City. Near the camp he found one thing more. A little mound of fresh red soil had been raised there, and a stick stood in it with a paper fixed to the top.
　　On that paper was written the name of John Ferrier, together with the date of his death. There was no second grave. From that Hope understood the truth. Ferrier had been killed, and Lucy had been taken back alive to the city that had already marked her out for sacrifice.
　　The blow was almost more than he could bear. He wished, for one dark moment, that he too might lie down in the earth beside the old man. But grief in Jefferson Hope quickly turned into something harder. If he could not save those he loved, then he would live for one purpose only. He swore there by the dying fire and the fresh grave that he would bring full revenge upon the men who had done this thing.
　　He did not rush blindly down into the city at once. Even in his pain, he remained a practical man. He cooked enough food to keep himself alive for a few days, took it with him, and began to follow the trail of those he now thought of only as avenging angels. For five days he moved through the mountains, sleeping little and pushing on in cold, hunger, and exhaustion until he reached a height from which he could look down upon Salt Lake City.
　　There he saw signs of celebration in the streets and on the houses. Soon after, he met a Mormon named Cowper, who had known him before. From this man he learned the truth that cut him more deeply than anything yet. Lucy Ferrier had been married the day before to Enoch Drebber. Cowper added that there had even been an argument between Drebber and Stangerson over which of them had the stronger claim to her, and that Stangerson himself had shot her father during the capture.
　　Hope hardly seemed alive as he listened. He grew white to the lips and leaned against a rock as if his strength would leave him. Yet after a moment he rose again, and his face had become hard as stone. He asked no more. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he went back into the mountains like a wounded beast, more dangerous than any wild creature there.
　　Cowper’s words proved true. Whether it was the murder of her father, the cruelty of her capture, or the forced marriage itself, Lucy never recovered. Within a month she was dead. Drebber, who had wanted her chiefly for John Ferrier’s property, did not mourn her deeply. But the women of the house watched by her body on the night before the burial, according to their custom.
　　In the early hours before dawn, the door flew open and a wild-looking man in torn clothes strode into the room. He did not speak to the women or even look at them. He went straight to Lucy’s still form, bent down, and kissed her cold forehead. Then he took her hand, pulled the wedding ring from her finger, and cried that she would not be buried with that sign upon her. Before anyone could stop him, he was gone. The women might later have doubted their own eyes if the missing ring had not proved that the visit had been real.
　　For some months after that, Jefferson Hope stayed in the mountains and lived like a hunted animal. More than once his enemies learned that he was still near. A bullet passed through Stangerson’s window and buried itself in the wall beside him. On another day, a great rock came crashing down near Drebber and nearly killed him. The two men led armed parties into the hills to search for Hope, but he always escaped them. At last they became careful, never traveling alone and never going out by night.
　　Time did not soften Hope’s desire for revenge. It only made it deeper and steadier. Yet he also saw that if he stayed in the mountains, he would die before he finished what he had sworn to do. So he returned at last to the old mines in Nevada in order to regain his strength and gather enough money to continue the pursuit. He meant to be away only a year, but other events delayed him for nearly five.
　　When he finally returned to Salt Lake City in secret and under another name, he found that fate had once more moved ahead of him. There had been trouble in the Church, and some of its younger members had broken away and left Utah. Among them were Drebber and Stangerson. Drebber had taken much of his wealth with him, and both men had disappeared. No one could tell Hope where they had gone.
　　Many men would have given up at that point, but Jefferson Hope was not such a man. He traveled from city to city across the United States, taking whatever work he could find and following every trace. Years passed. His black hair began to turn grey, but his purpose did not weaken. At last he caught sight of the face he had hunted for so long in a window in Cleveland, Ohio, and he knew that his search had succeeded.
　　Even then revenge did not come easily. Drebber recognized him in the street and understood the danger at once. He and Stangerson went before a magistrate, said that an old enemy wished to kill them, and caused Hope to be arrested. He was kept for some weeks because he could not provide security. When he was released, he found that the two men had fled again, this time to Europe.
　　So he worked once more, saved money again, and followed them across the ocean. In one city after another he came only just too late. They left St. Petersburg for Paris, Paris for Copenhagen, and Copenhagen for London. Hope followed like a human bloodhound, never resting in spirit even when his body was worn thin by labor and delay. At last, in London, he found them both again. There, after all those years, the long hunt reached its final stage.

Part 12

　　Holmes took us with the prisoner to the police station. Jefferson Hope made no attempt to escape. He sat quietly in the very cab he had driven, and we followed close behind him. When we arrived, an inspector wrote down his name and the names of the two men he was accused of killing. The inspector then asked whether the prisoner wished to say anything.
　　Hope answered that he had a great deal to say, and that he wanted to tell the whole story at once. The inspector advised him to save it for the trial, but Hope shook his head. He turned to me and asked whether I was a doctor. When I said yes, he told me to put my hand upon his chest. I did so, and at once felt a violent shaking and beating deep inside him.
　　I drew back in surprise and told the others that the man had an aneurysm of the great blood vessel near the heart. Hope answered calmly that another doctor had told him the same thing only a week before. He said that it might burst at any time and kill him without warning. Since he had done the work for which he had lived so many years, he did not care when death came. But he did not wish to go out of the world as if he were only a common street murderer.
　　The inspector and the detectives spoke together for a moment and then agreed to take down his statement. Hope sat back in his chair and began in a steady voice. He said that Drebber and Stangerson had killed two people long ago, a father and a daughter, and that no court could now punish them for it. Since the law could not reach them, he had made himself judge, jury, and executioner. If any man had loved and lost as he had, Hope said, that man would have done the same.
　　He then spoke of Lucy Ferrier. She had been meant for him, he said, but she had been forced into marriage with Drebber and had died of grief soon after. He had taken the wedding ring from her dead hand and had carried it for years. He had sworn that when Drebber died, his eyes would rest upon that ring and he would understand why judgment had found him at last. That was why the ring mattered so much to him, and why he had gone back to Lauriston Gardens when he discovered he had lost it there.
　　Hope next explained how he had managed to live in London while he hunted the two men. He was skilled with horses and had therefore found work as a cabman. The city had seemed like a great maze at first, but he learned its roads little by little. At last he discovered that Drebber and Stangerson were staying in a boarding house at Camberwell. Since they did not recognize him with his beard grown out, he was able to follow them openly day after day.
　　For two weeks, however, he found no chance to strike. The two men were careful and almost never separated. Then one evening he saw them leave their house with luggage and go to Euston Station. He followed and heard that they had just missed the Liverpool train. Stangerson wanted them to remain together, but Drebber insisted on going off alone for some private business. He told his secretary to wait for him later at Halliday’s Private Hotel if he missed the last train.
　　Hope knew then that his hour had come. He followed Drebber from the station as the man wandered through the streets and stopped again and again to drink. At one place, Drebber came out quarreling with a young man. It was Arthur Charpentier, who had driven him from the boarding house after his shameful behavior toward Alice. Drebber escaped from that fight in a cab. Hope at once drove his own cab close behind and waited for his chance.
　　That chance came because some days earlier a gentleman had left in Hope’s cab the key to an empty house in Brixton Road. Hope had secretly taken a copy of it made. He already possessed, therefore, one quiet place where no one would interrupt him. When Drebber at last climbed into Hope’s cab, too drunk to notice who drove it, Hope took him not to his destination but to Lauriston Gardens.
　　Once inside the empty house, Hope faced him at last and made him understand who stood before him. He showed him Lucy’s ring. He spoke of John Ferrier, of the desert, of the forced marriage, and of the years of pursuit across America and Europe. Then he gave Drebber a choice between two pills. One was harmless. The other carried swift death. Drebber was to choose, and God would judge between them.
　　Drebber took one pill, swallowed it, and then waited with a weak smile, thinking perhaps that nothing would happen. But within a short time the poison seized him. Fear came over his face, and he fell dead before Hope. In his excitement, Hope’s nose began to bleed, and drops of blood fell to the floor. Then, as he bent over the body, he noticed that Lucy’s ring was gone from his hand. That loss troubled him greatly.
　　He drove away, discovered the missing ring, and returned to the house to search for it. It was then that John Rance saw him. Hope pretended to be a drunken man leaning against the railings, and the constable, blind to his chance, let him go. The ring was still not found, and so Hope had to wait and watch the newspapers until our advertisement appeared. He said that our trap had nearly caught him, and he laughed grimly as he admitted how close Holmes had come.
　　After Drebber’s death, Hope turned to the second man. He found Halliday’s Hotel and learned that Stangerson was staying there. Early the next morning, he climbed up by a ladder to the window of the secretary’s room. Stangerson was awake and ready for danger. Hope told him who he was and offered him the same choice of the two pills. But Stangerson, instead of accepting, rushed at him with a knife in his hand.
　　There was no time then for judgment by poison. Hope seized his own knife and struck first. Stangerson fell dead, and Hope escaped down the ladder into the lane behind the hotel. Later that same day, he was back at work with his cab, waiting to see whether the police had understood anything. In the end, Holmes understood everything, and the hunter became the captured man.
　　When Hope had finished speaking, he leaned back in exhaustion. He had told the story calmly, but the great beating in his chest had grown worse while he spoke. He was taken away to his cell, and Holmes, the detectives, and I returned to Baker Street. There, at my request, Holmes explained clearly how he had reasoned from the first. He showed how the footprints, the cab marks, the cigar ash, the blood, the ring, and the Cleveland telegram had all joined into one chain.
　　He said that most people could reason forward from known facts, but far fewer could reason backward from a result to the causes that produced it. That, he told me, was the true art of the detective. He had seen that the horse had wandered because no driver had remained on the box. From that he knew the cabman had entered the house. Once that point was fixed, the rest followed. The murderer had to be the driver, and the driver had to be Jefferson Hope.
　　Holmes also explained that his telegram to Cleveland had asked not for everything about Drebber, but only about one crucial matter: his past love affairs. The answer had named Jefferson Hope at once. After that, Holmes sent his street boys through London to search every cab office until they found the right man. The death of Stangerson had not broken the case. It had only added the last missing proof, especially when the pills were found.
　　On the next day, we learned that Jefferson Hope would never stand trial. The weak place in the great blood vessel had burst during the night, and he had died alone in his cell. Thus the law never judged him, though he had already judged himself and the men he hated. His long work had ended, and with it ended the strange chain of events that had begun years before in the desert of Utah.
　　Soon afterward Holmes showed me a newspaper report about the case. It praised the skill of Gregson and Lestrade and suggested that Holmes, as an amateur, might improve under such excellent teachers. Holmes laughed loudly when he read that line. I told him not to mind it. I had all the facts in my journal, I said, and one day the truth would be known. That is why I have written this account, from our first meeting in Baker Street to the last answer in this dark and scarlet case.