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=====The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax=====
===Sir Arthur Conan Doyle===

“But why Turkish?” asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at my
boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment, and my
protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.

“English,” I answered in some surprise. “I got them at Latimer’s, in
Oxford Street.”

Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.

“The bath!” he said; “the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive Turkish
rather than the invigorating home-made article?”

“Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and old. A
Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine---a fresh
starting-point, a cleanser of the system.

“By the way, Holmes,” I added, “I have no doubt the connection between
my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one to a
logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you would indicate
it.”

“The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson,” said Holmes with
a mischievous twinkle. “It belongs to the same elementary class of
deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you who shared
your cab in your drive this morning.”

“I don’t admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation,” said I
with some asperity.

“Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let me see,
what were the points? Take the last one first---the cab. You observe that
you have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder of your coat.
Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you would probably have had no
splashes, and if you had they would certainly have been symmetrical.
Therefore it is clear that you sat at the side. Therefore it is equally
clear that you had a companion.”

“That is very evident.”

“Absurdly commonplace, is it not?”

“But the boots and the bath?”

“Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots in a
certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an elaborate
double bow, which is not your usual method of tying them. You have,
therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A bootmaker---or the boy at
the bath. It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker, since your boots are
nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for
all that, the Turkish bath has served a purpose.”

“What is that?”

“You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me suggest
that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear Watson---first-class
tickets and all expenses paid on a princely scale?”

“Splendid! But why?”

Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his
pocket.

“One of the most dangerous classes in the world,” said he, “is the
drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and often the
most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable inciter of crime in
others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She has sufficient means to
take her from country to country and from hotel to hotel. She is lost,
as often as not, in a maze of obscure //pensions// and boardinghouses.
She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she
is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil has come to the Lady
Frances Carfax.”

I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
particular. Holmes consulted his notes.

“Lady Frances,” he continued, “is the sole survivor of the direct
family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may
remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but with
some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and curiously cut
diamonds to which she was fondly attached---too attached, for she refused
to leave them with her banker and always carried them about with her. A
rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in
fresh middle age, and yet, by a strange change, the last derelict of
what only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.”

“What has happened to her, then?”

“Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead? There
is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and for four years it
has been her invariable custom to write every second week to Miss
Dobney, her old governess, who has long retired and lives in
Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted me. Nearly five
weeks have passed without a word. The last letter was from the Hôtel
National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there and given
no address. The family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy
no sum will be spared if we can clear the matter up.”

“Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had other
correspondents?”

“There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is the
bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are compressed
diaries. She banks at Silvester’s. I have glanced over her account. The
last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne, but it was a large one
and probably left her with cash in hand. Only one check has been drawn
since.”

“To whom, and where?”

“To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check was
drawn. It was cashed at the Crédit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than
three weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds.”

“And who is Miss Marie Devine?”

“That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was the maid
of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her this check we have
not yet determined. I have no doubt, however, that your researches will
soon clear the matter up.”

“//My// researches!”

“Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I cannot
possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal terror of
his life. Besides, on general principles it is best that I should not
leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely without me, and it causes
an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear
Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a
rate as two pence a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the
end of the Continental wire.”

Two days later found me at the Hôtel National at Lausanne, where I
received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-known
manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there for several
weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her. Her age was not more
than forty. She was still handsome and bore every sign of having in her
youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable
jewellery, but it had been remarked by the servants that the heavy
trunk in the lady’s bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie
Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress. She was actually
engaged to one of the head waiters in the hotel, and there was no
difficulty in getting her address. It was 11, Rue de Trajan,
Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself could
not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.

Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
possessed could clear up the cause for the lady’s sudden departure. She
was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason to believe that she
intended to remain for the season in her luxurious rooms overlooking
the lake. And yet she had left at a single day’s notice, which involved
her in the useless payment of a week’s rent. Only Jules Vibart, the
lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden
departure with the visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall,
dark, bearded man. “//Un sauvage---un veritable sauvage!//” cried Jules
Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He had been seen
talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then he had
called. She had refused to see him. He was English, but of his name
there was no record. Madame had left the place immediately afterwards.
Jules Vibart, and, what was of more importance, Jules Vibart’s
sweetheart, thought that this call and the departure were cause and
effect. Only one thing Jules would not discuss. That was the reason why
Marie had left her mistress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If
I wished to know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.

So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted to the
place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left Lausanne.
Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which confirmed the idea
that she had gone with the intention of throwing someone off her track.
Otherwise why should not her luggage have been openly labelled for
Baden? Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous
route. This much I gathered from the manager of Cook’s local office. So
to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my
proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of half-humorous
commendation.

At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had stayed
at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she had made the
acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a missionary from South
America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her comfort and
occupation in religion. Dr. Shlessinger’s remarkable personality, his
whole hearted devotion, and the fact that he was recovering from a
disease contracted in the exercise of his apostolic duties affected her
deeply. She had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the
convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager described it to
me, upon a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon
either side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with
special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites, upon which he was
writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much in health, he and
his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances had started thither
in their company. This was just three weeks before, and the manager had
heard nothing since. As to the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days
beforehand in floods of tears, after informing the other maids that she
was leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the
whole party before his departure.

“By the way,” said the landlord in conclusion, “you are not the only
friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now. Only
a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same errand.”

“Did he give a name?” I asked.

“None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type.”

“A savage?” said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
illustrious friend.

“Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a
farmers’ inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I should
think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend.”

Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow clearer
with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious lady pursued
from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting figure. She feared
him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne. He had still followed.
Sooner or later he would overtake her. Had he already overtaken her?
Was //that// the secret of her continued silence? Could the good people
who were her companions not screen her from his violence or his
blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this
long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.

To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down to the
roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for a description
of Dr. Shlessinger’s left ear. Holmes’s ideas of humour are strange and
occasionally offensive, so I took no notice of his ill-timed
jest---indeed, I had already reached Montpellier in my pursuit of the
maid, Marie, before his message came.

I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all that
she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only left her
mistress because she was sure that she was in good hands, and because
her own approaching marriage made a separation inevitable in any case.
Her mistress had, as she confessed with distress, shown some
irritability of temper towards her during their stay in Baden, and had
even questioned her once as if she had suspicions of her honesty, and
this had made the parting easier than it would otherwise have been.
Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me,
Marie viewed with deep distrust the stranger who had driven her
mistress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize the
lady’s wrist with great violence on the public promenade by the lake.
He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it was out of dread
of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the Shlessingers to
London. She had never spoken to Marie about it, but many little signs
had convinced the maid that her mistress lived in a state of continual
nervous apprehension. So far she had got in her narrative, when
suddenly she sprang from her chair and her face was convulsed with
surprise and fear. “See!” she cried. “The miscreant follows still!
There is the very man of whom I speak.”

Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man with a
bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the street and
staring eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It was clear that, like
myself, he was on the track of the maid. Acting upon the impulse of the
moment, I rushed out and accosted him.

“You are an Englishman,” I said.

“What if I am?” he asked with a most villainous scowl.

“May I ask what your name is?”

“No, you may not,” said he with decision.

The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the best.

“Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?” I asked.

He stared at me with amazement.

“What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist upon
an answer!” said I.

The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I
have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of iron and
the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my senses were
nearly gone before an unshaven French //ouvrier// in a blue blouse darted
out from a //cabaret// opposite, with a cudgel in his hand, and struck my
assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him leave go his
hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he
should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me
and entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to thank
my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “a very pretty hash you have made of it! I
rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night
express.”

An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style, was
seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of his sudden
and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding that he
could get away from London, he determined to head me off at the next
obvious point of my travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had sat
in the //cabaret// waiting for my appearance.

“And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear
Watson,” said he. “I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder
which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been to
give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing.”

“Perhaps you would have done no better,” I answered bitterly.

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I //have// done better. Here is the Hon.
Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we may
find him the starting-point for a more successful investigation.”

A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same bearded
ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started when he saw me.

“What is this, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I had your note and I have come.
But what has this man to do with the matter?”

“This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us in
this affair.”

The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of
apology.

“I hope I didn’t harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost my
grip of myself. Indeed, I’m not responsible in these days. My nerves
are like live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I want to
know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world you came to
hear of my existence at all.”

“I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances’s governess.”

“Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well.”

“And she remembers you. It was in the days before---before you found it
better to go to South Africa.”

“Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you. I
swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this world a man who
loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for Frances. I
was a wild youngster, I know---not worse than others of my class. But her
mind was pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So,
when she came to hear of things that I had done, she would have no more
to say to me. And yet she loved me---that is the wonder of it!---loved me
well enough to remain single all her sainted days just for my sake
alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at Barberton I
thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her. I had heard that
she was still unmarried, I found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew.
She weakened, I think, but her will was strong, and when next I called
she had left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time
heard that her maid was here. I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough
life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself
for a moment. But for God’s sake tell me what has become of the Lady
Frances.”

“That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar
gravity. “What is your London address, Mr. Green?”

“The Langham Hotel will find me.”

“Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I
should want you? I have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you may
rest assured that all that can be done will be done for the safety of
Lady Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I will leave you this
card so that you may be able to keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if
you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her
best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow.”

A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street rooms,
which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw across to
me. “Jagged or torn,” was the message, and the place of origin, Baden.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You may remember my seemingly
irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman’s left ear. You did
not answer it.”

“I had left Baden and could not inquire.”

“Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the
Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here.”

“What does it show?”

“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally
astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from
South America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most
unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved---and for a young
country it has turned out some very finished types. His particular
specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their
religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named
Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his
identity to me, and this physical peculiarity---he was badly bitten in a
saloon-fight at Adelaide in ’89---confirmed my suspicion. This poor lady
is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing,
Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely supposition. If not,
she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement and unable to write to
Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always possible that she never
reached London, or that she has passed through it, but the former is
improbable, as, with their system of registration, it is not easy for
foreigners to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter
is also unlikely, as these rogues could not hope to find any other
place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint. All
my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at present
no possible means of telling where, we can only take the obvious steps,
eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening
I will stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland
Yard.”

But neither the official police nor Holmes’s own small but very
efficient organisation sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid the
crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were as
completely obliterated as if they had never lived. Advertisements were
tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing. Every
criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain. His
old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him. And then
suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense there came a flash of
light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been
pawned at Bovington’s, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large,
clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address were
demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the description was
surely that of Shlessinger.

Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for news---the
third time within an hour of this fresh development. His clothes were
getting looser on his great body. He seemed to be wilting away in his
anxiety. “If you will only give me something to do!” was his constant
wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.

“He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now.”

“But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?”

Holmes shook his head very gravely.

“Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear that
they cannot let her loose without their own destruction. We must
prepare for the worst.”

“What can I do?”

“These people do not know you by sight?”

“No.”

“It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the future.
In that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he has had a fair
price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of ready-money he
will probably come back to Bovington’s. I will give you a note to them,
and they will let you wait in the shop. If the fellow comes you will
follow him home. But no indiscretion, and, above all, no violence. I
put you on your honour that you will take no step without my knowledge
and consent.”

For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the son of
the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet in
the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third he
rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with every muscle of his
powerful frame quivering with excitement.

“We have him! We have him!” he cried.

He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few words
and thrust him into an armchair.

“Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.

“She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the pendant
she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall, pale woman,
with ferret eyes.”

“That is the lady,” said Holmes.

“She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the Kennington
Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into a shop. Mr.
Holmes, it was an undertaker’s.”

My companion started. “Well?” he asked in that vibrant voice which told
of the fiery soul behind the cold grey face.

“She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well.
‘It is late,’ I heard her say, or words to that effect. The woman was
excusing herself. ‘It should be there before now,’ she answered. ‘It
took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ They both stopped and looked
at me, so I asked some questions and then left the shop.”

“You did excellently well. What happened next?”

“The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her suspicions
had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her. Then she called a
cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get another and so to follow her.
She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past,
left my cab at the corner of the square, and watched the house.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The
blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing there, wondering
what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with two men in it.
They descended, took something out of the van, and carried it up the
steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin.”

“Ah!”

“For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had been
opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman who had
opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and I think
that she recognised me. I saw her start, and she hastily closed the
door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I am.”

“You have done excellent work,” said Holmes, scribbling a few words
upon a half-sheet of paper. “We can do nothing legal without a warrant,
and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down to the
authorities and getting one. There may be some difficulty, but I should
think that the sale of the jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade
will see to all details.”

“But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin mean,
and for whom could it be but for her?”

“We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be lost.
Leave it in our hands. Now, Watson,” he added as our client hurried
away, “he will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as usual,
the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The situation
strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures are
justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney Square.

“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,” said he as we drove swiftly
past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge. “These
villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first
alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any letters
they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have engaged
a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a prisoner, and
they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery which has been
their object from the first. Already they have begun to sell part of
it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think
that anyone is interested in the lady’s fate. When she is released she
will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be released.
But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever. So murder is their
only solution.”

“That seems very clear.”

“Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start now,
not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That incident
proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It points also
to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical certificate
and official sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would
have buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open and
regular. What does this mean? Surely that they have done her to death
in some way which has deceived the doctor and simulated a natural
end---poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange that they should ever let a
doctor approach her unless he were a confederate, which is hardly a
credible proposition.”

“Could they have forged a medical certificate?”

“Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that.
Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker’s, for we have just
passed the pawnbroker’s. Would you go in, Watson? Your appearance
inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes
place to-morrow.”

The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to be
at eight o’clock in the morning. “You see, Watson, no mystery;
everything above-board! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly
been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear. Well,
there’s nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”

“My stick!”

“Well, well, we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is he armed who hath
his quarrel just.’ We simply can’t afford to wait for the police or to
keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby. Now,
Watson, we’ll just take our luck together, as we have occasionally in
the past.”

He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre of
Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall
woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering at us through the
darkness.

“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.

“There is no such person here,” she answered, and tried to close the
door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

“Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call
himself,” said Holmes firmly.

She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well, come in!” said she.
“My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world.” She closed the
door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the right side of
the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. “Mr. Peters will be with
you in an instant,” she said.

Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around
the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves before
the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped lightly
into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous cheeks, and a
general air of superficial benevolence which was marred by a cruel,
vicious mouth.

“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he said in an unctuous,
make-everything-easy voice. “I fancy that you have been misdirected.
Possibly if you tried farther down the street---”

“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my companion firmly.
“You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of
Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is
Sherlock Holmes.”

Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
formidable pursuer. “I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
Holmes,” said he coolly. “When a man’s conscience is easy you can’t
rattle him. What is your business in my house?”

“I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom
you brought away with you from Baden.”

“I’d be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,” Peters
answered coolly. “I’ve a bill against her for nearly a hundred pounds,
and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery pendants that the
dealer would hardly look at. She attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me
at Baden---it is a fact that I was using another name at the time---and she
stuck on to us until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket.
Once in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these
out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I’m
your debtor.”

“I //mean// to find her,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I’m going through this
house till I do find her.”

“Where is your warrant?”

Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. “This will have to serve
till a better one comes.”

“Why, you’re a common burglar.”

“So you might describe me,” said Holmes cheerfully. “My companion is
also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your
house.”

Our opponent opened the door.

“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was a whisk of feminine
skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.

“Our time is limited, Watson,” said Holmes. “If you try to stop us,
Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which
was brought into your house?”

“What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in
it.”

“I must see the body.”

“Never with my consent.”

“Then without it.” With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to
one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood immediately
before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the table, under a
half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and
raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of the coffin lay an
emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat down upon an
aged and withered face. By no possible process of cruelty, starvation,
or disease could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady
Frances. Holmes’s face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

“Thank God!” he muttered. “It’s someone else.”

“Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said
Peters, who had followed us into the room.

“Who is the dead woman?”

“Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife’s, Rose
Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary. We
brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13, Firbank
Villas---mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes---and had her carefully
tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she died---certificate
says senile decay---but that’s only the doctor’s opinion, and of course
you know better. We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimson
and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o’clock
to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve
made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I’d give
something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled
aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only found
a poor old woman of ninety.”

Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his
antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.

“I am going through your house,” said he.

“Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman’s voice and heavy steps
sounded in the passage. “We’ll soon see about that. This way, officers,
if you please. These men have forced their way into my house, and I
cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out.”

A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card
from his case.

“This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“Bless you, sir, we know you very well,” said the sergeant, “but you
can’t stay here without a warrant.”

“Of course not. I quite understand that.”

“Arrest him!” cried Peters.

“We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted,”
said the sergeant majestically, “but you’ll have to go, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.”

A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as cool as
ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The sergeant had
followed us.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that’s the law.”

“Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.”

“I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If there is
anything I can do---”

“It’s a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. I
expect a warrant presently.”

“Then I’ll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything comes
along, I will surely let you know.”

It was only nine o’clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at
once. First we drove to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary, where we found
that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called some
days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a former
servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away with
them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since died.

The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found the
woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away, and had
signed the certificate in due form. “I assure you that everything was
perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the matter,”
said he. Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious save that
for people of their class it was remarkable that they should have no
servant. So far and no further went the doctor.

Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been difficulties
of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay was inevitable. The
magistrate’s signature might not be obtained until next morning. If
Holmes would call about nine he could go down with Lestrade and see it
acted upon. So ended the day, save that near midnight our friend, the
sergeant, called to say that he had seen flickering lights here and
there in the windows of the great dark house, but that no one had left
it and none had entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for
the morrow.

Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too restless for
sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark brows knotted
together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping upon the arms of his
chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible solution of the
mystery. Several times in the course of the night I heard him prowling
about the house. Finally, just after I had been called in the morning,
he rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale,
hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.

“What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?” he asked eagerly.
“Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any
brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It’s life or death---a
hundred chances on death to one on life. I’ll never forgive myself,
never, if we are too late!”

Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down
Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we passed Big
Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But others were
late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour the hearse was still
standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming horse came
to a halt the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the
threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their way.

“Take it back!” he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
foremost. “Take it back this instant!”

“What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your
warrant?” shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring over the
farther end of the coffin.

“The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house until
it comes.”

The authority in Holmes’s voice had its effect upon the bearers. Peters
had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed these new orders.
“Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!” he shouted as the
coffin was replaced upon the table. “Here’s one for you, my man! A
sovereign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask no questions---work away!
That’s good! Another! And another! Now pull all together! It’s giving!
It’s giving! Ah, that does it at last.”

With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so there
came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of chloroform.
A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-wool, which had been
soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it off and disclosed the
statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual woman of middle age. In an
instant he had passed his arm round the figure and raised her to a
sitting position.

“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not too
late!”

For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual suffocation,
and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform, the Lady Frances
seemed to have passed the last point of recall. And then, at last, with
artificial respiration, with injected ether, and with every device that
science could suggest, some flutter of life, some quiver of the
eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life.
A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it.
“Here is Lestrade with his warrant,” said he. “He will find that his
birds have flown. And here,” he added as a heavy step hurried along the
passage, “is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than we
have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the sooner we can move the
Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the
poor old woman who still lies in that coffin may go to her last
resting-place alone.”

“Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,” said
Holmes that evening, “it can only be as an example of that temporary
eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be exposed. Such slips
are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he who can recognise and
repair them. To this modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim.
My night was haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange
sentence, a curious observation, had come under my notice and had been
too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the grey of the morning, the
words came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker’s wife, as
reported by Philip Green. She had said, ‘It should be there before now.
It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ It was the coffin of which
she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary. That could only mean that
it had been made to some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an
instant I remembered the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at
the bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room
for another body. Both would be buried under the one certificate. It
had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At
eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to stop the
coffin before it left the house.

“It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it //was// a
chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to my knowledge,
done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at the last. They
could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and even if she
were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that such
considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene
well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had
been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their
chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to insure
against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever device,
Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary
friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some
brilliant incidents in their future career.”
Omaha Sherlockian Society

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