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: The Sign of the Four 　　Author: Arthur Conan Doyle 　　 　　Source: Project Gutenberg 　　https://www.gutenberg.org/ 　　 　　Full text available at: 　　https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2097/pg2097.txt 　　 　　The original text is in the public domain. 　　 　　Copyright and Use 　　 　　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.

　　
　　Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four (Simplified Edition, Adapted and Simplified by ChatGPT)
　　
Part 1

　　Sherlock Holmes took a small bottle from the corner of the fireplace and a syringe from its case. With his long white fingers, he fixed the needle with great care. Then he pulled back his shirt-cuff and looked quietly at his left arm. The skin there was marked again and again by old needle marks. At last he pushed the needle in, pressed the syringe, and fell back into his chair with a long, pleased sigh.
　　I had seen this many times, but I could not grow used to it. If anything, it troubled me more each day. I often felt ashamed that I had said nothing to stop him. Many times I had decided to speak plainly, yet I always held back. There was something in Holmes’s calm and distant manner that made it hard for any man to interfere with him.
　　That afternoon, however, I could stay silent no longer. Perhaps it was the wine I had taken at lunch, or perhaps it was the slow and careful way in which he had made his preparations. Whatever the reason, my patience came to an end. “Which is it today?” I asked. “Morphine or cocaine?”
　　He looked up lazily from the old book in his hand. “Cocaine,” he said. “A seven-per-cent solution. Would you like to try it?” I answered at once that I would not. My body had never fully recovered from Afghanistan, and I had no wish to place more strain upon it.
　　Holmes smiled a little at my sharp answer. He said that I might be right, and that the drug was no doubt bad for the body. Yet, he told me, it made his mind quicker and clearer than anything else. To him, that feeling was worth the later weakness. I could not let that pass without protest.
　　I told him that he was counting only the gain and not the cost. His mind might feel bright for a short time, but such a habit could injure him deeply in the end. I reminded him that the dark reaction always followed. I begged him to think not only as a man of talent, but as a patient whom a doctor had some duty to protect. I spoke with all the earnestness I could command.
　　Holmes was not angry. He placed his fingertips together and leaned forward, as if he enjoyed the discussion. He said that his mind hated stillness. Give him a hard problem, a puzzle, or a difficult case, and he needed no drug at all. But when there was nothing to test him, common life became unbearable. That, he said, was why he had created his own profession.
　　I asked if he meant that he was the only private detective. He corrected me at once. He was, he said, the only consulting detective. When ordinary detectives lost their way, they came to him. He studied the facts, gave his judgment, and asked for no public praise. The work itself was enough reward for him.
　　He reminded me of the Jefferson Hope case, and I said honestly that it had amazed me more than anything I had ever seen. I added that I had written a small book about it. Holmes said that he had looked through it, but he was not pleased. He told me that crime should be treated like a science, without romance or warm feeling. In his view, I had made the case too much like a story and not enough like a piece of exact reasoning.
　　I answered that the human side had truly been there, and I could not simply remove it. Holmes replied that some facts should be put in the background, while the true method should stand in the front. What mattered most, he said, was the path from effect to cause. I confess that his criticism annoyed me. He seemed to wish that every line I had written should praise him alone.
　　After a short silence, Holmes filled his pipe and began to speak of other matters. His name, he said, had lately become known even on the Continent. A French detective had written to thank him for help in a difficult case. Holmes tossed me the letter, and I saw that it was full of admiration. Holmes brushed this aside lightly and said that the man had gifts, but still lacked one important thing.
　　He then explained that the perfect detective needed three powers. He must observe, reason, and possess wide knowledge. The Frenchman, Holmes said, had the first two, but not the third. Holmes then surprised me by saying that he himself had written several short studies. These were not stories, but technical papers on such matters as tobacco ash, footsteps, and the way different kinds of work changed the shape of the hand.
　　I told him that he had a wonderful eye for very small details. He said that such details were often everything. A bit of ash, a footprint, or the shape of a hand could narrow a whole field of search. Then he turned at once from general talk to practice. Observation, he said, showed him that I had been to the Wigmore Street Post Office that morning. Deduction showed him that I had sent a telegram there.
　　I stared at him in surprise, for both statements were true. He explained the matter in his easy way. The reddish dirt on my shoe came from the pavement outside that post office, where the ground had been dug up. Since I had written no letter that morning, and since I had stamps and postcards still on my desk, he concluded that I had gone there to send a wire. He seemed amused that so simple a chain of thought had amazed me.
　　I told him that I wished to test his ideas more severely. He welcomed the challenge at once. By chance I had in my pocket a watch that had lately come into my hands, and I asked if he could tell me anything of the former owner. Holmes studied it with care, first with his eyes, then with a lens. At last he gave it back and said that there was not much to go on because it had recently been cleaned.
　　I told him that this was true, though in my heart I thought he was only trying to hide failure. Yet after a moment he said that, in spite of the cleaning, he could still say something. The watch, he believed, had belonged to my elder brother and had come to him from my father. That much I accepted at once, since the initials supported it. But Holmes went on and said that my brother had been careless, untidy, poor at times, and at last ruined by drink.
　　These words cut me deeply. I rose and told Holmes that he had gone too far. I accused him of making private inquiries and then pretending that he had guessed the truth from a watch. He answered me very gently. He said he had not even known I had a brother until I handed him the watch. Then he showed me, step by step, how he had reached his conclusion.
　　The dents on the case showed careless habits. The many pawn marks inside showed that the owner had often needed money, and then sometimes had enough to redeem the watch again. Around the key-hole were many rough scratches, the kind made by an unsteady hand trying to wind it late at night. A sober man, Holmes said, would not leave such marks. When he finished, the thing seemed simple, and I saw that his reasoning had been fair.
　　I apologized for doubting him, and he accepted my apology kindly. Then I asked whether he had any case in hand. He answered that he had none, and that this was why he turned to cocaine. He walked to the window and spoke bitterly of the dull world outside. The yellow fog, the dark houses, and the common life of London seemed to weigh upon him like a heavy stone.
　　I was about to answer when our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, entered the room with a card on a tray. “A young lady for you, sir,” she said. Holmes read the name and showed no sign that it meant anything to him. “Miss Mary Morstan,” he said. Then he asked Mrs. Hudson to show her in. As I began to rise, Holmes stopped me and said that he would prefer me to remain.

Part 2

　　Miss Mary Morstan entered the room with a steady step and a calm face. She was a fair-haired young woman, small and graceful, and she was dressed with quiet good taste. Her clothes were simple, and it was easy to see that she did not have much money. Still, everything she wore was neat and well chosen, and she carried herself with a natural dignity. Her face was not strikingly beautiful, yet her expression was gentle, and her large blue eyes were full of kindness and feeling.
　　As she sat down in the chair Holmes placed for her, I noticed that she was trying very hard to control herself. Her lips trembled a little, and her gloved hands were not quite still. It was plain that she was deeply troubled, though she was doing her best not to show it. I had seen women in many lands, but few had given me so strong an impression of a fine and sensitive nature. Even before she spoke, I felt both respect and sympathy for her.
　　“I came to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because Mrs. Cecil Forrester once told me how kindly and cleverly you helped her in a family matter. She said that you were the one man who might be able to advise me.” Holmes thought for a moment and said that he remembered the case. To him it had been a very simple one. Miss Morstan answered that her own case was not simple at all.
　　Holmes rubbed his hands softly, and I saw at once that his interest was awake. His eyes grew bright, and he leaned forward in his chair with all his mind fixed upon her. “Please tell us everything,” he said in his quick, businesslike way. I began to rise, for I thought that my presence might be awkward. To my surprise, however, Miss Morstan turned to me at once.
　　She asked if I would stay. She said that my help might be of great value to her. There was something in her voice that made refusal impossible, though in truth I had no wish to leave. I sat down again and listened with the closest attention. Holmes opened his notebook, and Miss Morstan began her strange story.
　　Her father, she said, had been an officer in an Indian regiment. When she was still a little child, he had sent her to England. Her mother was dead, and she had no near relation there, so she was placed in a boarding school in Edinburgh. She remained there until she was seventeen years old. Then, in 1878, her father came home to England on leave after many years abroad.
　　He sent her a telegram from London as soon as he arrived. In it he told her that he was staying at the Langham Hotel and asked her to come to him there at once. The message was warm and loving, and she set out full of happiness. But when she reached the hotel, she was told that Captain Morstan had gone out the night before and had not returned. She waited all day, but no word came.
　　That evening, on the advice of the hotel manager, she informed the police. The next morning notices were placed in the newspapers. Every inquiry failed. Her father’s luggage was still at the hotel, but he himself had vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him. From that day to the present, she said, she had never heard another word from him.
　　Holmes asked for the exact date, and she answered at once. Her father disappeared on the third of December, 1878. Holmes asked whether the luggage contained anything that might give a clue. She said there had been only ordinary clothes, some books, and several strange objects from the Andaman Islands. Her father had served there for some time in charge of prisoners.
　　Holmes then asked whether Captain Morstan had any friend in London. Miss Morstan said that only one such friend was known to them. This was Major Sholto, who had served in the same regiment and had retired to Upper Norwood. They had of course gone to him, but he said that he did not even know Captain Morstan was in England. Holmes nodded slowly and wrote down the name.
　　Then Miss Morstan told us of a still stranger thing. In May of 1882, nearly four years after her father’s disappearance, an advertisement appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan. It said that this would be to her advantage, but it gave no name. At that time she had become governess in the household of Mrs. Cecil Forrester. On her employer’s advice, she placed her address in the newspaper.
　　That very same day a small cardboard box arrived for her in the post. Inside it was one beautiful pearl of great size and value. There was no letter and no explanation. Since then, every year on the same date, another little box had come to her, and every box had contained another pearl. In this way she had received six pearls in all, all without a single word from the sender.
　　As she spoke, she opened a flat case and showed them to us. They were truly remarkable stones, clear and shining, and unlike any pearls I had ever seen. Holmes examined them with care, but his face showed nothing. He only asked whether anything more had happened. Miss Morstan answered that something had happened that very day, and it was the reason she had come to Baker Street.
　　She took a letter from her pocket and handed it to Holmes. He examined not only the note itself but the envelope, the paper, and even the mark upon one corner. Then he read the message aloud. She was told to be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre that night at seven o’clock. If she was afraid, she might bring two friends. She was called a wronged woman and promised justice, but warned not to bring the police.
　　Holmes asked what she meant to do. She replied that this was exactly what she had come to ask him. Holmes said at once that we would certainly go. He named himself and me as the two friends mentioned in the letter, and then turned to me with a short glance. I answered with all my heart that I would be proud to be of use to her.
　　Miss Morstan thanked us warmly and said that she had lived such a quiet life that she had almost no friends to whom she could turn. Holmes then asked one more question. He wished to know whether the writing on the envelope matched the writing on the boxes that had held the pearls. With admirable good sense, she had brought the old addresses with her. Holmes spread them out on the table and compared them carefully.
　　He said that the hand had been disguised in the older writings, though less so in the new letter. Even so, he was sure that all had been written by the same person. He pointed out several little forms in the letters that returned again and again. Then he asked whether the writing looked at all like her father’s hand. She answered at once that it did not. Holmes said that he had expected that reply.
　　He asked if she could return to Baker Street at six o’clock, and she promised that she would. Then he asked permission to keep the papers for a short time, because he might be able to make some inquiries before evening. She agreed, rose to go, and gave us each a grateful look. I walked to the window after she had left and watched her moving quickly down the street until she was lost in the crowd.
　　I could not help saying that she was a very attractive woman. Holmes, who had lit his pipe again and was sinking into one of his quiet moods, answered that he had hardly noticed. I cried out that at times he seemed less like a man than like a machine. He smiled and said that a detective must not let himself be influenced by beauty, charm, or pity. A client, in his view, was simply one more problem to be solved.
　　He went on to say that the most pleasant face might hide a terrible heart, while a harsh face might belong to a generous man. Then he turned at once to the handwriting again and asked what I made of it. I said that it seemed regular and clear, like the hand of a practical man. Holmes disagreed. He pointed to uncertain letters and a few proud capitals, and from them he drew his own picture of the writer.
　　Soon after that he rose to go out, saying that he had several references to check before evening. He handed me a book and told me that it was one of the most remarkable ever written. Then he left the room. I sat by the window with the book in my hand, but I read little. My thoughts followed Miss Morstan, her voice, her eyes, and the mystery that had gathered round her life. I told myself that I was a poor doctor with a wounded leg and small means, and that such dreams were foolish. Yet reason did not drive them away.

Part 3

　　It was half past five before Holmes returned. He came in quickly, bright-eyed and full of energy. His face had lost all its earlier boredom, and I could see at once that he had found something to interest him. In Holmes, dark low spirits could change in a moment into eager action.
　　“There is no great mystery at the center of this matter,” he said, as he took the tea I had poured out for him. “At least, the facts point very strongly in one direction.” I asked if he had already solved the case. He answered that this would be too much to say, but that he had found one important fact which was highly suggestive.
　　He had been searching the old files of the Times. There he had found that Major Sholto of Upper Norwood, once of the 34th Bombay Infantry, had died on the twenty-eighth of April, 1882. I admitted that I could not see why this was important. Holmes looked at me with some surprise, for to him the meaning seemed plain. Then he explained his reasoning in a slower and clearer way.
　　Captain Morstan had disappeared in London. The one man there whom he was likely to visit was Major Sholto, his old companion from India. Major Sholto had said that he knew nothing of Captain Morstan’s arrival. Yet four years later the major died, and within a week Miss Morstan began to receive valuable gifts.
　　Holmes asked what wrong Miss Morstan could have suffered except the loss of her father. If the gifts began only after Sholto’s death, was it not likely that someone in Sholto’s household knew a secret and wished to make some kind of payment? The pearls might be a form of guilty kindness. It was not full justice, but it was at least a sign of troubled conscience.
　　I answered that the theory did explain some things, but not all. Why should the sender wait six years before writing a letter? Why should he call her a wronged woman and promise justice now, instead of long ago? Holmes agreed that there were still difficulties. But he said that our visit that evening would surely clear them up.
　　At that very moment a four-wheeler stopped outside, and Miss Morstan was brought up to us. She was wrapped in a dark cloak, and though her face was pale, her manner was steady. She showed none of the confusion or weakness that many women would have felt in such a strange situation. Holmes asked her one or two more questions while we made ready to leave.
　　She told us that Major Sholto had indeed been one of her father’s closest friends. In his letters from India, Captain Morstan had often mentioned him. Both men had served for a time in the Andaman Islands, and so had spent a great deal of time together. Then she remembered a curious paper which had been found among her father’s things after he vanished.
　　She said that no one had understood it, and she did not know whether it mattered. Even so, she had wisely brought it with her. Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and laid it across his knee. Then he studied it with his lens in that close and exact way of his, taking in every mark and fold before he said a word.
　　He remarked first that the paper was Indian in make. It had once been fastened with a pin to a board or some firm surface. On it there was a rough plan of part of a large building, with passages, rooms, and open spaces. At one point a small red cross had been marked, and beside it were the words “3.37 from left” written faintly in pencil.
　　In the corner there was also a strange sign, formed like four crosses touching one another. Beside it stood four names written in rough letters: Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar. Holmes said frankly that he could not yet see how this paper connected with Miss Morstan’s problem. Yet he was sure that it was important and should be kept with the greatest care.
　　This new detail changed the look of the whole case in his mind. He leaned back in the cab after we had started and said that the matter seemed deeper than he had first thought. After that he grew very silent. His brow was drawn down, and his eyes had the blank far-away look they often wore when his thoughts were working at full speed. Miss Morstan and I spoke softly together while Holmes remained shut within himself.
　　It was one of those sad September evenings when London seems half smoke and half shadow. Though it was not yet seven, a wet fog lay over the streets and blurred the lamps into dull yellow circles. The shop windows sent weak light out into the thick air, and faces passed in and out of brightness like ghosts. The whole city seemed tired, dark, and uneasy.
　　The strange purpose of our journey made everything feel still more unreal. We were driving through the fog to some unknown meeting with an unknown man. Yet the matter could not be a foolish trick, for too much had already happened. I felt both excitement and uneasiness, and from Miss Morstan’s quiet face I guessed that she felt much the same.
　　Holmes alone seemed untouched by the mood of the night. He had his notebook open on his knee and from time to time wrote down short words or numbers by the light of his small lantern. He also kept track of our road with complete confidence. I lost all sense of direction very quickly, for the turns were many and the fog hid every landmark. Holmes, however, named street after street as we passed them.
　　He said that we were going by Rochester Row, then Vincent Square, then toward Vauxhall Bridge Road. Soon after that he observed that we must be crossing the river. Through the mist I caught a brief sight of dark water and rows of lights trembling upon it. Then we were swallowed again by a network of streets on the far side.
　　Holmes continued to name the roads as if he carried a map in his head. He mentioned Wordsworth Road, Priory Road, Lark Hall Lane, Stockwell Place, Robert Street, and Cold Harbor Lane. The farther we went, the less inviting the district became. We passed long rows of dull brick houses, cheap public houses, little front gardens, and new buildings stretching out into the dark edge of the city.
　　At last the cab stopped before the third house in a new terrace. None of the neighboring houses seemed lived in, and the one before us was almost entirely dark. Only a faint light showed in a lower window. When our driver knocked, the door was opened at once by an Indian servant wearing a yellow turban, loose white clothes, and a colored sash.
　　The sight of that Eastern figure in such a poor and ordinary London house gave the whole scene a still stranger air. He stood aside silently and then said that the sahib was waiting for us. Even as he spoke, we heard a thin high voice from some room within, calling to the servant to bring us in at once. We followed the Indian down a narrow passage, knowing that the next step would bring us face to face with the man who had drawn us into this mystery.

Part 4

　　We followed the servant down a poor and badly lit passage until he opened a door on the right. A flood of warm yellow light fell across the hall, and in the middle of it stood a small man with a very large bald head and a fringe of red hair round it. His face was always moving. One moment he smiled, the next he frowned, and all the time his hands twisted together in nervous little movements. Though he was bald, he did not look old. I thought he could not be much above thirty.
　　“Welcome, Miss Morstan,” he said again and again in a thin high voice. “Welcome, gentlemen. Please come into my little room. It is small, but I have made it comfortable in my own way.” He moved aside to let us enter, bowing and smiling in a restless, eager fashion. From the first glance I could see that he was a man of nerves, vanity, and strange tastes.
　　The room itself surprised us all. Outside, the house looked poor and ordinary, but inside this one room there was color, richness, and luxury everywhere. Heavy curtains and costly wall-hangings covered the walls. Fine pictures, bright Eastern jars, and curious objects stood in every corner. The carpet was thick and soft, and two tiger-skins lay across it. A great hookah stood near the wall, and a silver lamp hanging from above filled the air with a sweet, heavy scent.
　　Our host introduced himself as Mr. Thaddeus Sholto. As soon as he heard that I was a doctor, he became even more excited than before. He asked if I had my stethoscope with me and begged me to listen to his heart, for he was afraid there was something seriously wrong with one of its valves. I did as he asked, though I suspected even before I touched him that fear rather than disease was the cause of his trouble.
　　After a short examination, I told him that I could find nothing wrong. His heart seemed sound enough. At that he gave a long breath of relief and thanked me warmly. Then, without the least care, he turned to Miss Morstan and said that if her father had been less careless of his own weak heart, he might still be alive. The words were so cold and sudden that I felt a sharp anger rise in me at once.
　　Miss Morstan turned pale, but she did not lose her self-control. She said quietly that she had long believed in her heart that her father was dead. Thaddeus Sholto answered that he could now give her every detail, and not only that, but justice as well. He added that he was glad Holmes and I were present, not only to protect her but to act as witnesses. He wanted no police, no officials, and no public noise of any kind.
　　Holmes answered that anything said in that room would go no farther from us. Sholto seemed greatly pleased by this and at once offered wine and tobacco, though no one accepted the wine. Then he sat down with his hookah and began to speak, while we listened in a half-circle round him. Even now, with the sweet smoke in the room and the soft lamp above us, I remember the strange nervous figure he made as he told his tale.
　　He first explained why he had not simply given Miss Morstan his address and asked her to come. He was, he said, a man of delicate habits and disliked rough surprises. He had therefore arranged the meeting outside the Lyceum so that his servant Williams might first make sure that no policeman came with her. He seemed proud of this cleverness and even more proud of the fine objects in his room, which he spoke of for a moment before Miss Morstan gently brought him back to the matter at hand.
　　He then said that to understand her case, we must first understand his own family. His father had been Major John Sholto of the Indian army. About eleven years earlier he had retired from service and come back to England with a large amount of money, many valuable objects from the East, and several Indian servants. He bought Pondicherry Lodge at Upper Norwood and lived there in great comfort. Thaddeus and his twin brother, Bartholomew, were his only children.
　　Thaddeus remembered well the public talk caused by the disappearance of Captain Morstan. Since Morstan had been a friend of Major Sholto, the matter was often discussed in the house. Their father even joined in those conversations and never gave the smallest sign that he knew the truth. Yet, as Thaddeus later came to understand, the whole secret had been hidden in his father’s mind from the beginning.
　　Even before that truth came out, however, the two sons had known that some fear weighed heavily upon the major. He hated going out alone and kept two strong prize-fighters at the lodge as guards. One of them, Williams, had driven us that evening. Most strange of all, the major had a terrible fear of men with wooden legs. Once, in fact, he had fired a revolver at such a man, who later turned out to be an innocent salesman. The matter had cost them a large sum of money to silence.
　　Early in 1882, Major Sholto received a letter from India. At the sight of it he was deeply shaken, and from that day his health declined quickly. Thaddeus had seen only that the letter was short and written in a rough hand, but whatever it contained seemed to strike directly at the old man’s peace of mind. By the end of April, the doctors believed that he was dying, and he asked his two sons to come to his room because he had something important to confess.
　　The brothers found him propped up in bed, breathing with difficulty. He told them first that the matter which troubled him most at the end of his life was his treatment of Captain Morstan’s daughter. He said that greed had led him to keep for himself treasure of which at least half should have gone to her father’s child. He admitted that he had even taken out a pearl necklace with the idea of sending it to her, but had still been unable to part with it.
　　Then came the central part of his confession. He said that he and Captain Morstan had together come into possession of a great treasure in India. When Morstan arrived in London, he came directly to Pondicherry Lodge to demand his share. They quarreled bitterly over the division of the wealth. In the middle of the argument, Morstan suddenly jumped up in anger, clutched his side, fell backward, struck his head on the treasure chest, and died. Major Sholto insisted that it had not been murder, but the death had happened in such a way that no jury would have believed him.
　　While he sat in confusion and fear, his old servant Lal Chowdar appeared in the doorway. The man said that he had heard the quarrel and believed his master had killed Morstan. He advised Sholto to hide the body and let no one know that Captain Morstan had ever reached the house. Frightened of prison and even more frightened that the treasure might be discovered, Major Sholto agreed. He and Lal Chowdar disposed of the body that night, and soon all London was wondering where Captain Morstan had gone.
　　The dying man told his sons that his true guilt lay not only in hiding the death, but in keeping Morstan’s share of the treasure. At last, feeling his end near, he tried to repair the wrong. He told his sons to bend close so that he could reveal the hiding place of the Agra treasure. But at that very instant his face changed completely. Terror filled his eyes, and he cried out for someone to be kept away from the window behind them.
　　When the two brothers turned, they saw a dreadful face pressed against the glass from outside. It was dark and hairy, with a beard, fierce eyes, and a look of deep hatred. They rushed to the window, but the man had vanished into the night. When they turned back again, Major Sholto was dead. Thus the secret of the treasure’s hiding place seemed to die with him, just as he was about to speak it aloud.
　　The mystery only grew deeper the next morning. The window had been opened from outside, the room had been searched, and on the dead man’s chest lay a torn piece of paper bearing the words “The Sign of the Four.” Nothing appeared to have been taken, yet everything had been disturbed. The brothers searched the grounds and found little except one footprint below the window. They could make no sense of the paper, the intruder, or their father’s old fear.
　　For years after that, Thaddeus and Bartholomew searched for the treasure without success. They dug all over the grounds and examined every possible hiding place. At last Bartholomew, who was clever and patient in such work, discovered that the measurements of the house left a small space unaccounted for above the top room. He broke through into a hidden chamber and there found the treasure chest at last. When Thaddeus heard this only the day before, he had at once written to Miss Morstan, for he believed that justice could no longer be delayed. Holmes rose at once and said that we must go to Pondicherry Lodge without losing another minute.

Part 5

　　It was close to eleven o’clock when we reached the last stage of our strange journey. The heavy fog of central London was now behind us, and the night had grown clearer. A warm wind moved across the sky, driving large clouds past a half-moon. Thaddeus Sholto took one of the carriage lamps in his shaking hand so that we might see our way better.
　　Pondicherry Lodge stood inside its own grounds and was surrounded by a high stone wall. Broken glass had been fixed along the top, so that no one could climb it without danger. There was only one entrance, a narrow wooden door strengthened with iron. Thaddeus knocked in a curious pattern, like the knock of a postman.
　　A rough voice called from inside and asked who was there. Thaddeus gave his name, and after the sound of keys and bolts the door was opened by a short, thick man with a hard face and suspicious eyes. He was the same porter whom Thaddeus had spoken of. The man knew Thaddeus well enough, but he stopped us and said he had no order to let strangers in.
　　Thaddeus tried to explain that he had told his brother he would come with friends. The porter still refused. He said that his duty was strict, and he would not break it for anyone. Miss Morstan could not be left outside in the road at such an hour, yet he stood like a wall before us.
　　At that moment Holmes stepped forward with a cheerful look and asked if the man did not remember him. He spoke of a boxing match from some years before. At once the porter’s face changed, and he greeted Holmes warmly. He admitted that he had known him the moment Holmes spoke, and after a few more words he let us all pass inside.
　　A gravel path led through the dark grounds toward the house. It was a large square building, silent and almost entirely black. Only one small window shone faintly, and high above, the moonlight touched a single upper window. The size of the place and its deep stillness gave me a cold feeling. Even Thaddeus, nervous as he had been before, now seemed more troubled than ever.
　　He pointed to the upper window and told us that it belonged to his brother Bartholomew. Yet there was no light there, though he had expected one. Holmes noticed a glow in a lower room, which Thaddeus said must be the housekeeper’s room. He began to move toward it, but before he could go farther we all heard a sound from inside the house.
　　It was the crying of a woman, sharp, broken, and full of fear. The sound was so sudden and so miserable that it stopped us where we stood. Thaddeus said at once that it could only be Mrs. Bernstone, the housekeeper. He hurried toward the door and left us outside with the lamp.
　　While we waited, Holmes slowly turned the light across the grounds and looked carefully at the earth and walls. Miss Morstan stood close beside me, and in her anxiety she placed her hand in mine. I held it without speaking, and she did not draw it away. In that dark garden, with fear and danger all around us, the touch of her hand brought me a strange peace.
　　We spoke softly together while Holmes remained silent and observant. She said the grounds looked as if men had dug through every part of them. Holmes answered that the brothers had indeed searched everywhere for the treasure during many years. Before he could say more, the house door opened with a sudden force, and Thaddeus came running out toward us.
　　His face was wild with terror, and his hands moved helplessly in the air before him. He cried that something dreadful had happened to Bartholomew. He said that he was frightened beyond all power of thought, and that he could not bear it alone. Holmes answered him in a firm voice and told him to lead us inside at once.
　　We first entered the housekeeper’s room, where Mrs. Bernstone was walking up and down in great distress. She looked pale and shaken, yet she grew calmer when Miss Morstan spoke to her gently. The old woman said that Bartholomew had locked himself in his room and would not answer her. At last, growing afraid, she had looked through the keyhole, and what she saw had filled her with horror.
　　Holmes asked no useless questions. He took the lamp, and we all moved quickly to the stairs. Thaddeus was trembling so much that I had to support him with my hand as we climbed. Twice he nearly fell. Mrs. Bernstone followed us part of the way, wringing her hands, and then remained below.
　　At the top of the stairs we came to a passage, and at the end of it stood Bartholomew Sholto’s door. It was locked from the inside, and no answer came when we called. The keyhole was old-fashioned and large enough to look through. Thaddeus begged us to see for ourselves what had frightened the housekeeper. Holmes bent first, and then I looked through it as well.
　　The sight was one I shall never forget. The room was brightly lit, and there in the middle sat Bartholomew Sholto in a chair. His head had fallen a little to one side upon his shoulder, and his face was fixed in a terrible grin. The expression was so unnatural and dreadful that it seemed less like death than like some cruel mockery of life.
　　Holmes ordered that the door be forced. We all threw our weight against it together until the lock and wood gave way. Then we entered the room. A lamp stood upon the table, and beside it lay papers and instruments of chemical work. In one corner stood the opened treasure chest, but its contents were gone.
　　Bartholomew himself was quite dead. He was fully dressed and sat near the table as if he had been working when death came upon him. There was no wound that we could see at first, yet the fixed smile upon his face and the stiffness of his body made the whole scene terrible. On the table lay a small card, and on it were the same words we had heard before: “The Sign of the Four.”
　　Holmes moved quickly but with perfect calm. He noticed at once that the door had indeed been locked on the inside, and that the windows were fastened. Yet there were clear signs that someone had entered and left the room. Near the top of the wall there was a small opening and above it a trap-like way leading to the hidden room from which the treasure had been brought down. The empty chest and the rope-marked hole in the ceiling showed plainly enough what had happened to the treasure.
　　Thaddeus could hardly control himself when he saw the open box. He cried that Bartholomew had been robbed and that he himself would surely be suspected. He told us that he had left his brother alive at ten o’clock the night before and had actually heard him lock the door after him. Then he broke into a kind of helpless panic, asking again and again whether we believed him innocent.
　　Holmes answered with great kindness and told him that he had no reason to fear from us. He advised him to go at once to the police station and report the matter himself before anyone could accuse him of hiding it. He was to offer every help and to conceal nothing. Thaddeus, still half stunned and shaking from head to foot, obeyed him and went stumbling down the stairs, while Holmes and I remained in that dreadful room to wait for his return.

Part 6

　　As soon as Thaddeus Sholto had gone, Holmes rubbed his hands and turned at once to work. He said that we probably had half an hour to ourselves, and that we must use it well. In his opinion the case was already nearly complete, though he warned me not to be too sure too early. Even when a crime seemed simple, some deeper point might still be hidden under it.
　　I could not help repeating his word with surprise. “Simple?” I cried. To me, everything in the room seemed dark and confusing. Holmes answered in the tone of a teacher speaking to a student. He told me to sit quietly in a corner so that I would not disturb the traces on the floor. Then he began to examine the room from the beginning, asking how the criminals had entered and how they had escaped.
　　Since the door had been locked from the inside all night, he turned first to the window. He carried the lamp there and spoke his thoughts aloud as he looked. The window was firmly fastened on the inside. There was no pipe near it, no crack in the wall, and no easy way from the ground. Yet, as he pointed out, someone had certainly come that way.
　　On the sill was the mark of a foot in wet earth. On the floor below it were several round muddy marks, clear and regular in shape. They continued across the room toward the table. Holmes called me over and said that this was a very neat example of what careful observation could do. I bent down and admitted that the round marks puzzled me.
　　Holmes explained at once that they were not ordinary footprints at all. They were the marks of a wooden leg. Beside one of them, upon the sill, was the print of a heavy boot with a broad metal heel. The meaning was plain enough. The man who had entered by the window was the wooden-legged man whom Major Sholto had feared.
　　But Holmes said that such a man could not have done everything alone. He asked whether I thought it possible for anyone to climb that high wall and reach the window without help. I looked out and saw that we stood far above the ground. The wall outside was smooth, the height great, and there was no foothold anywhere. I said that it was impossible.
　　Holmes agreed that it was impossible for one man without help. But there was a strong rope in the room, and this changed the whole matter. If a second person had first reached the roof and lowered the rope, then even a man with a wooden leg might climb up. Holmes showed me blood on the rope and said that the wooden-legged man had likely slipped as he came down, tearing the skin from his hands.
　　This only made the problem stranger to me. I asked how the second man had got into the room, since the door, window, and chimney all failed as answers. Holmes reminded me of his old rule. When all impossible explanations had been removed, whatever remained, however unlikely it seemed, must be the truth. I thought for a moment and then cried out that the man must have come through the opening in the roof.
　　Holmes was pleased, and at once asked me to hold the lamp while he climbed into the hidden room above. I followed him there. It was a small dusty place between the ceiling and the roof, empty except for the marks of recent movement. Holmes showed me the trap that opened outward to the roof. This, he said, was clearly the road by which the second man had entered and left.
　　Then he turned our attention to the footprints in the dust. They were very small, so small that I first thought of a child or perhaps a woman. Holmes asked me to look more carefully. When he placed his own bare foot beside one of the marks, I saw the important difference at once. His toes lay close together, as the toes of a boot-wearing man usually do. In the print before us, each toe stood apart from the others.
　　Holmes told me to remember that point well. It suggested a foot that was used to going naked and that gripped the ground in a way foreign to an Englishman. He then made me smell the edge of the small roof opening. There was a strong tar-like smell there. The same smell clung to the route by which the second man had escaped. Holmes said that if I could notice it easily, a trained dog would surely be able to follow it.
　　We then went out into the grounds. Holmes climbed up onto the roof with a lantern while I watched from below. In the moonlight he moved carefully and silently, crawling along the ridge and disappearing from time to time behind the chimneys. Presently he called to me from the far side of the house and asked what stood below that corner. I answered that there was a water-barrel there, but no ladder.
　　He seemed annoyed for a moment, since the barrel suggested the last step in the escape, but gave no clue to where the missing ladder had gone. Soon after that Holmes came down and began to examine the yard and the path beyond the house with the energy of a hunting dog. So quick and exact were his movements that I thought how terrible a criminal he might have been, had he chosen to use his powers against the law instead of for it.
　　At last he suddenly gave a small cry of satisfaction. Near a broken bottle or jar of creosote, he had found a trace of the second man’s little bare foot. The strong-smelling liquid had spilled there, and the fugitive had stepped in it. Holmes was delighted. He said that now we had the man, for he knew a dog who could follow such a smell across all London if need be.
　　Before we could go farther, however, heavy steps and loud voices sounded below. The police had arrived. Holmes used the last quiet moment in a different way. He made me touch Bartholomew Sholto’s arm and leg. The muscles were unnaturally hard, much harder than in an ordinary death. Holmes asked me what that suggested to me as a doctor.
　　I answered that the man had probably died from some powerful poison, one that caused the body to draw tight and stiff. Holmes said that the same idea had come to him at once when he had seen the face. He had therefore looked for the place where the poison entered the body. As I had already noticed, he had found a thorn fixed in the scalp. It was long, dark, and sharp, with dried poison near the point.
　　Holmes asked whether such a thorn was English. I said with confidence that it was not. He replied that, taken together with the strange little footprints and the divided toes, this pointed toward a very unusual kind of companion for the wooden-legged man. He even hinted that similar cases had been known in India and parts of Africa. Before he could say more, the police entered the room.
　　The first man through the door was Athelney Jones, large, red-faced, and heavy in body, with sharp little eyes set in a swollen face. He was followed by an inspector and by poor shaking Thaddeus Sholto. Jones took in the room with great noise and confidence, and at once began to speak as if the case were already solved. Holmes listened with a polite face that did not hide his amusement from me.
　　Jones soon declared that the matter was plain enough. Someone from inside the house must have been involved, and suspicion naturally fell upon Thaddeus. When he noticed the open trap in the roof, he seemed very pleased with himself, only to learn from Holmes that Holmes had opened it earlier. Even so, Jones held to his own course. He formally arrested Thaddeus Sholto in the Queen’s name on suspicion of being concerned in his brother’s death.
　　The poor little man cried out in misery, but Holmes told him not to be afraid. He said calmly that he could clear him. Then Holmes turned to Jones and, with that cool exactness which always annoyed official detectives, gave him a description of one of the true criminals. The man, he said, was named Jonathan Small. He was middle-aged, sunburned, active, poorly educated, with a wooden right leg, a square-toed left boot with iron on the heel, and skin torn from the palm of his hand.
　　Jones tried to answer in a mocking tone, but I could see that Holmes’s accuracy had impressed him. Holmes refused, however, to tell him everything. Of the second man he said only that he was a very curious person, and that he hoped soon to introduce Jones to both criminals. Then Holmes drew me aside and reminded me that we had lost sight of the original reason for our visit. Miss Morstan must not remain any longer in that house of death. He ordered me to take her home, then go on to Lambeth, wake the bird-stuffer Sherman, and bring back his dog Toby at once. With that, our night’s work divided into two paths, each leading us deeper into the mystery.

Part 7

　　The police had brought a cab with them, and in it I took Miss Morstan back to her home. All through the worst part of the night she had shown great courage. While there was someone near her who was weaker or more frightened than she was, she had remained calm and gentle. But now that the strain had lessened a little, her strength suddenly gave way.
　　At first she only grew pale and faint. Then, as the cab rolled on through the dark streets, she burst into tears. She had borne too much in too short a time. The strange meeting, the story of her father, the lonely house, the dead man, and the horror of that last room had all fallen upon her in a single evening. No one could have passed through such things without shaking in mind and body.
　　She told me later that she thought I was cold during that drive. The truth was very different. My whole heart was full of pity and love for her. Yet I forced myself to keep quiet and controlled, because I felt that any warmer word from me at such a moment would be unfair.
　　Two thoughts stopped me whenever I wished to speak. First, she was weak, tired, and deeply troubled, and I could not use that moment to press my own feelings upon her. Second, if Holmes was right, she would soon be a very rich woman. What right had I, a poor doctor on a small income, to declare myself just when fortune seemed about to smile upon her?
　　I could not bear the thought that she might think me a man who loved her money more than herself. That idea seemed hateful to me. So I kept my feelings locked inside me and spoke only the simple words needed to comfort and support her. In that way the treasure, though I had not seen one coin of it, already stood like a wall between us.
　　It was nearly two in the morning when we reached the house of Mrs. Cecil Forrester. The servants had gone to bed long before, but Mrs. Forrester herself was still waiting up in fear and concern. When she saw Miss Morstan’s face and heard that something serious had indeed happened, she welcomed us at once and led her friend inside with true kindness. I stayed only long enough to see that Miss Morstan was safe.
　　Then I drove on to Lambeth as Holmes had ordered. The streets were now very quiet, and only here and there did we pass a late walker, a policeman, or a cart on its way to market. At last we reached Pinchin Lane near the river, a poor and dirty place where the houses leaned together as if they too were tired. I found No. 3 by the sign Holmes had described, a stuffed weasel holding a young rabbit in the window.
　　I knocked loudly and for some time without success. At last a light showed above, and an old man in a nightcap put his head from the window in no friendly mood. I gave Holmes’s compliments and said that Toby was wanted at once on important business. At the name of Holmes, the old fellow’s anger softened. He grumbled a good deal, but came down in the end and opened the door.
　　The inside of the house was filled with the smell of skins, feathers, and preserving liquids. Every shelf seemed to hold some stuffed bird or animal staring down in the half-light. Sherman, for that was indeed the man’s name, moved among them with the ease of long habit. He complained that people always came at the worst hour and that no one cared whether he slept or not.
　　Yet, for all his noise, he was ready enough to help Holmes. He soon returned carrying Toby, a strange little dog with a long body, crooked legs, and a face that looked both foolish and wise. Sherman said that there was no dog in London to match Toby when a scent had to be followed. I lifted the animal into the cab beside me, and he settled there very seriously, as if he knew that work lay ahead.
　　We then drove back to Pondicherry Lodge. Holmes was waiting for us, fresh and eager as ever, though he had not rested for a moment. He seemed pleased with Toby at once and said again that he trusted the dog more than all the detectives in London. We lost no time, but set off directly with the dog on a leash, following the trail from the place where the second man had stepped in the creosote.
　　The scent was hot and strong at first. Toby’s nose moved quickly from side to side, and he pulled hard at the leash with little whines of excitement. Holmes walked beside him in close attention, while I kept pace on the other side. The sky in the east had begun to grow pale, and the night was moving slowly toward morning.
　　As we went on, Holmes spoke in a lighter tone than before. He said that the police would waste their time with Thaddeus and would not understand the true shape of the case until much later. He then began to speak of the beauty of the morning air and of how small man’s own troubles looked when set against the great movement of the world. Such changes of mood in him were always striking.
　　He asked whether I had a pistol. I answered that I had only my stick. Holmes said that this might still be enough. If we came upon Jonathan Small, he thought I could manage the man well enough. But if the other creature turned dangerous, Holmes said plainly that he would shoot without hesitation. He touched the pocket where he carried his revolver, and I knew he meant what he said.
　　All this time Toby kept to his work with admirable seriousness. We were now moving through roads where workers were beginning to stir. Women were opening doors, men were crossing to early public houses, and stray dogs looked curiously at our little party. Yet Toby never turned his head. His nose stayed low, and every now and then he gave a soft eager cry which told us that he was still sure of the track.
　　Our path was far from straight. The men we followed had clearly turned again and again in order to avoid notice. We passed through several districts, moving by side streets rather than main roads. Holmes noted this with approval, as if he respected even the caution of the criminal mind when it was intelligently used. At last we came to a place where Toby suddenly stopped and showed signs of confusion.
　　He ran back and forth, lifted his head, and then dropped it again. One ear stood up while the other hung down, giving him an expression of complete uncertainty. Holmes looked at him sharply and muttered that something had crossed the trail. For a moment I feared that all our work had been wasted.
　　Then Toby seemed to decide. With new energy he pulled hard and rushed forward faster than before. Holmes’s eyes shone at once. He believed, and I believed with him, that we were very near the end. The dog hardly needed to keep his nose to the ground now, but strained at the leash as if the scent lay thick in the air before him.
　　He led us at last to a large timber-yard. Men were already at work there among the piles of wood and the dust of sawing. Toby raced through the gate, down one narrow path, round another, and between two stacks of timber. Then, with a sharp cry of triumph, he sprang onto a large barrel that stood on a hand-cart. He looked down at us proudly, asking in his own way for praise.
　　The barrel and the wheels below it were dark and wet, and the whole place smelled strongly of creosote. For one second Holmes and I only stared. Then the truth came over us together, and we burst into helpless laughter. Our wonderful Toby had followed the smell perfectly, but he had brought us not to the criminals, only to a barrel full of the same strong liquid.

Part 8

　　“What now?” I asked. “Has Toby lost his great name at last?” Holmes answered that the poor dog had done no wrong. So much creosote was carried through London every day, he said, that it was no surprise if one smell crossed another. Toby had followed the scent honestly, and the error was ours, not his.
　　Holmes then explained what had happened. At the place where Toby had seemed uncertain, there had in truth been two trails running in different directions. We had taken the wrong one and had followed the smell of the barrel instead of the smell left by the men we wanted. The thing was annoying, but not serious. All we had to do now was return to that point and take the other path.
　　This time there was no doubt in Toby’s mind. When Holmes led him back to the turning, the dog ran in a wide circle, stopped, and then suddenly pulled hard in a fresh direction. I warned Holmes that we might only be following the route by which the barrel itself had come. Holmes shook his head at once and pointed out that Toby kept to the pavement, while a loaded cart would have gone in the road.
　　The new trail led us steadily toward the riverside. We passed through Belmont Place and Prince’s Street, and then moved down to the end of Broad Street. There Toby stopped at the very edge of the water and stood whining, his nose turned out over the dark river. Holmes looked at the black current and said at once that we had reached the truth. The men had taken a boat from that point.
　　Several little boats lay tied there, and we tested Toby on each one in turn. He smelled all of them carefully, yet gave us no clear sign. It was plain that the men had not escaped in any of those small craft. Then my eye fell upon a small brick house by the landing place, and above it hung a sign with a name painted on it.
　　The sign read “Mordecai Smith,” and beneath it was written that boats could be hired by the hour or by the day. Another notice told us that a steam launch was kept there. Beside the jetty stood a large pile of coal. Holmes looked slowly round, and I saw by his face that he did not like what he saw.
　　He said that the thing looked badly arranged for us and much too neatly arranged for them. It seemed that the criminals had not simply fled in haste, but had made plans beforehand. Holmes was moving toward the door when it suddenly opened. A small curly-haired boy ran out, and after him came a broad red-faced woman holding a sponge and calling him back to be washed.
　　Holmes changed his manner in a moment. With a friendly smile and the easy tone he could use so well when it suited him, he spoke to the child and then to the mother. A shilling became two, and in that way Holmes won both the boy’s delight and the woman’s goodwill. The woman said that her husband had been away since the day before, and that she was growing uneasy about him.
　　Holmes told her that he had wished to hire the steam launch. She replied that this was impossible, because her husband had gone away in it. What troubled her, she said, was that there had not been enough coal aboard for any long journey. If he had gone in a slower boat she would not have feared anything strange, but a steam launch without fuel could not go far unless more coal was bought somewhere down the river.
　　Holmes suggested this, but she answered that her husband disliked paying high prices for small supplies and would not have chosen such a plan unless forced to it. Then, without being pressed too obviously, she mentioned the man who disturbed her most. It was, she said, that ugly wooden-legged fellow who had come more than once to see her husband.
　　Holmes showed polite surprise, though I knew very well that his mind had leaped forward at once. The woman went on to say that the wooden-legged man had come in the night and had called her husband up. She recognized him by his thick foggy voice and by the sound of the wooden leg striking the stones outside. Her husband had seemed ready for him, for steam was already up in the launch.
　　Holmes questioned her with great care, never sounding too eager. She told us that the man had come about three in the morning and had called out to her husband to wake and get moving. Her husband had at once roused the eldest boy, Jim, and then the two of them had gone off without explanation. She had not heard another voice clearly, but she believed the wooden-legged man had not been alone.
　　By this time Holmes had learned all that he could from her. He asked for the name and appearance of the launch, and she described it exactly. It was called the Aurora, black along the sides with two red lines, and it had a black funnel with a white band. Holmes thanked her, promised to send word if he saw the boat, and then led me away.
　　We crossed the river in a wherry, and while we sat there Holmes explained one of his small rules. With people of that sort, he said, it was dangerous to show too clearly that their words mattered. The moment they understood that they held something important, they would grow guarded and suspicious. It was far better to seem half careless and to draw the truth from them gently.
　　I said that the next step appeared plain. We should hire a launch ourselves and go down the river after the Aurora. Holmes answered that this was far from plain. There were so many wharves, landings, and hidden places along both sides of the Thames that we might search for days without success. If we used the police openly, the fugitives might hear of it and at once escape from the country.
　　I suggested that advertisements might be placed asking for information from men along the river. Holmes dismissed that idea even more quickly. Such notices would tell the criminals that the hunt was close behind them. Better, he said, to let them believe that the police were following the wrong scent. In that way they might stay careless a little longer.
　　When we landed near Millbank, Holmes gave his decision. We would go home, eat breakfast, and rest for an hour, because another night’s work might be waiting for us. On the way he stopped at a telegraph office and sent a message. When I asked where it had gone, he told me with some amusement that it was for Wiggins, the clever leader of his Baker Street boys.
　　Holmes said that these dirty little street children might do what grown officers could not. They could go anywhere, notice everything, and vanish again without being remembered. If the Aurora still lay anywhere upon the river, they had a good chance of finding her. Toby, Holmes added, might still be useful, so we brought him with us.
　　By the time we reached Baker Street, my body and mind were both worn out. Holmes, however, remained active and clear. I could not look at the case with his cold interest, for to me the matter of the treasure touched Miss Morstan directly. Even if finding it would place her farther from me than ever, I knew that I must help with all my strength. That was the last clear thought I remember before food, warmth, and utter weariness pulled me down into sleep.

Part 9

　　It was late in the afternoon when I awoke, refreshed at last after the strain of the night before. Sherlock Holmes still sat almost exactly where I had left him. Only the violin was now lying aside, and a book had taken its place in his hands. As soon as I moved, he looked up at me, and I saw at once that his face was troubled and dark.
　　He said that I had slept very soundly, and that he had feared his talk might wake me. I asked whether any fresh news had come while I slept. He answered with clear disappointment that there had been none. Wiggins had just been to Baker Street, but he could report no trace of the Aurora.
　　Holmes confessed that this delay surprised and annoyed him. In his view, every hour now mattered. I asked whether there was anything useful that I could do, since I felt ready for another night’s work if needed. He shook his head and said that, for the moment, we could do nothing except wait.
　　He explained that if we both left the rooms, some important message might come in our absence and be delayed. One of us must therefore remain at Baker Street. I then said that I would go over to Camberwell to call on Mrs. Cecil Forrester and Miss Morstan, who must be anxious for news. Holmes looked at me with a faint smile in his eyes when I mentioned Mrs. Forrester first.
　　I answered honestly that of course Miss Morstan was the real reason for my visit. Holmes warned me not to tell the ladies too much, and then made one of those hard remarks about women which I never liked in him. I had no wish to argue. As I was going out, he reminded me that I might as well return Toby across the river, since he no longer expected the dog to be needed.
　　So I took the little animal back to Sherman in Pinchin Lane, leaving also a half-sovereign for his trouble. Then I went on to Camberwell. There I found Miss Morstan somewhat tired after the previous night, but eager to hear every detail we could safely give her. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of interest and alarm.
　　I told them all that had happened, though I softened the worst parts of the story. I spoke of Bartholomew Sholto’s death, but not of the fixed grin upon his face or the poisoned thorn that had killed him. Even so, what I did tell was enough to amaze them. Mrs. Forrester declared that the whole business sounded like a romance from a book.
　　She cried that there was everything in it that such a tale required: a wronged lady, a lost father, a huge treasure, a savage from a distant island, and a dangerous man with a wooden leg. Miss Morstan answered with a quick bright look that there had also been two gentlemen who had tried to help. That glance gave me a sudden joy which I did my best to conceal.
　　Mrs. Forrester then turned to the question of the treasure and said that Mary should feel more excited at the thought of becoming so rich. To my great relief, Miss Morstan showed no sign of greed or foolish delight. She tossed her head a little and said that her one concern was for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto. He had behaved with kindness and honor, and it was our duty, she said, to clear him from the dreadful charge hanging over him.
　　Evening had already come when I left Camberwell. By the time I returned to Baker Street it was quite dark. Holmes’s pipe and book still lay near his chair, but he himself was nowhere to be seen. I looked round for some note from him, but found none.
　　Mrs. Hudson came in to lower the blinds, and I asked whether Mr. Holmes had gone out. She answered in an uneasy whisper that he was in his room, and that she feared something was wrong with his health. All afternoon, she said, he had walked up and down without rest, then talked to himself, then listened for every bell as if each sound might bring some great news. At last he had gone sharply into his room, but the restless pacing had continued there as well.
　　I tried to calm her by saying that I had seen him in such moods before. When some hard problem was upon him, the strain could make him almost feverish. Yet I was uneasy myself. Through the greater part of the night I still heard, from time to time, the dull and steady sound of his step above me.
　　At breakfast the next morning Holmes looked worn and tired, and there was a little feverish color in his cheeks. I told him that he was working himself too hard. He answered that he had not been able to sleep. This one small obstacle, he said, tormented him more because everything else in the case had already been made clear in his mind.
　　He knew the launch, the men, and the road they had taken, yet still no word had come. He had set many means of search in motion and had watched both sides of the river, but nothing had been found. Mrs. Smith had heard nothing of her husband either. Holmes said that he might soon have to believe that they had sunk the launch, though there were reasons against that theory as well.
　　I suggested that perhaps Mrs. Smith herself had misled us, but Holmes dismissed the thought at once. He had checked her statement and knew that the Aurora did in fact exist. I then asked if the launch might have gone up the river. Holmes said that he had considered that also and had sent men as far as Richmond. If no message came that day, he intended to leave the boat and hunt the men directly.
　　But no message came. The papers were full of the Norwood tragedy, and most of them spoke poorly of poor Thaddeus Sholto. Nothing new appeared in them except that the inquest would soon be held. I went again to Camberwell in the evening to tell the ladies that we had failed once more, and when I returned I found Holmes low in spirits and very difficult to speak with.
　　He answered my questions only in short words and spent the evening over a chemical experiment of a very unpleasant kind. The clinking of test-tubes and the smell of heated liquids went on far into the night, until the air itself drove me from the sitting-room. Long after I had gone to bed, I could still hear him working. At last sleep overcame me.
　　In the early morning I woke with a start and saw Holmes standing by my bedside. He was dressed in the rough clothes of a sailor, with a pea-jacket on his back and a coarse red scarf round his neck. He told me that he was going down the river and had decided that only one course remained open. I offered to go with him at once, but he refused.
　　He said that I would be of more use in Baker Street as his representative. If any note or telegram came, I was to open it and act on my own judgment. He could not say where he himself might be found during the day, so it would be useless to try to wire to him. He promised, however, that he would bring back some sort of news before long, and with that he left.
　　I heard nothing from him by breakfast-time, but the morning paper gave one welcome piece of information. Thaddeus Sholto and Mrs. Bernstone had both been released, and the police now admitted that he could not have committed the crime. While I was pleased by this, my eye suddenly caught an advertisement in the agony column. It asked for news of Mordecai Smith, his son Jim, and the steam launch Aurora, and offered five pounds for information at Smith’s Wharf or at 221B Baker Street.
　　I saw at once that this was Holmes’s work. It was clever, because even if the fugitives read it, they might think it no more than a wife’s natural anxiety about a missing husband. Still, the day passed very slowly. Every knock at the door seemed to promise Holmes’s return or a reply to the advertisement, yet each time I was disappointed. As the hours dragged on, I began to wonder whether even Holmes might have built too much upon some subtle chain of reasoning.
　　At three in the afternoon the bell rang loudly, and to my surprise Mr. Athelney Jones was shown in. His whole manner was changed from the loud confidence he had shown at Pondicherry Lodge. He looked tired, downcast, and almost humble. After I gave him a chair, a cigar, and a glass of whiskey and soda, he admitted that his case had gone badly. His theory about Thaddeus had broken down completely, and now his professional credit, as he frankly told me, was in danger.
　　He spoke of Holmes in terms far warmer than I had ever expected from him. Holmes might be irregular and too quick with theories, he said, but he was a man who could throw light where others saw only darkness. Then he showed me a telegram from Holmes, sent from Poplar at noon. Holmes ordered him to come at once to Baker Street and wait there if he himself had not returned, for he was, so the message said, close upon the track of the Sholto gang.
　　While we were speaking, a heavy step sounded upon the stairs, mixed with a painful wheezing breath. The door opened, and an old seaman entered, bent with age and leaning on a thick stick. He wore rough sailor’s clothes, and all that could easily be seen of his face were two sharp dark eyes below heavy white brows. He asked in a slow voice whether Mr. Sherlock Holmes was at home.
　　I told him no, but said that I was acting for Holmes and could receive any message for him. The old man answered stubbornly that he had been told to speak only to Holmes himself. Even when I asked whether his message concerned Mordecai Smith’s boat, and he admitted that he knew about the boat, the men, and the treasure, he would still say no more. At last he made as if to leave.
　　Jones stepped in front of him and said that we could not let him go when he claimed to hold such information. The old man protested angrily, but saw that resistance was useless. So he sat down heavily on the sofa with his face in his hands. Jones and I returned to our talk for a moment, until a well-known voice suddenly said that perhaps we might offer him a cigar too.
　　We both jumped in astonishment. There sat Holmes close beside us, smiling quietly, while in his hand he held the wig, whiskers, and brows of the old sailor. Jones burst into laughter and delight, and even I could not help admiring the trick. Holmes said that he had worked in that disguise all day, since too many of the criminal class now knew his true face. Then he turned back to business, learned from Jones that the remaining prisoners must also be released, and laid out his own plan.
　　Jones was welcome, Holmes said, to every bit of official credit, but he must obey directions exactly. First, a fast police steam launch must wait at Westminster Stairs at seven o’clock. Next, there must be two strong men on board in case force became necessary. Jones agreed to all of this. Holmes added that when we caught the men, we would also recover the treasure, and he said with a quick look toward me that he hoped I might be the one to place the box in Miss Morstan’s hands before any other person opened it. Jones called this irregular, but in the end he agreed, and Holmes closed the matter by insisting that we all dine together before setting out.

Part 10

　　Our dinner was a cheerful one. Holmes was in one of those bright moods that came to him after days of dark silence. He spoke rapidly and with great knowledge on one subject after another, as if every topic in the world had at some time been his private study. Jones, too, forgot his troubles for a while and ate with real pleasure. As for me, I could not help feeling excited, because it seemed that we were now close to the end of the business.
　　None of us spoke openly during dinner about the men we hoped to catch. It was as if each of us feared to disturb our good luck by naming it too soon. When the table had been cleared, Holmes looked at his watch and filled three glasses. He raised his own and wished success to our little expedition. Then he turned to me and asked if I had a pistol.
　　I told him that my old service revolver was in my desk. He said that I had better take it, because it was wise to be ready for anything. The cab was already waiting below, just as he had arranged. So we made our way out at once and drove down to the river.
　　It was a little after seven when we reached Westminster Wharf. Our police launch lay ready for us, with the men on board. Holmes examined it with a sharp eye and at once asked whether there was anything to show that it belonged to the police. Jones pointed to a green lamp at the side, and Holmes ordered it to be removed immediately.
　　As soon as that was done, we stepped aboard and the ropes were cast off. Holmes, Jones, and I sat in the back, while one man held the wheel, one watched the engine, and two strong police officers sat in front. Jones asked where we were to go. Holmes answered that we must head for the Tower and stop opposite Jacobson’s Yard.
　　Our boat was a fast one, and I could feel her power at once. We shot past long rows of barges as if they were not moving at all. Holmes watched with satisfaction as we passed even a river steamer and left her behind us. He said that we must be able to overtake almost anything on the Thames.
　　Jones replied that there were few launches faster than ours, but Holmes reminded him that the Aurora had a name for speed. Then he began to explain to me how he had at last found her. He said that after his failure and delay, he had forced his mind away from the case for a time by giving himself to chemical work. That change of labor, he said, had rested him and made his thoughts clearer.
　　When he returned to the Sholto case, he considered once more what Jonathan Small was likely to do. Holmes did not think that Small was a man of fine or delicate cleverness, but he was certainly cunning in a practical way. Since Small had been in London for some time and had been watching Pondicherry Lodge, Holmes believed that he must have had some hiding place or center of operations already prepared. He would not give that up carelessly.
　　Holmes also reasoned that Small would not wish to move openly through London in daylight with so strange a companion as Tonga. Even hidden under a coat or blanket, such a creature might attract notice and gossip. Since Mrs. Smith had said that they took the launch about three in the morning, Holmes believed that they had meant to return quickly under cover of darkness. That suggested that they had not gone far.
　　He then asked himself what he would do if he were in Small’s place. The launch could not simply be left at a public landing place, nor sent back openly, if secrecy mattered. So Holmes formed the idea that it might have been hidden in some yard under the excuse of a small repair. In that way it would be out of sight, but still ready at short notice when the time came to escape.
　　In sailor’s clothes, Holmes had gone from yard to yard down the river asking questions. He had failed at fifteen places, but at the sixteenth, Jacobson’s Yard, he found exactly what he wanted. The Aurora had indeed been left there by a wooden-legged man, who had ordered a small and unnecessary repair to the rudder. While Holmes was there, Mordecai Smith himself had appeared, half drunk, and demanded that the boat be ready by eight o’clock that very evening.
　　Holmes had then left one of his street boys to watch the yard and signal us the instant the launch moved. Jones said that, had the case been his from the start, he would have filled the yard with police and arrested the men there. Holmes answered that this would only have frightened Small away. A man like him, Holmes said, would surely send someone ahead to see if the place was safe.
　　I suggested that Holmes might have followed Smith and so found the criminals’ hiding place. Holmes answered that this would probably have wasted the entire day. Smith likely knew very little. As long as he was well paid and kept in drink, he would do as he was told and ask no questions. Holmes said that after weighing every path, this seemed to him the soundest one.
　　While he spoke, we had been moving rapidly down the river. The last sunlight had faded from the city, and by the time we reached the Tower the evening had grown dark. Holmes pointed out Jacobson’s Yard on the Surrey side and ordered that we move slowly up and down under the cover of some barges. He lifted his glasses and searched the shore. After a moment he said that he could see his boy on watch, but there was no signal yet.
　　Jones suggested that we go a little farther down and wait there, but Holmes would not risk it. The fugitives would probably head down-river, he said, but we could not be certain. Better to stay where we could watch the yard and still remain hidden ourselves. So we drifted there in tense silence while workers crossed the lit spaces on shore and the river moved black beneath us.
　　Presently Holmes broke the silence with one of his sudden strange remarks about human nature, but before he had gone far, I saw what he saw. A white cloth moved in the darkness by the water’s edge. It was the signal from the boy. At the same moment Holmes cried out that the Aurora was coming and ordered full speed ahead.
　　She had slipped from the yard unseen behind smaller craft and had already gathered speed before we clearly saw her. Now she flew down the stream near the shore like a dark water-bird. Jones looked at her and said gravely that she was very fast. Holmes answered between his teeth that we must catch her, even if we burned our own boat in the attempt.
　　The men below forced on more steam. Our engines beat like a giant metal heart, and the whole launch shook and leaped under us. A great yellow lantern in our bow threw a long path of light ahead across the river. Right before us, half dark and half shining, lay the Aurora, with a line of white foam behind her showing how hard she was driven. We rushed after her through the crowded waterway, passing barges, steamers, and merchant ships by inches.
　　Holmes leaned down toward the engine-room and shouted to the men to give her every pound of steam they could. Jones said that we were gaining a little, and I soon believed it too. For some minutes our hope rose steadily. Then, by the worst luck, a tug with barges behind it crossed between us and our prey. We had to swing hard aside to avoid smashing into it, and in those few moments the Aurora won back a great distance.
　　Still, she remained in sight, and the evening had now cleared into a bright starlit night. Our launch trembled and groaned under the strain, but kept flying onward. We passed the Pool, the docks, and long reaches of dark water, always with that black shape before us. At last Jones turned the searchlight full upon the Aurora, and we saw the figures on her deck.
　　One man sat near the stern, bent over something dark between his knees. Beside him lay a huddled black mass which at first looked to me like a large dog. A boy held the tiller, while old Smith, stripped to the waist, threw coal into the furnace like a madman. They could no longer doubt that we were chasing them, for every turn they made, we copied at once.
　　Yard by yard we came closer. The sound of their engine and our own filled the night. The man near the stern kept turning to measure the distance between us. At last Jones shouted to them to stop. Then the man sprang up, cursed us in a high broken voice, and shook his fists. I saw clearly that it was Jonathan Small, and that below one knee he had only a wooden leg.
　　At the sound of his cries, the black bundle beside him moved and straightened. What rose before us was the smallest man I had ever seen, though man is hardly the right word for such a creature. He was wrapped in a dark covering, but his face showed clearly in our light. I have never seen anything so wild, cruel, and animal in all my life. His little eyes burned, and his teeth showed between twisted lips in a terrible grin.
　　Holmes had already drawn his revolver, and I drew mine at once. He said quietly that I was to fire if the creature raised his hand. We were now within a boat’s length of them, close enough to see every motion plainly. Suddenly the little savage pulled from under his covering a short round piece of wood and lifted it to his mouth.
　　Our pistols fired together. The creature spun round, threw up his arms, and fell sideways into the river with a choking sound. I saw one quick flash of his fierce eyes amid the white foam, and then he was gone. In that same instant Small threw himself on the rudder and turned hard toward the southern bank. We shot just past the stern of the Aurora and then swung after her again at once.
　　But she had already reached the shore. It was a lonely, muddy place, full of marsh and black wet ground. The launch struck the bank and drove its bow up onto the mud. Small jumped out, but the moment he landed, his wooden leg sank deep into the soft ground. He struggled wildly, yet could move neither forward nor back. The more he fought, the deeper he fixed himself there.
　　When we came up beside him, he was yelling with rage and kicking helplessly with his one sound foot. We threw a rope over his shoulders and dragged him out of the mud like some ugly fish from a net. The two Smiths offered no fight and came aboard quietly when ordered. We then pulled the Aurora free and tied her behind us.
　　On her deck stood a heavy iron box of Indian work. There could be no doubt that this was the same chest which had held the cursed treasure. We carried it carefully into our own small cabin, though there was no key to open it. Then, as we began to steam slowly back up the river, Holmes and I searched the dark water in every direction with the light. There was no sign of Tonga anywhere. Somewhere below us, in the black mud of the Thames, ended the life of that strange and terrible islander.
　　Holmes then pointed to the wooden hatch near where we had stood. Stuck in it was one of the poisoned darts, still quivering from its force. It had flown between us at the very instant we fired. Holmes only smiled and lifted his shoulders, but I confess that the sight of it made me cold. The dreadful death it carried had passed closer to us than either of us had known.

Part 11

　　Our prisoner sat in the little cabin opposite the heavy iron box for which he had waited and worked so many years. Jonathan Small was a hard-looking man of about fifty, dark from sun and weather, with lines cut deep across his face. His beard was touched with gray, and his strong chin showed that he was not a man who gave up easily. Yet as he sat there with his hands chained before him and his eyes fixed on the box, I thought I saw more sadness in him than anger.
　　Holmes lit a cigar and spoke to him in a quiet voice. He said that he was sorry matters had ended in this way. Small answered with surprising honesty that he was sorry too. He swore that he had never laid a hand on Bartholomew Sholto. It was Tonga, he said, who had shot the poisoned dart, and he himself had been deeply shocked when it happened.
　　Holmes offered him a drink and told him that the truth would serve him better than lies. He then asked the first question directly. How had Small expected Tonga, so small a creature, to overpower Bartholomew Sholto if the man had been awake and resisting? Small answered that he had not expected to find anyone in the room at all. He had believed that Sholto would be downstairs at supper when they entered.
　　He said openly that he would hide nothing from us now. If it had been the old Major Sholto, he added bitterly, he would have killed him without regret. But he had no quarrel with the son. When he climbed through the window and saw Bartholomew already sitting dead in the chair with that dreadful grin upon his face, he himself had nearly cried out in fear. The sight had shaken even him.
　　Holmes nodded and said that this agreed with the medical signs. The poison had acted so quickly that the man must have died almost at once, before Small had even reached him. Then Holmes remarked to me that the case was now nearly finished in every important point. We had the murderer, the treasure chest, and the route by which the men had escaped. Only the full history of the matter still remained to be told.
　　Athelney Jones, however, was thinking less of history than of official procedure. He was already beginning to speak as if the capture were mainly his own work. Holmes let him talk. I could see from the faint smile on Holmes’s face that he was amused rather than annoyed. Jones then said that when we reached Vauxhall Bridge he would let me take the treasure-box to Miss Morstan before it was placed in official hands.
　　He admitted that this was irregular, but said that an agreement was an agreement. At the same time, because the box was valuable, he insisted on sending an inspector with me. He also asked Small where the key was. Small answered shortly that it lay at the bottom of the Thames. Jones grumbled at this, but there was nothing to be done.
　　So when we reached Vauxhall, I landed with the iron chest and with a broad, good-natured inspector at my side. The weight of the box was so great that I could hardly lift it without effort. We took a cab at once and drove to Mrs. Cecil Forrester’s house. Mrs. Forrester herself was out for the evening, but I was told that Miss Morstan was in the drawing-room.
　　I found her seated near the open window in a soft white dress with a little touch of red at the neck and waist. The shaded lamp fell gently over her face and hair, and there was in her whole figure a look of quiet sadness. But when she heard my step and saw who I was, she rose quickly, and a warm color came into her cheeks. She said that she had heard the cab and had wondered who could be arriving so late.
　　I answered that I had brought something better than news. Setting the iron box upon the table, I told her that I had brought her a fortune. She looked at the chest with less excitement than I had expected and asked if that was truly the great treasure. I said that it was, and that half of it should be hers and half Thaddeus Sholto’s. I added, perhaps too loudly and too cheerfully, that there would soon be few richer young ladies in England.
　　She answered in a very calm voice that if such wealth came to her, she owed it not to me, but to Sherlock Holmes. I replied that even Holmes had nearly lost the clue in the end. Then, because she asked me to do so, I told her the story of our pursuit from the moment I had last seen her. She listened with shining eyes and parted lips, following every step of the chase down the river.
　　When I told her how close the poisoned dart had come to us, she turned so white that I feared she might faint. I hurried to pour out water for her, but she recovered at once. She said that the thought of her friends facing such danger for her sake had shaken her more than she could easily bear. I begged her not to think of that side of the matter and suggested that we turn instead to the treasure itself.
　　She bent over the box and looked at it with quiet interest rather than greed. She said that it was beautiful work and very heavy. I told her it was Indian work, and when she asked for the key, I explained that Small had thrown it into the river. There was no choice, then, but to force the chest open.
　　I borrowed Mrs. Forrester’s poker and pushed its end under the great metal clasp on the front. The clasp sprang back with a loud snap, and with trembling hands I lifted the lid. For one long second neither of us spoke. The box was empty. Its iron sides were thick and strong enough to hold a king’s ransom, but inside there was nothing at all.
　　Miss Morstan was the first to break the silence. She said simply that the treasure was lost. At that moment I felt something lift from my heart like a heavy stone. Until then I had not fully known how much that wealth had stood between us. It had seemed to place her high above me and had sealed my mouth whenever I wished to speak of love.
　　The words came from me before I could stop them. “Thank God,” I cried. She looked at me quickly and asked why I should say such a thing when a fortune had just disappeared before our eyes. I took her hand, and she did not draw it away. Then I told her the truth at last.
　　I said that now she was within my reach again. I loved her, I said, as truly as a man could love a woman. The thought of that great treasure and the riches it promised had kept me silent, because I could not bear that she should ever think me a fortune hunter. Now that the gold was gone, I was free to tell her what had been in my heart from the first.
　　She answered in a whisper that she too thanked God. Then, with all the joy that can come to one man in one brief moment, I drew her close to me. Whoever had lost the treasure that night, I knew that I had found something far greater. The wealth of Agra had vanished into darkness, but Mary Morstan had become my own dear hope for the future.

Part 12

　　The inspector who waited for me in the cab was a patient man, for I kept him a long time. When I returned and showed him the empty chest, his face fell at once. He said sadly that where there was no treasure, there would be no reward. He had hoped that such a night’s work would bring something extra for the men who had risked themselves in the chase.
　　I answered that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto was a rich man and would surely not forget those who had helped in the matter. The inspector was not comforted by this. He only repeated that it was a bad business and that Mr. Athelney Jones would take it badly. In that, as I soon saw, he was quite right.
　　When I reached Baker Street, Holmes, Jones, and Jonathan Small had only just come in. They had stopped first at a police station, so that the proper report might be made. Holmes lay back in his chair with his usual quiet air, while Small sat opposite with his wooden leg stretched out before him. As soon as Jones saw the empty box, his broad face grew long with disappointment.
　　He accused Small at once of causing this last trouble also. Small only laughed and said that the treasure had been his by right, and that if he could not have it, others should not have it either. Holmes did not waste time on anger. He said that what mattered now was the full truth, and that the best thing Small could do was to tell his whole story from the beginning.
　　Small agreed readily enough. He said that he had hidden nothing so far and would hide nothing now. He had been born, he told us, near Pershore in Worcestershire, but in his youth he had gone out to India as a soldier. There, before the great rising, an accident with a crocodile had cost him his leg. After that he could no longer serve in the usual way and was given lighter duty at Agra.
　　When the mutiny broke out, all India seemed to shake with fear and violence. Small was placed with two Sikh soldiers to guard a small gate in the fort. One night, in the middle of heavy rain, the two Sikhs suddenly seized him and forced him to listen. They told him that a rich man’s servant would soon come that way carrying a treasure of enormous value. Small must either join them in taking it or die on the spot.
　　He asked at once whether the fort itself was to be endangered. They swore that it was not. What they wanted, they said, was simply wealth. A rajah, uncertain whether the rebels or the English would win, had secretly sent his best jewels toward Agra for safety. The man carrying them came under the name of Achmet, but one of the Sikhs’ companions was traveling with him and knew the secret.
　　Small admitted that he thought first of the gold, not of the man who carried it. In such times, with blood and death all around, one life had come to seem very little to him. So he swore the oath they demanded. Soon the merchant arrived, small, fat, frightened, and carrying the iron box in a shawl bundle. Small challenged him in the usual way and let him pass inward with the others.
　　Yet the matter did not go cleanly. The merchant guessed danger and ran for his life down the dark passage. Small could have let him pass. Instead, thinking of the treasure and fearing discovery if the man escaped, he threw his firelock between the runner’s legs. Achmet fell, and one of the Sikhs stabbed him before he could rise again. Small told this part without shame, though not without bitterness.
　　They hid the body in a broken hall and then opened the box. Inside they found a mass of jewels beyond anything Small had ever imagined: diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, and many other stones whose names he did not yet know. After counting and listing them, the four men hid the chest in the wall and made maps for themselves. At the bottom of each map they wrote the sign of the four, swearing that none of them would act apart from the others.
　　But before they could enjoy any gain, all was ruined. Another servant had secretly followed Achmet and, failing to find him, had raised the alarm. The body was discovered. The four men were arrested, tried, and punished. The three Sikhs were sentenced to penal servitude for life, and Small, though at first condemned to death, was at last given the same sentence.
　　Years later, after being moved to the Andaman Islands, Small saw what looked like a chance of freedom. There he had learned a little medicine and had come to know Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and others who played cards with the prison officers. Major Sholto lost badly and sank into debt. Small guessed that greed might now open the door for him, so he told the major that he knew where a hidden treasure lay.
　　Sholto first tried to make it a matter for the government. Small saw through him at once. In the end an agreement was made. Sholto and Morstan would recover the treasure, help the four convicts escape, and then take only a fifth share between them. Small and his companions accepted this and gave them the maps. Yet Sholto, once he had the treasure in his hand, betrayed them completely.
　　He went to India, found the box, and never returned to keep his promise. Morstan later confirmed the betrayal by going to Agra and finding the treasure gone. From that hour, Small said, revenge became the ruling passion of his life. He cared less for the jewels than for putting his hand around Sholto’s throat. The years that followed were full of waiting and hatred.
　　On the islands, chance brought him one strange ally. A wounded Andaman islander had been found in the woods and left to die. Small helped nurse him back to health, and the little savage, whose name was Tonga, gave him dog-like loyalty in return. With Tonga’s help, Small escaped by canoe, killing a brutal guard with the wooden leg itself when the moment came. After many dangers and much wandering, the two at last reached England.
　　In London Small tracked down Major Sholto and watched Pondicherry Lodge for years. He learned that the treasure was still hidden and that Sholto lived in constant fear. One day Small saw through the window that the old man was dying, but before he could seize him, death took Sholto first. Small entered the room later that night and searched in vain for any paper that might reveal where the jewels were hidden. Before leaving, he placed the sign of the four upon the dead man’s chest.
　　To earn money in those years, Small traveled with Tonga and showed him as a black cannibal at fairs and cheap entertainments. At last the news came that the treasure had been discovered in the house by Bartholomew Sholto. Small at once formed his plan. Since his own wooden leg kept him from climbing, he sent Tonga in through the roof with a rope. His intention, he swore again, was only to take the box and go.
　　But when he climbed up after the rope, he found Bartholomew dead from one of Tonga’s darts. The little savage had taken pride in the murder, but Small beat him with the rope for doing it. Even then, however, he took the chest, lowered it, and escaped. He left behind the sign of the four to show that the treasure had at last returned to those who had first claimed it. Then he hired Smith’s launch, the Aurora, hoping to reach a ship and flee the country.
　　Small ended by saying that if he had spoken so freely, it was not to amuse us, nor because he wished us any good. He spoke because the truth was the best defence left to him. Holmes said that it was indeed a remarkable story and that it completed one of the most curious cases he had ever studied. Jones then rose and said that duty could wait no longer. He thanked us and took Jonathan Small away under guard.
　　When they had gone, Holmes and I sat for some time in silence, each smoking and thinking over the strange chain of events that had brought us to that night. At last I told him that this might well be the last case in which I would be able to follow his methods closely. Miss Morstan, I said, had accepted me as her future husband. Holmes gave a deep groan and answered that he had feared as much.
　　I was a little hurt and asked whether he found fault with my choice. He said no. On the contrary, he thought Miss Morstan one of the most charming and useful young women he had ever met. But love, he went on, was an emotional thing, and all emotion stood against the cold clear reason which he valued above everything else. For that reason, he said, he would never marry.
　　I laughed and said that I hoped marriage would not destroy my judgment. He answered that the reaction after the case was already upon him and that he would be weak as a rag for a week. I remarked how strangely his deep laziness and his bursts of great energy lived together in the same man. Holmes smiled a little and said that in him there was material both for an excellent loafer and for a very active fellow.
　　Then I said that the final division of honors in the case seemed unfair. Jones would get the credit. I would get a wife. What, I asked, remained for Sherlock Holmes? He stretched out his long white hand toward the corner of the mantelpiece and answered in a quiet voice, “For me, there still remains the cocaine-bottle.”